Legend of Ransera

Palatium Umbrarum
61st of Ash, 123 of Steel

(...continued from here.)

Aurin had to give them one thing: their parties were akin to a teatronovela in production value and melodrama. And they would have to give him one thing: he was bold. He crossed the invisible barrier between here and there with a small blade in hand and his other hand on the small of the crown prince's back as if they were courting and he was the dragonling's equal. For all that he fastidiously avoided danger in many situations, he more than made up for it in others.

His familiar chuckle echoed strangely through the mask. From their occasional visit via the strange thaumaturgical entanglement between their runes, he knew this place was Arry's stronghold, guarded by his mother's Sentinels and under the wings of his father's flight.

"And glad I am that I saw Tertium and turned around when last I set foot upon this continent. I can travel with ease through Ailizane, but the Sentinels clocked me in Tertium and kindly allowed me my dignity, letting me play the sunborn heir errant come home to see to his family's affairs. Which was a half-truth, at least."

The jackal-headed man was a past master at weaving truth, half-truth, and lie into clever deceptions, only occasionally needing magical tricks, skillfully used but rarely used to the point of ridiculousness as did some illusionists. He had never claimed to be an actor—he thought he would be useless on a stage—but he wasn't half bad at doing what actors did, believing his own lies through active use of his imagination.

His illusions faded here in the underworld palace. His oiled muscles didn't gleam quite so provocatively. His golden skin showed the peaches and cream that matched his hidden hair. The mask looked more a mask that had room to hide a human head rather than an impressive impossibility. He gave Arry's bum a familiar pat before he made his knife disappear and his hands came up to remove the mask and hold it under his arm.

Hazel eyes were bright with excitement. His skin was flushed. His red hair was dark with sweat. Arry would see tiny changes, but he hadn't changed much. Aurin Kavafis was in Soluniarum—this time, in the flesh.

"Oh," he said when a slave came to retrieve his mask for him. "Do we show appreciation to slaves or is that a faux pas? I wouldn't want to embarrass you." He smirked.

At the premature return of their primary charge, the servi and other staff of the royal residences went promptly into high alert. As she stepped through, Cithæra began to wordlessly impart orders too complex for the simple gestures she seemed to be making. Despite remarkably powerful wards so potent as to dissuade one from finding them remarkable, Aurin would likely guess that she was exploiting the 'trick' she'd given to Arvælyn in his youth.

The dragonborn, for his part, seemed to be still very much in shock. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed he followed where he was led, but a quaking tension pervaded his body as if bracing for some other attempt. All his Runes were humming with energy, poised to expend æther even as they summoned more toward him.

He didn't display any outward signs of what was being said as Aurin exposited about his journey to Tertium, focusing rather on the sights and Symphonies around them. He wouldn't be comfortable for a while, but he could at least lower his hackles somewhat once he'd confirmed everything was familiar. Even the one in the jackal costume, although his brand of familiarity felt out of place in the present environs. When he finally doffed his mask and asked after local etiquette, Arry looked at him blankly.

"Who cares?" He said, as he stepped in to embrace him, pressing his cheek to Aurin's chest. After a pause, he lifted his head.

"Where is... what happened to Finn? I felt something strange, but so much was going on..."

"He vied directly against Thalya and she countered with her Mesmer." Cithæra explained, "He's a master in his own right, so hopefully the after-effects won't be abysmal, but Phocion will have taken him to the Prætorium for a proper assessment."

"But I should be with him..."

"If you're tangled up in his Symphony, the Mesmer Medici will not be able to do their work. We'll reunite you as soon as it is sound to do so. Do your best to calm down." She glanced to a servus who nodded, and moved to pour two cups of wine.

"I must needs speak with the Zalkyrians. Please just remain here." She walked by the aforementioned servus, who approached the prince and his companion with the two cups on a tray.

"But... why are you even here? Did your network alert you to what was being planned? The assassination attempts?"

Most of his attention was reserved for Arry, of course, but he was casing the joint, so to speak, and he also managed to get a few eyesful of Arry's mother. Damned elven longevity, but she could have been the little actor's sister. He didn't let his thoughts travel too far down that road, though he did enjoy watching her walk away.

"Thanks," he said to the slave, snagging both glasses with one hand, an old trick from an old bartender. He held onto them both until such time as Arry was ready to hold his own.

"And thanks for thinking me that omniscient, but no. I came to visit. To surprise you. I did gather a bit of intel while pausing in the Aurisian capital, and I'll share it with you or with your Vigilia Magna Mater to see if you have the context to make heads or tails of it." He sighed, rubbing on Arry in a way that used to soothe him, holding the wine toward him.

"Brave boy, your Finn. If he couldn't stand between you, he engaged her from behind." Aurin didn't bear any actual malice for Finn, though his compliments were grudging. If anything, he was relieved to know Arry had one person whose devotion was uncomplicated by politics.

He couldn't ply his sembling trick upon Arry, nor upon his now absent mother, but he got the distinct impression that the cold, aloof elf princess had been able to semble him. He didn't like that. There were a lot of things he didn't like about Solunarium, though he had enjoyed the party. But he was here because he wanted to see Arry. If he was disappointed by Arry's reaction, he supposed he could chalk it up to how the party ended and not some insufficiency on his part.

"Come, let's have a drink and leave the healing to the healers. I like your costume."

“Well, colour me surprised. Well done, you…” Arvælyn wryly replied. With the tethers of his Craft spreading forth to keep tabs on his surroundings, he couldn’t help but dip deeper into Aurin’s Symphony than he likely should have. He did try to respect boundaries when he’d the presence of mind to do so, but his self-preservation instincts were on high alert and he took in information from whatever sources were available. It was no simple thing to pre-filter such things. Whatever the case, he sensed the reluctance to speak well of Finn through which Aurin fought to do so.

He parted his lips to speak on that, but was glad to be redirected toward diversions. He nodded to the suggestion, and gestured to a seating area as his already active Craft instructed servi to oblige Aurin’s request and promptly see about pouring and delivering wine.

Arry perched himself on a chaise longue and glanced down at himself, as if reminded he was costumed at all.

“Oh… well, I hope you got to see it before the incident. It was much more cohesive when I was enhancing the visual with your bequeathment to me…” His wings had been concealed by a blinding solar disc that served as a simulated Nimbus, and might have awed those who’d never stood before an actual deity to the same degree as the genuine article. But now his costume was just a costume, with far too much of reality showing through the cracks and creases.

“And I see what you did there with yours…” He gestured to the mask, “Solunarian approximation of a fox and all that. Very on-brand. Cheers.” He raised his wine cup and held it aloft as an afterthought occurred to him.

“Oh, and welcome to Solunarium. This is my palace.”

The con man ought to have been offended perhaps, that no mention was made of his intelligence, but he supposed it was entirely possible that whatever he had learned in Auris would be known to Arry's formidable mother. After all, if he couldn't sneak into Solunarium without her knowing, he didn't know what could be sneaking past her. Then again, the Luxian queen had - he didn't know enough and he hated that feeling.

But he played it off with his usual nonchalance, following Arry to sit, making himself comfortable enough, though he was still poised to spring into action if necessary. Arry's own palace would be safer, he hoped, under the control of the Vigilia and - well - dragons.

"Thanks," he said drolly. "They wouldn't let me roll in on a litter carried by slaves, alas. But glad I am my humble trick has helped you here." His eyes and his sembling senses endarted as far as they were allowed; he had no qualms looking, not with Arry, no matter his pert arse sat a throne these days. In any case, it was generally easier to ask forgiveness than permission. This was the dumbass who insulted demigods to get their attention, after all. For a man who considered himself a survivor, many of his gambits seemed like symptoms of a death wish.

While he had seen Arry via their thaumaturgically entangled chats, it was quite another thing to see the new Arry peeking through the remains of his practical costume elements. The princeling was too good with his mesmerism. Aurin couldn't tell how much of what he was feeling was true and how much he was bolstering with magic. He seemed as though he might be in a bit of shock; certainly, that would be understandable.

"I had thought you more made for a sunborn throne," he admitted casually. "I suppose now we have the grounds to seize it from the royal assassin." In truth, if some God or another showed him into a dark room with Thalya and handed him a knife in that moment, he would slit her throat without a second thought. Arry might have risen higher in the world than he ever would, but a part of him would always see the wayward waif that the winds had blown up to his door.

Nobody fucked with his boy.

“They wouldn’t?” Arvælyn blinked at Aurin’s assertion that he hadn’t been permitted to arrive by slave-drawn litter. “It’s a perfectly common mode of transit, though the truly elite have Kineticist slaves as not to sully their conveyance with the grubby hands of peasants, or some such haughty contrivance…” He trailed off, lifting his cup to take a copious gulp of steadying wine.

“Caw, you didn’t think me made for any throne at all any more than I did.” Arry demurred, with a dismissive wave of his hand and, catching the light of his engagement ring, quickly brought it down to his lap to find warmth between his thighs.

“Yeah, we’ll see how that goes…” He clearly hadn’t considered the gravity of the potential political ramifications quite yet, which was apparent in his rarely accessible Aura. As a show of faith in the Luxians, the members of House Phædryn who attended as guests rather than sentinels, hadn’t worn their usual wards. There were enough protections in place should anyone intrude, or so they’d thought… Apparently, Cithæra hadn’t thought to ward him in the presence of Aurin, or hadn’t deemed him enough of a liability to go to that length.

“I hope the Luxians will be reasonable, but who knows how deep their fealty oaths are set? It would be a cruel irony if I fled the unrest in Kalzasi only to be at the centre of a civil war here…” Though, in truth, it was more Finn he would feel bad for in that eventuality than himself.

“Anyway, I would not dwell on these things. Tell me of your life. Tell me of home. Are you still catting around Ailizane or has that upwardly mobile smithy made an honest man of you?” Another profuse gulp of wine, and a slave rushed to refill his goblet promptly, as an overweening urge to do so overtook them out of the blue.

After so long apart, even with the odd magical visitation, Aurin sat close. Had the slaves minds of their own, they might have thought it too close. But the man gave absolutely zero fucks about Solunarian propriety unless someone of merit were there. Slowly, unless barred, he would shift and edge and touch until they were lounging like lovers. But, of course, he would react to subtle cues. He knew Arry well, and he seemed to have left himself open to sembling, as well.

"Pft, you thought yourself a prince long before Yserloo put a costume crown on your pretty golden head..." He reached out to brush his fingers along one of the horns now crowning the younger man's head. Looking back, there had been times where Arry had been a veritable dragon in the sack. He wondered, though, why he hadn't seen what was hidden, why his sembling trick hadn't told him more. Perhaps one had to know what one was looking for. Tricks were only as good as the trickster.

A brow arched. Arry had known how to climb the ladder, whether in a street gang in Antiris or a repertory company in Kalzasi. He was certain Arry could make the most of this chaos if he put his mind to it, and even if he didn't, that sharp princess would.

"Ailizane and now Ecith, though no plans to trade with the Orkhan. Unless... you need eyes and ears there." He snickered. "Torin's noble patron made a noble of him. No prince, but lord of his own alpine valley. Starting from scratch, I suppose. Gathering power among the witches of Zaichaer, fleecing the oligarchs of the Imperium, keeping the Golden Peacock in the black... You know, keeping busy. Now I'm here, though, I can visit more often. Mapped a route through the slipspace. Or I can open you a door if you want to slum it in Kalzasi sometime..."

While he hadn't emptied his cup, he held it out for the slave to top off while more wine was in the offing.

Arvælyn did not demur from the closeness, but neither did he nestle into it nor instigate further physical intimacy beyond that which Aurin pressed. There was palpable tension, but wasn't that to be expected after an attempt on one's life?

"Næ, I wished to be thought a prince. There's a difference. In truth, I felt like a bit of Antiran detritus that blew into Kalzasi on the westbound winds..." He trailed off, absently sensing the winding of Aurin's Symphony. He didn't even seem to notice Aurin hadn't said anything aloud on the subject to which he was replying.

"I was possessed of an artefact... A simple charm I wore about my neck. It looked as though it had been carved from wood. You might have noticed it, though its power might have dissuaded you from doing so as it dissuaded me from ever removing it. It was, in fiction and in truth, a bequeathment from my mum. It was imbued with the divine power to suppress and so it was no mere illusion concealing my nature. I was, physiologically speaking, a full-blooded Re'hyæan elf until I removed it..." His wings twitched, "And metamorphisised."

He ceased the swirling of his wine to taste of it as Aurin spoke of his recent exploits.

"Oh, don't put it on me if you fancy prognathic jaws adorned with tusks. If you tend toward such rough trade, that is your own affair." He stated with a short-lived chortle that soon faded to a grimace.

"Kalzasi has always played fast and loose with titles, haven't they? Now I'm here I can see what a chaotic place it was. I understand why you ended up in such a place and I'm glad you've tamed your little foxhole there, but at present that which I loved in Kalzasi is come to Solunarium." He paused, then suddenly stood and paced over to a window overlooking the Umbrium. Phocion often stood in silence and took in a lovely vista, and he always looked so striking in the doing. And the view of his city was lovely...

Aurin wanted to clap back immediately, but Arry kept on talking, so he bit back his retort. The princeling was in a sharing mood, it seemed, and he knew he needed to know more about the situation if he was going to survive it successfully. He listened.

While he had met the erstwhile Shinsei, now merely the Daikozu of his vaunted House, Aurin knew he hadn't sembled enough of the divine to truly understand it, if a mere mortal ever could. That would explain why he hadn't sussed things out himself. His pride was somewhat assuaged by this knowledge.

His smirk faded as quickly as Arry's chortle. He hadn't yet bagged Imogen, but that was more of a running joke than anything else—not that he would kick her out of bed if he woke up to find her there. But then just as soon as Arry implied a love between them, he walked away. The dragon prince certainly did look striking there, but also aloof and alone. Those necromancers had better make quick work of Finn's hospitalization; Arry needed him. A part of him wanted to offer a tumble in the sheets to distract him, but he doubted that would get even a courtesy chuckle. That angered him a bit, of course.

"I love you, too," he said, an angry retort, as if he blamed Arry for that fact. "You aren't trash. You never were."

Arry had been a diamond in the rough, rolling into his door like a tumbleweed. Even if he had recognized quality, he hadn't known quite what he was looking at. Not for the first time, he wished he could have done things differently. He couldn't change who he was, but perhaps he could have handled things in such a way that... Well, hindsight wasn't terribly helpful in this instance.

He hoped Arry wasn't reading his mind. His sembling seemed to help somewhat at obscuring his symphony from the mind-readers, but not entirely, and Arry was powerful.

And Arry knew where his buttons were, the better to push them.

But when Arry didn't close the space between them, he asked, "Do you want me to leave?"

He canted his head to the side to glance over his shoulder at a more direct expression of love than he’d offered Aurin. Whether it was to that or the subsequent comment he was replying was unclear, as he muttered:

“I know that, now…” Whatever he was responding to, he didn’t linger long in that moment.

“No.” He was hasty and decisive in answer to Aurin’s offer to leave. He turned his posture away from the window, silhouetted now in the dim silver light of the Umbrium without.

“Apropos of a masquerade, perhaps, I am not feeling myself. I am…” He wrinkled his nose as he said the word: “Vulnerable. Someone just tried to kill me and my betrothed was stricken by one of the most powerful mages in the known world. Part of me wants to forget myself for the sake of distraction, but I have responsibilities.” He pursed his lips and turned toward the window.

“Can’t we be friends without our past feeling so… pendulous?” He wondered as his eyes trailed toward the sacred district.

“I know you don’t take much stock in the culture or the faith of this realm, but here I have learnt much of Sacrifice. I am its champion and the stronger for the restraint it has taught me.” He drew his wine up to his lips and shifted to perch himself upon the window sill, angled so he could see Aurin in his periphery and the cityscape in the foreground of his vantage.

“I wonder sometimes whether you see me as Solunarium sees Ailizane: a province once conquered that remains your rightful demesne.” He shook his head and sighed, looking down.

“I apologise. As I said I am not entirely myself. I ought not to have said that. That was artless.”