78th of Ashan, Arc 718
They arrived. After about thirty bits of walking, and some spare trills on the side, the ranch of Cappola came into view. Doran would immediately notice that they were surrounded on all sides by mountains, with high peaks and no gaps. It was a perfectly fortified area, but more importantly, it was isolated. A suspicious man would imagine that Alistair had clearly come here for a reason, whatever that reason was.
Of course, it was nice that the mountains kept the animals from running loose, kept bandits from looting and kept criminals from going free. Kingsley had a guard post at the end of the road towards Cerwyn, and the fires were always lit, with two men on watch. Everything about this place was tranquil to him, more than he thought possible in the island Kingdom. Fights broke out, but they were just men being men.
There was superstition and discomfort among them, but still they held out open arms. No one mentioned magic, and no one really even spoke of the King. They barely acknowledged his existence, nor the Venoran Duke sitting upon the throne of Oakleigh. It was all so far removed, which made it perfect for him. He needed a place like this - somewhere to go. Somewhere to run.
"Cappola," the man gestured towards the ranch, waving his arms out as if to flashily advertise his rural estate. It was made up of an immense array of logs, a deep reddish brown shade and a sheen that made it almost seem like glass. It was real, though, which made it all the more glamorous. Cappola greeted people when they came upon Kingsley, and he wanted it to be a fair sight. Alistair still maintained his noble vanity.
Stepping towards the front deck of the ranch estate, he turned the knob and opened the door, clearly not lying when he stated that he kept it unlocked. It was a testament to the safety of the area, though he knew eventually he'd be bitten for it. He just didn't care. The last thing Cassander would expect in pursuing his nemesis was a quaint ranch in the middle of nowhere with unlocked doors, open to guests. Alistair didn't want to live like a hunted man. He wanted to be who he was: proud and free.
"My only request is that you keep the shoes off," he gestured to Doran's feet, holding out two perpendicular fingers that swung between his eyes and the smaller man's, teasingly.
The former noble stepped through and flickered on the oil lantern rested upon the entryway table. The room lit up, covered in art; furs on the walls, the immortalized heads of fallen prey. There were runic symbols on the lower parts of the walls, with beige canvasses and dark red letters. They were words in Haltunga, a language he was familiar with. Uthaldria was a place he continued to carry with him.
"You're from Venora, aren't you?" he questioned, stepping towards the edge of the room where he laid a water bucket and a cloth for cleaning the floors. Alistair bent over to pick up one of the towels, before dampening portions of it in the bucket's moisture. He wiped as much of the dirt off of his skin as he could reach, laying the damp cloth into the bucket to soak it, and seating himself upon one of the leather love seats. The loincloth sat casually at his waist, Alistair apparently incapable of wearing proper lower garments. "You know their music, like I do," the rancher glanced to him, curious.
"It's been a bit since I sailed to the mainland of this country. Gone to oblivion since I did, anyway. War, war, war. Superstition. Blaming mages for everything - when it's really that bitch in the monastery. Can't even remember her name. Esmerelda Shits? Hrrmmm," he sounded, feigning deep thought. "Emerson Sands. That's the one," he smirked. He certainly knew her name from the beginning, but not all peasants would by heart. She was just "the Empress" to those pining animals, who confused faith for zealotry.
"Venora's pretty, though. Pretty makes pretty, I guess," Alistair said almost mockingly, though his intentions were not to insult. He was clearly responding to Doran's visual compliments, after breaks of their constant overflow.
"Have a seat," Alistair suggested, patting the spot next to him on the two person sofa. Of course. "I'll make us a meal. You a fan of venison? I have tons of that. And horse. And pork. Beef, too. The occasional fruit," he waggled his brows playfully. Clearly he was on hard times.
They arrived. After about thirty bits of walking, and some spare trills on the side, the ranch of Cappola came into view. Doran would immediately notice that they were surrounded on all sides by mountains, with high peaks and no gaps. It was a perfectly fortified area, but more importantly, it was isolated. A suspicious man would imagine that Alistair had clearly come here for a reason, whatever that reason was.
Of course, it was nice that the mountains kept the animals from running loose, kept bandits from looting and kept criminals from going free. Kingsley had a guard post at the end of the road towards Cerwyn, and the fires were always lit, with two men on watch. Everything about this place was tranquil to him, more than he thought possible in the island Kingdom. Fights broke out, but they were just men being men.
There was superstition and discomfort among them, but still they held out open arms. No one mentioned magic, and no one really even spoke of the King. They barely acknowledged his existence, nor the Venoran Duke sitting upon the throne of Oakleigh. It was all so far removed, which made it perfect for him. He needed a place like this - somewhere to go. Somewhere to run.
"Cappola," the man gestured towards the ranch, waving his arms out as if to flashily advertise his rural estate. It was made up of an immense array of logs, a deep reddish brown shade and a sheen that made it almost seem like glass. It was real, though, which made it all the more glamorous. Cappola greeted people when they came upon Kingsley, and he wanted it to be a fair sight. Alistair still maintained his noble vanity.
Stepping towards the front deck of the ranch estate, he turned the knob and opened the door, clearly not lying when he stated that he kept it unlocked. It was a testament to the safety of the area, though he knew eventually he'd be bitten for it. He just didn't care. The last thing Cassander would expect in pursuing his nemesis was a quaint ranch in the middle of nowhere with unlocked doors, open to guests. Alistair didn't want to live like a hunted man. He wanted to be who he was: proud and free.
"My only request is that you keep the shoes off," he gestured to Doran's feet, holding out two perpendicular fingers that swung between his eyes and the smaller man's, teasingly.
The former noble stepped through and flickered on the oil lantern rested upon the entryway table. The room lit up, covered in art; furs on the walls, the immortalized heads of fallen prey. There were runic symbols on the lower parts of the walls, with beige canvasses and dark red letters. They were words in Haltunga, a language he was familiar with. Uthaldria was a place he continued to carry with him.
"You're from Venora, aren't you?" he questioned, stepping towards the edge of the room where he laid a water bucket and a cloth for cleaning the floors. Alistair bent over to pick up one of the towels, before dampening portions of it in the bucket's moisture. He wiped as much of the dirt off of his skin as he could reach, laying the damp cloth into the bucket to soak it, and seating himself upon one of the leather love seats. The loincloth sat casually at his waist, Alistair apparently incapable of wearing proper lower garments. "You know their music, like I do," the rancher glanced to him, curious.
"It's been a bit since I sailed to the mainland of this country. Gone to oblivion since I did, anyway. War, war, war. Superstition. Blaming mages for everything - when it's really that bitch in the monastery. Can't even remember her name. Esmerelda Shits? Hrrmmm," he sounded, feigning deep thought. "Emerson Sands. That's the one," he smirked. He certainly knew her name from the beginning, but not all peasants would by heart. She was just "the Empress" to those pining animals, who confused faith for zealotry.
"Venora's pretty, though. Pretty makes pretty, I guess," Alistair said almost mockingly, though his intentions were not to insult. He was clearly responding to Doran's visual compliments, after breaks of their constant overflow.
"Have a seat," Alistair suggested, patting the spot next to him on the two person sofa. Of course. "I'll make us a meal. You a fan of venison? I have tons of that. And horse. And pork. Beef, too. The occasional fruit," he waggled his brows playfully. Clearly he was on hard times.
