Starlight

[Taelian Edevane]

Glade 12, Year 4622

"Ah, monsieur du Charlion," a woman spoke, greeting her apparent 'friend' with a bow of her head, her face obscured by a masque. "Is the Blooming Glen, so... ah, festive! And yet," her countenance failed to change, "...you are wearing such drivel? Du Charlion, is your family on hard times?"

Taelian, standing a few paces ahead of the two and nearly at Ardenserat's front gate, raised one brow before quickly turning his head. The Entente spoke with the intent of causing visceral stirrings, always aiming their dagger towards the heart. He was glad to be a relative no-name, even if he had made enough connections in Frost to gain an audience with Lady Ash. He was glad to receive an invitation back to Ardenserat, to attend the Blooming Glen of all things. It was -- among perhaps any hierarchy of nobility -- truly the most breathtaking of nights; brutal, but hidden behind the most august veener. All was in its place, magic stirred and illuminated every moment, and the sheer creativity, quality and detail of the masques and attire was... life-changing.

Though he did not feel very fond of the Entente, he could not loathe them for their aesthetic. They were brilliant.

His own attire was simple, but elegant, and high quality. He wore a black suit of velvet texture, one that effectively clung to his physique, decorated exteriorly by a coat lined with heraldry-like patterns; the black and ivory eagles of his House, the ivory in each of their eyes, and within small necklaces, barely visible within each individual pattern. He wore platinum-colored jewelry adorned with sapphires, a silver and sapphire encrusted edge that ran along his sharp, half Elven-like ears, and a caged masque that ran along his sculpted jawline, his piercing golden-amber eyes deeply visible from within its mesh-like, twisted vines. Being a Draedan, the golden lines along his arms and collar shone somewhat through his attire, adding a flair that made him appear truly immaculate. Needless to say, he was pleased to know that no one in the rows before the gate was critiquing his attire, even if it wasn't quite as colorful as some.

Once he arrived to face the two Valran admitting everyone entry, the man handed the men his invitation, receiving a stark nod before the sheet was thrown into a brazier. Cracking a faint smile, Taelian stepped through, faced once more with the grand exterior of Ardenserat. The mage's eyes widened as he was met with it, the texture within the edges changing to appear as if a starry night sky, lit brightly by colorful nebula.

Smiling faintly, the man continued forward, eyes spanning across the hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of faces that surrounded him in Ardenserat's grand courtyard, Entente of any degree of station. Liquid-like, ethereal blue lights zoomed above him in the distance, the chalices in the hands of the Entente lit with the translucent shade of Etherwine. This place was, as always, unmistakable. This was eminence, regality, wealth, power. Before coming here a season's past, he had never truly understood those things.

"Ah, Taelian," a man called out to him, stepping forward. He appeared to be an Orkhai, or half at least, dressed well, his short tusks jewel-encrusted.

"Naimre?" the man curiously inquired. "What brings you here?"

"Business," he answered, lifting his own goblet of Etherwine to his lips, and taking a tepid sip. A hedge of green and roses surrounded them, golden vines draping over the topiaries, which swayed gently in the crisp spring air. Everything was -- so vivid. "I am owed a favor by Veir Ricardo de Alcazar," said the half-Orkhai. "I intend to collect, and short of being able to find him, I've pulled my trap, you see."

"Ah -- you knew he wouldn't be able to resist coming to the Glen, did you?"

"Precisely," said the man, a charming grin smoothing over his features. "And so I have arrived to take my coin. That -- or I will expose his little Fae whore to every courtier interested in hearing about her."

"Brutal," Taelian replied, chuckling.

"You don't know the half of it. She's one of those 'flower-Fae'; you know, the short ones. Quite short, in fact. Enough to be considered truly repulsive by the people here. And I've already gotten her agreement to testify to the Omen, and -- ah, there he is! I'll be going, dear." Leaning forward to kiss each of Taelian's cheeks, the Orkhai departed, walking rapidly towards an Entente who appeared increasingly concerned with every step.

"That bastard," the Sil'Norai muttered, chuckling beneath his breath. He eyed the fountain of Etherwine and the nearby table filled with empty chalices, wondering whether he should partake; whether a Draedan would benefit from it all. Instead, he decided merely to wait and observe, idling by one of the hedges as he peered thoughtlessly into the crowds before him.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: Solace 12, Glade, 4622 / ??:??
NOTES: -

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Much as the man loathed to leave Boghadar, events like these were among few that would be legitimately hard to say no to. After all, his favorite part of being Entente in the first place was his fellow countryman’s flair for the magical and dramatic. As such, the seasonal balls held at Ardenserat were the very epitome of both. Now nearing the gate, the mage pauses for a moment to bite the inside of his lip, drawing blood. The purpose of this action was to activate a Corvo ability– shroud. Functionally, it is supposed to be used as a form of natural camouflage. To Degare, however, he always used it to make himself look a little bit more dramatic...especially since the effect he could wield was not very strong as of yet. It would appear as if he were fraying at the edges, magic attempting to blend his features into whatever surrounded him. He would look unearthly, surreal. He’s had people question this before, though the answers he gave are always charmingly vague.

He noted the bright appearance a lot of other guests had– many were dressing for the season, Glade. As tempting as this can be to do, the Ferrier typically only wears darks and a change of season would not alter this. Tonight, he wore an outfit composed mostly of matte-finished highest quality silks. It shifted in color from abyssal blues to deep, royal purples, darkening at points toblack. On his torso, he wore a tunic that stopped a few inches above his knees. It was cut on both sides starting at just above the hip, resulting in the two pieces falling centered on the front and back and leaving his legs visible on the sides. It fit loosely and was bound by a crimson red chord resting just above his hips. It had a cowled neckline that was just barely low enough to show the very top of his collarbones. As for the sleeves, they were long, opening at the wrist to reveal the hand but extending further, flowing downward like flower petals. Both wrists have chords similar to the belt tied around them. The inner fabric of the sleeves was the same shade of crimson as the belt. His pants and shoes are distinctly closer to black than the rest of the outfit. Made of rather similar fabric to the tunic, his pants cling to his form, extending high enough onto his waist so that the split sides of his tunic reveal no skin. The boots themselves are smooth, soft leather– rather simple in design, they cut off a few inches above the knee. The only standout thing about his boots was that the top of the boot flared back and up a few inches, mirroring the flower petal shape of the sleeves, as well as the bright red color on the inside. On his hands he wears thin black gloves with silver-clawed jewelry over the fingers. These are ornamental; they are unlikely to cut anything. Atop all of that, he wears a cape composed of rather long, black feathers extending from ornate silver pauldrons with a pearlescent sheen. Extra, shorter feathers also embellished the pauldrons. The feathers bounce back light in shimmering greens, blues and purples, bound together with a silver chain. The half mask he wears is composed of the same pearlescent silver as the rest of the metal on his outfit, extending forward at the nose like a bird’s beak. The mask is textured with ornate silver filigree and leaves the lower portion of his face visible; he also has similarly textured cuffs over his rather prominent elven ears. Overall, the outfit is very avian in nature. When one combined this attire with the warping effect of a Corvo’s shroud, the man would appear shadowy, almost ephemeral as he approached the two Valran standing at the gate.

Wordlessly, he hands them his invitation and they cast it into the fire as is custom. Degare wears an impish grin as he enters Ardenserat’s breathtakingly beautiful courtyard. He held a genuine fondness for this place and the way everything seemed to shimmer with magic. Languid steps carrying him forward, he weaves through the crowd for a few moments as he finds a place to simply stand and observe. Once he does so, his eyes unfocus allowing strands of ethos to more easily shift into his vision. If nothing else, being able to see ethos really was gorgeous, especially in locations like this; contrasting against the bright, vivid hues of greens and reds from the surrounding plant life. Oddly enough, he feels somewhat at peace in this sea of masked faces. Though he knew absolutely nobody was here to mind their own business, everyone would be just as defensive as everyone else. This created an uneasy truce– at least, for the moment.

When a server walks by, the Ferrier takes a chalice of the etherwine and swirls it for a moment, watching the colors in the liquid shift. Reddened amber eyes slowly drift over the figures in the crowds before him as he takes a long, leisurely sip of the beverage. His gaze rests on two figures talking– an Orkhai and some…giant hulk of a half elf. Both looked lovely, but what interested him most were the words he was overhearing; something, something flower-fae lover of somebody that owes the Orkhai money. Almost as if on cue, the man seems to spot his target and make his departure.

Being nosy and annoying, Degare wanted to see if the larger figure that remained would be willing to share anything of interest. With long, graceful strides he approaches. “You’re not Entente, are you? I don’t recognize the crests on your attire; lovely as they are, however. What brings you to Ardenserat?” His voice is smooth and confident with notes of curiosity.

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"

[Taelian Edevane]

Taelian's eyes flickered up-and-down as he noted a Sil'Norai approaching him: a tall one, in fact, not considerably lesser in stature than himself, even if he was far lankier. More pulling to the Celebrant's eyes was his attire; crafted immaculately, every piece of his shadowy, ethereal visage defined to the letter. He had a creative streak, it appeared. Creative, or perhaps gaudy; perhaps he was too immodest for the eyes of Amoren's courtiers, who might allude that he hath pulled the eyes away from Ulen's simple grace. It was difficult to know what the vultures of the crowd would say, and so Taelian himself dressed somewhere between modest and eye-catching, though in truth, he admired Degare's attire more than any of the others he had seen.

Any but Brilan Ald, of course, who dressed as a sort of female incarnation of Gevurah; brutal, pious, a dress covered in skin-like fabric that ran between her shoulders and her wrists, along her midsection, and so on, Ulen's spine circling around the dress with the head of a hammer clinging beside her complexion, a sort of second face. It was, of course, the most performative statement piece. She was a liar in that she did not even believe in the Omen, but sought the social credibility attached.

His discerning gaze continued until the Sil'Norai man approached. Regardless of any speculation he held towards his attire, Taelian wore a welcome smile, genuinely pleased to be in his company, or so it appeared. His hands moved forward, clasping together between his thighs, a regal expression. "I am not Entente," he answered, his voice steel-like, even cold. It was deeply low, and rung of the harsh, flatly rational men of the north: Lorien. Taelian was the spitting image of a Rien noble, in all but the shape of his ears, and the height of his stature. He appeared distant, shallowly intrigued, guarded. Despite his warm smile, his austere air could only be described as haughty, like that of a man who would never dare reach forward blindly.

"These are the emblem of House von Klade; my House, in Lorien," said the man, nodding his head. "As for why I am here, I am a courtier to Lady Ald, as with anyone here."

His smile wavered, somewhat; what was warm became cool, as if Degare had lost access to some corridor of his mind, or perhaps a semblance of interest. In truth, like anyone else, he was only playing the game, reticent to reveal too much and even more resistant to making himself appear all too eager. Amateurish was a sign of weakness, one he had culled from himself through the years, beneath Eloise's watchful guise.

"I am Taelian von Klade," he said, piecing it all together for the other. "And yourself? Charmed to meet a Sil'Norai, here; fully-fledged, it seems. It is rare that any more than a halfling bears such prominence here, is it not?"

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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It appears that, on some level, the Ferrier was correct in the assumption that this man was, at the very least, interesting. Though he'd lived for quite awhile, he'd rarely set foot in Lorien. Too wrapped up, he was, in the goings on of Daravin alongside his personal life. However, his ignorance of the other's place of origin only added an air of mystery and piqued his interest further.

The man, apparently called Taelian, wore the ice-bound demeanor Degare was quite used to dealing with from others of noble blood with which he was not very well acquainted. Though the other's features wore an initial veneer of warmth, it quickly faded moments after he had spoken his first few sentences. The Ferrier wouldn't balk at this, no; much as he found it obnoxious to work around people's social defenses. However, the elf did note that his initial reception of his approach was overall positive. On a personal end, he preferred to behave with more obvious emotion– in expression, vocal tone, and body language. His actual feelings would be equally obscure; others would find it rather difficult to tell whether or not he was being genuine. It was more a technique of misdirection rather than masking. That, and he just had a flair for the dramatic.

"Diplomat to Lady Ald? My, you must be something special to have caught her attention," the man says with a light laugh and a wry smile. His tone teeters evenly between sarcasm and genuine fascination. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, then, Taelian. I am Degare of House Socorro,” he gives the other man a light bow with one hand behind him. This gesture was one of feigned submission; the actual point of it was to gauge the other’s reaction.

After he does this, slender arms cross his chest as he speaks again, “Correct, as far as I am aware, both of my parents were Sil’norai...though I’ve met neither of them. The tale of my birth was the source of quite a lot of gossip back when I was a child, or so I was told,” laughing at the end of that sentiment. “Mm, but that’s a bit of a longer story. You are…half?” A question asked as Degare’s eyes once again flit over his new companion’s features. From what he could tell, his elven features were fairly muted. “As for our rarity…yes. There are quite few of us in power. Though it would be nice to see more, all I can really do is lead by example, no?” This is, in part, why he usually wears his Sil’norian features proudly; he loves who he is, despite any drawbacks he’s faced as consequence.

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"

[Taelian Edevane]

The man raised a brow. 'Diplomat'. He'd never said he was a diplomat to her, merely a courtier, though he supposed those two things weren't difficult to piece together; a foreign courtier, after all. Either way, his station appeared to retain the interest of the Entente, something he wasn't entirely certain he was pleased by, though he did not mind it, either. Naimre left him alone, and Taelian knew he might as well play 'the game', considering he decided to attend. The time spent, and the new addition to his wardrobe, would've best been spared otherwise.

"Degare of House Socorro," he repeated, nodding. It was a very -- Raillen? -- name, at least in contrast to all of the rosy, nearly gauche monikers he'd heard from the Gentevarese. He enjoyed many features of the Daravinic tongue, but the names of their Entente were hit-and-miss. "Well met; I am pleased, equally, by your acquaintance." He was distant, perhaps, but not rude. Taelian knew that some level of grace was required, and it was not in his nature to be unkind. An enigmatic Rien noble? Yes, but not a cruel one; there was no need to be.

"Many of us do not know our parents, I'm afraid," he said, a frown edging onto the corner of his lips as the other briefly regaled his orphanhood. "I, as well, suffer from this fate. I am a pure-blooded Sil'Norai; in fact, some might say I am more Sil'Norai than you," he said, lips curling into a wry smile. Perhaps he could be, he conceded, a little cruel. "I am from Sil-Elaine, where the brunt of our race is confined. Raised in the Pyred Bedlam, elevated to nobility in the Northern Realms through... power, poise. And marriage, of course, to quite the dashing man."

A man he was now divorced to, but nonetheless. A glimmer uplifted his smile, the Sil'Norai seemingly amused.

"I'm impressed you've managed to keep your station," he said, nodding. "It must have been difficult, being a Lord Elf, alone, with no parents to guide you, toiling through the brutalism of the Entente. I suppose you needed to become crafty all on your own; that leads one to doubt your intentions, of course, but nevermind that. I will admire you from a careful distance." Taelian stepped back, as if to emphasize his point. The claws had come out, and he was still convinced that he was far from cruel. This was... survival, in the Candor.

"The man who departed from me is named Naimre, by the way," he said. "Naimre de Altonesse. He's from here. You were curious as to what we were discussing, I presume, considering you swept in like a vulture? Do not worry; it was truly irrelevant information. What would be far more intriguing to you, I imagine, is why I am here; why a Rien nobleman has kept the attentions of the most powerful magistress in the world."

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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Hearing his name repeated back from the lips of the other man was pleasing– though this was mostly only of note to the Ferrier because he was, admittedly, a fan of his voice. His smile turns placid as the man repeats pleasantries back to him. At this point, he wants to come off as somewhat docile, disarming in a way, almost demure. As Taelian continued speaking, Degare reacts with a light cant to his head at the notion that the other could be more Sil’Norai than he was. It wasn’t a competition, of course. Rather, this raised numerous questions as to what exactly the other man meant by this. ‘By whom was he born to so that such a notion would be spoken?' he wonders. His smile turns to an impish grin at the other’s description of his rise to power, chuckling a bit at his self-preening words. He wears his enthusiasm proudly, though it wouldn’t actually be clear which aspect of his words was so entertaining.

“Ah, I’ve not spent much time in Sil-Elaine myself, though I have been. Really, I mean to go more often– but I do find myself ever so busy…” he trails off, likely sounding far more disappointed than he really is. “I know my mother hailed from Sil-Elaine, though not much else in that regard.” This much was true, at least. “Such a journey you must’ve gone through to both attain and keep your power, no?” He floats this question with a curious look. “I was raised a noble, actually. Taken in by my house when I was a baby, so I hear. The only hard part, so to speak, was convincing the others of my worthiness after those who raised me fell to time.” He doesn’t elaborate.

A scornful look pulls at the Ferrier’s lips and he clicks his tongue as he thinks of those that have tried to topple him, eyes drifting to the side as if in thought when the subject is brought up. “The games we play are a rather unique tight-rope walk, indeed. Knives are always out. Fending for myself has been…” he trails off. This could’ve been done either in thought or for dramatic effect. “...a bit touchy, at times. My methods vary,” he says with a dry laugh and a slightly devious smile. “...though they are effective.” Again, he refuses to elaborate, but grants the other man a softer look when his motives are questioned and he steps back.

Degare mouths the name of the other, Naimre de Altonesse, when it is spoken, as if trying to see if it rings any bells. It doesn’t. “Ah, yes, I was. I heard him mention Fae and that piqued my interest. They’re fascinating things, no?” He floats the question across though his tone is ambivalent. As his companion finishes speaking, the Ferrier’s eyes narrow a bit and his expression shifts to inquisitive. Internally, he questioned why the man would even ask these questions, baiting as they are.

Cautiously, he spoke, “Why yes…such things would interest me, indeed.” A half-smile paints itself on his lips now, “But is that really information you’re so eager to share?” He had to poke at this at least at little. “Fool I would be to decline to learn, however.” The other half of the smile is drawn as he completes this sentence, eyes glinting with interest despite his overall vocal tone being quite playful.

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"

[Taelian Edevane]

The man chuckled, lightly, as Degare suggested that - perhaps - he go to Sil-Elaine more often. "I truly would not recommend that," he said, smiling faintly. "Unless you go for ideological reasons; to take up arms against the Court of Dusk, perhaps. We are living, in Sil-Elaine, in true destitution. There are no sights to see; the land is marred by corruption so steep it is physically visible. Your roots are far from elegant, Lord Socorro. Perhaps we might appear gilded in these lands, but only as we separate ourselves more and more from the wasteland that is our new home." Daravin being their old one, of course, the one that Lady Ash wished to return to them, or so she claimed.

It was intriguing to think that an orphaned Sil'Norai might be taken in and raised as a nobleman, but he supposed there were always exceptions to every norm. He wondered if Degare was found by some infertile humans, before Necromancy advanced as much as it had. Taelian scarcely knew the history of Daravin's Entente, and believed that Lieril had been the first Sil'Norai member of theirs, but he acknowledged that he was likely wrong.

Whatever the case, he decided to put his claws back in, return his knives to their sheaths. Degare had, at this point, been made well-aware of Taelian's proverbial backbone. "Mhm," he merely replied in regards to the Fae. They were interesting creatures, but they were far from the forefront of his mind, at the moment.

"There is an area here, in the courtyard; a little room beneath a canopy, where we can eat and lounge. I'll guide you there, and perhaps we can speak more openly. It's... further away from all of these prying ears."

Brushing past him, Taelian beckoned him as he passed, walking quickly towards his intended destination. He would travel well across the courtyard to get there, weaving through collections of nobles as they engaged in their own pockets of Candor, their masked faces free of the weakness of expression. He did not check back even once to ensure Degare was following him, simply expecting that he would. Once making his way to the isolated canopy, the man laid his glutes into an ottoman on the floor, pleased to find a wide serving dish of cheeses and other delicacies at the center; a variable platter of diverging tastes.

"I cannot tell you of Brilan's motivations," he said. It was true -- he was, quite literally, incapable. The Mnara had bound him. Unless Degare was invited into their little plot as well, Taelian would be unable to share any degree of information. "I can tell you my own, though, for being here. I am a member of the Covenant of Mages, a Thespian to be precise; one of their officers." Naimre was as well, though the man did not include that. "I seek allies in the war against the Kindred, back at home. I am... working to see if Brilan might be one such ally, but of course, a veritable Queen is a difficult piece to move across the board. She strikes only where she can make gains, and I understand that."

Sighing out, the man took one of the cheeses to his mouth, taking a curious bite. It was somewhat sour, but... he liked it.

"You are Raillen, are you not?" he inquired. "And a Sil'Norai Entente. You fascinate me, in truth, and perhaps because of our shared heritage, I am more inclined to trust you. Maybe I am simply mad, spending all too much time in this place."

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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As his companion speaks, a forlorn expression can be seen beneath the surface of the Ferrier's features. He really hadn't been in…ages, and had honestly wished that in that amount of time, things would have improved. Sadly, this did not appear to be the case. "That is…most unfortunate to hear. I had hoped that in the time since my last visit, things would be…perhaps better, by now. However…with the Court in charge, I'm not sure why I expected anything good. I'd do something if I had the power, but alas, I do not possess the degree necessary to even make a dent in their armor," he laughs, though the tone is sardonic.

At the mention of moving to a more isolated location, an astute observer might be able to catch the slightest perk of Degare's long, elven ears. Before he could respond, Taelian had already begun to move. The man's huge stature and weight did result in the simple action almost knocking the much lighter elf off balance. This was very likely unintentional but would look pretty funny to onlookers nonetheless. The Ferrier blinks a few times as he steadies himself, swiveling around and then swiftly moving to follow the other elf.

Even though it took him a few moments to respond, it would be a rather simple task to keep track of the Lorien noble. He was, after all, one of the largest people in the crowd and Degare quickly wove through the sea of people to catch up. As the sea thinned to rivers and then ever fewer, the two neared their destination. It was rather out of the way, yes, but the part that was somewhat of a mystery was the amount of food present yet it was near untouched by others. Interesting.

Not that the Ferrier minded. He was quite the fan of cheese. Choosing a spot across from his companion, he sat upon a similar ottoman and decided to partake in the wide variety of cheese and cheese accessories himself. He's a fan of sharper cheeses paired with spiced meats.

Additionally, now that the two were more isolated from others, another Corvo trait rises to be more noticeable. In this case, that of scent; a most delightful mix of musk and pheromones that adapt quite well to whatever those who perceive it desire. Most of the time, Degare himself completely forgets this is even a thing, only remembering when other people appear to notice. While it would have always been present, standing in a veritable vortex of people would've made it rather difficult to pin which person was the source.

As the other spoke, he listened intently, genuinely curious as to what he had to say…but also because he wanted to know what about him was trustworthy enough to share this information with. Degare had heard of the Covenant, though his knowledge of its inner machinations was fairly slim. However, he did respect the power he'd been told its members possessed. "A Covenant officer, huh…?" He muses this mostly to himself, voice much softer than before. "Every new layer to you is just as fascinating as the next," he says, bringing a hand to his lips as he laughs. This compliment was actually genuine, but it would be hard to tell, since it was delivered musingly with a touch of sarcasm.

"It is a bit of a shame, though, you can't speak more of your plans involving Brilan, but I do suppose that, at least, makes sense. Would that I could be privy," he laughs a bit at the end of this thought. "She is a marvel, I think. Every bit of the mage I strive to be." By now, the Ferrier's breathing was oddly shallow-- as if he was having trouble filling his lungs with air.

Before he can think of another thing to say, Taelian speaks again. "I am! I hail from Boghadar, down in Verant," he begins, though his expression shifts to inquisitive as the other continues. "I do?" A question asked with a cant to the Ferrier's head. "Then our interest is mutual. How nice…" he trails off, this time making little attempt to mask or obfuscate his intent. "In regards to madness, I suppose Daravin can have that effect. It would be dishonest of me to say otherwise and, ah…mildly hypocritical," implying his own questionable sanity with dry laughter. While this would be delivered as a joke, the older elf really did have several screws knocked loose by time and trauma.

"I do suppose looking for magically inclined allies among the Entente is actually not a bad idea. We are many and our motivations vary…rather heavily…from person to person. I don't doubt there's several among our number that would be both qualified and more than happy to assist, the hard part would be sifting through to find them," these words were an elaborate way to express his own interest. "Personally, I've few loyalties of my own at the moment. Save for my house, my ambitions are largely directed at my own advancement as a mage." Though vague, it was honest– he happily walks whatever path is set before him that is likely to hold the most magic, paying little heed to what direction the path is going or its twists and turns.

At this point, the Ferrier abruptly twists his head away and to the side and brings one hand to his chest and the other to cover his mouth, coughing. After doing so, he freezes, moving the hand over his mouth out of the way and taking a few deep breaths to stabilize himself. The iridescent ashes that build within him would be plenty visible on each breath as he forces himself to expel them. "Sorry-- it was getting hard for me to breath. I, ah...have to do that on occasion lest my lungs fill with ash and I choke," turning his head back to face his companion as he speaks. The ashes would still be floating in the air, creating a rather pretty glittering effect amongst the already dazzling surroundings.

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"

[Taelian Edevane]

The first change he noticed as they sat was, perhaps, the change in scent. As they left the crowds, and Degare's scent became more... tangible, the man found his nostrils taking in the fragrance that wafted over them. It was, unlike everything else that permeated Degare's presence, somewhat primitive, but in a pleasant way. It was sexual; there was no dismissing that. The von Klade found himself wondering if the scent was intended, or if it was merely a byproduct of the passage of time, lingering within one's clothes, surrounded by masses of people that may have provoked sweat or rising heat. Whatever the case, his lips remained sealed, unwilling to indulge in any back-and-forth that may have appeared as, or tempted, flirtation.

"It is not so interesting as you think," he replied, a rueful smile rising over his lips. "I am a dog to ambitions far greater than mine, like any mage in this world. The Umpire commands, and I leap, feeling her words viscerally in my form. I am constrained in this position, in truth, and perhaps I will always be."

Eloise's ambitions were vast; if she could have her way, the Covenant would become the premier, global organization of magi; it would last for centuries, acquiring the brightest magical minds from all across Atharen. Taelian did not expect it to wither with time, even centuries. She would never allow that.

Pondering upon Eloise, he was reminded much of Degare's own matron, a woman they both occasionally raised in the back-and-forth of their conversation. In many ways, they were similar souls, though Brilan was far more patient, and ideological. A significant part of Eloise, Taelian believed, merely wished for influence, wealth and luxury. Brilan would destroy all luxury and raze herself to a state of nothingness, if it meant returning Daravin to the Ald'Norai.

"I came here for Lady Ald specifically, to be clear," he admitted. "Whole coalitions of mages across Daravin have been trying to tear her down from her throne, but none have managed. That is the sort of raw power we need in Lorien -- a magi capable of sundering the Kindred from the sky, bringing them down so that they crash in the fields. Alas, I have not had luck," he grinned. "I may not need it, though. I acquired something else here, in the prior Frost, that I believe may be of equal value in time."

His eyes settled on Degare, and though the man appeared tempted to inform him of what that was, he again kept his words secret; drawing on his curiosity, but never delivering. He was, in truth, hoping to entice his curiosity to see if the other might be willing to bite. Taelian wasn't opposed to finding some ally in the Southern Marches, and a talented Sil'Norai with - perhaps - a similar ideological predisposition to him was... a good place to start.

As he contemplated his next words, Taelian's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden bout of coughing, causing his brows to rise as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to the other. "Here," he said, eyeing the glistening ashes as they dispersed from his lips. Rather than being perturbed, the mage smiled smoothly, catching some of the ashes in one of his gloved hands and rubbing them between his fingers.

"A mutation?" he questioned. "I had one sort of like this, before," said the man. "If I became too wounded, my entire body would fill with ash, my skin would flake with it; my soul would be cindered from within. A mutation of Sigilic Pyromancy, you see."

It was one of the rarest magics in the world, considered Lost outside of Sil-Elaine, but he was certain Degare knew of it. All Elves did -- it was tied to the most consequential moments of their history.

Of course, that raised the question: Taelian said had, as if he no longer had that mutation. Mutations, though, were meant to be permanent things.

"Do not worry; I am not perturbed by your 'illness'. Do as you must. If anything, I relate to it, deeply. That mutation, it -- did great harm to me, in the past. I..."

He sighed, averting his eyes lower.

"I died to it, in fact. It is so fortunate that death is not always the end, or I would not be here, in this place, speaking to this man who is certain to intrigue me, even more than he has. Veir Socorro -- allow me to inform you that I would be willing to leave Ardenserat, for the night, if only so that we might share secrets amongst ourselves. I have no interest in playing the games of the Candor; I would prefer to make a proposal to you, with the hope that you and I might become... fast friends. Does that sound reasonable?"

[Degare]

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A half smile is drawn across the Ferrier’s lips as the other man compares himself to a dog; a mixture of disgust and empathy is visible on his features. He can draw parallels of such a comparison to himself, as well– such is the structure of power that both of them lived under. Should somebody above his station give him a direct command, he, too, would have little choice other than to obey, much as this would dig deeply under his skin. He gives a tired laugh before he speaks, “Such is the nature of power, no? As much as we may possess there are always those in positions ever greater.” His tone is ambivalent overall, but it is clear that Degare longs for more himself– though to what end is as yet unstated.

All this talk of magic and power did, admittedly, excite him. After all, he had spent the last near quarter century with the flames of his ambition nearly extinguished, languishing in a despair deeper than anything he’d ever felt in his life up until that point. The catalyst to this emotion was a particular event that seemingly left the man in ruin and it was quite the miracle that he wasn’t struck down when he was in such a state. Oddly enough, the loyalties from his house that he’d earned were steelcald; they fended for him while he allowed himself to rot. Now that he was clawing himself out of that pit, talk of goals and purpose gave the previously aimless Ferrier more motivation to push himself.

He was well aware that for a very long time many had wanted to drag down or outright kill Lady Ald. Ever happy Degare was, though, that such attempts have thus far failed. Of those in power in Daravin, she and Montese Lorraine were pretty much the only two he had any real admiration for. It was nice, then, to hear that there was a foreign national that, at the very least, sounded as if he was more on her side than not. He listened intently, ears perking at the mention of ‘something else’ that would somehow be as useful as Brilan Ald herself. ‘What in all of the world could that be?’ the Ferrier thought to himself. “Mm, something else more useful than Brilan herself on your side? My, what privileged knowledge this must be…” he trails off with a coy laugh, honestly assuming the other man wouldn’t tell him whether he asked or not, but he might as well try– he did want to know. “And what, pray tell, would that be…?”

As he trails off, if he wanted to keep speaking, he couldn’t– his fit of coughing had interrupted him. Truth be told, he was somewhat expecting a less kind response to it than the one he received. Degare accepted the offered handkerchief, knowing he’d have more of the pearlescent ashes clinging to his features yet still. “Ah…thank you,” words spoken as he steadies himself. Amber eyes watched as the man examined the ash and he was pleased to hear he recognized the trait for what it was: a mutation. “Yes, it is, actually. I have greater control of ashes in my respiratory system than others…I can exhale a cloud dense enough to stifle breathing and disorient people in my vicinity and so forth. Has…a lot of different applications, actually, but the downside is that they just…always passively accumulate, suffocating me from within unless I breathe them out regularly.” Though he did not actually need to explain this at all, he felt compelled to, since most people didn’t really understand how mutations worked.

Degare’s eyes narrowed a bit in interest flecked with skepticism as his companion continued speaking. ‘Had, he says. Past tense? How does one get rid of a mutation? And for Sigilic Pyromancy of all things…’ thoughts of this nature flit through the Ferrier’s head. At the same time, he kept his gaze on the other, eyes meeting for a few brief moments as he spoke before shifting across the rest of his features and adornments. His head cants with further confusion when the man claims to have died, of all things. It sounded preposterous, but…he’d wait for an explanation before passing judgment.

Before he can pose the question, though, Taelian continues– this time with an invitation. Confusion stayed present on the Ferrier’s features, though this time with elements of almost…concern mixed with intrigue. He pushes his tongue against the top of his mouth, jaw slacking a bit as lips part, though no words come out. He seems to be surprised into silence. So many bread crumbs were dropped, so many questions swam in his head, and now he was being handed the perfect opportunity to get the man alone to ask– and presumably, he’d speak freely. It was all so convenient that it was almost suspicious. Degare could feel a well of familiar paranoia begin to claw at him, suggesting that the man was trying to lure him away for something more nefarious, given that many did, indeed, wish him harm. Yet when one is to think about it, why in all of Atharen would a Lorien nobleman be concerned with the likes of him such that he’d like to see him come to harm?

Instead, Degare quashes the paranoia, yielding to his curiosity and interest in his new companion. “Oh? You’d like to have me all to yourself, huh…?” A question asked playfully. His features warm and he smiles, “I accept. I’ll allow you to lead me off to wherever you see fit– I must admit there’s quite a lot I’d like to ask you, given the chance.”

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"