Nocturne

[Alistair]

2nd of Searing, Year 4622

"You have a lovely night, miss," he muttered in a suave voice, the coolest of smiles peaking at the corner of his upper lip. The man's stare was kept even and constant; within it, each small detail spelled the picture of charm.

"As do you," she replied, performing a curtsy before slowly picking herself up from the dredges of whatever, momentary, star-struck infatuation she'd been enthralled with. The woman wore a satin yellow dress with frills in the back, with a collar of laced black and the symbols of the Omen brought together in the form of a necklace; the sun and moon, only with embroidered golden edges. She was obviously Entente, but was -- perhaps -- not the leading member of any such family; she appeared to meek, too much the type to submit to the will of others. No such person could ever rule one of Daravin's cruel houses.

Alistair's state of dress was simple: a white, point collar dress shirt with ruffles beneath the collar and around the buttons, leading down to long black pants brought firmly around his waist by a belt. His hair was slightly wavy as it always was, combed largely upward, and short. He had clipped his tusks, and so appeared to simply be a human man of incredible stature and build. His night at the establishment had seen him plentiful revelry; he was, to some, the main event, and that was precisely how he liked it. It almost reminded him of life back at home, the moments he longed for even if he'd always resented them at the time.

It was night, now. The clouds that loomed above were difficult to even see, only really visible when they obscured the moon. Looking up into the sky, he could see said moon halfway submerged within one, stars twinkling all around as his eyes cast outward. Alistair took in a deep, pleasant breath; it was a beautiful night. Summery, but still nighttime after all -- cool and without the overbearing glare of the sun. He stepped away from the door to the event, watching people slowly funnel out, before disappearing from the crowd entirely and making his way towards the edge of the marina. The man leaned over a rail, breathing in and out slowly as he peered over into the river, which was quiet in the night. He could see gondola all around, along the river's stony barriers, bridges running all across the horizon of the canal.

There had been few moments like this in his life before Genteven, and the former Lord was beginning to see its magic. He peered back up towards the sky, watching another cloud pass the moon through until it was fully visible again. Humming, he cracked a warm smile, before reaching into his pocket to find a cigarette to smoke.

[Petra]

Searing in the nation of Daravin, far different to that of Lorien, yet Petra found himself able to acclimate to such weather much easier. He didn’t understand that, he wasn’t sure he would, chiefly because he barely understood who or where he was. On the nights that had preceded the day, Petra had put himself to rest within his test, awaiting either a good morning or a rough night… However, upon awakening, the same had happened once again. Petra did not remember much about the lands he travelled. He knew the reasons he travelled, the Red Moth, yet he had no recollection of meeting any such people in the holdings of Daravin. Four years had been chopped from his memories, from his biological maturity, and it left a very confused and bewildered 23-year-old wandering the location of Genteven.

His feet carried them as much he could allow. His horse, a trusty steed that he knew was not the same as the one he had been riding prior, was tied up near the entry to the city. Heavy belongings, his tent, tarp, and such items were left with the horse. He was frustrated not to remember the name of the steed, but he was certain it was not the same. Petra had never heard of a horse turning from white to brown in Daravin, not in all his years of researching the nation prior to making the journey.

Garbed in a simple tunic-esuqe-vest, which hung off one shoulder, exposing large regions of one of his pectorals, arm and under-arm to the warm air of Daravin in the Searing. He enjoyed the juxtaposition between cool one on side of his torso with such an arrangement, and cosy with the side that was still garbed. Such a juxtaposition allowed him to focus and think, and it helped he actually remembered the clothes as items parted onto him by his family before setting off from Lorien.

Petra’s lower half was garbed in brown slacks that were pulled up past his kneecaps, the pale legs descending from such an item were shielded in boots of a sort, boots that met his ankle, and then painted in what appeared vast amounts of sands that had met moisture and refused to relevant their grip on his skin and boots. His legs in turn were slightly inflamed, a red glean peaking from the areas that were not captured by the sands. Such a sight gave way to a very clear picture that Petra was a man who seemingly had not bathed awfully recently. The hair upon his face was a dark, but not overly thick, stubble around his jaw and upper lip. There was a slight cropping of chest hair forming upon both pectorals, accompanied by what appeared to be slight cuts as if he had tried to remedy such a situation with merely a razor blade, no ointment, or water.

By large amounts, Petra was a man who had lost himself. The young boy, newly young once again, wandered; let the winds carry him around Genteven in search of an inn. Though such an analogy was poor with the lack of winds in Searing. Guided by mere chance, Petra let himself approach a rather large man, smoking what appeared to be a cigarette, and let the dice roll on the type of interaction he was about to muster from the man. “Do you know of an inn that is not full..?” Posed Petra, his green eyes trailing up the man’s body in search of eye contact. They were men of differing builds, likely different lives, but with his memories faded, his body exhausted from the regression that took place the night prior, Petra had to take the chance that he could begin to appeal to the kindness of those in Genteven. Though, that came with the cost of lying about his reasonings for wandering the nation…

[Alistair]

As he was approached by the sound of a soft, polite tone, the man slowly turned his head away from the marina and towards the one who wielded it. He eyed him, scanning his features and then his attire with a quick flick of his irises, subtly enough to barely be noticed as anything more than re-orienting his stare. Alistair smiled faintly, that same natural warmth gleaming from his lips as he'd always offered to others, false or not. Fortunately, the unnamed man's query was a question he knew the answer to.

"Caico sul Porto Turistico," he answered. "It's not far from here -- keep going along the marina's walkway for about fifteen minutes, and you'll find yourself there. Fee's reasonable; not too incredibly high. A lot of noise late at night, though -- brothel lasses and blokes like to stop by there with their clients. Fortunately it's got high capacity."

He was a veteran of the city's inns, apparently, Caicos (as it was commonly called) most of all. Before he owned a home further up the quaint streets, he'd stayed there a lot. It was where he liked to play dice, and garner information back when he was still seeking his 'in' in the city. The man swung around, facing the smaller male fully and clutching a renaissance hat from the edges of his waist, tied along the circumference of his pants. He squeezed the brim of the cap and bowed his head lightly, making a show of respect for the other.

"I could take you there, if you'd like," he offered, tossing the lit cigarette into the canal after only a single puff. "Alternative to walking, we could even take my gondola," he hummed. It wasn't actually even his, but one of his vaguely boyfriend-adjacent partners let him use it. Alistair tipped his head towards the side, gesturing towards the small boat; it was mildly out of sorts, with the paint that once so clearly adorned it peeling off of its sides.

"Your name?" he continued. "I am Alistair. Yes -- I'm sure you can tell by my accent that I'm Griscian. No need to be alarmed; I have no Sunderstrike to rend your soul with, even if you were to reveal yourself as a heathen. I'm terribly boring and... congenial, I'm afraid."

[Petra]

Something in the pit of Petra’s stomach said he didn’t really have the full attention of the taller, larger man, whom he had so randomly chosen to seek help. There was something in the way his eyes looked upon him, the way he commanded the man’s attention, but nary his body, it spoke of disinterest in the plight of a humble wandered. Petra expected things to be as such, for some reason all he could think about was how he was so lost. Feeling lost tended to amplify such beliefs about the thoughts of others. At least for Petra.

At first, Petra thought the man had responded in a completely different language. Caico sul Porto Turistico, how odd. Maybe it was another language, but Petra with such an empty spot in his memories, could not discern the truth in that thought. His eyes averted from the man with the mention of the walkway, eyes wandering down it, trying to imagine what fifteen minutes of walking would feel like, if he had such a thing in him by that point. Furthermore, the prospect of loud noise, clients from brothels with their nightly lay.. The man opposite quickly made Petra ponder if it was a better decision to keep wandering or perhaps pitch his tent outside the city.

However, with the offer planted his way Petra was visibly frozen in thought for a moment. Sure the way the inn sounded was not attractive, but fifteen minutes by gondola was much more attractive. A stranger’s gondola… Petra was beginning to see holes in such an arrangement, but it was the mention of being a heathen that bought him to decide he would indeed take up the offer. Declining after that gave all too many context clues to his affiliations, to his belief system. “Petra,” He replied back once he seemingly had a moment to interject, to present his viewpoint. His accent spoke of Lorien, though it was weathered with helpful lashings of the tongue most common in Daravin. By speech alone, Petra spoke like someone well accustomed to the nation, yet acted and portrayed himself through body language as someone completely out of their depth. “I’m from Lorien, you know,-” He gave an awkward point upwards as if to signal north.

Somewhere amongst it all, Petra had seemingly captured the man’s full attention. By that, he meant that the body was now facing him, and their differences in size were all too noticeable. Not that it concerned Petra. He couldn’t fight Alistair off by any means if it went that way, but he could always have faith it would not. “If you are offering, it would be rude of me to decline, I think,” He continued to speak in very uncertain terms, like he was poking his foot out and then quickly retracting it, fearful of what may leap out and lock its jaws around him. How do you pronounce the name of the inn?” He curiously pressed, tilting his head somewhat to the side with the question, his hands casually clasping one another and resting over the region of his body that separated stomach from crotch.

[Alistair]

"Ah, and so you are," he returned, nodding once towards the other before settling his features towards examining the other. He could tell that the other was... out of place, and that he wasn't particularly comfortable with that fact. He hadn't met too many people from Lorien -- they weren't very welcome here, particularly not so far north, near to the place where the war between the two great powers of Mornoth raged. "Don't tell that to others," Alistair cautioned. "People from Lorien are not welcome here. You will be... well, I've seen terrible things done to other men in your position. Just keep that in mind."

He placed his hands behind his back, shuffling on his feet for a moment before standing fully tall and upright. Alistair tilted his head back, as if beckoning towards the walkway; not long in the distance was a stairwell, one that led down to the waterfront of the canal. Presumably, his gondola. He slowly began to walk towards those stairs, expecting Petra to follow.

"The name? Alright -- I'll repeat. Caico..." he began, speaking through each vowel slowly, "...sul Porto Turistico. Ca-i-co, suul, Por-to, Turi-sti-co," Alistair repeated, flashing a small smile towards the other. "It sounds more complex than it is. You'll get used to it. Funny enough, even though the main language of Daravin's called Gentevarese, the people in Genteven speak a fairly distinct dialect. It's pleasant to the ears -- passionate, intense. Nothing like the simmering drawl of us Griscians, or you Rien."

Marching down the last of the steps, he lifted his hand to grab the rail before swinging himself slowly towards the much narrower walk along the stairs, with gondolas parked all beside the stone. Alistair gestured for Petra to take a seat on one of them, quickly catching another glance of him as he seated himself, appreciating the sight. The boy was undeniably handsome; he hoped he wouldn't be mistaken as another brothel boy once they got to where they were heading.

"What brings you to the Northern Marches?" he questioned, taking a seat in the boat himself, slowly beginning to undo the rope that tethered the gondola to the stony pavement. Once that was done, his hands clutched rows on each side, as his lips curled bemusedly towards the other. "Merely sightseeing? I can't imagine you'd come here for a better life, or any such nonsense. Lorien's probably the best place for the common man to live in the world. So -- colour me curious."

[Petra]

Immediately Petra very easily assumed the worst. Hung, drawn, quartered, all for travelling south from Lorien? It was not enough to remotely shake his convictions in Blevika, in the Red Moth, in all that he had devoted himself to. However, it was enough to make him decide very clearly that he would be keeping his origins to himself, and his beliefs to himself. They did not make Petra, there was still plenty he could talk about. Like his family, a family of weavers and tailors. A family from.. Lorien. Holes began to form in his proverbial life raft with each passing thought. Alistair reciting how to pronounce the name of the inn seemed to placate him.

Carefully the plucky young travelled followed in tow towards the gondola, listening on the edge of every word his new companion had to say. Petra was not smitten by any means, but he at least felt a sense of ease talking to the other man. He didn’t fear him despite his clear bodily advantage. Alistair also knew Genteven, which was likely quite the advantage to add to that. All the right spots to catch him if something were to happen between them, and it fell to a chase. Petra was assuming the worst, which was something he needed to purge from himself. While Alistair gave context to the dialect, Petra very quietly recited the name of the inn to himself, like a soundtrack as he plonked himself down in the gondola. Seated across from Alistair.

The question Alistair struck was one that would surely expose him if Petra were to commit and offer in truth. Alistair could not know the truth, after all he had said about the people of Genteven. “If you would accept it, I would like to say sightseeing and leave it at that,” Petra replied, cautious and careful with his tone, almost testing to see what type of response that would muster. Negative or positive, Petra needed to receive it in order to appropriately assess the risks that were Alistair. “After all, you did say I’m not exactly welcome. I should be conservative in my words.” His clarifications stunk of a lack of commitment to the prior assertion.

[Alistair]

The man lifted a brow, his features slowly settling until - inevitably - he raised and lowered his shoulders in response to Petra's evasion of his query. "Fair enough," he said quietly, not seeming particularly frustrated or disenchanted; Petra's answer was what it was, and no amount of willpower on his part would change it, even if he was curious. "I will say, though, I am the one who warned you to be careful; probably not the sort to be the one holding the pitchfork, don't you think?" The man's lip curled into a faint, smooth grin, one that he wore for a moment only to discard as he began to properly row.

They moved across the water at a leisurely pace. It was quicker than walking, though not by much. The purpose of moving through the canals of Genteven wasn't really speed; it was a demonstration of class, and also a way to look at the city from a different way, where the buildings met the water and moss grew along their edges; where the smooth ripples around the city were front and center, rather than distantly looming beneath the hundreds of bridges that connected it.

"Why don't I tell you why I'm here?" he raised, a minute or two of silence already having passed. The sound of water slowly gliding against the boat murmured into his ears, his arms contracting with each motion as he rowed them forward. Alistair's features appeared to betray some sense of contemplation, and he did not look up to directly meet Petra's eyes. "I'm an exile," said the mage. "Grisic forbids those who practice magic, and worship the Living Gods. I just so happen to do both, so here I am; a man without a nation, yet one who keeps all of his attachments to it. I am nothing if not Griscian, but I am not Griscian any longer, so I have become nothing. Just a vagrant through Daravin. Isn't that a charming life?"

He smiled again, briefly. "Hopefully," he continued, "my own honesty will put you more at ease. I am not a particularly dangerous man, nor am I fond of weaponizing other's secrets. In order for a man in my line of work to live well, trust is essential. You appear to be someone who needs someone they can trust -- you are wandering, alone, in a land hostile to you. Just keep that in mind."

[Petra]

Largely unintentional Petra assumed, but Alistair’s final words struck him like a sword. There was a blunt side, the side that encapsulated the idea of trust, he could place that in the other man. However, the sharp and lethal side was the prospects of what could come about if he was not ready to offer such trust. Petra was not alarmed by it, but cautious, dancing around the idea of expressing a fraction more of himself to the other man. That was a consideration that took mere moments, given he was not the best swimmer and he could be ejected from the gondola oh so easily.

“I tend to think trust is earned,” He somewhat sheepishly said. They were words that would have sufficed alone, but the way Petra’s lips seemed to twitch gave away further intentions to speak. “If you are to be so willing with the dispensing of your own story, then perhaps I am motivated to at least offer similar details, for now,” That sheepishness, the caution, it persisted, but like a clam, Alistair had wedged his knife into Petra and was slowly prying him open. He was not exactly easy to crack, such came with the loss of memories, and a loss of awareness in the landscape he found himself entwined to. Petra had learnt the tribulations of trust prior, he simply did not remember the consequences that had flowed with such an experience.

“I am looking for the Syncretic Moth, which I am sure gives you plenty to decipher as to my beliefs, intentions, and reasoning for wandering south,” He explained, in a quiet and almost subtle voice as his head was turned, taking in the scenery around the gondola. Petra was oh so evidently trying to be subtle about such remarks. Wandering over the words in his mind, considering what he’s said, what the other man had said, Petra found himself dancing over one specific thing, something he had to address even if it was words slick in flirtation. “You don’t seem the type to use a pitchfork, even if a metaphor. Your build portrays someone more physical, than.. Pokey.” His expression for users of polearms certainly gave away a lack of understanding for the art of war, weaponry, and just about everything that came under that way of life. “What type of weapon would you believe I would wield? There is an answer to such a question, but I am intrigued by what you may believe.” The boy leaned forward, pressing his elbow to his legs, his hand so casually cradling his pretty face. Petra’s green eyes looked upon Alistair with intent.

[Alistair]

The man kept quiet as the other explained his purpose for being present. What Petra answered with provided him with a boundless sense of intrigue -- ideas bounced back-and-forth within his head, as he struggled to wade through what each word could mean. Alistair had to piece it all together; it wasn't immediate to him. Grisic had illegalized the Living Gods, and so too had Daravin, though not with the same level of persecution. The only chance he'd really had to learn about them had been in Khadai, and with the Brotherhood Coven in Amoren and Genteven. From only vague recollections could he piece together what Petra was trying to describe -- some sort of fealty to the "Syncretic Moth," which was ultimately...

"Blevika," he said aloud, with some restrained but still visible sense of discovery. He remembered now -- she was called the Red Moth herself, at times, emerging from chrysalis not the beautiful butterfly she wanted to be, but a more earthly and mundane beast. "Does this mean I have earned your trust, then?" Alistair teased, chuckling beneath his breath before pondering more on the thought. "Do not be afraid. You are in good company: I too am a servant of the Living Gods, a protégé of Brazim, whose intention is to spread His will through this land. We are not at odds."

There was, of course, the fact that Brazim was a Corrupted One that separated them, but some would argue that Blevika was too. Lines had certainly been drawn amongst the Gods, but they were too far below the surface to even read, let alone understand. Alistair still considered them to all be a part of one faction, with some merely in containment until they recovered from the Bleeding's wake.

He appeared amused at Petra's words, noting his physicality and strength. As if to demonstrate that, he propelled them forward more quickly with the gondola's rows, examining the other for a moment as he did.

"I am rather physical, yes," Alistair replied in a low voice. "In the field of battle, and occasionally in the field of sheets and mattresses. We all have our vices."

He looked away for a moment, scanning the deeply colored moss along the low edge of the adjacent wall. Petra's question came after, and he turned back to regard him, his brows lowering against the creases above his eyes, seemingly deep in thought for a moment. "Well, you're not particularly tall, so maybe a polearm for reach?" he concluded. "I'm not good at these things, and I'm also not very inventive myself. I use swords -- nice, simple, and ancient. A man of my size can wield them like daggers. If someone tries to mess with you, maybe I'll give you the opportunity to see that in action."

Alistair quite clearly was offering Petra his protection, even if the offer seemed premature. The man slowed his rowing, as they came near to their intended destination. He gripped one of the ropes descending into the water from the boat, moving to tie it around a metal protrusion from the wall as their boat slowly stilled.

"We're here," he said, standing upright and offering a hand to help Petra up. When or if he took it, the man would quickly add to his words. "Alternatively, I do have a home nearby that you could stay in without all of the sound, disruption, and expense. No foul intentions: just the offering of a Griscian gentleman. Would you like that?"

[Petra]

It was somewhat a shame that Alistair’s assessment was misplaced. Wielding a polearm after such a conclusion would have been useful, Petra was somewhat disgruntled he hadn’t thought of it himself. As for the namedrop of Blevika, Alistair’s assurance, the other man got awkward nods out of Petra. It was clearly a topic of conversation he was wary of despite the declaration of good company, of trust. With his memories in such disrepair, it wasn’t wise to engage in a long-winded conversation about beliefs, ideologies, and purposes in the dangerous lands of Daravin.

Petra willingly accepted the hand of assistance, pulling him from the gondola to the walkway. To which he seemed to be propositioned. Alistair could say there were no foul intentions, but the man had made points about his physicality in the field of sheets and mattresses. Petra was awfully doe-eyed innocent, but he wasn’t stupid. Although, perhaps he could handle the situation accordingly. After all, he didn’t despite being mistaken for the charge of a brothel amongst all those who would offer their bodies as much.

“If you can assure it would be a stay without expense. Then yes, I would be open to such an offer.” Petra declared, his voice adding stress to ‘expense’. Alistair had assured such a thing already, but Petra was very clearly pressing on all the other types of expense that one could be tasked with paying. “You’re pleasant enough Alistair, with your decrees of good company, and measures of trust, but I’m not going to trade one whore house for another.” Petra opted to outright push on it, and speak his mind, all while very meaningfully taking his hand from Alistair’s embrace.

“You can consider my stance to be hostile since I am aware it is. If you were to guide us to your home, supply me with something to drink, perhaps I’ll weave you a tale of why I seem to be wandering Genteve without a sketch of idea where I am.” Yeah. Petra had decided Alistair was earning his trust, even if his words were often betraying that belief. If Petra were a walking embodiment of Blevika, he was certainly destructive in his approach at that point.