Legend of Ransera

Aurin curated himself whenever he was in anything like public, and while Timon had left them alone for the nonce, he knew a noble client was en route and so he was playing the interested, connected buyer, perusing what was on display. The displays were something Timon carefully curated—enough to impress, but leaving them wanting more; and not leaving anything too precious too unguarded. He was about to say—not for the first time—that Sivan really ought to work on aphrodisiacs. Aurin had even offered to give him his seed to help him alchemize libido, though that had mostly been to see how the golden elf blushed prettily. But then Torin was there, being entirely unprofessional, and he just laughed at him—but also with him.

An eyebrow arched up like a bird's wing taking flight.

"And you aren't scared of me any longer, eh?" he asked, giving Torin's rough mitt a squeeze. "I'll have to remedy that." The latter came out more quiet, subtly menacing. But he was smirking again soon enough, considering a few things he could think of that might make Torin reevaluate how much he knew about sex.

Aurin, a past master at compartmentalization of his life, was perfectly happy with Torin being a homebody. He was the one Aurin came home to when he wanted a home to dwell in, and he was glad that Torin had Sivan—another homebody—on many nights when Aurin worked late, traveled, or the like. Likewise, Aurin had other lovers for other things, other places. It was truly a miracle that nobody had shown up on his doorstep with a red-headed bastard like him.

"Dinner en route to the Cab," he posited, "drinks with the courtesans, and then debauchery back with a hookah, hm? Then lead you back to the cottage by your boyish hard-on and have my way with you, eh? Why not?"

His smirk deepened, but he tended to loosen the reins on his sembling trick when it was just the two of them, so that even if he said something cruel in jest, Torin could feel what Aurin daren't say except in the dark.

But he was leaving soon for Solunarium and so he would have acceded to almost any wish his boy might communicate. Aurin was going to miss him—of course, he always did when he was away—and he tried to give conservative estimates of how long he would be gone on trips, whether to Zaichaer, Antiris, Haqs, or Gel'Grandal. He rarely gave him the details. Plausible deniability was a gift from thieves and con men.

"As soon as you conclude your business, then..."

Aurin's aura closed off when he sensed the man right before he entered; it was a subtle thing, weaving, inverting, and focusing on reasonable thoughts arising in the situation until even if one thought they were sembling him, it was a curated look.

He enjoyed watching Torin wearing the mantle of Master Kilvin, confident now in his work in a way even Aurin hadn't expected would come so quickly. It was maturing, making him seem older, in that it was clear that he knew what he was about rather than puffing himself up to pass muster. Perhaps now that he was also Ser Torin of Stardew Valley had something to do with that, his small community looking to him for the occasional leadership even as they knew how to do their jobs.

The fox also made a point of readjusting the bracer on his left wrist. The nobleman was a sembler, and perhaps it would catch his mind's eye before he left. Torin had created many wonderful things in his short career.

Once the door was closed and locked and the man was on his way, Aurin got the feeling they would see him again. Torin had a fan. But his hands fell upon Torin's broad shoulders and he turned him toward the other door, kneading his knots as he pushed him forward.

"Not letting you out of my sight until morning," he promised, threatened. "I'll scrub your back. Wash your hair. Make sure you're thorough about it. Then we can have our little jaunt."

Were he about to fuck Torin, he might have vaulted them there. But since he was teasing him, drawing things out, he walked him through the yard and into the house. It was nice to smell the dirt and foliage, the kitchen and the faint scent of teenager and wolf, as they made their way up. And halfway up the stairs, he began to peel of Torin's clothes...

Aurin hated Torin leaving, but he did love to watch him walk away. One might think a blacksmith would be top-heavy, but he ensured his boy had to do quite a bit of lifting from the floor, using his knees to protect his back, and they went on fairly regular journeys into the wilderness to get away from the city and get fresh air and exercise. And privacy.

His tricks were in effect, as always, albeit not reaching out so much as obfuscating, presenting a version of himself that he wanted people to see. Through glamourie, he light caught just so in his eyes, on his bright smile, just the right hue to offset his complexion, and his aura calm, his magics inverted. He didn't need a trick to notice the eyes upon him; he had been prey too many times in life not to retain those instincts, though he had become a predator and sometimes scavenger over the intervening years.

The normal smirk was softened into something more akin to a welcoming smile. At the Velvet, rank was oft ignored. All the same, he nodded respectfully.

"My lord," he greeted. "Fancy meeting you here. Enjoying the spectacle?"

His eyes skittered over to the aerial performers contorting prettily in rings spinning suspended from the ceiling, but then, his eyes found the broad line of Torin's shoulders, the light catching in his hair, and those hips that felt just right in his greedy grip.

"I would offer a drink, but young Lord Torin has already gone to the bar..." It wasn't a lie. He would have plied the man with drinks—and more—in order to turn him around and find places to lay in his hooks. If their Avialae overlords didn't fuck things up, he was well on his way to having a fair puppet show of players in this setting.

Aurin acknowledged the hint with a smile and eyes lowered as he sipped the drags of his drink. It was rare to see him looking away; he tended to look a man in the eye, directly confronting. But when he did look away, the light caught on lashes longer than one might imagine. He was hardly a coquette.

"No man is so rich he should turn down a friend," he said lightly, "or a generous drinking companion."

His gaze cut to Torin, imagining him for a moment as a caryatid holding up a temple. He smiled, and it rounded back upon the man.

"Body, mind, and soul," he agreed. Then, lest there be confusion, "Extraordinary. And mine. A common orphan when he arrived in Kalzasi three years ago. Now a master smith and runeforger, as well as a landholder under House Leukos, which is sworn to Great House Briathos. I suppose you could say I am a talented nurturer of talent. Are you extraordinary, my lord?" he asked. "Body, mind, or soul? And do you want to be mine, or do you want what's mine?"

This was, indeed, a place where one could speak out of turn, and having managed it, Aurin was quite deft at toeing the line, as well as knowing how to dance across it and back without incurring wrath. After all, the man was being forthright enough; Aurin would do him the honor of reciprocating.

But then Torin was there, and Aurin's hand came to massage the nape of his neck in clear possession, his other accepting his drink. "Ah, good boy. My lord, you know Master Torin Kilvin. And Torin, your lofty client..." But he hadn't caught the man's name. Perhaps it wouldn't matter.

"Well, if you change your mind on that score..." he let the words trail off as his gaze trailed down in a reciprocal sort of admiration. But Torin was back and business was being discussed, it seemed. He didn't boast that the man, for all his fortune and blue blood, couldn't take Torin from him, though he would not have minded if he had been the sort of lord who wished to be a slave behind closed doors. That was something he could certainly work with.

Aurin didn't truly need money. He had plenty squirreled away in secret caches as well as banks, coded into investments and a ledger of favors owed, and even if he hadn't, he could have lived off of Torin's wealth and the obliging wunderkind would never have complained should they live together for a thousand years. But Aurin did like to keep Torin unbalanced from time to time, never unsure of his affections, of the enduring bond that he only spoke of in the heated darkness, but walking into the new and the unknown with perfect faith in his ginger guide.

This was certainly a route he had considered more than once, even teased Torin with the mere possibility, sussing the truth of his reactions, emotional as well as physical.

As client and artisan spoke, Aurin sipped his new drink. Then, as the lord spoke rightfully to the artisan's master, he offered a Cheshire grin.

"Why don't we go somewhere more private to discuss the possibilities, my lord?" he asked of Byres. Pushing off the wall, he gave Torin's chin a nudge with his knuckles, hazel eyes alight with something.

To Torin, "Come along, boy."

With a familiar hand upon Byres' shoulder he led him toward a curtained hallway. His fingers made a strange signal as they approached and the well-oiled bouncer let them through, holding back the curtain for his old manager. Aurin made charming small talk as he walked the lordling into a room redolent of incense with mirrored walls artfully revealed or hidden behind heavy velvet curtains. The low table was also mirrored, doubling the hookah that rested there, primed and ready should they require it.

Aurin didn't bother looking behind, knowing Torin would follow. Instead, he eased Byres down into a comfortable seat beside him on the divan. But once seated and once Torin had timidly shut the door behind him, Aurin's eyes leveled upon him.

"Put your drink down. Take off your clothes. Lord Byres wants to see my wares."