[Alistair] A Baptism of Insects

[Vivian]

79th of Searing, 4622

Vivian had always wanted to travel outside of Amoren, and now he finally had the chance to do so. Bardona was a gorgeous, open, metropolitan area filled with palm trees and tiled walkways. It was warm, cooling off near the end of Searing but still warm enough to be pleasant. Vivian didn't mind at all. He was dressed in loose pants he'd purchased from the local marketplace, and as usual hadn't bothered with a shirt. He was wearing his trademark black eyeliner, batting his long lashes at the men who passed. He didn't mind advertising his use of Malformity, either. He had mostly recovered from his severe overstepping the first day of the season. Another two weeks and the headaches, nausea, and nightmares would be gone. He was now able to look at himself in the mirror every time he found himself in Degare's head, and whispering his name calmed his mind.

Now, he felt better and was out on the prowl. He had chosen a nice cafe in the earlier part of the day, where coffee was made in tiny cups submerged in vats of boiling sand. He didn't buy anything but a cheap cup of jasmine tea for himself, to make his breath smell nice. Coffee was delicious but came with a foul aftertaste, and he didn't want to discourage anyone from putting their mouth on his. That was against the point, really.

Vivian relaxed in a chair, looking around the cafe. There was a myriad of people, but none that really interested him. He tapped into his ether; small movements would help his recovery, like slowly stretching a wounded muscle. The branching, white, slimy tentacles of the hammerhead worm wrapped themselves sensuously around his cup, bringing it up to his lips. They touched his chin, lifting it ever so slightly as he sipped, then placed the teacup back down on the table. He was practicing movements that could be considered sensuous with little effort...he liked them better than blatant advertising.

[Alistair]

He breathed out, and then in. Out, and then...

The man's eyes opened, lids raising to reveal his sclera and irises, slow blinks following after as he continued to huff, his nostrils inspiring until his lungs were full, only to release. The man held globules of fluid within his palms, their viscosity altered through his ether so that they would not drip from the edges of the basin he had created by flexing the edges of his appendage. They swirled, slowly, the strange liquid nearly as cool as was feasible; if he had not trained his body to endure the cold he created, he would've succumbed to frostbite merely by contact. Nevertheless, the fluid did not freeze, the solution a mixture of water and helium, each individual molecule kept too distant to form a solution compact enough to solidify.

Alistair was no chemist, but being a Risen forced him to understand the way in which liquid worked. The way it changed, and could change, and would change under the right conditions. Being a Risen meant experimenting with possibilities, adding new factors and influences, and evolving the way one interacted with water. A lazy and ultimately mediocre Risen could simply follow the path laid out for them -- wielding only water at its base -- but they would never be the best among their kind. Alistair wanted to be that.

And so, he stood up, slowly, and assembled more globules from the moisture in the air. They accumulated, compiling until the mass of the water in the solution dwarfed the helium, though with that change also came an alteration of the substance's temperature. He continued to breathe in and out, controlling his expenditure of energy, calming his mind so as to avoid excess by drawing magithermal power too greatly or too fast. The density within the accumulating mass was greater than that of the water he normally manipulated, and that helped to allow the mage to sharpen it.

This was his first time forming Laceration, but he was quickly becoming successful. Alistair thinned the solution, turning it into a long, plate-like sheet, extending it and increasing its vertical surface. The Risen wove the water-blade together between his palms, before quickly flinging it outward like a long disc, the weapon cutting halfway through a tree before dispersing into a puddle. He squinted, curling his lips and swishing the tea he'd still carried in his mouth -- it helped him focus. It wasn't a proper Laceration, but it was close. He was beginning to understand the concept of sharpening hydrogen, and for now, that was enough.

"It's not cut all the way," the client complained, narrowing her eyes as she brought her hands forward, clasping them together.

Alistair swallowed his tea. "I am aware," he replied. He flung forward another disc of sharpened water, cutting another third of the way, and then another, dicing right through the palm. Each of the discs exploded into watery puddles, meaning each Laceration was imperfect, but he was making progress each time: it became easier, more natural.

"Ah, there we are," she hummed. "Well -- that will be twenty farthings for you, then, won't it be? Minus one for the tea. You mentioned wishing to court my nephew once you finished your duties? Sunderscrap and all."

Alistair chuckled. "I said 'bed,' not court. You chose to reinterpret it to save face. Not to worry -- I've already stained the bloke's mattress. What did you need me to clear all of these trees for, anyhow? I thought they were a part of the estate's heritage."

"Pre-Ulendreaic heritage means nothing," Veir Alon returned, flatly. "We will be replacing the yard with a brick outing area, and at the center will be a fountain and monument to my father, dear Gaspard. Now -- if you will excuse me, I must rid myself of your filthy, foreign presence, and expunge my nephew's bowels of your stain. Have a blessed day."

The man grinned. "I'm not religious. Be well."

Stepping down the stairwell that led out of the courtyard, he opened the posterior gate, stepping through only to hear a click follow after him; it was locked again. He imagined his interactions with Veir Alon would be limited, after the work he had done for her. They did not get along well, and from the look in her eyes, he could tell she was relieved he meant "bed" and not "court." Alistair had the skill to be a Valran, but she assured him he would never come even close to marrying into her estate without the Montese announcing him as one, first.

Until then, he was nothing but a foreigner who carried some semblance of Ulen's will.

- - -

Hours later, Alistair found himself seated against the back wall of a cafe, the large window in the room's corner opening to allow air and the sun's gleam of light. He relaxed his legs against the surface of the table, nearly kicking over his finished glass of chamomile, his eyes shut with a renaissance plopped onto his forehead to shade his eyes. He was tired, but also satisfied. The Sunderer had a love of traveling, and Bardona was one of the nicer cities he had found in his time within the Empire of Rust. It was not so cold and steel as a Griscian city, and it wasn't as slum-riddled and violently religious as many of the Daravain quandaries he had come across in his year or so living within the Marches.

The man opened his eyes for a moment, scanning the room, only to notice another... man, he presumed, being fed his tea through the wiggling tendrils of worm-like appendages. He blinked rapidly, and appeared to grimace.

"That's disgusting," he said, quietly, to himself, before sitting upright and tossing the Malformer a direct glance, his head tipping. "Mind helping to preserve the appetite of the other patrons here?"

[Vivian]

Vivian settled back in his chair, pulling the tendrils back into his mouth. They slithered between his lips, gathering at the seam and tipping over the boundaries of his teeth. They disappeared in the depths of his mouth, curling and writhing. Vivian rather liked how they felt, tiny little white appendages that looked like the massive clumps of roots from a bit of grass or an uprooted tree. The smallest among them was the size of a needle, while the main branches that met with the back of his throat were each as thick as a finger. The ability to Mold was by far Vivian's favorite. He could change his tongue into that of the worm's, as he had, or layer his skin with the flexible armor of a flea. He wasn't surprised that people couldn't appreciate its delicate beauty. So many overlooked what he sought to understand. Gods, how far he had come.

"Mind helping to preserve the appetite of the other patrons here?"

He raised an eyebrow at the man who had spoken. "This tongue is far more fun than anything you could manage in thirty seconds of rutting, sweetling." Vivian shot back with a venomous smile, making sure to let the tendrils worm out from between his lips and spider out over the lower half of his chin, covering his generous lower lip with streaks of white. It recalled a look he'd so often worn in back alleys after fifteen minutes on his knees. When he was sufficiently satisfied that the rude man had an eyeful, he pulled the tendrils back into his mouth. "Besides, if you're so concerned about your appetite..." he eyed the other man up and down. "...and believe me, you shouldn't be...maybe you should find another cafe."

Vivian took another sip of his tea, his unique tongue spidering around the inside of the cup to lick up the last droplets of the fragrant jasmine.

[Alistair]

The Corvo grimaced, his lips raising in disgust as the creature flailed his tongue. Alistair was a mage -- and he was fascinated in many things dark -- but he was still ultimately a Gilded of the Griscian Commonwealth; a man born of cleanliness, poise, elegance. Vile things did not appeal to him. The undead sometimes had maggots wriggling in their chests when he dug them up, but they could not help it: that was not their intent, but a mere consequence of nature, and the hierarchy of consumption, degradation, and need.

The Malformer, on the other hand, chose to be repulsive. That was not something the mage found himself particularly fond of -- with magic as loathed as it was across the continent, its image was better preserved than tainted.

"Thankfully I don't rut for only thirty seconds," the man replied, shaking his head. "As for relocating, no thank you. You are not the owner of this place -- you are a mere spectacle, to be gawked and laughed at. Barista," Alistair called out, tossing another farthing onto the table before him, "I'll have another tea." A gesture that he fully intended to stay, of course, if only for the sake of pride.

From the man's tone, he was very clearly a Griscian. His accent was low and deep, but regal, strong, poised. He spoke like he ruled the lands that surrounded him, as many Griscians did when treading upon other realms. His dress was middle-class at best: he wore a simple white shirt with laces near the V-line collar, and long brown slacks that led into laced derby shoes, Griscian style. His muscular physique clung to the frame of his outfit, and his skin was a light tan.

Alistair began swirling water between his two hands, as if to distract from the discomforting presence. He chuckled, lightly, as he created a thin, sheet-like spiral around the edge like a planet's ring. The man ran his finger along that ring -- it was bladed. He had successfully performed Laceration, seemingly inspired by irritation, and showmanship.

The outcome made him rumble in laughter beneath his breath, before dispelling the water back into the moisture within the air.

[Vivian]

Vivian chuckled. Oh, he'd seen men like this a thousand times before. Insecure, stuck up creatures that hated anything that rattled their perceived superiority. This one was just swinging his cock around, like so many other stuffed peacocks before him. Vivian knew he was beautiful; his large blue eyes, long lashes, and feminine figure had charmed many a man. If he could tame a monster like Degare in bed, he had little to fear from this one playing with little water balls. Men. "I don't see anyone laughing, but you're not the only one who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off me today." he winked at the barista.

The barista cleared his throat, blushed, and hurried to get the Griscian another tea. Vivian watched him gather water from the air. It floated between his hands, and a narrow little blade emerged from it, encircling the orb. Vivian didn't like arrogant men...but he did like magic. It was so different from his own, and from Degare's or Arkash's. Vivian had very limited experience with mages, despite his calling and birthplace, and when they were mages they were practitioners of Remnant or Bane. Always something with the body or the mind, much like his own magic. This man was manipulating water, which was utterly fascinating to him.

Oh, it had been such a long time since he'd been properly hate fucked against a wall.

Vivian slid out of his chair, placing a farthing on the table to pay for his tea, and sauntered over to the mage. The other had just dispelled the water back into the air, and Vivian raised a hand to touch some of the particles as they dissipated. Intriguing. He pulled the spare chair across from the Griscian out, and settled into it. "You know, we don't have to be enemies at all." He said lightly. "You could put away that enormous...." he flicked his eyes down meaningfully. "....ego, and I could promise not to shift, and we could get to know one another properly."

Vivian smiled, tilting his head a bit. "What do you say?"

[Alistair]

Alistair visibly winced as the other drew nearer to him. He could see his worm-like tongue rattling about as he drew nearer, and his visceral reaction throbbed through the moisturized air surrounding him, turning it frigid and unpleasant. Even so, he did not force the other away, or threaten him: it was unbecoming of a Gilded to withdraw in fear. He made his displeasure known, but did not enforce it. Perhaps some semblance of him found curiosity in the other, too, even if he was largely unwilling to admit that. He did not find his ghoulish manifestations appealing, but like watching a gored victim, there was something fascinating about the grotesque.

"You are not my enemy," Alistair made clear, his brows tensing as his gaze settled on the other, flicking down for a moment to peer at the legs of his chair. "You are, as you so desperately want to be, a worm. And so I dignify you with the value you ask to be ascribed."

He hadn't been as uncomfortable as this in a long time, though he steeled himself in the face of it. There was no benefit to showing any weakness, and he had learned through his years of ardor, in the deserts of Khadai, how to show strength when one was isolated and vulnerable. Daravin, like that desert, was a hostile land. If the Malformer was a Veir, he had no choice but to stay his hand. He doubted he was, considering his comparative undress, but Alistair did not enjoy hedging his bets.

The invitation to sex made that, of course, more difficult.

"I have no intention of bringing you to my bed." Alistair sat more upright, extending his arms before clasping his fists together near the center of the table, his elbows digging into the frame. "I am the cousin of the Emprise, Catherine Reid. I do not need your favor."

It was not a lie, though most would surely find their skepticism. Alistair had not managed to contact the Empress, nor was she aware that her exiled cousin had entered her lands. The Gilded believed she would turn him away, even if she knew who he was -- he was the outcast of his family, after all.

Nevertheless, the claim was not wrong, and wielding it had protected him from harm many a time. He deployed it whenever cornered.

"Remove all shifts this very moment, and I will consider communicating with you. Only then."

[Vivian]

As Vivian settled into his chair, there was a chill in the air. The air prickled around him, becoming cool, almost to the point of being unpleasant. Vivian, as a man who had survived cold winters, dust storms, and worse on the streets, had only a smile in reply to the other man's displeasure. He was so obviously uncomfortable, and it didn't even scratch the surface of what Vivian was capable of. Alright, perhaps he was starting to understand Degare's predatory nature. It was eminently fun knowing your own power, and using that power to make someone else crawl, even if it was in revulsion. He smiled, settling his elbow on the table mere centimeters away from the other's clasped hands, his chin on the heel of his hand.

"Tell me. Why do you think worms so worthless? Do you really think that's an insult to me? Worms are the reason for this tea you're drinking. Worms let plants breathe, and help purify the water you play with. Worms allow life, breathing, pulsating life. Worms are the womb to every fruit plate you've ever eaten. If you think so little of worms, one might say you've not thought on them at all." Vivian teased.

He openly laughed at the claim the other mage was the cousin to the Emprise herself. Without guards? Without a single man watching over him even as strong as he looked? As independent as nobles liked to pretend they were, royals were even less private than they liked to think. They had servants and nursemaids and guards. Bloodlines like that were protected, and Vivian was far too damn close for even the most confident of bodyguards. "Alright, alright." he raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, and closed his mouth. His tongue reformed, pink, whole and human.

Vivian smirked at the other mage, and opened his mouth coquettishly, as though to show him more what that soft, wet mouth could offer rather than proving that he'd reformed his tongue. He pushed it out of his mouth helpfully, looking at his new companion through his lashes. Satisfied, he closed his mouth and settled back. "As you've wished, no shifts." he grinned. "You can relax now. My name is Vivian Kreine...and yours?"

[Alistair]

Vivian's speech on the importance of grub was food for thought, but it wasn't a meal he hadn't already devoured in the past. All life had value in some circular way -- all living things were elements of their world, valuable or valueless, it was all a subjective thing. Value itself was a mortal proposition, given to them by the Adac, who became valueless themselves the moment they turned their back on their creations. He did not wish to discuss such things -- not until he was comfortable, which he most certainly was not. It was a comfort to know the Malformer at least had some philosophical tenor to their voice, but they still spoke with the tongue of a carrion-infesting thing.

...until they did not. The lithe man withdrew his abominable glossa, and he felt his own shoulders ease. The Malformer followed a relieving action with a sexually suggestive one, causing the Gilded to offer him a dumbfounded blink. There was no end to his unsubtlety. Alistair liked to flirt and seduce, but he always did so gallantly, or discreetly, or charmingly. To him, it was the difference between a slab of meat attracting stray dogs on the side of the road, and a man inviting perfection into his caress.

"...Alistair Reid," he answered, hesitantly, withdrawing his fist so as to add greater distance between them. He did not trust the other -- he was the sort, in his view, to ask for pleasantry only to shove a knife into his back. The mage had met others like him within the Griscian cults; friends of Solemn, with the bones of their moral character so rotten that the slop seeped from their skin. He did not imagine Vivian any different, whether he was correct or not. At some point, all of those he reviled coalesced into the same pit of derision.

"I am from the Griscian Commonwealth, as I am sure you understand. Praetoria. You... are an Elf. Are you from Sil-Elaine, or this... Empire of Rust?"

[Vivian]

Vivian couldn't help but smile tolerantly at the confused blink the man gave him. Bless him. Perhaps he had been raised in a palace, some poor coddled little boy who didn't understand the way men worked. He certainly liked to put on airs, but here they were in the same cafe...and Vivian would bet his eyeteeth Alistair wasn't as prudish as he liked to seem. He certainly was touchy, wasn't he, pulling his fist away like that. Vivian settled back in the chair, to put some distance between them and make Alistair a little more comfortable. Reid? So he was committing to that bit was he? The Emprise wouldn't be entertained if she or any of her cohorts found out there was a man wandering around using that name. People had been skinned alive for less.

Either way, he was flattered to be considered full blood Sil-Norai, and didn't see any point in correcting the other man. "I'm from Daravin, by way of Amoren. I'm just up here on holiday. Coming to see the sights, walk the town. I'd never been out of Amoren before this, and the Veir I live with isn't exactly fond of travel. If he had his way he would be holed up in the house all day complaining about the heat and demanding enough lemonade to make a stadium sick. I think the man pisses lemon juice at this point." Vivian joked. "Of course, Malformity makes it easy to travel. Always better on four legs or two wings than two legs."

He nodded to Alistair. "And what are you doing here? You've got the scent of hardwood on you, and a little sweat. Old sex, as well. Business, pleasure, carpentry, or a mix of all three?" he smirked. "Imagine that, the cousin of Emprise Reid herself..."

[Alistair]

As unnecessarily elaborate as Vivian's response was, it did shed some light for him. He was from Amoren, he was born in Daravin, he lived with a Veir and had not been nearly so close to the Northern Marches as he was now. He was a companion, valet or muse, and he apparently wielded a perceptive sense of smell, likely a result of his Malformity. Oddly enough, Alistair knew little about most magics, despite being a skilled mage. He had been raised in the mage-killer heart of the world, after all, forced away from the clutches of dirty Raw Ether and its hubristic practitioners. The only magics he ever encountered in the Griscian underworld were Mentalism and Remnant -- things that could influence subtly, things that centered around the mind. The flashier or more elaborate, the less likely a mage was to survive.

It was perhaps, why, he had been caught, wading through cemeteries and all.

"Business and pleasure are typically quite interrelated, for me," the Gilded finally answered directly. He leaned back into his seat, one arm returning to his side while the other laid lazily along the edge of the table, his elbow barely hanging off. "Catherine does not know I am here. I have tried contacting her, but my letters never make it past the palace foyer. I am adrift, Reid or not. My lineage means little here."

Saying what he had, he surrendered any threatening weight once applicable to throwing his surname around with Vivian, but he no longer needed to. He was not immediately cornered, anymore, and so did not require his House as a weapon. "I was, earlier, helping to set some boards and remove trees in Veir Alon's garden. It is why I came here -- she offered me a place to stay for a fortnight, if only I might acquire some Sunderscraps for her terrarium, and help to sort out the bare state of her courtyard. I have been wanting to travel further south, so I was glad to assist."

The man exhaled, finally allowing himself to make direct eye contact with the Malformer.

"You are a peasant, yes?" Alistair asked. "You want to wear yourself like an Entente, but you are not. That is not an insult -- the nobility, here, is no less repulsive than you. They are very animal, even if they dress well and sculpt themselves into beautiful things. I would not try to emulate them."

He huffed.

"Why do you want to know me, by the way? I made it clear, earlier, that I did not wish for your company, and yet you persisted. I am surprised by your gall."