Kieran Riley
3rd of Ashan, Arc 718
The night was young, though perhaps not young enough for the bustling Venoran Duke. He was - very likely - returning from an art display, or a theatrical muse, or a dalliance in the up-and-coming musical scene of Oakleigh's crown city. Kian knew his cousin, perhaps better than he'd liked to. Before, back when he was the coordinator for much of his family and always worrying about what each and every member was doing. Of course, back then, Tristan was dallying with charlatans, whores and thieves, painting and sculpting and watching all the greatest performances. He despised it, worried so greatly about scandal... but now as the greatest bringer of scandal the house had seen in centuries, he could no longer complain.
Tristan did right for the family. His respect for his cousin had grown. But now, he was no longer the Duke regnant-to-be; he was the peon, the inadequate, the one not so highly valued by their house. The tables had turned to an extreme - the boy who was once among the least qualified to take the reigns of their House was now a leading member, ruling his own Duchy . . . without incident.
And Kian... he wanted that to continue. He was tired of fighting against his family. He wanted to fight with them, to help them. Even though Ebony betrayed him, and his parents had done him nothing but disservice... Tristan wasn't responsible for that. Andras wasn't either. They were innocent, and Alistair still loved them. That was right - Alistair. So for this one moment, he would speak as Alistair, not this faux identity he'd forged over the last few cycles. This was the real him, just with a darker shade of hair.
He waited in Tristan's room. Getting there was not actually very difficult, as with his acrobatic talent he easily scaled the initial walls, and with view of the room it was but a flicker of ether to appear within. He suppressed the sound as well as he could, relying on the shortness of the blink and the barking of the hounds to muffle his approach. Once inside of the room, the mage removed his zirconium mask, placing it above his forehead onto his hair and presenting his face. Fully dressed in a sleek, stealthy ensemble, he sat upon the bed of the Duke like an assassin would. But despite everything else... his face, his form, his build... it was all Alistair. Tristan would recognize him the moment he allowed himself to actually look.
He prepared himself on what to say. The first thing was rather obvious: I'm not here to kill you. No more Venora should have to die.
3rd of Ashan, Arc 718
The night was young, though perhaps not young enough for the bustling Venoran Duke. He was - very likely - returning from an art display, or a theatrical muse, or a dalliance in the up-and-coming musical scene of Oakleigh's crown city. Kian knew his cousin, perhaps better than he'd liked to. Before, back when he was the coordinator for much of his family and always worrying about what each and every member was doing. Of course, back then, Tristan was dallying with charlatans, whores and thieves, painting and sculpting and watching all the greatest performances. He despised it, worried so greatly about scandal... but now as the greatest bringer of scandal the house had seen in centuries, he could no longer complain.
Tristan did right for the family. His respect for his cousin had grown. But now, he was no longer the Duke regnant-to-be; he was the peon, the inadequate, the one not so highly valued by their house. The tables had turned to an extreme - the boy who was once among the least qualified to take the reigns of their House was now a leading member, ruling his own Duchy . . . without incident.
And Kian... he wanted that to continue. He was tired of fighting against his family. He wanted to fight with them, to help them. Even though Ebony betrayed him, and his parents had done him nothing but disservice... Tristan wasn't responsible for that. Andras wasn't either. They were innocent, and Alistair still loved them. That was right - Alistair. So for this one moment, he would speak as Alistair, not this faux identity he'd forged over the last few cycles. This was the real him, just with a darker shade of hair.
He waited in Tristan's room. Getting there was not actually very difficult, as with his acrobatic talent he easily scaled the initial walls, and with view of the room it was but a flicker of ether to appear within. He suppressed the sound as well as he could, relying on the shortness of the blink and the barking of the hounds to muffle his approach. Once inside of the room, the mage removed his zirconium mask, placing it above his forehead onto his hair and presenting his face. Fully dressed in a sleek, stealthy ensemble, he sat upon the bed of the Duke like an assassin would. But despite everything else... his face, his form, his build... it was all Alistair. Tristan would recognize him the moment he allowed himself to actually look.
He prepared himself on what to say. The first thing was rather obvious: I'm not here to kill you. No more Venora should have to die.
