41st of Frost, Year 4621
As the deep of Frost wafted over the Rien coast with its cold, prolonged winds, the streets of Westfalen were quiet. Much of the exterior life and activity occurred within well-lit, tunnel-like bridges, surrounded by insulated stone, with the warmth of torches radiating out just enough to keep the city-folk warm as they examined goods and discussed the day-to-day, much of which somehow involved the events of the civil war.
Taelian, or more adequately 'Lord Latham Stephan Venger von Retzen,' stood idly somewhere along the street-side, peering up at the moon that rose equally as high as the sun, despite being only four hours into noon. Unlike the other men and women that avoided the open streets, he feared no frigid winds, a product of his mutagenic changes as an Argent Knight. He did not dress like one; the Lord instead donned a well-tailored grey peacoat, with a black vest and formal dress shirt beneath. He was no prowler of the streets, but rather a Lord, and his purpose for being in Westfalen was personal to his own interests, far beyond his scope of responsibility.
While years had passed, it had only been a few seasons since the start of his inquest. In that time, he had learned much. He had learned who that old, flickering flame of his was, and was not. That he was a con artist, a liar, a deceiver and breaker of hearts. That he was not a Lord, for Latham had met another man in his own circle who had, at one time, kept the company of Lord Ryan as a childhood friend. He still resided in Grisith -- he had not left, and would not be so daring as to torment his family with such liberal escapades.
Narrowing out the truth was one thing, though, and finding the vagabond was another. That had taken time and an inquiry, leveraging his position as Thespian to have a Malformer seek him out. The woman communed with birds, implanting Engrams into the minds of beasts so that they would remember him, seek him out and return to her with news. All roads led to Nivenhain at first, though as the story developed, his once-lover had crossed the Great Viaduct and made his way to the West End's darling gem.
The man wasn't so certain he wanted to meet him, even at the end of all of that investigation. He had a life, after all, and a husband who he vaguely held some modest amount of affection for, which at times dampened or inflamed. He had changed much -- the world had changed him, and he had changed himself.
He was a Draedan again, now, with a higher purpose. He was meant to expunge the Dranoch from Sil-Elaine, to rule realms, to perform great feats. One grifter in a sea of thousands should have meant so little.
And yet, after so many years, the disquiet of those old, unresolved feelings still lingered, and gripped him. They held him back, day by day, memory by memory. He dreamt of 'Lord Ryan' even now; dreamt that they were together as one, married and with children flocking around their feet. Even if words did not state it, the truth was what it was. He was in love with him still -- that had never changed.
He heard a scream. The harrowing, bestial scream of a Hollow enraged; he could even recognize its voice, Henry, the newest added to his flock. It had found its mark, and it was calling to him. Latham sought out that sound, running through the streets as his Hollows moved to gather at the site of the incursion. With how much his physiology had changed, he ran fast, converging closer upon the source of the sound before finally it was presented before him: the open, agape door of a club, this one far more contemporary than the imposter of an establishment they'd first met in. He rolled his eyes; of course fate would call him back to a place like this.
The Lord opened the door wider, stepping inside only to be met by a foyer of stunned, mostly middle-aged men, surrounded by Hollows that lurched like preying beasts upon a man who stood at the axis of all of them, standing on a small podium. He instantly recognized his face, and remarked upon it with the contortion of his features into a glare.
"Leave," the Lord demanded, not even glancing towards the men. He did not care what their caste or station was -- this was more important than them, their intrigue, their games. Latham recognized one of them, in the corner of his eye; Ser Alberic, a member of the Pact.
His acquaintance stood, clearing his throat as he gestured everyone else up. "Alright, fellows, we'd best be on our way, no? Best not interfere with Argent business." The chorus of men stubbornly concurred, grumbling amidst quiet, curious remarks and boyish speculation on what great disturbance had forced them all out onto the cold streets. As they departed, the interior of the club became empty, with Latham staring down the object of so many years of wonder and woe, and sighing.
"We must speak," he said, flatly. The man turned around to close the door of the club, releasing an imperceptible frequency through the air in case the other man attempted to flee; he would be able to track him, if he did. "Pull up a chair, Ash."
