[Closed RP] Envoys from Allemantheia

Follow-up to Notes to Home

It was not what he had expected - and he had kept his expectations deliberately vague. But, indeed, a recruitment poster followed by a few inquiries around Velika all lead him to an inn in the port city of Cutthroat Harbor. While much of the scorn in his letter had been placed for the sake of eyes prying into his correspondence, perhaps it was merited. The upstart company was renting office space out of a tavern, for Karas' sake.

Aurellon passed beneath the tarnished lady which had once given the Silver Champion its name. Nothing is foreign to a port town, so his entrance stirred not so much as a ripple - though to be sure some eyes did linger, whether they be the gamblers assessing how much coin he might have to bring to table, or the working ladies considering lightening his purse in other ways.

Unsurprisingly, the bartender was able to indicate a floor and room where he might find the Onyx Rose; the scarred aman did not so much as pause in the pouring of ale as he rumbled directions at the elf. The Company had entrenched itself at the Craven for some time, then, and the bartender fielded enough of their clientele to have become routine. That was interesting.

Aurellon made his way up the stairs to a landing that overlooked the bar below. Unhurried footsteps paced five doors before the high elf raised hand to knock.

As scruffy and unkept as the old tavern looked, every inch a hovel as it was a place of business, certainly Arawn's inner sanctum would impress if only the work put into the rooms. Settled behind his desk, Arawn had a bit of grin on his lips as his fingers twirled and flourished signatures and notes across documents. Contracts, missives, encoded letters, promises and threats, he loved it all. It meant business fared better than attempted, and returns soon to come on every front.

As the sound of knocking laid to the door, he waved a hand to the side, not bothering to look up. The figures he calculated needed just the right counting and translating for his contact. The entire language lost on Voriel as she watched on while curled in one of the rounded chair before his desk.

Unfolding from the chair, she slipped on her heels again, taking a lazy little bit of walk to the door to give a moment for Arawn to tuck anything away. Opening the door, she peered up to taller form of her uncle. The sudden arrival caught her off-guard for a moment, which of course he could see easily in those blue eyes, as a smile curled her lips.

At least she dressed well, a long garment of red silks and gold leaf embroidered. Moving into a curtsy, she opened the door a little further to give a glimpse of a large desk, curved chairs, a bay window overlooking the bay, and fine rugs and paintings adorning the room. Fine...for a Castanic.

"Uncle, Aurellon, what a pleasure. Do enter."

"A sentiment returned. Do forgive me my unannounced arrival." A thin smile pulled at his mouth as he stepped through the opened door. The room beyond was in no better repair than the rest of the Craven, but by its size and accommodations might have been a stateroom in the inn's halcyon days. And certainly the title holder of the Company had seen to adorn it well with accouterments of the trade ... and some finer pieces won by its profits.

Aurellon slid a glance from his niece to the blonde Castanic behind the desk. Was this youthful, unscarred man the 'mastermind', as Voriel so worded? He reminded himself that his niece was yet impressionable by way of her sheltered upbringing. Who could fault her for falling sway to a Castanic's roguish charms and vaunted display of fortune over a card table?

Still, the high elf brushed these thoughts aside, to be turned to later. It harmed none to withold judgment. If this was truly some hotspur who thought a stroke of luck and a swelled purse destined him for greatness beyond his merit - well, it would be a small thing to simply hasten the degradation that awaited him regardless. Those types always ended up the same - spent as quickly as their coin until both man and purse were hollow things. It would not do for Voriel to cling to him in such a descent.

If the man showed promise, however - perhaps this association of hers could be allowed to stand.

Aurellon clasped his niece's silk-gloved hands briefly before resuming formal posture and turning his attention and his stride to the Castanic behind the desk. Sweeping one foot behind the other almost as a dancer, the high elf inclined his head and crossed one hand over his chest to lay over his heart*. It amused him in some sardonic way to be greeting thusly a man who had propositioned him for the business of prostitution.

Perhaps the gesture would remind the Castanic that he dealt with a scion of Allemtantheia. He would have to keep such and more in mind if he was committed to this proposal. A Castanic's implementation of the business of pleasure as they knew it would be the biggest disaster in Allemantheia since the fall of the Core!

"Arawn Tyr'ida. Aurellon, child of Karas, greets you. With your approval, I shall set aside such honorifics. It is my understanding that the practice is not favored this side of the sea*'."


* Seriously, this is their /bow in the game. I can't make this up.

*' This is my theory: High Elves abhor the use of self-referential pronouns in formal speech. 'I', 'me', and 'my' are considered egocentric, and to refer to oneself impartially is by far more gracious and humble - a consideration that, in turn, implies a sense of moral superiority. Elves are such snobs.