The man appeared amused at Petra's wording; his insistence that the lack of expense be applied to all potential sites of collection. He was clever, and equally cautious, which was something Alistair found almost noble in a person. He was far from dejected by Petra's request for assurance: Alistair appeared to give it freely. "I swear on my honor," he replied, bowing his head and placing his hand over his broad chest, reshaping it into a closed fist. "There is no joy in unrequited desire, anyhow, my dear. No -- if you were to join me in my bed, I would want you to crawl into it of your own volition."
Of course, that meant he wasn't opposed to Petra crawling into it, and he would receive him if that volition was held. It was an open sort of offer, but one that he hoped would assuage the young man's fears of exploitation. He understood how the situation may have appeared, and what the risks for him easily could have been. Alistair was much larger, and by that account, much stronger. They were both, equally, in a foreign land but it was one that Alistair knew how to navigate with much more proficient skill. Petra was at a disadvantage, which meant it was the Griscian man's role to make him feel safe and at ease.
"Alright, a drink you'll have," he muttered, nodding his head as he let loose the other's hand, smiling down at him warmly. "We'll walk the rest of the way. It's not far."
He gestured for the other to follow him, before ascending the steps of the marina and making his way right past the inn. Brothel workers clung to their clients outside, only because it was late enough for the Omen's watchful eye to be closed. The dark-colored building smelled of sex, drugs and revelry; smoke but with an alluring, sensual depth. Even the male prostitutes were wearing white faces of make-up, as if to both mark themselves and obscure their faces from the shame of their career. Daravin was a land that loved sex, and equally spurned it. Being a whore was a popular, lucrative, but ultimately loathsome profession.
And before long, as they walked down the dimly lit streets, all of those whores and their place of frequent residence were out of sight. Alistair turned left and led Petra further up the street, walking another five minutes or so before coming face-to-face with his small townhome, an earthly colored building with cobble and pavement before it, all along a row of what must have been thousands of small, quaint, and ultimately uniform homes.
"Here we are," he nodded, opening the door and inviting Petra inside. It was dark, Alistair conjuring his Nightorch to gleam with light until he made his way to a small lamp in the corner of the common room, which had a simple sofa, a table and some plants along the corners; a single painting stood near the opposite end, depicting a proud man standing tall and upright, wearing Griscian business attire. The Nightorch seemed to disappear, leaving them only with the yellow lighting of the room.
The mage stepped into the pantry, seeking out a bottle of wine to offer the other. Upon finding it, he coolly nodded, carrying it towards the common room where he gestured for Petra to sit.
"Remiens, 4504," Alistair named the wine. It was fairly expensive, though not deathly so. He wasn't certain Petra would have an understanding or appreciation of that, anyway. "It's sweet, and not particularly strong. Would you like some?"
