The performance was an interesting one. Not that Aelig was particularly interested in such things, but he did have a somewhat vague interest in how the concepts of lies, and deception, illusion and mimicry had become socially acceptable in the form of arts and theatre. Mortals loved to be entertained. Their interests and means do do so were far more narrow than that of an Immortal, but it was in interest nonetheless. Maybe the mortals had more in common than he had initially thought.
All, from the common citizens of Rynmere, right up to the aristocracy and the King, were enjoying the spectacle. And there, sat with King Cassander, was the man of the hour. Tristan Venora, Lord and one of the heirs to a Dukedom. He was not first in the line of succession… nor necessarily ever likely to achieve such a position. Yet, from Aelig’s seat, disguised as an audience member in the stalls, the man could want for very little.
A rumour had reached him, from his kin, that this man had the attention of another Immortal. The Immortal in question Aelig had a very… turbulent relationship with. They could never be described as allies, yet they shared Syroa in common, and the Immortal of Illusion had found himself decidedly jealous on a number of occasions. It had not taken long to convince Syroa to join in on his little scheme. It wasn’t to spite Zanik, after all. His aim was to remind all, Immortals and mortals alike, of the power of an Immortal, and the nature of a puny mortal existence. They were little more than pawns.
Beside the Venora sat the girl he had deceived. A slave, her life was even more meaningless than her master’s. Yet there was a gently beauty about her which had captivated Aelig during the night he had taken her in the guise of Tristan Venora. So much so that, in that moment, he had forgotten himself, and enjoyed the experience.
A grotesque smile slipped onto his features as he watched the three talk above. In a few days, the girl would be beginning to show. Aelig couldn’t have that. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. The illusion he was weaving was an intricate one - he was creating one for the entire world, and for many, many trials… until Ashan, potentially. He wondered if he has ever created so complex, as he felt the rush of power and excitement surge through him. The girl would never know and, even more delightful, Tristan would never know. Not until he was ready. “Soon, little Lordling,” he murmured, as the lights dimmed and the play started once again, “soon...”
All, from the common citizens of Rynmere, right up to the aristocracy and the King, were enjoying the spectacle. And there, sat with King Cassander, was the man of the hour. Tristan Venora, Lord and one of the heirs to a Dukedom. He was not first in the line of succession… nor necessarily ever likely to achieve such a position. Yet, from Aelig’s seat, disguised as an audience member in the stalls, the man could want for very little.
A rumour had reached him, from his kin, that this man had the attention of another Immortal. The Immortal in question Aelig had a very… turbulent relationship with. They could never be described as allies, yet they shared Syroa in common, and the Immortal of Illusion had found himself decidedly jealous on a number of occasions. It had not taken long to convince Syroa to join in on his little scheme. It wasn’t to spite Zanik, after all. His aim was to remind all, Immortals and mortals alike, of the power of an Immortal, and the nature of a puny mortal existence. They were little more than pawns.
Beside the Venora sat the girl he had deceived. A slave, her life was even more meaningless than her master’s. Yet there was a gently beauty about her which had captivated Aelig during the night he had taken her in the guise of Tristan Venora. So much so that, in that moment, he had forgotten himself, and enjoyed the experience.
A grotesque smile slipped onto his features as he watched the three talk above. In a few days, the girl would be beginning to show. Aelig couldn’t have that. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. The illusion he was weaving was an intricate one - he was creating one for the entire world, and for many, many trials… until Ashan, potentially. He wondered if he has ever created so complex, as he felt the rush of power and excitement surge through him. The girl would never know and, even more delightful, Tristan would never know. Not until he was ready. “Soon, little Lordling,” he murmured, as the lights dimmed and the play started once again, “soon...”
