Legend of Ransera

...continued from Lingering Threats.

Aurin's Cottage, Plaza of Jeweled Arches
63 Ash 121, After Midnight

Yshvold's monosyllabic response and the strange look on his face made Aurin wonder if he was being too harsh, but the truth of the matter was he didn't really know how to deal with children. He looked at the Lysanrin and saw at least echoes of himself at that age, and so he tried to see him both as himself and as that echo of himself. He tried to think what he would have wanted to hear or needed to hear, but what the hell did he know anyway? Torin's apprentice Timon was easy to talk to, but while the boy had troubles of his own, they hadn't seen him on the street or a victim of violence. Suffering was suffering in the end, but Aurin didn't really know how to connect with Yshvold, or whether that was a thing the kid wanted or needed.

Aurin could be bad news.

But the kid continued and Aurin listened; if he thought the question childish or sentimental, he didn't show it. A shred of normalcy might just help him.

"Sure, I can help with that. Why don't you tell me what you know of your origins—parents, names, locations, dates of interest. I'll clean up while I listen, then leave you to your dreaming. When I come back tomorrow, you can fill me in on any other details you remember, maybe we'll train, and then I can start an investigation for you."

He tossed the wax paper from his meat pie into the rubbish bin, then began preparing what it didn't look like Yshvold would get to for storage in the icebox. He would glance at Yshvold from time to time or make small noises to let him know he was listening, but he also afforded him a weird sort of privacy in not keeping his gaze affixed. Memories and histories could make a man feel vulnerable, let alone a kid.

It almost seemed like Yshvold was reaching out for a hand to hold, but Aurin wasn't good at reading those sorts of signs.

Aurin listened. He really listened, both because he was undertaking a new investigation on Yshvold's part and because he would prefer if they became friends, at least. He could work with people who weren't his friends—both the Velvet Cabaret and the Golden Peacock were proof of that. But then, he couldn't really see a way to offer a hand that Yshvold wouldn't glance askance at. He was used to taking care of himself and Aurin's magic offended him; the best he could do was be true to the promises he made to the kid and let the kid decide when enough had been done to prove his integrity. Aurin might lie to get what he wanted, but he didn't tend to lie to those he worked with; he wanted there to be some small foundation of trust at least.

There wasn't a lot to go on, but enough to make an attempt, at least. Then, Yshvold dropped an emotional bomb and Aurin just blew air through his lips and answered honestly.

"I would put my parents into the ground," he said bluntly. "They were worse fucking monsters than the tentacled shit show, the hentai wall, the butt beasts, and the swarm of rats put together. Or fuck... I'd burn them and pour their ashes oversea."

He shrugged.

"Maybe I'm a monster. But all we can do at this point is investigate, and then when you have something to go on, we can decide a course forward. I mean, you can. I'll try to answer the question better then if you still trust my answer."

He paused.

"Can you sing me the song she sang to you...? Or hum it at least? I'm not fucking with you. It's just you never know which little clue might turn up more clues, you know? I'm not going to judge your voice or anything. Just need the melody or something."

It was a strange sort of song, and it brought uncomfortable thoughts to the surface, most of which involved wondering whether Ava had ever sung him a lullaby, or Galeas held him with any sort of paternal feeling. He shoved those aside, though, and shoved them down. Yshvold needed his undivided attention for something that was obviously important to him, important enough to be vulnerable around Aurin, who was quite disreputable despite the veneer of civilization he had acquired for his new job. If the Lysanrin boy's treble faltered, he got the point across. A part of him wanted to walk over and put his arm around the kid, but somehow he imagined that would go terribly wrong.

Instead, he swallowed and nodded.

"I'd heard there was some ancient Lysanrin language. Akiroth or something... but I'd heard it was extinct. I don't know if that was it, but... that might help narrow things down." He tried to hum at least what he had identified as the chorus, as it had been repeated more than twice. Perhaps he could find a few Lysanrin folks who might fill in some of the gaps.

Aurin hummed it one more time, eyebrow raised by the end. "Is that about it? If I have that much down, I can relay it to other people who might have heard it."

He didn't want to make false promises lest disappointment sour their working arrangement and any friendship that might develop out of it, but he didn't feel right killing hope in its cradle either.

"It's a cold case," he warned, "but I'll try the hustle from a different angle and see if I can get you anything to work with. If you want to check up on my progress, you're welcome to ask questions. Otherwise, I'll just let you know when I have enough that it seems worthwhile to tell you, all right?"

"Sure," he said, reacting immediately to Yshvold's discomfort. Feelings were awful; on that point, they could agree. Having people he cared about and people who cared about him was a vulnerability, but he recognized now that his life without those things had been a matter of survival rather than actually living. The stakes were just higher now.

He didn't know how to express that to this kid who might or might not want to be taken under his wing, or if that was even appropriate. If the Lysanrin lived to adulthood, he'd have his own opportunities to choose whether or not to let people in.

"You've got food and water, you've got a bathroom and a bed, you've got the key and I have one, too. I'll lock up behind me and you'll be as secure as can be while you sleep."

No defenses were unassailable, of course, but it was always a matter of reducing risks. Aurin couldn't think of anyone who hated him enough to break into his cottage in the middle of the night in an attempt to murder him. The noise would wake him up and they would be greeted by many sharp objects

For once, Aurin didn't leave with a wry, sardonic quip. He just nodded shortly instead of deflecting with shitty humor.

"See you tomorrow, kid."

Later that day...

Aurin did return, though it was after noon. He figured the kid needed time to hibernate and recuperate. When he was safe after a long period of instability, his mind and his body would conspire to put him down long enough to gather his strength. He imagined the kid would be similar. And in any case, Aurin had responsibilities with his day job at the Golden Peacock Theater.

His dress was more expensive now, though not flashy despite Arvalyn's best efforts to make a fop of him when he had landed the more prestigious position. He did have a package under his arm, though, containing old costumes that would likely fit Yshvold. They were a bit shabby from wear, but they were clean and well made and all of them in a contemporary style that wouldn't draw undue notice to him. His horns would do that, anyway. Or his mask if he continued to wear that in public.

He knocked on the door, waited a few seconds, and then slowly unlocked the door to let himself in. It was just a little warning that might lessen the anxiety. Then again, it was possible the kid would be gone, Aurin's spare blades in tow.

"Hey, it's me," he said before the door had fully swung open.

Aurin surveyed the scene without the flicker of an eyelid, locking the door behind him for security's sake. He scooped up a dagger or two that had been in his path to the table, and set them down.

"A battlefield littered with debris can be as much a hindrance to you as to your enemies," he shared, summarizing a maxim more poetically described by someone else long ago. He did smile a bit at Yshvold's struggle with the sword. He didn't know where he had gotten the sword—all Aurin's blades were smaller, more easily concealable or at least called a tool rather than a weapon, as if weapons weren't tools themselves—but he supposed the lad would be a better employee if he was industrious. Aurin would just have to keep an eye on him until he knew where industriousness and taking stupid risks collided. They all had that point.

"It's a costume," he admitted. "I tricked my way into a fancy gig at the Golden Peacock Theater around the corner on the square. I have to talk to artists, who wear all sorts of things, but I also have to talk to rich benefactors and prosperous tradespeople, and they need me to be this. To look like this anyway." He shrugged and tossed the bag onto the bed.

"Those are old costumes, as well. None of them this fancy, but well-made and well-used. About your size and some a bit bigger in case you grow anytime soon. You should still be able to sneak in them. Sometimes, though, it's easier to sneak if you camouflage to the situation. So I have these clothes to sneak through gilded environments. You'll learn." Of course, the horns would always draw attention and there was nothing to be done. From what he understood, he couldn't gift the boy with his masquerade trick. Runes didn't take on the cursed race.

"And you can try to pickpocket me, but I'm going to pay you anyway. Be smart and you can make more money without thieving, or call it a higher order of thieving if you like." He took hold of the sword's hilt and gave it a mighty yank. It came free and he held it up to examine it before twisting the grip so he could offer it pommel-first to the boy.

"I'm not much for big blades. They require a different sort of strength. I aim for swift and explosive. Works better with daggers."