Legend of Ransera

Not two days back in the city of his birth, and Sivan felt like an outsider. To be sure, he was an outsider. He had never fit in here in his fatherland, nor in Dalquia, his motherland. It had taken riding the coattails of an eccentric old artisan, wandering the continent and ending up, against all odds, in the free city of Kalzasi before he felt as though he might have found a place to call home. And yet, here he was, back again.

Despite his mother's blood, he looked as Hytori as anyone else. He spoke Mythrasi like an educated elf. His clothes were certainly fine enough for a prosperous Len'Hytori alchemist and artificer, but they were of decidedly Kalzasern cut. He decided that was the problem. All he had to do was camouflage himself in the styles of his father's people. When he decided this, he was nowhere near the place Torin had rented in the Enclave, nor the artificery where they were studying under a master together. He had been walking, trying to walk out the kinks that had knitted themself up his spine in those two brief days. His work was mentally taxing, but not physically so long as he stretched from time to time. He had stretched, but his unhappiness wouldn't be so easily wrung out.

He paused upon a street corner to take stock, stepping immediately so his back was to a fancifully wrought iron lamppost that had yet to light up, politely out of the way of the rest of the foot traffic.

No, no, no, yes!

"Gloaming Hapertas," he said to himself. It seemed a respectable enough establishment as he crossed the street and approached. The clothes displayed in the window seemed finely made, and he sensed, through his Rune, that whoever had made them had done so with care and diligence. It set him at his ease. Sivan was quite exacting with himself when it came to creating things, things that would have his name attached to them in any way. It was important to him to purchase from similar artisans, though, of course, he could be persuaded to buy from the desperate, as well, in order to help them out.

Sivan stepped up to the door, his hand falling upon the knob, just in time to feel the lock click through the metal in his hand. He blinked and saw another elf through the fine glass of the door, looking surprised. Sivan blinked, looked down at the chronometer upon his wrist, then over his shoulder in time to see his old perch lighting up in to keep the streets passable through the dark half of the time. He blinked again, turning back to the face in the glass, mouthing his apologies and stepping back, disappointed.

Well, he could figure something out on the morrow...

"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied, caught out on the sidewalk. Sivan dropped a respectful, apologetic bow. "I had lost track of the hour. I can return on the morrow. It is only that I have spent too long abroad and now all my clothes are of a foreign cut, and I grow weary of judgmental eyes upon me." He laughed lightly at his own complaint; he sounded like a petulant child. "Aye, let me return on the morrow. When do you take your luncheon? I shall ensure that mine does not overlap."

Sivan was going to have to stop acting like a foreigner; he knew that. He already knew what it felt like to live here with diluted blood. Perhaps, he thought, then nodded to himself. He could take Torin's measurements as well and purchase a few sets of clothes for him. His hair was long enough that he could cover his ears and perhaps pass if people didn't look too closely. It would just make things easier; Sivan didn't want to change his friend and make him Hytori, of course.

It would be a bit of a walk to get home, but Silfanore was hardly dark at night. Surfaces glimmered as if spun of starlight. Sol'Valen was unrepentantly magical in almost every way one could think of.

He had thought that perhaps he had grown abroad, and that he would feel more confident in his fatherland. Alas, he felt as though he had regressed and was as anxious and unsuited for the place as ever. But perhaps he could fool people into not seeing it, and he could fake it until he felt it. That would be the only way to fool Torin, whose Semblance surpassed even his, marvelous as that seemed to him even now.

"Aye, Kalzasern," he agreed. Sivan wasn't much of a fashionista, but he was comfortable in the clothes—physically, anyway—and it didn't hamper his work. In Kalzasi, he was neither too flashy nor likely to cause someone to cross the street to avoid him. Here, though, things were different.

Well, if the tailor could tell that much, then he had a good eye, at least.

"Ah, well, all right." Filaurel hadn't insisted, but he seemed keen to get things over and done, so Sivan obliged and followed him into the shop. He wasn't certain and it was entirely possible he was merely oversensitive, but it seemed as though the man had given him a look. Oh well, as long as he came out of this at least looking like he fit in, he could stand a little staring.

"I am working as an artificer and alchemist in the inner Amforéon, and I don't really have an eye for style and fashion." He started to remove his outer robe; Kalzasern fashion often included several layers because even their summer was mild by most standards. Down a few layers, it would be easier to take his measurements. "But if you have a few ready-made suits that could be tailored to me, that would give me a place to start, and then if I start to..." he laughed softly at his own ignorance, "...develop opinions I might ask you to make some things specifically for me.

"I appreciate you taking the time this late, sir."

Stripped down a bit, but still fully clothed, he waited awkwardly for instructions on how best to hold himself so the tailor could do his work more efficiently. Efficiency was something that pleased him; new discoveries were often crude but brilliant, and refining them into a more elegant practice was another thing entirely. If he knew little about Len'Alen's craft, but a craftsman recognized a craftsman.

Remaining still was a talent of his; it dovetailed nicely with fading into the background. His time abroad and making new, true friends had helped somewhat, but he was still quite introverted and rarely felt at ease among other people. Perhaps that was why he had become such a skilled summoner, why he created limited creatures rather than communing constantly with his equals.

He nodded and made noises of agreement where appropriate. His blade training with Laurevere and his constant work in the garden and the work that might surprise the layman with its physical requirements had kept him more than fit, though he remained lean after the fashion of most of his people. Sivan did listen for and retain details; it was a learned skill to help him make conversation, but he didn't make conversation until direct questions were asked and Filaurel returned with some of his stock.

"I was honored to depart the Kingdom of the Eternal Sun as my master's ultimate apprentice," he said, the words and cadences he chose indicating that he was, in fact, quite honored. Sivan didn't like to drop his old master's name; it invariable excited too much interest and it wasn't that he didn't think his master deserved it, but rather, he was uncomfortable with the attention.

"He taught me artificing as we moved from Silfanore to Inakova and from the Amber City through other lands, and eventually to Karnor. Sadly, we did not finish my training before he passed beyond the veil. His last bequest took me to an alchemist in Kalzasi, who took me on as an apprentice. That training was finished, and now I have returned to complete my training with my master's old apprentices."

And so, he had finally returned his master's ashes to the homeland. Torin would get to learn from fabulously talented runeforgers. Destyn would follow them as the Fae seemed inclined to do, which was touching as they were all he had to replace the clan that Zaichaer had exterminated. And Sivan got to sit with the strange ambivalence of feeling as though he belonged here and equally that he ought to get gone.

"Do you hail originally from Aerion, Master Filaurel?"

"The strangest thing happened in Kalzasi last season," he said. When there was an honest desire to communicate something, he felt less out of his element, it seemed. He didn't comment upon the garments as they flew, merely moving as directed. Filaurel would tell him which worked best, no doubt.

"My neighbor is a noble Val'Istra there, overseeing his family's business there. A Val'Kor prince called upon him and he insisted we meet... I do have a rather magical garden that would set an expatriate Hytori at ease, I think. Anyway, I sparred with him when he wanted to see whether my neighbor excelled as an instructor or not. It was... humbling to say the least."

Suffice it to say, he could empathize with Filaurel's memories of watching a master at work.

Of course, he was then abashed by the tailor's assessment. Sivan knew how to dress appropriate to the task or event. He knew if something fit or didn't, felt nice or wrong, but it was less artistic decoration for him than utilitarian purpose.

"Well, ah... clearly you have a better eye for such things. I suppose I prefer soberer clothes. I mean, I like blue? But at the workshop, I just want to fit in with the other apprentices. Elsewhere, I suppose, I want to blend in more than I want to stand out. I mean, I don't want to look bad... And I don't mean that your clothes aren't nice, but... I suppose, whatever you think will make me look nice, respectable, but I'm not trying to catch eyes."