Legend of Ransera

"Relaxing," he corrected gently with a smile. It widened at the mention of the Crownwyrm; Arry had told him that story on one of their mystical communions. Sadly, those were becoming less frequent as the princeling became more and more important—read: busy. He had even come all the way back to Kalzasi for the coronation of Karam Senue and not made time to see Aurin. True, he could have finagled his way into the noble festivities, but it was hardly the wisest option given what happened at the last huge state function with foreign dignitaries. He had half expected the Gelerian embassy to rape the Queen-Regent or launder Tizan Veyl's gold. In any case, he was here now, making the effort to see his young friend.

Proteus considered the awkward stance of the half-elf.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "when my breakfast is ready, you might join me?" He paused. "You don't seem terribly busy, and I don't have any friends in Tertium."

His perfect lips twitched at the admission, but rather than look down, his chin rose as if to dare the half-elf to pity him. He sipped his tea.

"I could practice my Vastian and you could practice your Common, and then I might have some idea what I am walking into. A Prince-Regent from Aur'arnis, the Crownwyrm claiming the undercity... I suppose I shall just have to keep my mouth shut and be thought a fool rather than open it and prove myself one." Proteus sighed. Of course, he was playing his actions off of Dænymon's reactions and how they rippled through his aura. "Or at least explain to me whyever you named your establishment The Blond Basilisk..." His smirk was much softer than Aurin's. "You are hardly a monstrous blond."

"Relaxing." Dænymon nodded, tapping his temple as if that would lock it into his mind. He blinked at the invitation, and paused. He was clearly hesitant to leave his inn unattended. Or rather attended by the small staff he was prone to micromanage. In the end, the choice was simple. He had to dote upon the guest he had, rather than deny him in the hopes of satisfying prospective guests who may not (and were historically unlikely to) come.

"Very well. I will do this." He nodded, with a smile which turned a big smug at that last bit.

"Ah, but that is because you know me as an innkeep. You did not know me when I was the terror of the Præventores. Please to excuse me for a moment." He set his tea aside, and stepped into the staff area to inform his people that they would need to man the front desk, and to relate to them a laundry list of instructions for how to interact with guests. By the time this homily was complete, Proteus would be well done with his breakfast, and Dænymon nodded to him.

"At your pleasure, dominus." As they made their way toward the door, Dænymon was startled to find himself face to... veil with a robed Sentinel. His tension at the sight was palpable. Typically Sentinels preferred to go unseen and plied their subtle arts to dissuade attention. When they were in stark view, as was now the case, it was rarely for favourable reasons. His mind sifted through every transgression he had made from childhood to the present date in the seconds that elapsed before a feminine voice spoke through the veil, as her head turned toward the guest in favour of the host.

"From High Sentinel Cithæra." She said, producing an envelope that bore the Zalkyrian Seal in red wax. Within, he would find an invitation forwarded from the aforementioned Prince-Regent from Aur'arnis to a Masquerade Ball. No note was enclosed from the High Sentinel to explain the wherefore, and the Sentinel pivoted to stalk away before any questions could be posed.

...continued here.