On the first trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
Hot, hot, hot. The city, with all its stone and bodies crammed so tightly between it, was always more like an oven than the mild, sweeping, verdant fields of the Venoran barony of Furdan. Doran, like many of his fellows who served the House of the Rose, did not fare particularly well in considerably more intense heat of Andaris' streets. It wasn't as if he were on the brink of death, plodding along behind the slow moving crowds, sweat beading at his temples and slipping down the sides of his face, but he was, undoubtedly, uncomfortable. It was clear to any who passed him he was not a native to the region - though whether his duchy was that of the south or the north, one could only speculate.
Yet, in spite of the perspiration that clung to the stray wisps of his hair, plastering them to his forehead as if the skin were collecting them for some malicious purpose unbeknownst to him, he was unhappy to be there. The first trial of Ymiden; it had always been a special occasion, and one that was not hindered nor arcs passed. His aunt, Lisette Meadows, had been born on that trial so many arcs ago, and it was one of the few traditions Doran kept - at least, in regard to Lisette and her husband. She had raised him, to the best of her abilities, and at the very least, he was glad to repay her efforts with a gift and visit once an arc.
Lisette had, once upon a time, been his mother, and on the first of Ymiden, it was the only time during which she allowed him break their farce. It had been more so a reward for him as a child, confused as to why she might strike him when he called out to her. As the arcs had passed, there was less emphasis placed upon such things, until Doran, a creature of habit as much as any man, had simply stopped using the maternal title at all. Now, she was never anything by "Aunt Lisette"; and, in truth, it suited the both of them better. He was old enough now to understand why she wished him away from her - why she'd wanted him to keep their secret; he held no grudges, though neither was there that same warm spark of love in his chest when he thought of her that might be found in the hearts of those who loved their mothers and they in turn the same. He appreciated her and was glad to show it once an arc, but that was about the extent of his feelings.
Ashan had been kind to him and his purse, and he'd spent a little extra that he normally might have, though he was quite pleased with the purchase. It sat in his trouser pocket, a small, though bulky, wooden case that housed an elaborately carved silver ring inlaid with seven opals - a clear representation for Rynmere's holy Seven. Though neither he nor she were all that religious, the piece of jewelry itself was handsome, and such things and its like were well suited for his aunt's delicate fingers and soft, suns-kissed skin. He hadn't even minded the cost, finding it cheaper than he'd expected and buying it outright near the end of the season past.
He'd had quite the Ashan adventure; fighting in alley brawls alongside a diminutive Tunäwä, escaping the notice of the Knights and fleeing the scene of a riot with a sickly dancer in tow, meeting one of the nation's most hated enemies and finding himself quite enraptured with the man, learning of magics and even hopping through portals... It had, in truth, been exhausting - but only in the most wonderful of senses. Long had it been since he'd felt so alive. There had been fear and wonder, excitement and worry, frustration and triumph. They were the qualities of life - the elusive beasts he ever sought which drew him steadily onward. Whatever his future held in store for him, Doran was prepared to meet it head on.
Alistair and he had agreed upon the fifteenth as the date upon which he would return to Na'haer for a more prolonged stay. He hadn't been able to spend much time with the mage himself upon his first visit - though he had come to know the man's lover, Jonathan, finding the man's company both available and interesting enough -, and he was, mostly, eager to return. He'd spent some time considering just what it was he wanted and come to the conclusion that, for now, he was content with things as they were. Alistair had Jonathan and Kleine - even Damien - around him. He didn't need Doran, yet he still sought after him, his gaze tender and affectionate.
As long as it lasted, as long as Alistair wanted him, he would remain - though more in spirit than actual presence. Venora, after all, was his home. It was where he and Lily had been born, it was where she had finally found the release her broken body had so desperately needed, it was where her bones now reseted, and it was where all their many memories still lingered. He cared for Alistair; he wanted to see the man happy, to hear his laughter. But he could not leave Lily behind. He would not.
His thoughts had helped to shield his mind from the heat, but as his feet came to a slow stop, his eyes flickering into focus as he realized he now stood at a familiar, winding intersection of paths, he was reminded of just how how he was. He'd already loosened the drawstring of his shirt to the point of uselessness, and his sweat had long since soaked chest, sides, and back of the thin fabric. There was no relief, only ever present, just too hot air all around him; the slight breeze generated by the passersby - most of whom hardly seemed affected at all - was no relief, only a whisper cooler, if that. Pulling up the hem of his sleeves once more, Doran started on the final leg of his journey.
The Meadows lived in a well-off section of Andaris' Midtown - not so far from the university than the streets were mostly a mess of maze-like dirt trails, but neither so close that the alleys were filled with students and the many businesses that catered to them. The house itself was of a medium size, more than enough for two people, and comfortably furnished with a tasteful Venoran touch. His uncle had returned to the university, and neither he nor his wife wanted for nels. Lisette herself had made a small business of her own: embroidery. It had been a past-time of her youth, but her technique was clearly reminiscent of the far more talented, though less conveniently located, seamstresses of Venora. Thus, there was a steady demand for her work, and she was never found without a project or two stashed away somewhere.
Their independence from one another was understandable - Lily had been the only true tie that had bound them together as a family. After her passing, they not longer felt Venora had anything for them, though his uncle was loathe to sell good land. Doran had volunteered to to remain, and so they had split apart. He'd never felt much kinship towards them, nor they he, though they had, at first, insisted he join their relocation - more so a polite gesture than a true desire he remain with them. It had been good, for all three of them, to have gone their separate ways. Each had grieved in their own way, and while his aunt and uncle had become more distant from one another over the arcs, they were happy enough - just like Doran, in that regard. When Lily had taken her light with her, she'd left the rest of them in darkness. They'd each found their own stars, in their own time, but whenever they were around one another, her face, her smile, always lingered on the edge of every word, every thought they shared.
So, it was not without a fair well of nostalgia that Doran stopped before the rich, wooden door of his aunt and uncle's home. The small, glass window stained a dark umber, only allowing in a small amount of light to pass and, certainly, no prying eyes. Tapping his fingers against the square bulge in his pocket, Doran nodded once to himself before he moved to rap his knuckles against the wood, declaring his arrival as he always did. To his surprise, the door gave way, swinging quietly inward only to reveal a decidedly foreign, male voice he'd never heard before. It drifted from within the house, low and menacing. Without a single thought as to his own self-presevation, Doran quickly slipped inside, eyes bright with worried determination as the man's voice was interrupted by the sound of his aunt's, clear and sharp. "Get out of my house!"
Player's Note: -32 GN for a silver opal ring; there are seven different opals inlaid, and while they're small, it felt weird to only pay for a single opal.
Hot, hot, hot. The city, with all its stone and bodies crammed so tightly between it, was always more like an oven than the mild, sweeping, verdant fields of the Venoran barony of Furdan. Doran, like many of his fellows who served the House of the Rose, did not fare particularly well in considerably more intense heat of Andaris' streets. It wasn't as if he were on the brink of death, plodding along behind the slow moving crowds, sweat beading at his temples and slipping down the sides of his face, but he was, undoubtedly, uncomfortable. It was clear to any who passed him he was not a native to the region - though whether his duchy was that of the south or the north, one could only speculate.
Yet, in spite of the perspiration that clung to the stray wisps of his hair, plastering them to his forehead as if the skin were collecting them for some malicious purpose unbeknownst to him, he was unhappy to be there. The first trial of Ymiden; it had always been a special occasion, and one that was not hindered nor arcs passed. His aunt, Lisette Meadows, had been born on that trial so many arcs ago, and it was one of the few traditions Doran kept - at least, in regard to Lisette and her husband. She had raised him, to the best of her abilities, and at the very least, he was glad to repay her efforts with a gift and visit once an arc.
Lisette had, once upon a time, been his mother, and on the first of Ymiden, it was the only time during which she allowed him break their farce. It had been more so a reward for him as a child, confused as to why she might strike him when he called out to her. As the arcs had passed, there was less emphasis placed upon such things, until Doran, a creature of habit as much as any man, had simply stopped using the maternal title at all. Now, she was never anything by "Aunt Lisette"; and, in truth, it suited the both of them better. He was old enough now to understand why she wished him away from her - why she'd wanted him to keep their secret; he held no grudges, though neither was there that same warm spark of love in his chest when he thought of her that might be found in the hearts of those who loved their mothers and they in turn the same. He appreciated her and was glad to show it once an arc, but that was about the extent of his feelings.
Ashan had been kind to him and his purse, and he'd spent a little extra that he normally might have, though he was quite pleased with the purchase. It sat in his trouser pocket, a small, though bulky, wooden case that housed an elaborately carved silver ring inlaid with seven opals - a clear representation for Rynmere's holy Seven. Though neither he nor she were all that religious, the piece of jewelry itself was handsome, and such things and its like were well suited for his aunt's delicate fingers and soft, suns-kissed skin. He hadn't even minded the cost, finding it cheaper than he'd expected and buying it outright near the end of the season past.
He'd had quite the Ashan adventure; fighting in alley brawls alongside a diminutive Tunäwä, escaping the notice of the Knights and fleeing the scene of a riot with a sickly dancer in tow, meeting one of the nation's most hated enemies and finding himself quite enraptured with the man, learning of magics and even hopping through portals... It had, in truth, been exhausting - but only in the most wonderful of senses. Long had it been since he'd felt so alive. There had been fear and wonder, excitement and worry, frustration and triumph. They were the qualities of life - the elusive beasts he ever sought which drew him steadily onward. Whatever his future held in store for him, Doran was prepared to meet it head on.
Alistair and he had agreed upon the fifteenth as the date upon which he would return to Na'haer for a more prolonged stay. He hadn't been able to spend much time with the mage himself upon his first visit - though he had come to know the man's lover, Jonathan, finding the man's company both available and interesting enough -, and he was, mostly, eager to return. He'd spent some time considering just what it was he wanted and come to the conclusion that, for now, he was content with things as they were. Alistair had Jonathan and Kleine - even Damien - around him. He didn't need Doran, yet he still sought after him, his gaze tender and affectionate.
As long as it lasted, as long as Alistair wanted him, he would remain - though more in spirit than actual presence. Venora, after all, was his home. It was where he and Lily had been born, it was where she had finally found the release her broken body had so desperately needed, it was where her bones now reseted, and it was where all their many memories still lingered. He cared for Alistair; he wanted to see the man happy, to hear his laughter. But he could not leave Lily behind. He would not.
His thoughts had helped to shield his mind from the heat, but as his feet came to a slow stop, his eyes flickering into focus as he realized he now stood at a familiar, winding intersection of paths, he was reminded of just how how he was. He'd already loosened the drawstring of his shirt to the point of uselessness, and his sweat had long since soaked chest, sides, and back of the thin fabric. There was no relief, only ever present, just too hot air all around him; the slight breeze generated by the passersby - most of whom hardly seemed affected at all - was no relief, only a whisper cooler, if that. Pulling up the hem of his sleeves once more, Doran started on the final leg of his journey.
The Meadows lived in a well-off section of Andaris' Midtown - not so far from the university than the streets were mostly a mess of maze-like dirt trails, but neither so close that the alleys were filled with students and the many businesses that catered to them. The house itself was of a medium size, more than enough for two people, and comfortably furnished with a tasteful Venoran touch. His uncle had returned to the university, and neither he nor his wife wanted for nels. Lisette herself had made a small business of her own: embroidery. It had been a past-time of her youth, but her technique was clearly reminiscent of the far more talented, though less conveniently located, seamstresses of Venora. Thus, there was a steady demand for her work, and she was never found without a project or two stashed away somewhere.
Their independence from one another was understandable - Lily had been the only true tie that had bound them together as a family. After her passing, they not longer felt Venora had anything for them, though his uncle was loathe to sell good land. Doran had volunteered to to remain, and so they had split apart. He'd never felt much kinship towards them, nor they he, though they had, at first, insisted he join their relocation - more so a polite gesture than a true desire he remain with them. It had been good, for all three of them, to have gone their separate ways. Each had grieved in their own way, and while his aunt and uncle had become more distant from one another over the arcs, they were happy enough - just like Doran, in that regard. When Lily had taken her light with her, she'd left the rest of them in darkness. They'd each found their own stars, in their own time, but whenever they were around one another, her face, her smile, always lingered on the edge of every word, every thought they shared.
So, it was not without a fair well of nostalgia that Doran stopped before the rich, wooden door of his aunt and uncle's home. The small, glass window stained a dark umber, only allowing in a small amount of light to pass and, certainly, no prying eyes. Tapping his fingers against the square bulge in his pocket, Doran nodded once to himself before he moved to rap his knuckles against the wood, declaring his arrival as he always did. To his surprise, the door gave way, swinging quietly inward only to reveal a decidedly foreign, male voice he'd never heard before. It drifted from within the house, low and menacing. Without a single thought as to his own self-presevation, Doran quickly slipped inside, eyes bright with worried determination as the man's voice was interrupted by the sound of his aunt's, clear and sharp. "Get out of my house!"
Player's Note: -32 GN for a silver opal ring; there are seven different opals inlaid, and while they're small, it felt weird to only pay for a single opal.
