12th of Frost, 4621
The night of the wintry accord was a night of many revelations on the unspoken accounts of all those that had attended at the Treveyn's beck and call. Some events were sealed away forever, unspoken to the world, and lost to time. Others sailed by unnoticed, saved from the seal the woman had placed upon their lips.
Though most of the night outside of the Treveyn's void was largely forgettable and annoying, there was one that Arkash had taken interest in for how much they stood out from the rest. The elf, Amyas as he'd introduced himself, was the only one at the accord who dressed as he did. Even Arkash had dressed well with the aid of his better-informed friends, but Amyas had no such other. He'd attended an Entente Soiree with dirt on his face of all things, to the 'guised rathor, such spoke volumes of his character.
He'd left his perch and made his way through the writhing bodies of nobles to land at the elf's side, and spoke a series of kind words to garner trust, but it was clear by the tension in the air that his presence unsettled the Sil'Norai. The elf seemed to study him under his mask, gauged his eyes and expression both. Perhaps he was too forward? As if in recognition of his error, he relinquished his claim on the elf's shoulder, then rose a brow beneath the socket of his mask.
Before he set his hand back at his side, however, he swiped his dark tongue across the surface of his thumb to wet it and reached for the elf's face at an angle, and pressed the edge of his index finger to the taller man's jawline. "Missed a spot," he spoke as he wiped away the loose dirt, then let him go properly.
"You said you were invited by the lady herself?" It took a lot not to vomit at his own words. He hated referring to her in such a manner. Despite his own disgust, he furrowed his brow. "Well don't tell anyone else that," he spoke with a frown, and looked about the various faces and smiles that clung to the heads he wished to roll. They were everywhere, like hornets tending to their hive, all but crawling over one another in their Candor.
Arkash had been playing the secret game for some time by that night's fall, but Amyas gave away information the Treveyn had specifically directed them not to share with just one question. Was it a trap? Or was Amyas just that far in over his head? "They'll eat you alive to get a shot at words like those," Arkash surmised with the confidence of an expert. He wasn't an expert; he knew little of the Candor, bar that it was a bad idea to divulge information to the nobility, but he behaved as though he knew it well.
His own lack of experience showed in his next move. "...She did say not to share that with anyone in the invitation, didn't she?" With that, he drew the piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to show the elf. Arkash couldn't read, so he just had to hope it was the correct piece, and that he hadn't made a fool of himself.
Another glance about his surroundings assured they were still speaking privately, and he put the parchment away. It was risky to check because such checks were often the herald to something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Anyone that caught him checking his flanks for shoulder surfers was bound to know that he was talking about something he wasn't meant to be. And in a soiree, that would be quickly capitalized upon.
"So we're both in this then, right? How'd you figure that happened?" Arkash asked his taller counterpart with some relaxed drop to his shoulders. He believed he'd found someone on the invitation list he was on, for what reason he still had yet to gauge. If Amyas was some sort of authority in disguise, he wouldn't have shared that he was there per the lady's request. Arkash had good reason to believe he'd encountered an honest elf, though his sharp gaze verified such a leap of faith at every move.
"Where are you from? What sort of 'service' is it you that you offer?" He elaborated his question. The more he knew about who the raggedy elf was, the more chance he had of being able to determine the purpose of the event.
The night of the wintry accord was a night of many revelations on the unspoken accounts of all those that had attended at the Treveyn's beck and call. Some events were sealed away forever, unspoken to the world, and lost to time. Others sailed by unnoticed, saved from the seal the woman had placed upon their lips.
Though most of the night outside of the Treveyn's void was largely forgettable and annoying, there was one that Arkash had taken interest in for how much they stood out from the rest. The elf, Amyas as he'd introduced himself, was the only one at the accord who dressed as he did. Even Arkash had dressed well with the aid of his better-informed friends, but Amyas had no such other. He'd attended an Entente Soiree with dirt on his face of all things, to the 'guised rathor, such spoke volumes of his character.
He'd left his perch and made his way through the writhing bodies of nobles to land at the elf's side, and spoke a series of kind words to garner trust, but it was clear by the tension in the air that his presence unsettled the Sil'Norai. The elf seemed to study him under his mask, gauged his eyes and expression both. Perhaps he was too forward? As if in recognition of his error, he relinquished his claim on the elf's shoulder, then rose a brow beneath the socket of his mask.
Before he set his hand back at his side, however, he swiped his dark tongue across the surface of his thumb to wet it and reached for the elf's face at an angle, and pressed the edge of his index finger to the taller man's jawline. "Missed a spot," he spoke as he wiped away the loose dirt, then let him go properly.
"You said you were invited by the lady herself?" It took a lot not to vomit at his own words. He hated referring to her in such a manner. Despite his own disgust, he furrowed his brow. "Well don't tell anyone else that," he spoke with a frown, and looked about the various faces and smiles that clung to the heads he wished to roll. They were everywhere, like hornets tending to their hive, all but crawling over one another in their Candor.
Arkash had been playing the secret game for some time by that night's fall, but Amyas gave away information the Treveyn had specifically directed them not to share with just one question. Was it a trap? Or was Amyas just that far in over his head? "They'll eat you alive to get a shot at words like those," Arkash surmised with the confidence of an expert. He wasn't an expert; he knew little of the Candor, bar that it was a bad idea to divulge information to the nobility, but he behaved as though he knew it well.
His own lack of experience showed in his next move. "...She did say not to share that with anyone in the invitation, didn't she?" With that, he drew the piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to show the elf. Arkash couldn't read, so he just had to hope it was the correct piece, and that he hadn't made a fool of himself.
Another glance about his surroundings assured they were still speaking privately, and he put the parchment away. It was risky to check because such checks were often the herald to something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Anyone that caught him checking his flanks for shoulder surfers was bound to know that he was talking about something he wasn't meant to be. And in a soiree, that would be quickly capitalized upon.
"So we're both in this then, right? How'd you figure that happened?" Arkash asked his taller counterpart with some relaxed drop to his shoulders. He believed he'd found someone on the invitation list he was on, for what reason he still had yet to gauge. If Amyas was some sort of authority in disguise, he wouldn't have shared that he was there per the lady's request. Arkash had good reason to believe he'd encountered an honest elf, though his sharp gaze verified such a leap of faith at every move.
"Where are you from? What sort of 'service' is it you that you offer?" He elaborated his question. The more he knew about who the raggedy elf was, the more chance he had of being able to determine the purpose of the event.
