#thaleya

Thaleya,

You admitted a taste for flattery, so it’s only fair that you’re allowed to gorge to your heart’s content in exchange for the boundless generosity you showered me with. Choice morsels:

The suit was flawless. I’ve seldom been looked on so favorably, never for my choice in dress, and so I credit you for every awed glance laid at my feet that night. ‘My mark’, as you put it, was thoroughly enchanted - her companion, a friend whose discernment I have the utmost faith in, made much of how well matched we two were - and I pay due tribute to you, again, for the confidence with which I led our dance. In this instance, it’s fair to say that the clothes, and the clothier, made the man.

And if you haven’t yet glutted yourself insensate? I took to the field well-armoured and seized as complete a victory as anyone could dream of, as well as a prisoner; I’m in no hurry to ransom them away after such a gloriously satisfying engagement.

There. Be satiated, and forgive me for being so familiar - you seem to prefer it that way.

The field report is certainly the smaller part of your reward. As my mercenary, Magis Thaleya, you share in the spoils, if not the new holdings or titles. I’ve managed to put together your first payment much earlier than anticipated, in fact. With luck, you’ll be fully compensated before Winter’s Veil, and I can then press you for the tie and the pocket square to complete our exchange. Expect the same amount next month, though hopefully I’ll have time to exchange a few words in passing. Be well until next we meet, and thank you for your patience.

Eternally appreciative, Lothis

The Mason’s response had finally arrived, weeks overdue. There wasn’t any artistry in the cheaply bleached paper that bore the letter, nor elegance to the runny taupe mess of beeswax that sealed it away from prying eyes; all in all, it wasn’t an impressive return on Selowyn’s investment. The words within, however, had been chosen with painstaking care at odds with their humble trappings.

Confessor Sunhawk,

An apology, first. Forgive me for my lateness. Your patience is, as always, wasted on me. I’ve been remiss by choice, not circumstance - I’ll admit that spending ‘one more day under false notions’, or a week, or a month, is easier to bear than intimate conversation with one so highly regarded.

But what’s easy isn’t always what’s necessary. Bishop Morningdove was always very clear on the value of Tenacity, and you carry the same spirit forward even now.

I’ll make time whenever you’d like to talk, prying ears or no - service done for the sake of the Crusade is important for its own sake, but I confess to feeling replaceable as any one of the stones I helped lay down. The labour has a value beyond the labourer in that way.

There are one or two other concerns that are more pressing to me, of course, if your time will permit and your patience will endure the telling of them. Your guidance would mean a great deal to me, as much as your example did in Northrend and does still, here. The words to describe them slip like wet ice under my mind’s best attempts to freeze them here for you. Our next meeting cannot come soon enough.

I wouldn’t put words into your mouth or thoughts into your head, but I will add something here to ease my own mind: the counsel I seek has nothing at all to do with what we discussed the other night. That’s all there is to be said.

With respect, Lothis

A thought in closing: Melisande tells me you intend to instruct her as your pupil. I will overstep my place to say that she values the friendship you’ve shown her with precisely the same weight as her awe at the knowledge you bear, neither eclipsing the other. You are already quite dear to her. It’s my firm belief that you will not regret taking her under your wing.

He'd expected the novelty to wear off immediately. A close examination in one of the Velvet Brier's multitudinous mirrors, all under the alluring couturier’s feline smirk, left him feeling exactly as bared, as electrified, as when she’d originally taken his measure. The bespoke suit was flawless, from the way it framed his generous shoulders, the artful taper towards his waist when buttoned, or the unexpected warmth that its cool slate colour drew from his auburn hair by power of contrast; after the posing and relaxed sauntering at Thaleya’s direction, there didn’t seem to be any reason to pay more mind to the custom garb. It was to be worn by him, not seen.

Lothis shamefully adjusted that expectation after catching his own motion in the storefront windows of her shop when he left. The labourer halted, gawking, utterly transfixed, until nudged out of the way by passing traffic. Nearly the same paralytic awe had overtaken him during negotiations with a wayfinder mage; the outfit had been snared by a crystalline array on a nearby worktable, refracting an infinite succession of green eyes atop grey-swathed limbs. Now, minutes after taking the portal he’d paid for, it was the pocket mirror of the human woman in front of him that rendered him in miniature as a small crowd lined up to seek refuge from biting winds by slipping inside the Wonderlight Ball. Organizers passed out roses to each passerby as they entered: yellow blooms promised chaste companionship, red for romance, and he found himself accepting the latter based solely on the basket he passed by as he strode in. The only crimson he cared to think of was a tangled waterfall cascading around golden eyes.

Hurried strides slowed. He forced himself to adopt a relaxed prowl instead of the nervous trot of a summer suitor, scanning the floor for the Confessor and the Siren between knots of dancing bodies and standing groups.

It was the ease of fascination that troubled him, Lothis mused, for both Melisande and his transformed image alike. That effortlessness - thoughtlessness, a biting correction - was why he was pushing his luck for no better reason than the thrill of it, wearing a suit he couldn’t afford to see a woman he shouldn’t encourage, for pleasure he didn’t deserve. Every resolution to resist was overcome by a compulsion to continue trading on what he simply didn’t have, buttressing regular omissions with a ready litany of lies. It sickened him, at least when he remembered to think of it at all.

Spying a familiar head of blonde hair and the flash of jewelry, he slipped around one of the large pillars supporting the roof to observe. There, next to the sable-wrapped Selowyn, was his mark: long red hair, a seafoam green cloak, a cheery smile behind her raised wineglass. He watched a moment longer while she laughed at something, perhaps the priestess’ remark, and allowed his resolve to melt for the hundredth time.

The truth, naked as a jaybird, wasn’t something he could offer her. It would destroy him. And while falsehood would inevitably fail, perhaps he could maintain the illusion by dint of effort alone, winning ground one night at a time with empty words until he could make good on his claims. Or, perhaps, until he could bear to break free.

Lothis took his opportunity and began closing space the second the pair turned their eyes away, towards the crowded ballroom floor. His concerns dwindled more and more with each step until they finally dissolved. All that mattered was the evening ahead. If he convinced himself, then it would be that much more convincing to Melisande.

Bare truth was beyond him for the moment, but he had ensured the lie would be impeccably well-dressed.