Legend of Ransera

"Indeed," he agreed, surveilling Dænymon all the while. Perhaps he wished another blond half-elf were here with him on the picturesque beach, but spending time with Dænymon was hardly 'settling'. But eventually they did settle into accommodations that came as much for his apparent pure blood as the innkeeper's knowledge of their surroundings.

"I shall certainly give your establishment a glowing review," he promised, and his smile promised even more. "And I appreciate your going beyond the call of duty to ensure my enjoyment."

Well, if that wasn't carte blanche to be a self-interested lover, he didn't know what was. The arm felt right around his shoulders, and his arm slipped around the half-elf's waist, holding them in lock-step as he exuded a figurative aura of possessiveness.

"We can rinse the sand and salt before we make exceptions," he promised. "Wouldn't want to rub you the wrong way."

The sand burned against his bare feet, but after spending so long in the cold of Karnor, it felt as though it were driving out bone-deep chill. He felt a languorous enjoyment of the way the mutable footing stretched his legs, made them work for their leisurely progress.

"Pulchrum litus, pulchrum vir," he murmured. "Where shall we settle?" He was already beginning to perspire, but it felt good; even here by the sea, the air was drier than he was accustomed to, and it wicked away the perspiration, the breezes cooling him and tousling his red-gold hair. If there were chaises longues and refreshments, all the better. If not, he would happily admire Dænymon stretched out upon the sand and glistening with sea water. If his gaze was lascivious, he was also studying him intently. Proteus might not be a painter, but he could sculpt glamours around himself such that he could appear as Dænymon in future should the need arise.

"Pulchritudo in oculo tenentis est..." Dænymon dismissed, his words more coquettish even as his body language was compliant. As to the question of where they should lounge, there were indeed options. A pavilion had been set up for those who preferred shade, and there were venders therein offering food and drink. It appeared that musicians were playing, but their compositions could not be heard outside the pavilion. They were close enough that they ought to have been audible, and Aurin would Semble that there was a negation ward in place. Whether this was meant to limit noise pollution for beachgoers or reserve the music for paying customers was unclear, but whatever the case Dænymon seemed to be guiding them toward a sunnier stretch of the strand.

They hadn't made it very far, before Aurin would notice that same older Vastian tensing up and rising from his longue. His attentions were not on Proteus this time, but fixed upon a point on the distant horizon.

"Aspicite in cælum!" He called out, his breathy baritone swallowed up by the sounds of revelry and crashing waves. When next he shouted, "Aspicite in cælum!" His voice boomed across the beach heard by all as, far off over the ocean, a figure in flight appeared.

The crowd seemed confused, but alarmed. They were clearly not accustomed to having their peace intruded upon. Aurin would make out the mutterings of a few nearby beachgoers, and manage to piece together that his neighbours on the sands were confused why a wyvern in the distance should be a cause for concern. It was Dænymon who corrected their mistake:

"Quod non est cælum serpentis... Aliena draco est!"

Indeed, as the approaching figure came closer into view its black scales shone under sun and Sceptre and, larger than any wyvern, all would soon recognise it for what it was: a dragon.

Some began to run toward the dunes whilst others seemed more intrigued than frightened. Aurin would feel a host of Runes of various disciplines engaging all around him, some preparing to defend and others to assess. Dænymon looked to Proteus, uncertain of how to proceed.

"Oculi mei pleni sunt pulchritudine tua," he assured him with a line he might have learned for the benefit of another half-elf not here present. The pavilion seemed interesting, and he had the coin to fund a bit of luxury, but he was happy enough to just relax with a pretty, compliant man. While he was a skilled investigator, it seemed he would have to spend too much time learning the city before he could suss out any meaningful intelligence to share with Arry in the capital. He might as well just enjoy himself.

Such was not to be the case, however. He didn't need to understand all the words shouted to follow the various gazes toward the sky. No, not a wyvern, he surmised even as Dænymon made his correction. The self-proclaimed prince of dragons was a prince of Kalzasi, and his sister rode one. Dragons did make appearances in Kalzasi, and the black dragonflight was known as the harbingers of death.

His arm tightened around Dænymon's waist.

"If need be," he said tersely, "I will shift us immediately into my rooms." Proteus assumed that Dænymon would know what a man with Traversion could do, living in such a magic-steeped country. But Proteus wouldn't flee unless there was a direct and certain threat. It was said that the black dragons were as compassionate as they were powerful, and while he didn't know that from first-hand experience, it was enough to give him pause.

"Someone might die," he acknowledged. "It shan't be us." He gave the golden flank a pat. "I take it Solunarium's dragons are dragons of a different color?" The details of the platinum dragonflight were obscure to a foreigner, especially one who wasn't a draconologist by any means.

Dænymon nodded, nervous but somewhat consoled by Proteus’ assurances.

“The only dragons known to be active in Atraxia since the Rending have been Their Hallowed Majesties of the Platinum Flight, but then…” He trailed off, but Aurin would know he’d just thoroughly betrayed his ruse by revealing this bit of ignorance. Dænymon had known something was odd about Proteus, who looked the part but didn’t quite sound it. He’d postulated that perhaps he’d been a Sentinel stationed abroad for so long that he’d forgotten things, but there was no forgetting something so intrinsic to their culture as the nature of their Draconic dynasty. His musings on the matter were short lived as a blinding light pierced the sky.

Directly overhead a massive ring wreathed in white flame exploded into existence, out of which a thunderous bellow trumpeted. The sand quaked and the waves rippled in the wrong direction in answer to the roar as a colossal platinum dragon soared forth to greet or repel the intruding wyrm.

Dænymon’s handsome face lit up with a smile as the remaining crowd upon the beach cheered, many falling to their knees in supplication.

“This is only the second time I’ve seen one of Their Hallowed Majesties!” He exclaimed, delighted with an intensity that seemed to verge on fanaticism. His wide eyes gaped at the scene playing out over the ocean as the black dragon slowed, before the intercepting platinum counterpart. Their momentum decreases as soaring gave way to flapping, and they exchanged roars. The beating of their wings created disturbances in the waves below, as an ostensibly angry exchange proceeded in the sky.

“You see how much larger our champion is?” He said, with abounding pride. It was no wonder they’d only sent one of their number to stave off so middling a threat. Granted, it hadn’t seemed such a pittance moments earlier before their own dragon portaled onto the scene.

By and by, the black dragon submitted to the authority of the local wyrm and began to fly back the way it had come from. With that, the Platinum Dragon began to fly back toward the beach to the cheers of its onlookers.

Aurin knew he should have done more research in order to play Proteus, but he was a cocky bastard. He sensed the portal before it opened, he sensed the titanic powers arrayed, and he could only wonder at what it meant. The platinum dragonflight were one of the royal houses of Solunarium, but the black dragonflight served the very God of Death, a more primal, powerful creature. After all, had the Grimlord ever been jailed in a volcano? Not to his knowledge.

All the same, he was quick enough on his mental feet to cheer and look overawed at the draconic display, grateful and relieved though he really wanted to know in more detail what had passed between the great wyrms. He wondered if one of them was Arry's ostensible father and, perhaps for the first time, began to worry that the family of his wayward lover's blood would look unkindly upon him.

Perturbed, he hid it well behind practiced facades more than his masquerade.

There was a tear in his golden eye by the time Dænymon wrested his eyes from the draconic display.

"'Tis passing strange to be in the lands of my forebears," he admitted. "But look at the might of our glorious rulers!" He rather thought that even Arry would have been impressed by his crocodile tear. These weren't tricks he had played upon his gutter rat prince, but Dænymon was fair game. "I am glad I would brook no response but acquiescence when I required your presence today. If I hadn't, neither of us might have witnessed such a miracle!"

He kissed Dænymon, overtaken by the tumult of emotions - or so it might seem. After battles, warriors were known to bed down immediately, to defy death with procreative acts. The electric thrill running through the collective auras upon the beach was similar enough, he thought, to explain the distraction tactic.

Dænymon’s suspicions seemed assuaged by Proteus’ clarifying words. So he was among those rare Re’hyæans born abroad. He supposed whether he descended from some defector or a dutiful servant of the empire, he was back in the fold now and saying the right things and expressing the right emotions to commemorate this momentous display.

The half elf arched his back against the hand that drew his smooth form flush to the other bare, beautiful body. He even closed his eyes, but they shot open as he felt the ground shake beneath his feet. He broke the kiss to look toward the surf, where their Draconic defender had landed at the edge of the waves’ reach.

“Ecce quomodo defendunt Tertium dracones!” The older Vastian with the presumable Sentinel ties cried, as he lowered himself to kneel before the colossal creature.

“Fidelitatem certe debemus eis!”

“Is recte!” Called a woman, as she lowered herself in genuflection. “Hinc fidem desero Gens Sol'Aværys! Draco Coronatus est rex meus!”

Dænymon peeled himself away from Proteus, his fervour overpowering his lust for the nonce.

“They are right…” Perhaps surprisingly, Aurin would detect no Mesmer being exploited to manipulate or manufacture the scene playing out before him as Dænymon joined a small host of others as they forsook their fealty to the Elven house in favour of the Draconic. The great dragon regarded all of this with fiery eyes that roamed the small mortals arrayed about the beach, as even more began to crowd the area from the dunes toward the city proper. The blazing gaze fell upon Aurin and paused there. Was that the hint of a smirk or just the set of his reptilian jaw? After a moment, the dragon’s eyes rose to take in the greater mass of mortals.

“Pro meo fratre Exaltata Celsitudini Zalkyriax Zalkyrialis Rex Draconum, Vigiliae Vulcani et Pater Atraxiæ admitto iuramenta tua.” The beast boomed. Dænymon knelt and openly wept.

Perhaps now it was no surprise that Arry's control trick had been so powerful even when it had only been instinctual; these dragons who were apparently his kin had built a society where it was used ubiquitously to sublimate various feelings into patriotism and awe, so even now, they needn't rely upon it - natural awe was keyed to displays like pretty Dænymon's, whose growing lust had been subverted easily into this. Though Proteus didn't frown, he was perturbed. He wondered whether he would be able to compete with dragons at all. Perhaps there would be nothing remaining on Arry's side of the equation but nostalgia. Perhaps he truly had moved on from Aurin, which was something he wished for the lad, but also something he dreaded.

He knelt, letting his awe present more akin to the people around him - the innkeeper, the probable Sentinel, and the average beachgoers. And he had to wonder whether even the ruling class of elves was truly anything more than the favored worshipers of a draconic bloodline. Then even it it were true and Arry's other half was dragon and not human, it was entirely possible that his draconic family would look down on him, see him as nothing more than another noose around the necks of the Hytori.

Proteus said nothing, but no attention seemed laid upon him anymore; it was focused upon the dragon. He did not swear. Long ago, he had decided this was a land ill-suited for his roots. But he would use all his tricks and wiles to get to Arry's side and ensure he was well and truly happy here, or whether he was just surrounded by so many people with stronger control tricks convincing him that this was where he belonged and this was where he was happy.

Aurin, Master Sembler that he was, would see a strange phenomenon shifting the auras of those around him. It wouldn't have been something he'd have noticed at first and without this current context... It was actually something that would be clearer to him as an outsider than it would be to one raised (and conditioned) within the culture, but he could now see the allegiances of the Solunarians writ on their very souls. Those who had pledged to Sol'Aværys and were now forsaking the Elves in favour of the Dragons, palpably changed to his Sembling eye as ætheric energies began to waft forth from their Auras toward the as-yet-unidentified wyrm. When the last of those faint tethers seemed to join with the dragon, it replied with a rumbling purr, before spreading its great wings.

People covered their eyes as they began to beat, sending a gale force storm that whipped grains of sand and droplets of saltwater toward those close enough to the hallowed wyrm. With no further ado, a flame-wreathed portal opened overhead and the dragon shot through to another cloudless sky. The portal closed like an iris, the winds abated, and cries of wonder and exasperation exploded all around them. This had been unprecedented in living memory. Even the oldest elf on the beach had never seen such a thing, and the general consensus was that it was a blessing.

Dænymon rose, grinning broadly and grabbing Proteus by the waist, to kiss him with ferocity to rival the dragon that inspired it. With no further revelatory moments to draw his attentions, Aurin would find the half-elf's passions more stirred than diminished by what had just happened. His adrenaline was up and that wasn't the only thing. He broke the kiss abruptly and through his panting rasped:

"I don't know about you, but I'm less worried about sand at the moment..."

Aurin had never seen anything like it, but then, he wasn't the sort to cozy up to giant, sentient lizards with deadly breath and magic. Once might have been a fluke, but everyone changed, even the one who might have been a Sentinel, and they were supposed to have magical protections. One-by-one, and then many-by-many, tethers he hadn't realized were there loosened and redirected themselves toward the dragon and beyond. There was a blood-tie there, perhaps from this drake to his vaunted brother - Aurin wasn't certain of his Vastian.

Proteus seemed as awed as the rest, squinting to watch the wyrm ascend and blaze out of existence through a fiery portal. That was what gave him his tears more than a reaction to the aborted battle in the sky.

But Dænymon didn't seem to mind. Emboldened by the experience, he grew agreeably forceful in expressing his own desire. One did like to be desired by those one desired. Proteus smirked through his tears and into the kiss. He was not in control of the situation in Solunarium - not even in the seaside Tertium - and it had been arrogant to assume he could. But he could control this situation, at least, and so he did.

With a pivot, he leaned into Dænymon, pushing him backward. They tumbled through his own portal, less flashy than the dragon's, and into his bed in his rooms at the Blond Basilisk. Proteus' libido rose to meet Dænymon's and for a moment, he smirked down at the half-elf, haloed by his portal before it too irised closed.

"You looked splendid on your knees," he assured him, and while he considered shoving the man down to his knees, he didn't know that they needed an appetizer before the main course. He drew his nails down golden skin; apparently dragons were the local kink.

Aurin

Experience Points: 15 (May be used for magic)

Injuries/Ailments: The little death and seemingly a bit of humbling.

Loot: An invitation to the Solunarian Mascerata Regia from the Platinum Prince by way of the Silver Sentinels.

Notes: I look forward to seeing where Solunarium takes Aurin next!