Legend of Ransera

It had been a long night in the Low-City for Aurin Kavafis. The wages of his night were hidden—some muffled under his cloak, others shrouded in his mind. He dealt in secrets. It was the overarching career he had chosen for himself that connected to his work in the Velvet Cabaret, but extended much farther and wider than that in the end. He coughed and cleared his throat. The air was cold and his breath blossomed in steam before him, ephemeral and gone as quickly as it arrived. The sound of chopping wood didn't register until he turned the corner. It was late enough in the morning that all manner of sounds echoed down the streets, the cacophony of life in the city. When he could see down the alley that led to his cottage and the service entrance to the Velvet Cabaret, he saw someone skulking about his red-roofed domicile.

It didn't take long to recognize Torin. Nobody said anything about Aurin stealing his wood from the Cabaret's supply, but nobody chopped it for him.

"Hullo, Torin," he said, a bemused sort of smile softening a strange tightness about his features. On a normal day, one might have called his looks vulpine—red fur, clever glances, sharpness. Today, he had more of the wolf about him. Moving around under his cloak, a key appeared. "I'll just be inside."

He didn't know if Torin wanted to chop more or what. He hadn't really clocked the progress; he was more focused on the human body near his home. But it was Torin and Torin was safe. But it was an implied invitation to come inside whenever he was ready. Once Aurin was inside, however, he winced as he shrugged out of his cloak and hung it from a hook in the wall. He winced as he leaned down to remove his boots and leave them by the door. One hand clenched his side as he walked gingerly toward the table. It hadn't shown out of doors, but now with nobody to fool or impress, he allowed his body to express its discomfort, its pain.

A bare foot snaked out to hook the leg of the chair and pull it out so he could carefully sit down. He could take care of this. He would take care of this. Aurin just needed a minute to breathe, to relax, to feel safe in his den. And then he could see to the damage done by a successful night.

"Thanks," he said when Torin found a way to make himself useful rather than crowd him as he was trying to think through the pain. Then, of course, he was back like a loyal dog or a concerned puppy. Aurin handed him the key. "Lock the door, please."

Then he hefted himself up and fetched his bandages and such. Crouching down by the fire, he held a slender needle in the fire until he could feel it through his calluses and set it on the table. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He would have to decide if it was worth sneaking it into the laundry, whether he would have to explain the blood or could mend the tear before the launderers noticed. For now, he had to tend to the tear in his skin. His ribs had deflected the worst of it, but he didn't like leaving holes in his hide. He grabbed his shirt again and used it to daub up the congealing blood around the wound so he could get a better grip.

Then he threaded the needle with silk thread, tied a knot at the end to catch, and began to sew up his own skin. He hissed once, then just grit his teeth through it. Embroidery wasn't his passion, but he managed clean, even stitches. He was sweating by the end of the procedure, though. At the end, he let the needle fall against his side. There was more to do, but...

"I just need a minute."

Whether he was talking to Torin, to himself, or to ghosts from his past, though, was anyone's guess.

"What's up, kid?" Pain was evident in the furrow of his brow, the tightness around his eyes, but he kept his voice even as if to keep a child calm through a crisis.

Aurin watched Torin work with a critical eye. It wasn't that he didn't believe him; it was just that he was used to fending for himself. He looked after the artists and other employees of the Velvet Cabaret, of course, but Gods forbid anyone attempt to return the favor. But he did manage to finish up without causing undue pain, and he cleansed and numbed things rather well. Even the bandaging was probably neater than he could have managed on himself.

As he listened to Torin talk, he tried to ease up on his unblinking gaze. He could feel its intensity, fueled by pain. While he would occasionally want to scare the kid to keep him from getting too attached, he didn't want to right then. He nodded where appropriate to let him know he was listening, that he understood. He appreciated the distraction almost as much as he appreciated Torin asking no questions. It meant he didn't have to lie. Well, he wouldn't have to lie. He would just simplify the narrative. Change names to protect the guilty, himself included.

While he had never lived the life of a runesmith's apprentice, he knew about watershed moments in a career. He managed something a bit more smile than smirk for once, nodding approval.

When Torin tied off the bandage, he reached out with his hand—opposite his wounded rib—to brush his wheat-colored hair.

"Thanks, kid. You're a real help. Now show me this masterpiece of yours." He paused and let his hand fall to his lap. It had been a long night and he was tired, but he could stay up for this. He rather owed him for the medical help. "Must be good work to win your master's approval. Congratulations on a job well done."

"They are beautiful, though," he said slowly after due consideration, looking up from them into Torin's expectant eyes. "Not pretty like an ornament, but elegant like a tool." Or a weapon. He murmured something as he looked down again, threading the needle of his rune with a bit of his own aether. They blossomed with an aetheric light in his eyes. That they were magical in nature was immediately apparent, which was no surprise given he knew Torin to be a runeforger and not merely a blacksmith.

As he looked deeper, though, he could see how it was made of tougher stuff than it appeared, or that it had been strengthened, which Torin had admitted as much. It was helpful, he thought, to know what he was looking at, the better to identify it on his own in the future. As for the type of magic imbued, he could not say. It didn't feel like the magics he knew: to see, and to alter what was seen.

Aurin held the little marvels out, offering them back to their maker. When his Vision cast up to Torin, though, he caught the corruscating patterns of his own aura, which he was slowly becoming accustomed to. Perhaps now, if he were bound and his senses muffled, he might still recognize Torin in his mind's eye.

"Like you," he mused aloud, "you could be pretty in an ornamental way, but you're more elegant, like a tool. Someone that creates things that weren't there before. That's beautiful, too. Taking a night spent with a bad man and turning it into your first masterpiece. Well done, kid."

Then, the questions, "What do they do? Will you sell them to start your nest egg or keep them for sentimental value?" The sort of questions a father might ask—practical, challenging—as though he wanted to be sure Torin had thought through everything and would make wise, well-informed decisions with his life and work.

Though it took Torin a while to get around to it, once he took just the one, Aurin knew where he was headed. His smile was pleased and always amused. His little pup came bearing gifts now, and useful ones. All the same, he listened to the instructions for use since he knew it was going to be offered to him. When it was, he didn't pretend at surprise, but he held it out again more, insistently.

"Put it on for me?"

Once Torin had accepted it back for a moment, he carefully leaned forward. It was a practical request so he could move less to do it, but it was also an intimate invitation. He wasn't trying to seduce Torin like some blushing maiden he wanted for his bed. He was seducing Torin the way conspiracies swayed the impressionable to their cause. Aurin was the cause, of course, but he would help Torin in the process. The boy needed a bit of direction, a bit of ambition. His master seemed content to teach and utilize his skills, but such a master would have no reason to ever let him go. Not that Aurin would let him go, either, once he was his.

As Torin placed the chain around his neck, his hand came up to clasp the smith's wrist. Hazel eyes came up too, quite close now.

"Thank you, Torin. For the firewood, for the first aid, and for the gift. And your discretion. There's a lot going on in this city—under the surface. Any city, really, with enough people and enough competing desires.

"But I trust you," he said. "I can see your work without one of those special lenses. That's one of my runes—to see. I can see you, too. More of you, anyway, than just with my eyes. You're made of stronger stuff. Like these chains."