Legend of Ransera

There was a crowd around the Argyrocopieon, the Royal Mint, when Sivan came seeking the building adjoining it: the center of Laurëtelepse's hero-cult. The ancient elf had been a priest of Fyraea and, it was said, the father of Avenna Draegir. While the mint had long ago made clear the demarcation between its provenances and those of Her Guild of Coin, she was a Hytori on the path of apotheosis and Her father maintained his small, respectful cult of—mostly—craftspeople.

No, he realized as he made his careful, respectful way closer to his goal. They were gathered at his destination.

All he wanted to do was make an offering for his dear, deceased master, who had been a devotee, and ask for intercession with Fyraea for Torin and for himself with their studies this season. He would have come earlier, but he had to help Torin get accustomed to the city without running into things while delving into the auras of every person, place, and phenomenon. Perhaps humans were a touch simple, he thought, but shook his head. Sol'Valen was a place of boundless wonders. A person could grow accustomed to anything, even wonders.

When he got about as close to the altar that had been set up in front of the heroön as he was likely to get without unseemly elbowing or stepping upon feet, he saw what the fuss was about. It wasn't the Dream King of Sol'Eilran, but someone nearly his equal. Sivan had never seen Prince Salmakis this close before, but that prince's realm was the Amber City of the principality of Cassarond. They were far from home, but it made sense why they were calling down blessings from Fyraea here. Someone was being honored; a designer of couture from the sound of it.

Sivan waited patiently. It was right to honor those who achieved great things. He would have tried to found a heroön for his old master had they returned to Sol'Valen before he died. The irascible old man had been his first friend. He looked down at his hands clasped before him. Gravity betrayed the sheen gathering on his eyes. His hand came up, knuckling away a tear before it could truly be called one. He didn't look on Salmakis in their glory, but rather listened to their voice, wondering if he would be remembered well when he was gone. That time was far away yet unless something terrible befell him.

Thankfully, he had been to Master Filaurel's shop since arriving in Silfanore. He no longer dressed like a Kalzasern alchemist, but a Len'Hytori artisan. There was respect for that here, and here in a holy place, he even dared to meet the gaze of the beautiful woman he found himself standing next to when the prince's incantations were said and after applause for the honored guest was dying down. She was clearly noble, but when even princes walked among the common elves, it was not the place for hierarchy.

"Do you know her?" he asked in the polite mode of a Len'Hytori to a Val'Hytori, even as his hands clapped their last few. "The designer being honored here today? She must be something to earn the laurels from the Prince of Cassarond."

The stranger nodded thoughtfully at all she said. When she mentioned beading, he looked her up and down more closely, appreciative but nowhere near lascivious.

"I think, perhaps," he said softly, with gentle humor, "that you have been on her list before? Oh."

He looked closer, then. His Rune of Semblance flared invisibly from where it had been laid upon the back of his skull. If she Sembled past his own clothing, she would note the archaic, symbolic placements of his Runes. Semblance over the anterior third eye, Animus over the anterior heart center, and Summoning at the base of his spine. Any Sembler soon learned to note the wheels of aether at various points on the body; some healers used them as indicators of imbalances and some magi, especially their ancient elders, believed that some where auspicious placements for particular Runes—or, in some ancient texts in Vallenor, Seals.

Aether clung to his hands, as well, a sign of a Maker, whether acknowledged by a Guild or another Maker or merely a fact. If she looked deeper rather than asking, she might catch hints that would resonate with Alchemy and Artificing. While he hadn't marked her for a royal, he thought she was at least noble, and so he would only guard deeper secrets from her endarting eye.

"Masterful, indeed," he said, pulling his gaze away lest he make a social faux pas and ignore her in favor of studying the intricate work of Mistress Len'Ryllae. He was glad Torin was busy; the runeforger would not have had the self-control, he thought. Sivan had almost forgotten how his father's people had found ways to make everything magical, even the very mundane. Of course, there was nothing mundane about her dress or her, though he hadn't Sembled deeper than the beading of her dress.

"I consider myself fortunate to be able to see her work up close." He took a step back so he could bow properly to her. "Thank you for educating me, Lady. I will not take up any more of your time. I must make my way to an acolyte, at least, and make my Master's offering."

The stranger offered her a gesture of parting—not one in vogue, but then he had admitted to being absent for some time. The Hytori were still rebuilding their understanding of their past. So much had been trod under by Lysanrin jackboots, or those who had taken advantage of their downfall to plunder ruins and such. She, of all elves, knew how a slight change in the composition of a bead might be the difference between a nod to Daeomorean faience and a nod to fritware beads from the lost world of Samarra. The wisest elves, those who knew the most, claimed they knew nothing and, in the grand scheme of things, they were correct. And so one might wonder whether his gesture was a bastardization of something or some hint of their shared past that was no longer common knowledge. Such was the life of an elf.

Sivan made his way carefully around the celebration, not wanting to steal a Maker's thunder, and found an acolyte willing to accept his offering in the name of the hero. He spent some time there. This was not a perfunctory act. Before he rose, the acolyte anointed his brow with oil and sprinkled his golden curls with hyacinth-scented water from a silver aspergil. They prayed together for a few moments, and then, Sivan rose, head bowed to receive a benediction. He thanked the acolyte, and then turned to go.

Finding the celebration still underway, he lingered, listening, observing. He hadn't felt as though he fit back in his youth, and perhaps he hadn't. But he had also grown greatly in his time away, and he wondered if he might fit in now. It didn't matter, really. He had his place in Kalzasi. But perhaps he could make more frequent visits. The Makers who had been students of his Master treated him differently now, having been the one their Master chose to accompany him on his last journey, to hold vigil as he began his journey to the Grimlord, and the one who had returned with his ashes.

The errant elf made polite noises when people spoke to him more than he spoke back. The one lady had been handy when he had an actual question, and he chalked that conversation up as a win. He hadn't babbled or left uncomfortable silences; it seemed pleasant for both. Best not try his luck with a second conversation with a stranger, especially after the emotional time spent with the acolyte and his memories. Thankfully, his eyes were no longer watering.

But...

"Ah, Your Highness..." a woman was sighing, "you do tempt one nigh unto outright envy."

Your Highness.

What he had thought was a success was clearly an unmitigated disaster and the princess too kind to tell him so. It was time to leave, and perhaps buy the house in the Alienage so he never had to set foot under the sun again.

He looked for the quickest path of egress from the milling crowd.

His darting eyes caught upon her gaze as though she were a rose with thorns. Her gesture was unmistakable.

Sivan took a steadying breath, much as he did before a customer came into the shopfront attached to Kilvin's Forge when young Timon was in the house eating his lunch. He tried to maintain long, slow breaths as he made his careful way over to where the princess was holding an informal court.

He bowed low to her and, indirectly, to those around her.

"Your Royal Highness," he greeted as if he had not spoken to her without preamble not so very long ago. "Great ones. Good day to you." They all seemed to be of various stations, all higher than his, though.

The reactions of those around the princess were mildly varied. At least one of them had caught her gesture to the Len'Hytori, though, and knew he wasn't being presumptuous, whoever he was. He wasn't servile. Even the first among the Court of Princes, her royal father, would despise a Len'Hytori scullion who abased himself too much before his king. Even the Len'Hytori were beloved of the Gods and worthy of respect.

It was just that some Hytori were worthy of more respect.

Sivan, however, was decidedly not bold. He was honest, though.

"A humble artisan, Your Highness," he agreed, self-effacing to the extreme. It might be difficult to tell whether his modesty was false or not, but as he was not hiding more than the more personal secrets, she could tell if she wanted to. For all he knew, the Dream King's daughter would pluck the truth out of his dreams even if she didn't pluck them out of his mind in the daylight.

"Humble, though I have been more than fortunate to have been apprenticed to Master Tavári'nar Val'Gwairil in artificing. I accompanied him from Silfanore to Inakova, and then abroad. When he passed beyond the veil, his last bequest took me to Kalzasi to seek apprenticeship from his friend, Master Jacun. The foreign maker," and calling anyone foreign a maker was compliment indeed, "taught me the art of alchemy. I suppose I should have known it as he was a friend of my late master, but I did not know until after my apprenticeship that Master Jacun is of the Blue Dragonflight. I have yet to ken how that might have affected my understanding of the alchemical arts. Unsure what to do, I remained in Kalzasi, and a friend who is an exceptional runeforger asked me to work with him until I decided what I wanted to do. Well, now I have returned my master's ashes to Tavárinoikos, and I will complete the last few lessons my master was not allowed to teach me while my business partner learns from the best runeforgers in creation. I am also a capable summoner, scrivener, sembler, and animist."

The last three were tacked on quickly. He had tried to be succinct as he was speaking to his betters, offering them as much of the full narrative without boring them with details. It was as though he were on an interview, really. Scrivening and sembling spoke to a proper magical education, while summoning and animus were a bit quirky given his trajectory toward becoming a maker of some renown if his academic pedigree was anything to extrapolate from.

Indeed, one of Akantha's less socially astute hangers on murmured, "Tavárinoikos" with some respect. But while that person was incapable of hiding their admiration, they were far from incorrect in their reaction.

Master Tavári'nar Val'Gwairil had been a Maker among Makers, and the workshop run by several of his apprentices was perhaps the most concentrated locus of talent, skill, power, and innovation in the entirety of Sol'Valen. Certainly, Salmakis had made several a honeyed offer to move them into their capital, something they had bickered with Ailuin over on more than one occasion.

But Akantha could almost hear her father scolding the young elf. Len'Hytori, certainly. If one were looking for it, of mixed blood. But clearly, the Hytori blood was strong. Master makers and dragons had elected this too humble elf to train. Surely that could be no coincidence.