Oblivion Heart (Alistair)

[Abaddon]

This day and age, Arc 718, the 66th of Vhalar.

Silent clad in simple linens, shirtless with those glistening pecs in the warm, humid den of debauchery, this tall and masculine guardian of the worldly pleasures took residence within Lair, watching visage, keeping the courtesans safe, listening to their plights, and managing the riffraff where necessary. Impartial did he remain for his cut and his share, at least until he removed the mask of employment, a bright smile spreading across his lips as the Nel changed hands and he was free to begin his life anew.

Abaddon was not outspoken about what he was, or how he felt about himself. Moreso, he was interested in conflict, seeking positions in this city where he could exercise his control over others. That was in part his reasoning for guarding these questionable people, and also because he rarely saw the harm, if he ever cared at all to begin with. One man he drank with ended up dead one morning, and he gleefully smiled, offering his respects.

Religion was strange and difficult to grasp here. Unlike Yaralon, they revered a God that wasn't an Immortal, and though Abaddon practiced his faith in secret, he felt unnerved having to keep quiet about his true beliefs for so long. Even in Yaralon, there were those who had sympathies for the God of Nightmares and sleepless nights. Here, however, there wasn't a soul. He hadn't heard the word Immortal in nearly a season... it could not be helped.

Today, the end of his chain, the heavy metal ball, lay crammed under the neck of some poor sot who thought he could exploit the kind women and men of the brothel he worked for. There was a thirst in his body, a certain desire to snuff that fragile life, but he knew blood did not spill so freely here as where he was born, and gave the man a chance at life, allowing him to stumble forth from the crowded room, a fist tight around his collar until with a harsh shove Abaddon sent him flying out the door, shutting it and locking it, taking his station.

At the end of the long night, he hit the bar, drank himself plastered, and began wandering home, deep dark bags beneath his eyes. He couldn't sleep, so he often roamed the streets looking for things to keep his mind occupied when work and entertainment was scarce if only to disguise how inhuman he was - if he worked for too long, he feared his employers would catch on, and he preferred not to explain himself.

The alcohol helped to calm him on his way to the Shanty, and he paused under the orange glow of the bloodlights to rest upon a bench carved from the stone, fingers running along the cool rock, exploring. His mind wandered to his past, wondering how he had stooped so low, how he squandered his potential so utterly. "I'm a mage," he muttered to himself, pleased with the utterance of his own words. "Why can't I seem to grow, to hold on to some kind of status?" He sighed, tilting his head back and staring up into the glowing haze of the caverns, reaching out with his mind to hear the comforting static, the scrambled frequency he'd layered upon himself to hide from things he did not understand. There was a certain comfort to this oblivion, something that helped his mind to fall at ease, to succumb to nothingness while still remaining aware. How do I get closer to you, Kielik? I never knew what you wanted, though at times I consider pursuing you. Perhaps I need to change the life I lead, to better get to know why I find you so enthralling? His bright teeth emerged, lips tucking back at the thought as he succumbed to the private pleasures of his own mind, a gentle, yet powerful perversion he alone was privy to as his bare chest rose and fell in the glow.

[Alistair]

If there was one thing he'd always found himself unable to ignore, it was the stench of peasantry - the grit of a lowborn hub of housing and commerce. Stepping through Shanty now was a morbid thing; it was covered from ear to ear in an intolerable stench, like that of rotting corpses, or feces mired with blood. Perhaps even flesh. Alistair knew that many cities among nations were powered not by the growth of population, but by the influx of others from other parts of the realm - farmers who wished to acquire more in life, aspiring after wealth rather than the muck of pig's excretions and pulling calf from a bovine's... well.

But cities, often incapable of perpetuating growth due to the influx of illness and plague, needed that replenishment. In Quacia, it was not so, as there were no true outer realms and the only migration inward was by those who'd witnessed their Barony fall to the Creep. So how did they sustain themselves, through all of the infections, the dysentery and the premature deaths? Reproduction, or so he must have imagined. To an extreme. And as they divided their wealth more and more between their infinite spawn, many of them destined to die before even speech was of any possibility, they festered further and further in their own squalor.

As an adviser to the King, Alistair found this current situation in the Shanty unfortunate. The standards of sanitation were unbearably low, and saw any scrape a festering wound, any malady an illness of rot and decay. He'd come here to communicate with the locals as an inspector, viewing their living conditions and seeking ways the city might improve its conditions. The first thing he imagined was, of course, stopping the Heaps from dumping their shit from the windows and onto the street ground, but he imagined such an alluring cultural artifact might be rather difficult to expunge.

Nevertheless, the mage stepped through the black-cladded fence gate that separated Shanty from the Gleam, wearing the garbs of a doctor. A brown trench coat with a black collar, a thin black bowler's cap and a scarf that could be equally equipped to cover his lips and nostrils from the stench and ailments that festered among the Heaps. His hands were equipped with black leather gloves, and for shoes - of course - he wore black leather Derby shoes, one of his treasured remnants of Venoran shoecraft.

It was obvious that the man was wealthy, and from the Gleam. A doctor, however, at least had the benefit of relative prestige. The hospices here, though ineffective, had done much to appease the fears of the Heaps and placate their lingering stress of contagion. He did not imagine that he would experience too much resistance in offering the common men free inspections, and so did not equip himself with any formal letters detailing his rights and privileges from the King.

Not long after delving into the streets, unsurprisingly concealed by tracks of dirt and the lost luster of unkempt stone, the mage overheard a man speaking to himself quietly and attempted to tune his ears to it. Unlike the other voices one would typically hear in ambience, the man was speaking Common, and with a tone and dialect unfamiliar to the mage. In some way, he was enthused to hear the voice of another foreigner. The few he'd met had all been slaves, or nobles adhering to the word of the King, all of them conspiring against Alistair to ensure he did not preempt them in the advancement of his position. The voice of a stranger was a voice of opportunity - an eye, a servant, an informant. Following that voice down one further alley, and onto a tall man seated upon a bench of smooth stone, the man approached him with faint, clicking steps.

"Han valta eir Lotharro maii?" he asked, in Haltunga. You're a Lotharro, aren't you? The man could immediately recognize it, beyond the height. It was the passion in his eyes, and in the aftermath of his speech, even while muttering to his lonesome. Switching to Common, he spoke once more. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Alistair, a friend. I can only imagine the chill your skin must endure, separate from your garbs. I have some attire that may fit."

[Abaddon]

He'd just begun to laze off in his mind, largely ignorant to the dregs of poverty that Alistair and his noble tastes had little tolerance for, though he still remained aware, already watching the figure approach from the corner of his eye, a light of curiosity slowly beginning to flicker and burn as said figure began to speak. With glee, he rose to meet the stout, burly man, the light of his day lighting him aflame like a torch when this place was so much in dire need of the sun. His lips curled, bright teeth behind uncharacteristically clean skin denoting his professional background being something more than a Heap.

His arms raised above his head, before falling upon his scalp, exhaling out a moan of surprise. "It's been Arcs, one of my own kind! Or at least, cultured" he exclaimed. "Aterfodning utanfor!" Literally, 'Reborn elsewhere', a greeting representative of a divorcement from Uthaldria culture. "A doctor," he saw Alistair's eyes, and his own widened, head slowly tilting as a myriad of emotions spread through him. A step back, a step forward, unsure of what to think. Unconsciously, his hands fell and he touched his brow, brushing over the Witchmark he himself bore, a birthmark as well baring his name in a language only Runewrights could understand. "Something more than a doctor."

Of the cultures Abaddon had wandered, he never met one where a deal was struck upon the shake of a hand barring Etzos, and his own customs were often far too strange, so for posterity, he simply curled his arms and flexed. "Abaddon, of Yaralon, bouncer by trade." Those muscles were nothing terribly impressive, but they were certainly rounded and well-cared-for, uncharacteristically tan for an underground realm where everyone had pale skin thanks to the lack of sunlight. He hadn't been here for long, that much was clear.

Offered clothing, he relaxed and stood at attention, sweeping his hand laterally at the waste in rejection of the offer. "I appreciate that, but wearing comforts would make me used to them, you must live as you expect to be, and I do not expect to wear something warm where unnecessary. It is not so freezing," he claimed, even as his breath billowed clouds in the cold air. "Alistair, a worthy name for someone educated in the medical arts." He rose a finger. "Those eyes, I must confess they are quite beautiful . . . shall I accompany you, or perhaps there is some activity you may wish to enjoy together?"

[Alistair]

He was, immediately, both surprised and warmed by the other's enthusiasm as he noted Alistair's likeness to his own kind. Though he was not a Lotharro by blood, he was much so at the core of his heart, and had always found serenity in the comfort of those men who he called his people. To be seen much the same brought joy into the curvature of his lips, and he smiled fondly with a gleam in the vortex of his eyes. Aterfodning utanfor, the man exclaimed - he was not Uthaldrian, and Alistair was not wholly surprised by that. He didn't have the thickness of their accent, and the way in which he spoke Haltunga did not impart an impression of native understanding. From the sounds imparted by his teeth to the way his tongue rolled into his words - it was all human.

Alistair noted the symbols upon his forehead, which spelled something in an unusual language he could not recognize. It looked akin to some Arcane symbols he had seen in the past, particularly in the presence of Effren Galien, but he could not recall whether those symbols were a linguist's homage or inscriptions of magic. As such, with nothing to base conspiracy upon, he did not question the image further and merely smiled quaintly at the man's notice of his profession. "A doctor, indeed," he replied. Alistair quickly allowed his guard to drop, the man's enthusiasm infectious. It was just... a beautiful thing to find one so contented by his presence. That feeling of inexplicable, mutual respect was something he had not experienced since the loss of his child, and the death of his husband far gone.

At the implication that he was something more, the mage's brow quirked, his expression shifting to a confounded curiosity; he'd clearly underestimated the man's perceptiveness, and was incapable of offering a solid reply. Remembering that this was Quacia, he simply followed his initial instinct, willing to confess his nature as a mage. "You're correct in that. I'm the adviser to King Arkenstone," he admitted initially, though accepted that this was likely not the root of the other's assumption. "And, a mage. For all the muck we toil through to remain here, it is nice to be able to comfortably confess my nature, and yours. You're a mage too, aren't you? How else would you so easily know?"

Well -- his eyes. Alistair knew they were always there to remind others of his 'affliction'. But biqaj were capable of similar stares, and some of those imparted the blessing of an Immortal. For the other to so quickly decipher his mutations, meant he must have been more than merely a foreign straggler among the cretinous Heaps.

Abaddon. His name even displayed as such - there was power and prominence drawn from it. Beyond that, it was not a typical Lotharen forename. The mage quickly wondered of his upbringing, and how a Reborn might have strayed so far from Gauthrel. Each passing trill, the curiosity grew, as moments coincided with the anxious thumping of his heart. He was enthralled - unexpected for how briefly they'd known one another, and among the purpose of this stroll.

"Well, you are Lotharen. Far be it from me to advise you of what to wear on a chilly night," he said, calmly. Though internally he was excited to have found such an interesting fellow, his exterior had not strayed far from the courteous and polite man that any Noble was expected to be. His discipline was, still yet, unbroken. Though the suggestion of enjoying an activity together, or accompanying Abaddon among the streets of Shanty, immediately placed that discipline into question. The man just complimented him, handily. And he himself was charming, enthusiastic, attractive and a mage to boot. Alistair was already lost to the sea.

"I--" his throat seemed to catch the words. His instinct was actually to nervously deny, but it would not be instinct that he followed. Alistair instead made his interest entirely clear. "I think that would be more than suitable, Abaddon. You are the first man I've taken any note of tonight, and I'm far from thrilled to leave your company. It's only reasonable for such beautiful eyes," he laughed, "to look upon a beautiful man - and for words enthused to be met with jovial verses to meet them." The magister found himself, faintly, blushing as he spoke much like his days in the court of Sabaissant. Poetic, noble, and laced in romanticism. Abaddon had genuinely inspired a mood he'd long thought lost to him. "I'd love to partake in any activity, though I'd prefer to do so within the bounds of the Gleam. Would you mind joining me? And if so, will you then consider wearing something nice, if at the request of a man who enjoys your presence?"

[Abaddon]

There was a constant to Abaddon's personality that never dimmed in typical conversation, not often showing his fault, his primal fear, at least until he met Alistair who mentioned that bit about being Adviser to the King. "We may yet enjoy a good time, but I wish to avoid being tangled up in the affairs of nobility," he spoke carefully, his tone a degree more hushed than prior extroversion. Then, he showed that side again, questioned as to if he was a mage as well. He'd heard no tale of the illegality, but it wasn't so advertised as to how people felt about his kind, so he nodded several times, biting his lip. "Yeah, that's me. Mage. I'm nothing special, though." Trying to downplay it was laughable considering he held a high opinion of himself, but then he assumed Alistair was capable of mere parlor tricks as he was. Magic, after all, wouldn't surprise him to be running in the blood of nobility in small amounts, and this man he'd just met screamed of such a scent in the way he carried himself, what he wore, and who he was. In all of Quacia, Abaddon had never met someone so important, and that was unnerving.

Words spilled from the man he'd just met. Them's lover words, his mind observed. Have I really pulled the heartstrings of a man so important? Surely I'm not that gifted. Always cautious, he grew suspicious of Alistair's gushing, and he joked once more. "I've known stories of mages enchanting men, sirens leading them astray to never be seen again. You aren't going to devour me, are you?" joked Abaddon, but he laughed boisterously, needing no answer. "I'm certain you're kind, I'd rather be murdered by someone so attractive than gutted in an alley anyhow!"

A good feeling rolled through Abaddon's body, the vague scent of alcohol on his breath as he drew closer and wrapped an arm around, the rest of him scented of the perfumes courtesans of Quacia wore for their trade to mask the filth of life below ground. "That felt good to admit, you know, me being a mage. Actually, been tight lipped about that since . . . well, I can't tell you all my secrets having just met you, can I, dearest Alistair?" That arm gave a light squeeze, open ended palm feeling the nobleman up, realizing just how solid his muscles were. "More than a mage, a doctor, I've never seen muscles like these. Are they a part of - no, no, I musn't pry, it would be rude to question you on such things as of yet, surely! I'm a traveled man, I know better!"

He pointed down the road. "Then we ought to go to the Gleam!" Hanging on the man like a whore, he leaned in closer, trying to feel for something more. For all Alistair reacted, he felt like a stone statue, cold and strange, but mages were strange individuals to begin with, he knew. "I spoke too soon, I can wear as little or as much as you desire," he growled, following Alistair to the gleam but politely letting him go so as to avoid any accusations of sin that nobility seemed to shirk.

Walking alongside him, he pinched his fingers together. "Say, you and I are both what we are, and yet I've found so much to be strange. I've wished to be more," he admitted. "I've been running from my past, a past that's claimed more lives of my family than I can bare, so I'm really longing for a bigger lot in life than the guard of a brothel. My ancestors hunted monsters, and I've traveled the width of Idalos in search of my calling, and I've never found it. I have the suspicion that our meeting is what I've been searching for." He sighed through his nose, wondering if the aching tiredness he felt in his mind was driving him to speak too loosely, though he said nothing of it.

[Alistair]

The mage continued to be impressed. He could tell that Abaddon was, likely, charmed by him . . . similarly to the way in which Alistair was charmed by the other man. But he still maintained his standards, even despite the glaring gap in their power and privilege alike. He stated no intentions to delve into noble affairs, and for that Alistair respected him, nodding with understanding as he allowed the subject to shift. The man did indeed confirm that he was a mage, though this was no great wonder to the noble. Alistair had already seen that glimmer in his eyes - the infatuation with the arcane, expressed merely in the assertion that he knew more of Alistair than met the eye. As he continued to speak, he saw it more throughout his words, including when he suggested that there may be an additional element to the firmness of the doctor's form or the secrets behind his intentions. He was a fledgling, demonstrable by his curiosities, and perhaps even his fears.

Was the thought that Alistair may lead him away only to flay him sincere? It was possible. He had to understand his own representation - he was a man of the Gleam come with the visage of a doctor, meeting with the vulnerable and unprotected civilians of a lower class. He was either an altruist, an opportunist, or a madman, and he reasonably expected that Abaddon's 'joke' may have been a sincere message that he was prepared for any ill intent. Fortunately, Alistair was - in this case - somewhere in between an altruist and an opportunist, genuinely wishing to improve the livelihoods of the Heaps, but for the purpose of a rising station and greater favor with the Crown. It didn't really matter what the motives were, regardless.

He had to admit, for a moment his thoughts receded, and another sensation clung to his cognition. The temperament of his blessing flared - the desirous nature ever imparted to him by his mark. His skin became hyper sensitive, and even through his thick outerwear attire, he could almost feel the man's arm around him as if it were skin to skin. Alistair's eyes nearly shut entirely for a few trills, as a soft array of breaths easily conjoined with and escaped his lungs. It felt nice, feeling wanted by someone he wanted back. The man, rowdy and charismatic, had just the way to accentuate Alistair's affections - yet equally to drive him further into his shell. He almost felt... shy, as ridiculous as that was. And it was nice to feel that way again.

"They're not a part of anything," he said. "I work them often. I've worked them for a long time, since before I came to Gauthrel. But while I was there, I grew a lot stronger. Became more like one of your kind - and then I surpassed even them. I don't know if you've ever been, but I cherished my trials in Gauthrel, more than any other. This body is a memory of them." He spoke with candor in his voice, before allowing his own arm to wrap around the curves of Abaddon's skin, squeezing the two forms together as he gripped him beneath the shoulder, nearly cupping his pectoral in his palm. The gloves were still on, and had to be. Ever since he'd mutated, more and more, the mage had been greatly affected by the cold. To free his fingertips was to subject them to a severe discomfort, one that would offset much of the quiet satisfaction he'd accrued from the presence of the other man.

But still, them with one arm each around the other, speaking truthfully and like fond companions, it was enough. As Abaddon accepted his offer and beckoned them to the Gleam, Alistair began to guide them forward, listening quietly to the other man as he spoke; a half-laugh as he spoke of 'little clothes', or more, or any variance of that. He was quick to proposition, though the alcohol that illustrated his whispers brought the mage to question whether he'd normally be so open. Somehow, he determined that indeed, he believed he would be - he was a man seemingly so open.

It was clear that he'd undergone a considerable degree of suffering, and now, dejection. He'd wandered far enough, only to find a sea of filth awaiting him. He was unable to find his Path, at least among the traditional precepts of the Lotharro. Alistair understood that -- he was much the same. Even now, he was wandering from city to city, seeking some sort of destiny aside from the land from which he'd been exiled. Without the purpose of becoming a Duke, and perhaps a King, he knew nothing but wanderlust and small dalliances into foreign intrigue. "Why don't you work at Ashbrook? I can find something more suited for you," he began. Though initially this may have sounded like a rather disappointing offer, he quickly elaborated. "That way - we could be in closer proximity. To be honest, konnebrand, I feel much the same. I'm reminded of aspirations I thought lost long ago, which is odd because . . . as stunning and jovial as you may be, a mage and Lotharen and all, you're only one man. I know myself to be above such delusions as I fell prey to before." He shook his head. As they spoke, they'd arrived at the gate to the Gleam, and Alistair proceeded to usher the guards to open it - which they did.

As a foreigner, and in truth a Heap, it was unlikely that Abaddon had ever been here. It was infinitely cleaner, and far more the glamorous amidst the bustling of the night. It was safer, and so people lingered the lantern-lit bars, laughing wildly and speaking to one another in a much more sanitary form of Vahanic.

"I... live near the Fortress, to support my duties as adviser. Additionally, it ensures a wealthier client base, with many business nearby. The business I own is called the Ashbrook Hospice, and we're open an assistant. But that's all secondary. I'd be more than happy to assume that I am not in fact being fooled, and to spend greater time with you. But - I have no idea what I even want, so I don't know what I can do. I can provide you a home, comfort, and more money. I can act as company. But as any mortal man, my attributes in affect to others are limited, and I hope you understand that before any assumptions are held and kept. Do you understand?"

The man looked beside him, to lock eyes with the other. It was clear that he wanted to trust his intuition, and that he found gratification in the company of the other, even despite not knowing him for long. But he was no stranger to failed expectations, and after all that had occurred with Jonathan, he knew not to allow another too much faith in him. Alistair still lived for himself, and perhaps always would. The one time he had tried to live for another, that man died. It was a difficult legacy to bear, and am impossible scar to heal. That was evidently certain.

[Abaddon]

They walked and they walked, and Alistair seemed to spill from his own cup at the behest of this lowly Heap, this Abaddon who'd gripped him so. "I've never been," he said of the Fortress, wondering in his mind how one could surpass Lotharro superiority as a mere human by simply working the muscle. Perhaps, he wondered, this mage possessed a sage discipline, some deep ambition to succeed.

The depths of Quacia were guarded, and he'd only ever known the city to be a horrid, foul place, some promise of more guarded in the deeper depths. In truth, some part of him was manipulating Alistair, to garner a glimpse of the Gleam, to see what he was working towards. The other part was deeply, madly attracted. "Alistair, vän, provide no more to me than you feel comfortable, there is no obligation." Their eyes locked, and in that instant Abaddon found himself peering deeply into the depths of power, perplexed and entranced not with the man's sorrow, but his mystery. He found himself leaning in, as if to kiss, though his jaw drew tight and he drew away, merely accepting the embrace of the other. "I've not had a lover since Uthaldria, but I do not share the notion that hearts are meant to be owned. We are like the sun and the moon, always moving, how could we allow our hearts to be possessed and truly live as we were meant to otherwise?" He left out the part about the exile his family endured, preferring to keep his deepest flaws under wraps. "I deeply miss Gauthrel, but it was not meant to be, though you seem to know the same sentiment." He sighed, falling quiet with his ear to this newfound kin's shoulder, listening. This was a man who felt like home.

Over the bits as they traveled the dark streets, some part of the bare-skinned warrior wished to hear the symphony that comprised Alistair, a desire that began to motivate a concentration born of curiosity. As he listened and cleared his mind, the pulsating symphony of Alistair's Frequency came into the fore, its scintillating notes flickering with such grand complexity that it overwhelmed his mind and he gasped shortly through the gates of the Gleam, his weight collapsing, knees seeming to liquefy with eyes wide as the chaotic noise consumed him. "Hgrk! . . . Who are you!?" he wheezed, the signal beginning to dim as he focused on wishing it away. He was shaking now, as if he was freezing, though in truth it terrified him to experience a man with so many vivid notes that it sounded akin to discord that set his heart ablaze with frantic pounding. The sheer number was well beyond his capability to differentiate, and his tired mind certainly did little to help things along.

In trills, he recovered, righting himself. His gaze looked to the earth beneath their feet, finding smooth stones rather than muddy, filth-ridden dirt. Now he couldn't appreciate it, his mind only occupied on what he'd read from Alistair. "I tried to listen to the music of what you are," he explained. "I'm sorry for prying, it's a . . . habit." That last word was choked, and the experience left him sweating, but he still smiled, though he was certainly nervous now. "I'm not here to tie you down, strange beast, I simply seek to experience you, and benefit. The stories you must have to tell," he sighed deeply. "Working with you would be an honor, in any capacity. Perhaps in time I will not feel like a cornered prey animal in your jaws!"

[Alistair]

He was right. In all ways. Hearts and bodies were not truly to be bound by one another solely, and when he married Fridgar in the Temple of Thetros, that was the revelation given to him by the God they all knew. The promise of eternity, and the interconnection of spirits, meant that two need not experience only the warmth and comfort of another, but the whole world as it was open to them. That was the purpose of the life-bond, and the reincarnation, to experience all things unreserved, including the joy and pain of attraction amidst the eyes of other people. This was a revelation Fridgar missed, that Abaddon man had not. He called himself Reborn, and so the magister wondered if this was an aspect of being so. Knowing things that he was otherwise too green to know. Experiencing too much of life to be held truly committed to any one thing.

Abaddon continued to look at him, and occasionally their eyes would meet and remain met, during whichever foray into speaking they made. As Abaddon's lips stilled, the mage's parted, having grown all too enthusiastic about which words to add to their exchange. "Hearts are not meant to be owned, though there's still greatness in tying them together. When I was Gauthrien, I married a Lotharen man. In him, and with him, I found such great peace. I knew that if I had ever left, even for seasons or cycles to follow my aspirations, and even if I relied upon the bodies of other men in the time in-between... I would still have a place to return to. The sun and moon eventually meet once more, in the sky. I'm only glad you bid them free to roam." In many ways, Alistair was stating approval of his beliefs within the romantic realm. The two of them genuinely shared a perspective that he found exceptionally rare - all and everyone demanded such wholeness from him, when each person could only offer another a fragment of their lives.

He was compelled by each whisper from the man's lips. He had much to say, and an eloquent way of speaking it. An honest way.

And in truth, really, he felt like home too. Abaddon relaxed into the shoulder of the man, appearing to ease into their mutual embrace. Alistair did not know he was digging into his Frequency, seeking him out. When the man's knees liquefied and he collapsed onto the ground, the mage threw his knees into a quick stance and held his arms firmly forward. His reaction was swift, as if he were being assailed. "What?" Alistair inquired, confused. "Why are you--I don't get it," he said. The Noble's expression melted away; the smug satisfaction that had sculpted its way across his lips, and remained. A rush of cynicism returned to him.

The other man quickly ceased his frantic, exasperated staring, and rebounded from his fall. At first, he looked down at the ground between them. Alistair did not understand, and still barely did when he first expressed his desire to listen to his 'music'. Was that--

"Attunement?" he asked. It was a core concept to the magic, though it was a Domain he knew little about. He'd only heard of it from Ellasin and Damien, and had briefly witnessed it in action as a Sae'a'fei of the Coven. It... felt invasive to be observed by a hostile spark, and the severe backlash experienced by the man merely for delving did not bring him great satisfaction. He wondered what he had tried to do, and how deep he'd gone. Alistair had a look of sheer aggravation on his face, counter to the ridiculous smirking and grinning that had lit his expression for the many bits they'd been side-by-side.

At least, he supposed, he was forthright about his intentions. To... experience him, and benefit. And feel at ease in doing so. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with those desires, though they culled that desperate notion of romanticism he'd allowed himself to become obsessed with. The mage somberly nodded, as his expression cooled, and he peered back into his gaze. "You have no notion of what I am. You are a fledgling mage, and so your spark has no concept of objectivity." He spoke such almost with wroth, his voice lowered in an antagonistic pitch. Alistair did not enjoy the feeling of being surveyed without his permission, with every survivalist instinct telling him to lambast and deride the other for attempting to do so. "If that's what you want, though, fine. Ashbrook is not far from here, and I have a room spare. If I can make you feel at ease, then I am satisfied. There are two other Lothar dwelling there, as well, so I hope you won't find yourself solitary when I'm away."

The mage ushered the man to continue following him, and offered his arm back, if he wished for it. For the remainder of their journey to Ashbrook, however, Alistair would remain quiet. He was wrapped in his own thoughts, wondering of what all of this meant, and how to approach the expedited rate at which their relationship had grown. Somehow, he still felt that destiny had a hand in all of this... but without knowing, he decided to willfully follow the whims of his heart instead.

[Abaddon]

Shame was the result. The utter self-loathing Abaddon felt as Alistair spoke made him realize . . . Attunement was an art that could undo a man, and even the Adviser to the King had secrets he would be worried to share. It was definitely rude, and Abaddon resolved himself to practice his art so that his prying could remain undetected. Being so dangerous to this man worried him greatly, and he truly wondered if he should flee, but for now, he wandered closer into the trap of this powerful mage.

There was a true regret, a cringe in his eyes as he squinted, pained and biting his lip. "My deepest apologies, it will not happen again. I will share my intentions freely with you, and ask next time." It struck him that the man could have him imprisoned for using magic upon another who did not consent, and he further considered himself lucky beyond measure that this mage of such a strong sound was so kind.

After all this, Alistair still wishing him some compromise was the best he could hope for, though the sting remained. The promise of meeting other Lotharren was now bittersweet, and he felt as if he had lost this relationship as soon as it had begun, and now he was merely a part of a familial collection. Some keepsake, a project pulled from destitution. "I . . . am content with a solitary life, whatever may happen." His eyes were drawn to Alistair's extended arm, and he took it, squeezing that cold limb to try and put the warmth into it. After everything that happened, his mind still wandered to the song, trying to make sense of something well beyond his reach.

[Rakvald]

Here's your stuff!

Name: Alistair

Knowledge:

Abaddon: Lotharen Mage

Name:Abaddon

Knowledge:

Alistair: Mage, Doctor, Advisor to King Arkenstone
Attunement: Being Overwhelmed By An Intense Frequency
Attunement: Alistair's Frequency
Attunement: Dangerous For The Secrets It Can Pry
Detection: Affection
Meditation: Concentration
Meditation: Easier In The Arms of Another
Discipline: Avoiding Comforts To Remain Strong

Loot: n/a
Injuries: Perhaps some light vertigo for Abaddon, after reaching out to detect Ali's frequency. It will fade within about five to ten cycles.
Renown: 5 for Abaddon, meeting a member of high ranking nobility who is also nationally renown. Tell your friends!
Magic XP: Yes, Attunement for Abaddon.

Points:
- - -
Comments:

You both have a very tactile way of phrasing descriptions and feelings that lends itself well to this kind of romantic stroll at night. It really drew me into the story, pulling me along for the narrative, which I'm glad for because I learned a heck of a lot about Lotharren lore and courting customs

It's a shame their evening together may have been cut short by Abaddon's faux pas with attunement magic. At any rate, enjoy your points.

If you feel I've missed anything or if you have questions about your review, please don't hesitate to send me a quick PM. Thanks!

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