westwhere | [ CLOSED ]

Wrathion's entry into the citadel has left him... exhausted. Karsa has, at least, found him and provided him with a translator -- he has a change of clothes in the local style now and has cleaned up. The extravagant fashions suit him just fine, and Wrathion blends away easily -- an ornate gilded mask doing its best to hide his glowing red eyes, but unable to disguise them entirely.

Yet the experience sits with him, the way the one who lead all those creatures had tried to force its way into his mind.

He cannot help but be reminded of Xanesh.

Your father proved incapable of resisting the Old Gods, little whelp. Such hubris to think you would fare any better!

He's exhausted, and still injured, but he trusts nobody here to handle it so far. Trusts nobody here to touch him, even in the smallest way.

The Beastmaster's fliers hadn't been trying to kill him, but they'd still done some damage. Wrathion is hiding it well, not moving the injured arm in public -- holding it at a faux-relaxed angle and gesturing mildly with the other when he speaks to people.

It's a good act, because so far he's been in control of it.

He's not sure, in truth, how bad the injury is -- he knows his arm is swollen and bruised around it, and that his movement is limited with sharp pain if he forces it beyond a limit. He remembers tumbling from the sky with the Beastmaster's fliers, remembers hitting the ground and rolling at an awkward angle.

The Merchant Square is a shadow of its former self, he is sure, but Wrathion had come here to try and feel out the local population. His dark curls are artfully styled, his extravagant outfit a stark contrast to the destruction around him. The people are, however, interesting. He wants to know what they think of their two new potential leaders, of what they think of everything that is happening.

Someone moving past him carrying a bundle bumps into his arm, and Wrathion's whole body goes tense. He straightens a little, exerting enough self control not to react more, but the flash of pain is one he hadn't been prepared for. He controls his breathing, waiting for it to subside. He should... potentially find something, at least, to ease the pain. Perhaps someone in the Palace of the Doze might know, he could feign terrible headaches from the pressure of having to write the perfect speech. The fingers on his injured arm flex experimentally, and he's glad to find that doesn't at least hurt more.

The sensation of being watched prickles at him.

He turns, eyes landing on the figure watching him from the other side of the square, and tilts his head curiously.

Edited 2021-11-20 15:47 (UTC)

When Emilia last visited the outskirts of this district, she sat by the lip of a fountain while two little girls braided her hair. She taught them how to weave flowers into their hair in turn, and laughter echoed when they left.

The square looks decidedly different now than it did then. No children in sight.

It's unmistakable, the thick tension that billows throughout. People making haste to ensure they're home in time for curfew. Those once renowned for their magics stared at with open distrust, if not outright disdain. Reconstruction efforts have begun, but there is no hiding the ruin that was left in the wake of the Huntress and the Beastmaster.

And then — Wrathion.

Emilia's more guarded now than ever before, a feat if there ever was one, and she recognizes him as the newest addition to their own growing retinue. Recognizes, too, that he is wounded, though she does not approach him yet.

Just as subtly, she tilts her head back. Tilts it in the direction of incoming guards. They're still asking — forcefully — a tally of everyone's abilities. She steps back into the shadows to elude him, and hopes that he evades them, as well.

Ah.

The guards.

Forced registration of abilities is terribly tiresome -- and Wrathion isn't certain they can prove what he is, but he isn't keen to find out. His red eyes slant in their direction, then he steps back to try and melt away into the shadows himself. Growing up among thieves and assassins certainly aides him in this, and with the place crumbling around them it's easier than before.

The guards move past where he was, questioning some more people, and Wrathion emerges from the darkness near where Emilia is -- watching the guards carefully and leaning against the wall to affect a casual air. The distance he keeps is calculated, after all appearing too close might be threatening. That, although her gesture seemed helpful he cannot be sure she is friendly herself.

He's tense, regardless, the half-fold of his arms mostly an excuse to slightly hold the one that's injured.

"Certainly things are heating up, aren't they?" he murmurs, watching the guards move away further toward someone else they want to question.

In this endeavor, they are united.

Taravast was open with its magic when she and the group first arrived. There was a dignity with which sorcerers wielded their abilities: like it was their birthright, not an allowance. Emilia was skeptical of this perceived acceptance, not that she wanted to be proven right. But the world she comes from would've burned her at the pyre if she'd given them the slightest indication she was different.

And Wrathion, with his glowing red eyes, stands out a bit more than most even when he's trying not to. If she didn't know any better, she would think he was one of the Malvagi, all the more cast out.

The shrewdness of her gaze remains on the guards until they've retreated. She wouldn't have been able to hold herself back if she saw them hounding someone else for their secrets. There's a furious tilt to her chin, wounded though her pride is, restrained though her defiance remains in favor of preservation. She'll gather more information this way as it is.

"It was inevitable, in some ways." Taravast's core was always rotten. The siege merely peeled back the layers to reveal. It's not until she deems the coast clear that she finally looks to Wrathion. "You're hurt."

Inevitable.

Of course, people always crave power and fear it when they don't have it -- but it still prickles uncomfortably to see it happen.

Her sharp observation makes something inside him twist. He straightens, just a little, as if consciously trying to shrug off the injury now she's mentioned it.

Wrathion could lie, but if she's noticed other people may have noticed too -- or will, eventually.

Troubling.

"A little accident," he says, because explaining he was hunted down by the Beastmaster isn't really top of his list. It's probably obvious it wasn't exactly that, but she can decide on her own what he's covering for. He doubts she'll guess the truth. "It will heal," he adds mildly.

He's not sure how quickly or how well, but eventually it will heal. He thinks.

"It very well may," Emilia agrees. If his injury was more serious, she doubts he would be roaming the marketplace. Or maybe he is that stubborn. She would rather not leap to assumptions about this stranger, one way or another.

She can only tackle what she knows: and what she knows is he's hurt, and he's one of theirs now.

"But as you said, things are heating up."

Some distant part of herself almost smiles wryly at the phrasing, if only because she recently discovered she can summon fire. She wouldn't be able to deny that if pressed by the guards. Not after her showdown with the Huntress.

"You'll want to be at your best. I can help, if you so choose."

Edited 2021-11-28 04:16 (UTC)

That is true.

The arm is a problem, if he were to be forced into a fight he'd be at a disadvantage. If he were to shift, it would hinder his flying.

His eyes drift over the streets, watching for signs of other guards circling back, then land on her.

"You are a healer?" he prompts.

There are many types of healer, of course. Mistweavers, Priests of the Light, Shaman, Druids, and those who simply bind injuries with bandages and apply potions. He wonders which she is.

Someone who could accelerate the healing process, or restore the arm entirely, would be most ideal -- but beggars cannot be choosers. He's in a strange land, where he hardly knows anyone. For all he knows this could be a trap itself, but if he can regain the use of his arm it may be worth it.

He would be better off with Wen Qing or Eleven, in truth.

But in the absence of either of them, Emilia will do in a pinch. She's been consumed with anger and violence as of late. Learned, too, that her hands are so very capable of inflicting both, with and without magic.

It might do some good, to remember she once sought to nurture and not only avenge.

"No." Not in the sense he asks, at least. Not professionally. "But I'm familiar with herbal folk medicine, and already made salves for the wounded. I have some left back at the palace, if you'd like to join me."

Should they stumble on a healer before then, even better. But her salves have helped before, imbued with her own magic as they are.

Edited 2021-12-01 04:13 (UTC)

He'll take it. She can, at least, help him understand how long it will take to heal without intervention.

"What is your price?" he prompts, wary. To accept healing from a stranger is to irrecoverably owe them a favour, he understands that. There's some who might do this out of the kindness of their own hearts, but Wrathion has no idea if she is among those. She might be hoping for the favour, might be aiming to use it for something specific.

Better to ask now than to find out too late he's dug himself into worse trouble than the arm was causing him.

Emilia can't really fault him for not taking a kindness at face value. If she's learned anything during her stay in Taravast — and from tangling with the Malvagi — it's to question things as much as possible. People have their own agendas and play their own games. If one is to bend things to their advantage, they must learn to tell the lies from the truth, a friend from a foe.

And there'd be plenty of reason to fear her, for all that this kindness is true.

"I don't have one. You were found by Karsa and the Merchant, were you not?"

Same as her. Same as the rest of them. Curious how they're always the first to discover them.

He considers that a long moment before nodding. If she's asking, it's likely she was too after all -- and there's a common goal there, then. To somehow activate these beacons and return themselves home.

"I was," he admits. "I've not been here as long as some, it seems. Peculiarly spread out, this anomaly."

Yanking people to this land in haphazard patterns against their will. He'd have expected something easier to predict, some... sign of when it might happen, some event. Yet no, he'd simply woken up here with no memory of how it happened -- and nothing around him to suggest to it.

Emilia grows quiet as she does the math. She'd been confident in both her ambitions and Wrath's. She'd believed they would be back in the Seven Circles by now. Believed she would be on her way to burning a House of Sin or two to ash.

And yet.

"It's been four months on my end."

Her answer will not be comforting, but she would rather speak true where she can afford it. Emilia awoke in the salt mines of Sa-Hareth, surrounded piles of bones. She was able to escape the undead that lingered there, but. They're everywhere.

Four months is, indeed, not a comfort. Wrathion's eyes narrow a little at that, reconsidering his own options.

Four months.

"Were the beacons here your first offer as a way home?"

Did they spend four months building up to being here, getting access? Or was there another option before which failed? Just so he can gauge how much weight to give the possibility, how much the Merchant might be stringing them along with promises of options which simply come to nothing.

"They were, though I know of others who've been with the Merchant for longer."

In truth, Emilia's wondered what it would take for them all to be self-sufficient enough to need not rely on the Merchant. She does not want to be an unwitting pawn in a bloody game of chess she did not consent to play. She was not made to be a pawn at all. "Don Bonaccorso, however, refuses to activate the beacon in Taravast."

And he is the only one with the means to do so. Emilia has her suspicions, wonders if his own life hinges on it, but nothing concrete, so she speaks nothing of it. She keeps those cards close until she can investigate further.

Longer than four months.

"That much I knew," he answers finally. "I was sold on assisting in this political game on that premise. To access the beacon we must sway the vote."

Supposedly. He arches an eyebrow, slides his eyes back over their surroundings.

"Though I do wonder if there are other reasons."

It seems a little too selfless for his liking. The Merchant surely benefits in some way, it's simply a matter of working out what his gain is.

"We must always operate under the assumption there are."

It sounds a bit cynical, even to her own ears. Even to the inborn and quieter skeptic she used to be, before rage found a home in her. Emilia still believes in measured trust — and that it must be earned. Believing without question is as foolhardy as choosing to believe in nothing at all. That the Merchant is a mysterious and unseen presence, more often than not, doesn't help matters any.

She looks over at Wrathion's arm once more.

"Well?"

Will he come with her?

He considers, for a moment, resisting. Considers refusing her help -- but she has given him no reason. Her words could be false, but for the moment he can see no gain in that. Can picture no path where her encouragement of his suspicion and offer of healing would benefit. She would have to know of the merchant to get this far, or perhaps the Beastmaster. Would he have allies in the city? If it truly is a trap, surely he would be lured outside -- not further in? Or... lured somewhere he could be subdued.

Still.

Eventually, he has to trust someone.

"Lead the way," he says finally. If his arm can be healed it would be worth the risk.

Wrathion has no idea, between Macaluso and Vannozza who will be a better leader for Taravast. Both have qualities that would help and would hinder -- and there are many fine details he isn't privy to. It's just as well, he thinks, the choice isn't entirely down to him -- much can be said about the meddling of dragons in politics. Much has been said about how Black Dragons, in particular, should leave human affairs well alone.

He's out in the Merchant Square again, because Wrathion finds himself drawn to the disaster like a magnet. The people are hungry, are angry. They've lost much, and they want retribution.

Wrathion understands that sensation intimately, even if he has never had a home he was... comfortable in, the way these people have.

He's stood, arms partially held against his chest to account for the pain in a pose that looks casual, listening to one resident. The gilded mask he wears hides his expression and calls out his affiliation to Macaluso, because he's supposed to be here in role -- to be drumming up support for their cause. Instead, he's found himself drawn into this tale of despair. This man has lost his wife, his children. He is angry they are no longer safe, he wants to know what is going to be done.

Wrathion images himself unravelling into his true shape, imagines flying out and burning a path through whatever undead are left. He could, he's sure, rip through plenty of them before he was brought down.

Yet --

The memory of the voice in his head gives him pause, the panic he felt at the intrusion. He'd resisted, but how long would he be able to resist?

"Those responsible," Wrathion is say with quiet intensity, "will be held accountable, I will ensure that. Let your anger keep you sharp, but do not lose yourself to the grief. You are the only one left, but that means you have a responsibility to survive."

The man looks uncertain, but Wrathion is digging in the pockets of his long, elegantly embroidered coat -- offering something over. There's a long pause, then the man nods and turns to leave. Wrathion watches a moment before turning himself, eyes landing on Daenerys. He's not sure how long she's been watching, so he draws himself up a little more -- trying to slip himself back into his role. Legal pioneer, diplomat, public speaker.

"Sizing up the competition?" he says finally, as if that is what she might be doing -- after all, they are supposed to be rivals.

She'd been coming more and more to try and help the people repair their homes and businesses. When she could, she volunteered among the healer's, but had no real knowledge beyond basic first aid. At least here, she could work with her hands and contribute something greater. It seemed to cheer some of the people to see her as well. She recognized many that had joined the groups of merchants that had roamed the city, spouting their effusive stories when she arrived. They recognized her silver fuzz, but more than anything, they knew her dragon.

Drogon behaved himself largely. Whenever he started to get overwhelmed, he would fly off on his own towards the canyons. That always seemed to disappoint the people, but Dany had to feel a bit relieved. 'This is no place for a dragon'. This time, there were no attempts to plant trees and watch them grow. If there was a way home, she would take it.

Her eyes wandered during her respite, as she did her best to catch her breath and take some water. She had seen the man with red eyes. The color similar to Drogon's and as fierce. She witnessed his anger, his concern for the people and that held her attention. Some seemed to have comfort in his promise, as these sorts of promises were sweet things. In reality, they were words and they were often hard to deliver, as she learned much to her shame.

She hadn't realized she was still staring when he turned towards her. Dany smirked, amused by the quip. "Are we competition?"

"This city is in danger," he replies, "and all its remaining inhabitants are in competition to control the supplies and rule the rubble."

Not a pleasant thought, but a truth he believes all the same. Many of these people claim to be allies with each other, but he's quite certain they'd turn a knife on each other to survive. He moves closer to her, slow and casual so she doesn't feel threatened by the approach. There's still a subtle tension to him, both from the pain in his arm and the frustration with the situation, but he flicks a smile all the same.

"What do you think the history books will say happened here? Who will they blame, and who will they praise?"

"I'm not concerned with the history books." It was Meereen that she had to wonder what would be said of her and her efforts. None of it good, most likely. If she even thought about such things here, it would truly be too much for her. All of her efforts were meant to stand on their own, to help those that were kind to her, if not a bit overwhelming. Thinking about how she might appear, if she redeemed herself, no...

If I look back, I'm lost.

"You seem more concerned with how you appear." She answered, collecting more lumber for the repairs of the nearby homes. "Why think about the future or how you are recorded when the task isn't done?"

There was a shriek in the distance. The people looked up to the sky with unrestrained wonder. Their excitement never dimmed, no matter how many times Drogon appeared. Daenerys kept to her work, only glancing up at her son when he perched himself on her shoulders, coiling around her neck.

Wrathion is about to protest that, to say something about how people's perception of you is important to know because it can be controlled --

When he hears a sound.

He looks up, and Wrathion's expression goes through several uncontrolled changes: surprise, confusion, unease, settles finally on something muddled.

The creature is -- small, still growing. It looks like it could belong to his flight but... it does not. The colouring is slightly wrong, the scales --

Whatever this creature is, it was perhaps... a hybrid of some kind, or some... flight the evolved away from Azeroth. He has so many questions, immediately -- why is it here? Are there others? Is it being kept by this woman, or has it imprinted on her after being ripped from its parents? A wave of conflicting emotions crashes over him before he schools himself, tries to swallow them down and affect an air of only the mildest curiosity.

"I have a role to play," he says finally, "surely you do too."

"Perhaps I do," she murmured, stroking Drogon's neck gently. "I didn't expect to come here with some sort of purpose or destiny. If it comes to me, then I will face it." For now, she could at least do the best good she could. Some in part for her failures in Meereen, the rest...because the people needed it and so few were giving help in the Doxe.

She offered out a hammer for Wrathion, a small prompt for him to come and join her. Drogon looked up sharply from her shoulders, smelling something familiar about the man or something he might not like, it was hard for Dany to tell. But there was no turning her dragon away from watching Wrathion with red eyes.

"He's already hunted." She told him, grateful at least that he the dragon wasn't restless and less likely to strike out. He wasn't as gentle as Viserion, but he wasn't as vicious as Rhaegal could be. "He won't trouble you." So long as he didn't provoke him.

"I'm Daenerys Stormborn."

Daenerys Stormborn. Quite the name, and she speaks it with confidence. He inclines his head slightly, eyes running over her then meeting Drogon's.

"Wrathion," he allows, "and who is your companion?"

Only polite to introduce him, he thinks, since they are so close. It certainly seems a good sign that the dragon isn't afraid of her. At least, he thinks it should be.

Joining this whole... campaign so late in the game has left Wrathion somewhat on his back foot. He's aware of the players, aware he doesn't have nearly all the information he needs and aware that he hasn't at all enough trust to get all the information he needs.

Which means the only way to get it is, really, to play the game. To begin leaning into his role, and see what comes of it. He's heard supports of Macaluso have been attacked and threatened, but so far the biggest threat he's felt was outside the walls with the rest of the undead. Wrathion believes that he can handle himself, if it's simply a bunch of mortals doing the threatening, and that the gamble is worth it. Supporters are worth knowing, as are the angle of dissenters.

As such, he has a small impromptu crowd in the market square listening at his urging. Vannozza has been cutting ties with necromancers, he argues, in public -- but what of in private? Perhaps this sudden turn is guilt on the part of the necromancers, he suggests. Undead have attacked this city twice, and Vannozza withdraws. What they need is help, what they need is the witches of Bessis, strong support from friends should the undead come again. With that, they could turn on the undead lieges and seek revenge for all that has been lost. Macaluso is their answer, all these things he can bring!

Wrathion speaks well, at least. He is eloquent, confident, his wry comments about Vannozza occasionally turn to dry, amusing commentary and he certainly sounds as if believes what he says. The people are wary, mistrustful, not an easy audience but they want something to believe him. Someone to blame. Some hope of revenge. That is, at least, worth listening to.

While the city is full of colorful characters, Alayne has learned that those brought here as outsiders seem to carry the most unique physical characteristics, in so much that they can stick out like a sore thumb. She is mostly lucky on that front, as the only unique thing about her appearance is that which was added after her arrival: the red paint on her palms. While she is used to hiding her palms in unfamiliar scenarios, it has been known to pay off if she finds herself engaged with supporters of Bessis or Macaluso. It can also help her quickly discern the mood of a crowd, depending on their reaction to her, and the crowd this man has gathered seems to be of benefit when she steps forward to get a better look at the charismatic speaker daring to openly question Vanozza's will. Those who recognize her as fire-kissed part so that she can move to the front of the crowd, whispering their respects in her ear on passing, which she only acknowledges with the barest of polite smiles.

Now close enough to actually gain a better appreciation of the speaker's appearance, Alayne is rather stunned by his eyes. For a moment they distract her from what he's actually saying, wondering just what form of magic could cause such a frightening appearance that would otherwise be deemed as handsome. No doubt they helped him in gathering enough attention to even perform such a display for the masses, before enthralling them with his articulation.

Nothing he says feels wrong, per se. In fact she might even agree with some of it, though she's careful to keep her expression relaxed and as neutral as possible. Despite staying quiet, however, her appearance seems to enflame some in the crowd to loudly favor the man's words, judging that her arrival must bring the support of Bessis with it. It's those that stay quiet that worry Alayne most, and out of her peripheral she can witness some faces souring even further, first towards the speeker, and then towards Alayne herself.

She suddenly feels very exposed and incredibly foolish for moving to the front of the crowd. What if the Brotherhood were to use this opportunity to stab her from behind? She's much easier access than the man on his podium, and keenly aware of this, she turns her wide eyes on him, jaw clenched as she wills with all her might for him to notice her and how very concerned she is for this level of exposure on both their parts. Perhaps a man who likely wields magic has less to fear, but a murdered girl at his feet certainly wouldn't help his cause; it would only incite panic.

Wrathion has been keeping a close enough eye on the crowd that he sees when the tide turns. After all, this exercise was both to make a show of his position and to see who responded to it -- and how.

The camp is quite divided, as expected. Given he was supposed to be subtly undermining Macaluso, it's fine that some do not agree -- and if he's galvanising them in the process then that isn't entirely off-plan. What is, however, is any immediate chaos in the streets. His eyes land on the Alayne as they run over the crowd, and he can feel the tension in her. He's quite sure he's seen her at least once, but and the murmuring of the crowd clues him in to her association -- the witches of Bessis.

Well, that is at least useful as a way out. They are, on paper, on the same side and that allows him a reason to spirit her away.

He inclines his head toward her, offering a flicker of a smile before he schools his expression.

"Ah," he says, "I see my next appointment has arrived to collect me."

He moves down into the crowd where Alayne is, offers more formal incline of his head then a hand upturned to her.

"I do hope I am not late?"

An out, if she wants to be accompanied somewhere away from all these people.

She ought to curse herself for unwittingly drawing too much of his attention, and now she's been placed into a rather precarious position. She may no longer be in danger of cutthroats sneaking up behind her admidst the crowd, but now she's in the danger of the public eye looking at her and understanding her supposed allegiance. In truth she has no fondness for Macaluso, but she's played herself into a corner, and the role given to her by Bessis is more difficult to avoid when in public. It's really a choice of: get assassinated now, or later in your sleep?

Later it is.

Her small hand with it's red-stained palm moves to rest delicately overtop his, barely touching save for the sake of decorum, as she takes her skirts in the other hand and nods to follow his lead with a most polite smile.

"Not at all. You are constant with both time and speech. Shall we away, then?"

The pinprick of fear continues to painfully tickle the hairs on her neck until they are well away from the gathered crowd. It's only when she feels they are no longer being watched by everyone in the square that she dares to speak further, though she rarely raises her voice above a whisper.

"I had not yet been inclined to make a public stand in these local politics, but it seems the decision has been made for me." Is she scolding him for singling her out? She ought to be more careful... Those eyes suggest he is likely some kind of mage, and so with a wince she reins in the irritation always bubbling beneath her fear. "Though I suppose the Witches of Bessis already did so upon my arrival. I do not mean to lay the blame at your feet, for I am the one to have approached you. Your words were...moving. So moving that I feared they may draw the Brotherhood's attention."

Edited 2021-12-21 22:56 (UTC)

Wrathion glances sideways at her curiously, lofting an eyebrow as he leads her away then flitting his eyes out over the narrow streets.

"You were welcome to make your own escape," he offers, "but if you aimed not to make a public stand I think you have long failed when people already know who you are and your association."

He isn't recognised in the street himself, and she is. That seems to him like she's far more dug into her role, like it or not.

"Still," he offers mildly, "if you'd like to go back and tell them you've changed your mind..."

He slows down, as if preparing to turn right around and take her back into that crowd that she just escaped. Wrathion is quite sure she doesn't want that, but he's amused to see how much she might startle at the idea.

He isn't wrong. It seems no matter where she ends up, Alayne must accept that her role in politics will always be decided for her. Even if Petyr was doing his utmost to teach her how to one day seize power, there was little she could do without his guidance. Here it's rather worse, given that her position has been decided, and then she has been left to fend for herself amongst the bloodthirsty court. Perhaps if her eyes were red instead of her palms, then she could be as bold as he.

"No." Her fingers curl a bit to actually clasp his hand as if he might just shove her off, the slight tremble betraying her terror at the idea of returning to that pit of fools and snakes. One could hardly tell them apart, and there was the danger. "You are right."

He is, after all, though she would say as much even if he wasn't. Face to face, she's much more unlikely to speak her mind, of which there are too many conflicting thoughts to make sense of, anyhow. What are his real thoughts, she wonders. Is he just playing his part to the extreme, no matter his heart's desire? She could relate to that, though she could never be so brazen as to take a podium.

He own blue eyes continue to flitter to the side and upward, alternating between looking beside them and up to his rather handsome face. If not for those eyes... No doubt it's obvious they catch her attention. It would be rude to ask about them directly, but there are other ways, and shifting the subject matter may ease tensions.

"You carry yourself rather finely. Are you of noble blood, or perhaps a sorcerer?"

He holds her gaze curiously as she looks up at him, sensing the slight adjustment of her grip. She's definitely afraid, and now she's definitely flattering him. Perhaps by hiding her allegiance she aims to play both sides, him included. He couldn't really fault that, he's briefly played both sides before, but the sensation someone might try to play him is unusual.

Most of the time, people have already long made their judgements of him and have interest only in what bribes he can offer or in taking his head.

With one notable exception, of course, but he ruined that friendship with his own hands.

Still, he adjusts his weight and turns to walk again.

"My apologies," he offers lightly, "we were not introduced. My name is Wrathion. I sit in Macaluso's household to lend him my expertise as a legal pioneer, diplomat and master orator."

Which is not at all the answer she wanted, but is the role he has been assigned. She hasn't told him anything at all about herself, and he doesn't feel particularly inclined to open with his own secrets.

Wrathion... That seems a most unusual name, and not one she is like to forget. Is there not also someone named Wrath amongst their band of misfits? He too is one to draw attention to his wits, though he seems to more favor the shadows along with her. Neither of them seem to particularly embody the names they were given, for which she is most grateful. Perhaps their parents were simply cruel, or their wrath is something they hide well. Isn't hers hidden deep, always lurking beneath the fear that never leaves her soul?

He may not even be an outsider like she is, so she must take extra care. When arriving she had been told of those that were from other realms, but some may have arrived since then, so she is left to guess for herself. His name doesn't sound local, but that isn't enough to know anything for sure. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but that too is something she is accustomed to, and so she plays along with a little duck of her head in acknowledgment to his grand role amongst one of Macaluso's advisors.

"He would like be proud of the work you do in his name, no doubt. I am honored to meet you, Lord Wrathion. You may call me Alayne. My father was don Urbano, may his soul be at peace." Alayne is certain to add a more sullen note to her tone when mentioning this. After all, should she not be grieving her father's death, even if she is a bastard? "My mother is nobody in name and so I was not raised here amongst all this finery, but after my father's unfortunate passing, I was summoned to further the cause of the Witches of Bessis. My position holds no power until I turn the age of twenty summers, and so I am left to wait and to learn."

Better not to share how she's supposed to be burned alive. Alayne has no intention of sticking around long enough for that to happen.

"As a diplomat, you must be well traveled. Do you favor the beauty of Taravast over other cities?"

Edited 2021-12-22 00:32 (UTC)

Wrathion hums at that, turning it over. He is, after all, well travelled -- just not in this... particular area. Still, he can talk around the truth.

"Taravast was once beautiful," he allows, "it is a great shame the damage that has been done to it. At its height, perhaps it might be among the finest of the cities I have seen."

A non-committal reply, one that suggests without confirming anything. Dalaran is quite beautiful too, after all, but smaller in scale than Taravast. The villages in Pandaria, while all beautiful, were also nothing near the scale of Taravast. Stormwind is an older city, and one he's sentimentally fond of, but the aesthetic is not quite as... elaborate.

He's satisfied with his answer.

"How are you finding your time here?" he prompts, "I hope you find Taravast to your tastes. Do the witches of Bessis treat you well?"

He's curious, after all. He knows of the witches, but has had little interaction with them himself. Perhaps she will be a good source of information.

[ CLOSED ]

Stranger in a Strange Land: Emilia di Carlo

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The Measure of a Leader: Daenerys

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Escalation: Alayne Stone

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please doth forgive the lateness!

No trouble!

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