Konrad's eldhan tongue was as exceptional as he hoped it would be, and more than he thought it would be. It took him a moment to adjust, but he spoke as properly as one could. If Taelian noticed any one thing, it was that he spoke like an elderly person, like one of the Elves born not long after the Sundering. Those that had learned from their parents, who lived before then, and used the tongue in its most true and proper way. Elven tongues evolved slower than others, or so he had heard, but Silvain had changed quite a lot: they had previously been ruled by a human Empire and were integrating more and more Common words and phrases into their tongue before. Now, they spoke with more slang, and far less education. He decided to spare telling Konrad that he spoke like an old sage, though, if only so that he wouldn't feel silly. The poetry of his words was rather charming, and his mostly-Rien accent -- though not thick enough to disturb his well-spoken tongue -- offered his own, unique transformation of the old vernacular.
He listened to him as he spoke of the Rien people, and their curiosity. He had always expected as much, knowing of their distance from the arcane, perhaps even their fear of it. Human realms always appeared driven towards the mechanical, the industrial; Daravin was perhaps the exception, but it was the Elven homeland at heart, saturated in their history, the memory they still left on the land. To be so far away from such a part of their world must have been isolating. Rien men and women did not even know much of their Gods -- the sixteen, their corruption and schism, and what came after. All of these things were barred from them. Most afraid of this knowledge were the Kindred, who kept their power only by subduing the truth.
In some way he felt a sort of pity for Konrad, and his peers. Though he also knew that things weren't all the better elsewhere. The prosperity of the common Rien was far greater than in any society he'd been to. The places he knew -- the ones dominated by arcane power -- were also rife with inequality and danger. Sometimes he wondered if magic truly was a blight, a blemish upon the soul.
He had known it and nothing else for all of his life, though. It was the only way for a simple Elven man like him to compete with the warriors of a corrupted God; to contend with a scourge so vile as the Court of Dusk. This had always been the only way.
The man sighed as he listened to the other. Finally, within his many words, he found a place to interrupt.
"I did not choose to be a revolutionary," he said. "My parents died from infection and disease when I was young, dathúil," he called him. It was perhaps a word that would bring Konrad discomfort, if he understood it -- but it fit. It meant "handsome". It was the name of a curious philosopher in a common Elainian story. Charming and blessed innately with wit, he was unexposed to the ardors of the world beyond him. In some way, Taelian spoke the name -- which was equally a compliment, and equally a caution -- with some level of envy. Konrad had no concept of how terrible the Darklands were; he appeared to be raised in wealth and education, in the insulated revelry of this isle.
"When they died, I was taken by an Ebon Knight named Vendrael and recruited as a... well, a useful urchin, I suppose. I was made Famished, though not successfully. I... won't even attempt to explain to you now, what that is. So: they decided I could be useful to their cause; that I had some hope of serving as a warrior. Given that I had no other choice, I became an Ebon Knight." Taelian settled as the other man allowed him to, and exhaled through his nostrils. His thoughts flickered back to some of those moments. In an Elven memory, they weren't all too long ago. He could still picture some of those tribulations so clearly.
"Magic is a comfort to me," he said. "Power, yes, but in a very direct way it is the ability to shape reality. It is only through magic that one may forcefully alter their circumstances, and direct things through will alone. For example: have you ever dreamt of being elsewhere, seeing things in a different place, learning of different lands and their people? I could accomplish that dream for you now; in an instant, you and I could be in Cathena, in the southern deserts, tasting their sweetwine. There is an allure to it because it is real. Unlike other temptations it is not flickering or false, it is a companion that won't ever leave. And its mark upon your life is truly significant," he said.
The man stood again, content with his bath, and the meticulous massage he'd been given. The scents, the words. He felt incredible, and more. Motivated, inspired, and totally intrigued. The man before him was one that had revealed in his words a gem of a mind, and a curiosity that brought out his own.
He beckoned for the man to dry him, and after would step out from the tub. He stood straight and tall, and looked toward the other man with a sort of discerning interest.
"Dathúil, a man who does not partake in the breadth of this world is a savage. I wish to embark on all that there is for me in this land. The arcane, the fleshly, the verbal. I would do more than teach you; I would live and grow alongside you, and we would learn together. To be forward: I find you an enchanting man, dathúil, and I am a man who strikes upon opportunities when they are presented. If magic might be a tether between us, it is one I will share with you, and I will help you grow in it -- in a way where you mustn't fear its power."
He paused for a moment, trying to respond at least partly humorously to Konrad's silly jab. "I can't speak for whether you'll start to excessively sweat, though, Mr. Schreiber. I'm not a sweater myself, as contrary as that might be to your assumptions. You could nestle a hotpot into my armpits and I'd probably only lightly perspire. Another way magic subverts expectations," he teased.
