#nightdraught

This really was the perfect spot, wasn’t it?

Well, it could be better, the trees weren’t as high as he wanted. But, the space as open and vacant of anything that could really do harm. Harm, at least that actually mattered. It’s been ages since they’ve had a proper storm, one that thrummed with purpose, one that sung to him in a precious, beautiful lullaby. What comfort he got from the natural power that caused fear.

And lucky he was that the weather was not reaching it’s climax till late into the night. Most were already boarded in their homes to wade out it’s screams. His head tilts back, the hood of his cloak clings against his tangled hair with the wind whipping in indecisive directions. He shuts his eyes, a slight humming on the corners of them, a numbness itching the tips of his fingers. 

“Yeah, I hear you, you sure are taking your time aren’t you?” A soft mutter, under his breath as if he needed to keep it confidential. No whisper back would be satisfying enough, despite it being closer to a real response than any normal person would receive.   

And he listens, the wind swirling stronger, feeling it attract around his ankles and tilt the cut grass under him. Oh, then he hears that voice.

In his concentration it does make his relaxed pose stiffen. Near comedically to this stranger’s observation, a small line of gold static flickers over his shoulders, brighter in the dim light. His eyes open, tilting his head over, a soft light in the yellow iris, humming for the coming orchestra.

“...I’m aware. Thank you.” And he looks up, feeling the soft impact of rain, a single drop, then several, many more, blotting the space between them. 

TO SAY THAT CYBIN ‘ STICKS OUT ’ IN THE CITY WOULD BE AN UNDERSTATEMENT. between the ratty, impressively long hair, the bare feet -- particularly unusual among those of elven heritage -- and what appears to be an animal skull hanging around their neck, the elf has attracted more than a few odd glances since their arrival this morning. 

they feel entirely out of their depth, navigating these streets that somehow seem more labyrinthine than the woods with which they’re so accustomed. finding a marketplace shouldn’t be so difficult, but cy’s patience is wearing thin, becoming smothered by frustration. he decides to ask the next person he sees for directions, wild hazel eyes scanning the cobblestone streets before landing on an individual with irises pink as wildflowers. the color reminds cy of home, entices them to approach the stranger, just barely remembering their manners --

he hates orlais. this is no startling revelation, as he’s fairly sure that it’s common opinion really, but oh --- he hates it. furthermore, he hates fancy parties. hawke has him stuffed into something half way decent and he tugs irritably at the collar, the only saving grace of it being the fact it covered his tattoos, for the most part. wouldn’t do any good if they started to glow, but if it came to that then it just meant the part was finally getting interesting. 

thankfully, most are content to not engage with an elf. it’s easier to pull back and observe; up until the point where someone brazenly demands he brings them more cheeses and the wine glass in his hand shatters under his grip. he does not use the resulting glass to show them just where they can shove their cheese and instead takes a measured breath before pivoting sharply and walking away. the sting in his palm is almost comforting. he pushes through a door and just about barrels over the unfortunate individual that happened to be on the other side, reeling back and freezing momentarily. 

a beat. 

               “ oh, excite me. “ artemis laughs, the words a mock-breathy swoon; “ you can’t drop hints at impressive, potentially deeply forbidden magics and expect me not to be. even if i can’t learn it, i can certainly yearn to try. and i’m always happy to provide distraction. “ they say, tone still light. their gaze sliiiides over to essek’s at the reproachful tone to his ‘hm’. and they just offer a smile in return, easy as anything, as they lead the way up the quieter sort of street.

              it’s not that they aren’t one to apologize when they feel as though they’ve misstepped; the opposite, really. but the way the other chooses to express himself ( or rather not do so at all ) is familiar. and they don’t feel particularly inclined to apologize for giving a shit. “ i’m curious about how much is different. between here and home. “

              the buildings are made of a lighter sort of stone here, some ivy crawling up the walls in-between the wooden supports built into them. the further they go the more people there seem to be, though for the most part simply milling about between shops. it’s an unhurried sort of evening, long past any rushes or crowds that might be a worry any other time.

             “ the top of the list of things that are about to kill the cat being what sort of magicyou specialize in ? feel free to use metaphors, i love poorly deciphering them. “

essek meets the theatrics with a slight raise of the brow. “we will see,” he says instead of some lofty jest about how passing out deeply forbidden magics seems to be a hobby of his. which it seems to be. a small act of rebellion, he supposes, paltry in comparison to everything else. there’s no telling if artemis has the same potential of one caleb widogast, but if nothing else it’d give essek an opportunity to show off. 

the ego boost might do him some good. 

“many things. everything. the foundations are the same, people living their lives, but ---” he glances around, taking in the evening around them. essek can’t call it comfortable, not for himself with the paranoia that nestled at the base of his spine, but he could see how it might be for others. children laughing across the way as they run along with sticks in their hands. “our architecture, for one, is much darker.” there’s the edge of a smile there. many things were different, indeed. it could take a lifetime to name them all. 

                artemis’s head slowly tilts. their eyebrows climb steadily up towards their hairline, disappearing behind a misplaced curl or two scattered over their forehead. pink eyes flicker, briefly, over to the warm glow of firelight before they land right back on the other human. his nerves, or whatever they are, are rather contagious.

              their smile doesn’t quite slip off of their face but it does hedge into something a little more disbelieving.

                ❝ my employers. ❞ they repeat. ❝ i — … .❞

                manicured nails lightly drum against the side of their teacup. a tell, if a quiet one, for well-masked anxiety. ❝ i know that they’re a faction of some of the most influential mages in the empire. ❞ and even to their own ears it sounds wary. ❝ growing steadily moreso by the day. i know that they pay me, and pay me well, to stay within my lane. ❞ ‘ where are you going with this ? ‘

        Bribery.  Though the confession  ----  half-formed and hesitant as it may be, partially conjecture from what wasn't said as what was  ----  does not surprise Caleb, what does is that it has apparently worked.  What little he knows of the other, having come to seek them on curiosity, are tales of a surprising passion  ----  for the arcane arts themselves, and for those under their tutelage.  It was the latter, caught in whispers, that surprised him most  ----  at least in his own days, the least of the Soltryce Academy's worries was that care from above was required.

        What was ever-present then  ----  and still held in their beliefs now, Astrid was proof of that as was the insidious, ever-powerful hand of the Assembly at their backs  ----  was belief, duty with a fervor that overrode personal care, overrode the simple role of mentor into molder, shaper of thought and body and the magic that flowed through both.  What little whispers the Nein had been able to glean  ----  and the teacup in his hand, the walls of the other's home so clearly around him rather than one of the towers of the Candles  ----  proved that there might well be something different here, someone that could be useful.