Legend of Ransera

"Portals are efficient, I'll grant, but sometimes too much efficiency is exhausting. Now that I'm more practised at it, I'm able to clear my head when I fly. It's nice to be able to literally rise above it all for a trice to a place that's more peaceful..." Arvælyn explained in answer to Æros' observation, as his eyes scanned the spread on offer. A canapes, cheeses and smoked meats rose from their trays and hovered to set themselves delicately on a plate which floated into the prince's grasp.

With his half-brother momentarily distracted, Phocion took the opportunity to meet Lykos' eye and offer an approving nod at his dutiful obeisance. The Sentinel sighed, as the lupine peregrinus seemed more focused on feasting than formalities now that it was open season on the buffet.

"Ms. Chenzira positively insisted upon contributing to the menu in spite of the perfectly competent staff we have devoted to such things." Phocion noted through taut lips and an otherwise flat expression. After a fashion it almost felt like an acknowledgement of service, albeit a compulsory one bogged down with his editorialising commentary on the tail end.

"She is fastidious and high-spirited." Arvælyn said, with a nod to Hilana. Folding his wings closer against his form so that he could glance over his shoulder, he looked at the one called Lykos. His Symphony was so loud, and rich with bombastic themes. He was an emotive creature, to be sure, and the draconic elf was a bit surprised at the awe he felt directed toward himself. That wasn't something he often gleaned from the Symphonies of foreigners who hadn't been brought up in this culture and conditioned toward those very sensations. Part of him... probably influenced largely by Finn... chided himself for focusing first upon the motif that pertained directly to him, when there were other, stronger themes in play. Foremost, Lykos was lost... a stranger in a strange land with no anchor to his former life, whatever that had been. His observation had only added to that, it seemed, as a direct question from the man was posed.

"I grew up there... Spent my latter teens and the dawn of my twenties in Kalzasi itself..." He sensed further confusion, "Kalzasi is the source of the Kalzasern dialect that tinges your speech. It is a city-state in the land of Karnor ruled by Avialæ. Alas... without knowing more about you, I'm not sure how helpful I could be... My mother or sister might Semble more to go on, but then I expect the Sentinel Assessors her are already about that work." He smiled and glanced to Phocion whose expression spoke volumes, albeit to him alone. When the Sentinel next spoke it would be in Common, incidentally spoken in the same Kalzasern dialect that accented Lykos' tongue:

"Shall we sit?" Phocion suggested, gesturing to a table and leading his half-brother to the high-backed seat at its head. He would claim the seat at Arvælyn's right hand and, though he hadn't made a plate for himself, he did Pull a flagon of honeyed wine and a tray of cups directly from the hands of a servus with his Craft and begin to pour for them all without ostensibly paying attention to the act. It was as if the wine was pouring itself, as he continued to address his royal brother.

"As you will see the Custodes Deorum are far better equipped to handle Divine visitors and intruders than we were before the jubilee. The Exalted Dynasty has been most generous in devoting resources and knowledge toward these endeavours and I am confident that, in time, we will revolutionise new arts and artefacts to contain and combat threats to the sacred realm." The cups would find their way to each person at the table and set themselves down if they weren't plucked from the air first.

"Ms. Chenzira, as you are passing fond of playing host... even outside the purview of your own events... perhaps it would please you to lead us in a toast to welcome His Exalted Highness?"

“‘Your Exalted Highness’” Phocion corrected Lykos archly, “‘Your Grace’ is a form address applied to full-blooded Re’hyæan aristocrats beneath the station of our Exalted Prince. Forgive him, Exalted Highness. This is all a strange education and a quick one for our Lykos. We haven’t spent long on the forms of address yet…”

“It is quite alright,” Arvælyn chuckled, “I feel as though I only just learned them myself.” He adopted a warm, comforting smile as he looked to the foreign demigod. “I know all too well how esoteric the ways of this realm can seem to a newcomer.” He looked to Phocion,

“Surely we need not observe all the pomp and circumstance of a military parade when we’re sitting down to an intimate meal…”

“As you wish,” Phocion bowed his head to hide his smirk as he added: “...Your Exalted Highness.”

Arvælyn cleared his throat quietly and turned his gaze downward, inspecting the contents of his cup as the compulsory flattery was imparted by Hilana and ratified by the others. He hadn’t grown accustomed to such obeisances— least of all amongst friends like Hilana and family like Phocion. It just felt gratuitous, but such were the expectations of the realm. He drank, as odd as it was, to himself and placed the cup down. Lifting his eyes once more, he cast them to Lykos.

“Tell me, Lykos… I realise that you are a bit out to sea here in the desert, but do you anticipate making a life for yourself here in Solunarium?”

“If so…” Phocion interjected, “This would be a splendid opportunity to express your fealty directly to a living member of the Hallowed Zalkyrian Dynasty. A rare blessing enjoyed by passing few of our citizenry…”

Arvælyn shifted slightly in his seat, an awkward sidelong glance finding his brother smirking in the periphery.

"Truly. Think nothing of it..." Arvælyn happily dismissed the matter of titles. While he could appreciate the formality at times, in this instance it just seemed awkward to make a thing of it. He knew firsthand the feelings associated with faux pas and, being a Mesmer of his capability, he was particularly sensitive to those Symphonic motifs when he was open to such. As Lykos contemplated Phocion's urging, Arvælyn tasted of the wine on offer, and lifted both eyebrows as the Lord of Frost seemed inclined to assent.

The Princeps Draconum parts his lips to speak, but once Lykos began to give voice to his pledge he froze, his eyes rolling back as a silver Mark that rounded his tanned throat began to glow with lustrous, lunar silver. Phocion clenched his teeth, gloved hands gripped into fists as a similar glow emitted from between his glove and his sleeve on one hand. Both of their eyes also took on the silvery sheen as their bodies were wracked, as if they were trying to hold their footing while being pulled by some unseen ætheric riptide.

As the last of Lykos' vow was uttered, a tether extended from Arvælyn's glowing collar, shooting forth like a harpoon that plunged into Lykos. To the lupine demigod it would feel like nothing. It might have appeared to be a trick of Masquerade utilised for effect, as was often done in this magocratic realm. But both Phocion and Arvælyn appeared to be affected by something either euphorically pleasurable or agonising. Arvælyn's wineglass shattered under the force of his clutch, its shards tumbling to the floor, but within moments whatever it had been passed and both brothers were released from the hold that gripped them. Both were gasping for breath.

"Fuck..." Arvælyn rasped, checking his hand for cuts from the broken glass.

"Right?" Phocion half whispered, a wry grin spreading across his pale countenance. Still panting, he looked to Lykos almost hungrily, "Well done, you." He gestured to the nearest servant, "Fetch His Exalted Highness another wine, and I'll need more as well." He gulped down what remained in his own cup, then slumped in his seat, relishing the afterglow.