32nd of Ash, Year 118
His holster crackled with the sizzling burn of a crystalline flame.
The man had gored another upon the floor. His long blade raked through the raider's mutated chest, his intestines spilled out onto the burning sand.
Taelian stood quietly and watched. He wore goggles over his eyes. The top of his head was covered in messy curls of white-gold hair, while the back was brought into a small ponytail. He was covered head-to-toe in thick attire, meant to protect him from exposure to the Badlands' abundance of Sunder-Dust.
"You!" the Halamire called out to him. The killer. He was covered in a thick, black suit of armor, with a finely bred horse beside him. It had come to his side upon his command, clearly well behaved. Taelian knew what the Halamire were, he'd heard of them in the broken towns of the Badlands. Daravin's military. This one, judging by his armor and Runic-enhanced gun, was a Valran. The enforcers of the will of the Entente.
Or in this case -- perhaps the Pontifex. He wasn't sure if he was far enough yet to be considered as within the borders of Arlain.
"What were you doing with this Raider-scum? You are not one of them, I can tell." Taelian was glad that he could. He hadn't raised a hand to defend him when the Halamire-Knight descended from his horse, nor when he shot at him, nor when he tore him asunder with black steel.
The soldier's accent was thick. It was more Daravin than he thought Daravin could be -- the lowness and cynicism practically seeped into every word he uttered.
"Knife-Ears?" he questioned, rhetorically. Taelian couldn't see his face, but the Knight must've only just gotten a good look at his own profile. "Ah, you're one of the Elfies fleeing into our Empire. From Sil-Elaine, I take it?" he asked. This one wasn't rhetorical.
"Yes," Taelian replied. He still wasn't used to speaking primarily in Common, and his own accent was strange by Daravinic standards . . . but he noted he didn't sound too different to the people in Carine. Sil-Elaine used to be a central part of the Clockwork Empire, after all. The dialect between Silfanore and Eastern Daravin wasn't as far apart as one might guess, though he had difficulty with the slang and the uneducated manner in which most people spoke. Even if they were shit-mired, impoverished Elves, it appeared eloquence was more natural to their words.
This man, though... he spoke well enough. He was a Valran, after all. He was among the Empire's upper echelon.
"Fortunately for you," he started, "I happen to be under the patronage of Montese Lieril Lorraine of Ciseperant. She's one of you dodgy bastards, and she's ordered that I not bring harm to any of you found crossing our border."
"...Lieril?" Taelian questioned. A Siltori name. A Siltori Lord, in a foreign land. Odd, that they were even allowed to rule over the Daravain. The Siltori's eyes narrowed. "I'm glad," he said softly. "I am very thirsty. Did she also ask you to help keep us alive? If so... I would very much like something to drink."
