• Closed • [Venora] Perspective (Alistair)

[Plague]

"When we look at a man, we see the middle of their story. It's easy to forget that, in the beginning, we were all innocent." - Ralaith

Ashan 16, 717

Sunlight brushed across the roof of the Setting Sun Palace and slipped across its paint. In the afternoon, it was said the palace could be seen glowing from the hill where it overlooked Oxentide. The Second Sun of Novilane, a poet had once coined it and certainly it was as ever true now as it was then. The grounds bustled with the expertise of groundskeepers and caretakers, trimming the hedges and gently replacing any flowers trod in the days before. Storm clouds loured on the distant horizon, but they'd been there since the early morning and no one believed they'd make the city till nightfall. A salty breeze robustly sang in the boughs of the Setting Sun estate and the first birds of Ashan sat plump and happy in their new nests.

Alistair, retired to the study to go over the recent reports Tamlen Von Sien had delivered, had requested not to be interrupted that morning. The spymaster had detailed information relating to the ebb and flow of organized crime in his domain, the areas that most needed his attention, and substantiated whispers of the other nobles in his family. Tamlen was not in town today. Two trials earlier he had departed for Andaris to look into a few details on Alistair's behalf. The spymaster was accustomed to curious requests from the Venora and knew his job well enough not to press for questions. Alistair was curious, as most nobles were, about the past of the King, Cassander. The spymaster had promised a detailed report on the liege and his court upon his return, but that was still many trials into the future. So when the sharp knock came at the gently paneled doors, Alistair knew it couldn't be Tamlen back early.

With a short cough, Kamden Bradford pushed open the door. "My apologies, Baron," He began, standing in the doorway, "I did not mean to intrude, but I wanted to bring something to your attention." Stepping through the door he respectfully kept his distance to the entrance of the room. One hand was crossed behind his back, his rigid posture the envy of any solider and his polished presentation beyond reproach. While Kamden had been seeing to some matters in Oxentide the trial earlier, he always found himself back at the Setting Sun Palace all the same. In his time as interim ruler, handling the difficulties of Willow's particular scandals, the palace had become his home. Alistair certainly didn't refute this when he took Willow's place and while such had not been spoken about, Kamden was grateful that so little had altered in his own life. As a man who prided himself on impeccable organization, the new Baron had worried him.

Alistair, as it turned out, was forward thinking and highly engaged in the affairs of his realm. It was refreshing, if but a small bit frustrating that Kamden was no longer in charge of such details. Nevertheless, he made no word of complaint and was happy to serve in his current capacity. He was told by other servants that Alistair had a habit of recusing himself often, taking great enjoyment in silence and reclusive study for sometimes Trials at a time. In such moments, only a few trusted staff were given the responsibility of fetching him food or drink, to break his exile.

Before the Baron could chide him for the interruption, Kamden presented a small, lacquered, black chest. "You have a visitor, my lord, who claims to have known you since childhood." Kamden searched Alistair's face for a trace of recognition. "He did not present me with a name, but assured me you would wish to speak with him after seeing the contents of this chest." Kamden held it close to his own chest, drumming fingers against the lid. "I checked contents, of course, and I thought it best for you to render a quick judgement on the issue. He must have walked all the way up here for I saw no carriage at the front." The steward appeared troubled, as if something were nagging at him before holding the box out for Alistair to take, opening the lid. "He has a curious air about him, my lord, but does not have the demeanor of a nobleman. Shall I have him escorted out?"

Inside the velvet lined chest was a small harp. It had clearly been carved for the hands of a child, with special attention to detail along the wood finish. The Venora crest was neatly cut into the base and the strings looked to be made of the finest and most durable material. It was somewhat worn, clearly beloved and used often...but the last time Alistair had see such an instrument was when he was six years old. The harp, its twin, had been taken and never returned...lost in the intervening years. Each details matched his memory perfectly, as if it had not aged from that day all those years ago.

Kamden waited patiently for an answer.

[Alistair]

Kamden was, as always, a steward as much as a chancellor. He approached Alistair with respect, and etiquette, learning after years in the service of Willow and her arbitration not to present himself as anything other than a humble servant. The nobleman almost found it humorous, though mostly it was shameful. His mother had been such a crude, distant and thoughtless Baroness, her advisors of today were now living in a sort of paralyzed apprehension at the thought of approaching their own leader.

He had much to do to mend the schism she'd left in Novilane, and that journey would begin with a clear message: that he would be here, he would be present, and he would be firm. No more would the task of leading one of Venora's greatest holdings be left to sycophants, nor overworked stewards.

Despite the fact that Kamden had been relegated in his authority, the Baron knew that he'd equally been relieved of a great deal of both stress and duty. He was back to announcing guests, and advising the Baron on the names and titles of his political rivals, and writing up the guest list for business parties in which the nobility would deign to attend.

And now, this - announcing an uncertain, curious arrival. A man with no carriage, who claimed to know Alistair since his youth. A man offering him a chest, of yet unknown contents. It sounded like Damien, at first, though the more he imagined the possibility, the less he figured as such. Damien hadn't known him since childhood, and in all likelihood, he would not have met him publicly. The Baron nodded his head, allowing Kamden to bring him forward the velvet-lined chest, with all the contents seemingly rustling around as he brought it forward. Most notably inside was an old harp, one quite less marvelous than he remembered it when last he saw it, though still in considerable shape and with the same significance as old.

He claims to have known you since childhood... he repeated to himself. His eyes wandered to each curve of the wooden harp, daydreaming of a time where this was the most important object in his life. So long ago. That was before his mother and father had set aside the illusion that they were in love - before they'd made it their imperative to constantly berate one another by action and words alike, bringing discord to those around them. This was old, and he hadn't seen it in very long. He wondered... how this individual had found it. Whoever he was.

"Kamden, send him forward," he requested. The chancellor nodded his head, bowed to his liege and went on his way, requesting for the quiet individual to bring himself to the company of the Baron. The mage was... intimidated, strangely. His mind wandered furiously to all the possibilities of just who this man could have been. How did he know of this old instrument, and its significance? Who had even known Alistair since he was a child? He'd always been so... quiet, and reserved, and compliant.

Music and art were his sole companions in those days, and shortly after, books of medicine and tales of magic. He remembered the old medical instruments he'd found barely past the days of the harp, and curiously, some of those same instruments were in this chest. The nostalgia of the past began to flow into the present, though since then, he'd grown hard and jaded. Cruel, even, from the cruelty he'd experienced himself.

What was this figment of the past doing in the present? All of these things - they didn't belong.

[Plague]

The gentle knock was hesitant. In the moment the knuckles had tapped their way against the study door, Alistair had an idea of the man behind it. The knock was not hard, it was reticent and stuttering. It paused partway through, two ticks, then resumed. Behind the door, a polite but deeply unsure man was too nervous to simply walk into a room he'd been summoned. When Alistair bade him enter, he was rewarded for his intuition. The stranger had the patchy ghost of a beard and dark hair combed impeccably. Although he was a man of some impressive stature, he held himself like someone much smaller. Both hands rubbed and clasped at each other and the stranger's eyes darted all over the room before alighting on Alistair. Dark eyes, calm eyes, and despite his meek mannerism there was something immutable and immovable in that gaze. Pain, yes, but deeper than that there was something stronger than anything the mage had seen before.

Or it was there for a moment before the stranger turned his eyes down and cleared his throat. His weight shifted from foot to foot as he bowed a little, hesitantly, than twice more with greater motion. "Ah, Baron Venora, so pleased you could take my audience." His arm jerked up, indicating the box he had arrived with. "I do hope you appreciated my gift. It, erm, it took some time," here he chuckled, a short nervous laugh and shook his head, "Apologies. It took a little time to acquire, but I remember you played it so passionately when you were younger that I...well, I thought it was better in your hands than as ashes and cinder."

He looked up again, a small but hopeful smile creasing his cheeks, "I understand you're a busy man and have little time for those who may not be your subjects, but I...erm, if you would permit me..." he trailed off and looked down again, "I would like to borrow a little of your time. I think it's important you listen to what I have to say." He trailed off and frowned, as if struggling to remember something and then shrugged, "If your lordship has a moment to spare, I mean."

[Alistair]

A man. Middle-aged, though still of dark hair and considerable stature. Not bent over and hunched, nor seemingly so weak - but... timid. This man seemed timid, he thought. Or, was timid the right word? Perhaps meek fit better. Alistair was incredulous to the thought that this man had somehow received all of these trinkets of his from so long ago, as if he took the time to explore every orphanage in Rynmere and uncover the recycled toys particularly taken from Alistair Venora. He referenced ashes and cinder in their name -- were they burnt, at one point? How did he restore them?

It was odd. Creepy, almost, and incredibly odd. The man himself gave off a similar vibe, of a terrifying oddity, followed by a voluminous strength. Who was he? A mage? Were these items retainers of some curse meant to be laid upon him, from an enemy? How did he manage to acquire them? He mentioned... time. A great deal of time.

Alistair had visibly begun to stiffen, as if he couldn't fully move, startled and shocked into a stand. His eyes darted back and forth between the visitor and his gifts, as thoughts overwhelmed him. So many thoughts, he could feel his head amplifying in weight. The first was no more legible than the last. The thing that startled him the most was that he'd taken all that time to uncover these items, wherever they were, only to deliver them in pristine condition to their former wielder. Why? To rekindle a love of music in the Venora?

He needed to calm down. Calm. The man did not seem hostile, or aggressive, or commanding. He was patient, and considerate of the Baron's time. Alistair was no tyrant - he would not allow fear to incite his actions. Taking a breath and lowering the box to press into the silk above his lower abdomen, Alistair nodded to the middle-aged gentleman.

He wasn't... bad. This thing he'd done, retrieving all these items, it was quite legendary; the amount of time he must've spent, everything. Alistair... found himself appreciating it. He really did.

"Good Ser," he called him, regaining his aristocratic posture, "This action was one of incredible kindness. I never thought I'd look upon these instruments again," he stated, truthfully. "There's no need for apprehension in asking. I'll offer you some of my time. I'd love to hear your story of acquiring these -- I'm sure it's quite compelling," Alistair stated, gesturing for Kamden to prepare a table if the man wished to stay for dinner, or... something. The mage still wasn't sure quite what he wanted.

"I'll gladly listen to whatever it is you have to say. May I offer you a seat?"

Perhaps it was wrong, what he was doing. Putting on a smile, hiding his fear. But, the mage was a mixture of so many things right now. He was excited, worried, afraid and interested all at once. Since when had he become so paranoid in the face of the mysterious? Oh, right - ever since he became powerful. So many people, of late, started wanting to take him down... that he had begun to see the danger in nearly everything.

[Plague]

A small grateful smile creased the face of the stranger at Alistair's compliment and he offered a quick, nodding bow. "Oh, it was just a trifle, your Lordship, something of a passion. I love old things with a weight of history to them, and so many leave them behind in their lives. I, I considered that you might be more at peace with them nearby. Happier times, of course, memories I mean and..." he trailed off as Kamden started away and the stranger held up a hand, withdrew it, and extended it again as if making a request.

"Oh, I, no. I'm sorry your Lordship. The time I request is a bit more...active, than this." Motioning to the chairs, the stranger drew back toward the door and laid a hand on the gold embossed knobs. He was neither dressed well nor dressed poorly. Instead it was as though the material of his clothes were of master-make, but Alistair could not imagine any master of thread creating something so plain and dull as to be worn by the tall guest. It was a inexplicable paradox of meticulous care and no imagination that simply boggled the mind to comprehend.

The stranger seemed to almost sense this and drew the cloak a little closer around himself, almost as if he could somehow be smaller even with his impressive height. "My Lord, I have a few things to show you that would require your...erm...your trust. Trust, I mean, to let me lead you to them. We won't be walking terribly far and we won't be gone long." He laughed, the nervous titter betrayed by the resonant rich voice beneath the meek demeanor. Oh yes, this man was far more than he appeared. But whether he was putting on a convincing act or truly of such magnetic presence and so little confidence was nearly impossible to ascertain.

He pushed open the door, allowing the sunlight to fall across the threshold and stretch nearly to the tips of Alistair's shoes.

"If your Lordship would permit a small walk, of course." The stranger finished with an unsure smile.

[Alistair]

Active? The mage quirked a brow. Literally, physically active? Well. He supposed this greying man needed to acquire his musculature somehow. Perhaps he had some rule that he wasn't able to sit down at a table for discussions - he would make them extreme physical trips. Alistair nearly laughed at the thought, but restrained himself. Somehow, he found the individual's quirky demeanor to be a mixture of charming, funny and enticing. He'd scarcely met someone who compelled such curiosity so early in their acquaintanceship.

The man withdrew to the door, taking a hold of the finely crafted gold-embroidered knobs, and pausing for a moment. Alistair nodded his head, stepping forward and handing Kamden his circlet and Venora pin. The mage felt no displeasure at walking the realm he ruled, if that was what the gentleman wished, and no distaste for the outdoors. Alistair followed, though still curious - perhaps cynically so.

His... curiosity was far more than piqued when the gentleman requested his 'trust' in being led to these things. His words were eerily reminiscent to words he'd heard before, when Willow had been requested by a dashing 'suitor' to follow her out of Sabaissant's walls. Shortly after, it was discovered that the man was a rapist and murderer, with an ideological persuasion to killing the aristocratic class. However, one such experience did not equate to another, and Alistair always had - quite secretly - his magic to protect him if he were led into a genuinely dangerous situation. Or so he thought.

Deciding that his curiosity outweighed his skepticism, the mage nodded once more. "I trust you," he said, though whether or not that was a lie, he didn't really know himself. Could trust ever be a half-measure?

The door opened, and the sun came through. Inhaling through his nose, he stepped forward. "A small walk, indeed," the Baron replied, gesturing for the other man to lead, while he would follow.

[Plague]

Bobbing his head, the taller man offered a chaste bow and slipped out the front door. Kamden watched them depart, taking care to hide the concern on his face deep in the recesses of his features. Something about the stranger unsettled the servant, a man who had spent his life reading the ebb and flow of people as a sailor reads the clouds. When the stranger first arrived, Kamden had taken him for a man of higher standing than he introduced himself. Something about those sad brown eyes, his regal stature, and the way he carried himself suggested someone accustomed to finery. On the other hand, he seemed bashful towards people and apologetically cordial. Something was amiss, but the caretaker of the Sunset Palace had seen the coming and going of the young Venora and knew that the Lord was not one to be trifled with.

And yet...


Outside, the sun dipped lower towards the horizon as afternoon quietly slid toward evening. The storm clouds still louring in the distance had come a little closer, but seemed reticent to interfere with what would promise to be a stunning sunset. The stranger had a wide gait and out the door he walked fast. Each step seemed to put him farther from Alistair than the mage thought possible and he had to quicken his own pace to keep up. "You have a beautiful domain, My lord," The stranger quietly offered, "And they are glad to have you. Some are reticent, of course, the Venora of before did not treat the people of Oxentide well, and only when they began to flourish did their value necessitate a change in governance." They were halfway down the hill now and Alistair felt the first shudder of unease. As an Awakened mage of powerful Rupturing, he always had a strong grasp on distance. Since his power had passed into expertise such calculations were as nothing to him. He could glance down a hill and know the exact number of steps it would take to reach the bottom and his understanding of distance had served him well in countless combats.

But within him, something strange was occurring. Each step felt to him like several, mounting and mounting, until the steps were a hundred-fold each time the stranger's foot touched the dirt. He almost didn't hear the stranger continue, striding confidently now as the scenery swam in Alistair's vision. "It is the curse of men with power to be given the choice in how to use it. To rule the people is a simple cost...sacrifice, and you'd be surprised, My Lord, how few hold the strength of character to do so."

Alistair stumbled, the first in a long while, feeling suddenly winded. His mind railed with the impossibility. They had only gone down the hill from the manor and yet he registered thousands of steps, as if they had crossed Venora lands entirely and beyond. The world tilted as the stranger drew away from his vision. The sky was sideways and the ground was torn away beneath his feet. There was stone, then dust, and the sensation of a great journey, some impossible distance traveled before the noble fell to his knees in the packed, hot dirt.

Above him, the same sun glowered, barely past the morning and the heat was like a fist gripping into his skin. Around him, waves of wheat swayed in the slight breeze, whispering their secret tongue of harvest and gold. He was...not in Oxentide, that much was evident. As Alistair searched his mind he could find no bead on where he was. Even the stranger was gone. Alistair was alone, hands clutching the dry dirt of a winding path that led between the two fields.

He had little time to prepare himself, however, as the wheat on the left of the road shook suddenly as something swiftly passed through it. The shush, shush, shush of stems against stems drew his attention to the edge of the road no more than twenty feet ahead of him. His muscles tensed, still making sense of the situation when a dog burst onto the road and cantered toward him.

It was a common beast, patchy with a pattern of mange along its right flank. Were it properly cared for, its fur may have been curly and the color of new rust. It paused, ten feet from the mage, cocking its head at him warily. In its jaws was clenched a child's doll, painstakingly sown of burlap with a dress of robin egg blue. It, too, looked painstakingly constructed...no doubt from a larger dress of the same fabric. Worn at the edges it told a history of endless afternoons at play, dust-spattered and mud-stained. The dolls hair was teased yarn, coal-black with a stitched smile and button eyes.

Their standoff was broken by the crashing arrival of the dogs pursuer, stumbling out a little ways from where the dog first broke through the wheat. She couldn't be more than five or six, with sun-scorched cheeks and a tangled mess of raven-wing hair. She might have been pale, of a fairer complexion, were she not subjected to this kind of sun. She wore a torn dress, accidentally where one strap had been stitched more than once over her right shoulder and deliberately around the hem, where she had torn a ragged piece and shortened the dress considerably...no doubt to grant her higher mobility. She panted, her narrow chest rising and falling as she tried to pick up the chase again.

Who knew how long she had been chasing the dog and while the beast was panting, it showed no signs of exhaustion.

"Please!" She called out, stumbling and falling, scraping her knee on the dirt, "Give me back my Jessica!" She held her knee where stubborn blood welled between her small fingers and tried to stand again, only to fall once more. The dog gave her a curious glance and then a wary one at Alistair, making to run around him and toward the freedom of the open road.

"I said I'd protect her..." the little girl sobbed, "For Daddy. Don't take her away!"

[Alistair]

Oxentide, as always, was stunning. Prepared for a rather leisurely stroll along the bridge leading out of the Palace, Alistair took in the spring air, staring out onto the Cyrene Bay from the handles of the bridge. It was nice out, really. His short hair still flowed with the wind, and his skin adored its contact. By the time he'd turned his head back to face the stranger, though, the man seemed so far away. Much farther than he imagined possible with the mere moment he'd spent taking in the sunset. The Venora began to sprint walk to try and catch up, a momentary burst of speed closing some of the distance, though somehow he found that the margin between their two points widened in short order.

The... figure, he did not know what to call him, spoke. You have a beautiful domain, my Lord, he said. Alistair would've taken the compliment, if he weren't trying desperately to keep up. Walking became jogging, and after a time, he found himself astounded that the bridge connecting Oxentide's cliffside to the Setting Sun Palace was still running on. How long did it usually take him to cross this bridge? Thirty trills at walking pace?

How long had it taken this time?

The Venora before... he said. Willow Venora, he did not call her by name. Her mention was enough to increase the man's pace, eager to remove himself of the encumbering weight of the Palace behind him, the one she once ruled. He did like to leave the Palace as often as he could. Unbeknownst to many, he would disappear in the evening and before the day, traveling all across the world and returning as if nothing had happened. As if he'd been reading in his room, not wanting to be disturbed.

"I do as well for them as I can," he stated, speaking between panting breaths as his mind settled on aimlessly following, putting his endurance to the test. "I was placed here, I think, to show them their value -- because, I care." He stated the truth, lips remaining half-open in what almost looked like a grimace, as his hands were thrown in front of him after each accelerated step.

Finally, they came upon the hill leading down, a short slope... at least by his recollection, which didn't feel quite adequate this trial. Not long down the hill's city-drawn path, however, he felt a sensation overwhelm him. This strange suspicion he'd felt regarding the man's movements was turned into almost a... paranoia. He felt uneasy, about all of it. Everything was wrong. This was not the cityscape he was accustomed to, nor the proper distance between each structure, numbers he'd ingrained deep into his travel-obsessed mind.

This wasn't Oxentide. Not right now. It was something else - an illusion? A dream? Were the nightmares finally becoming lucid?

Seas, ships and sails breezed by on one side of his vision looking east, whilst Oxentide fell upon the west. Neither passed by clearly - instead they melted like colors on an easel, with their images merely zooming by. He'd never experienced this sensation, not like this. Were they going too fast? How could they - these were merely the steps of men.

"I've sacrificed a long time," he told him. "Everything, for my people. My duty. I concealed myself from everyone else, all of the things I felt, all of what I dreamed. The people I loved." He was really panting, now, out of breath. Even his superior endurance could not hold out against what felt like an endless run, though at some point he questioned whether or not his oncoming panic had thrown his body into disarray. Was the panting hyperventilation? Had he lost his cool?

There were few situations where he'd felt, truly, where his magic could do nothing and he was left vulnerable among the grass. This was one of them. Stripped of his mastery over transportation, Alistair felt lost. Rupturing and he had become one entity, yet somehow his spark laid dormant. He... didn't want to use it, or he couldn't. Or maybe it didn't want to be used.

He stumbled on his legs, and then fell. Reality warped around him, it seemed, like nothing he'd ever known. He had seen the stars and beyond, and yet even in their vastness, there seemed an order more clear than this one. Nothing was right about this world he'd been thrown into, now.

Stumbling became falling, his palms hitting the dirt and going red with a scratchy feeling among the skin. His knees met the soil, an impact thudding and reverberating through his fine clothes. He'd fallen at a higher velocity than he expected, and to somewhere he did not know. It looked like... vast fields of wheat and barley, though not surrounded by the endless hills and valleys of Venora.

It was just a field. How many of those were there in Idalos? Too many for the stalks among the ground to be any indication. He'd have to explore.

After initially standing and brushing himself off, the mage was greeted by some proletarian hound. It was immensely common, and visibly disease ridden. He tried to contain his inner... Venora upon its approach, instead attempting to make peace with the hound so that it may lead him to something, or someone. Considering it held a doll within its maw, there needed to be people nearby. He would start there.

Preparing to kneel and attempt to befriend this... gnarly little creature, he was met with yet another addition as a young raven-haired girl nearly fell onto the floor after stumbling through the stalks of grain. Alistair looked toward her, a faint smile growing among his lips. He no longer had need for the little beast. Instead, this girl would be a lot more use in acquiring some sort of clue to their present location. She even mentioned that she had parents, among her pleading for her doll's safe return.

Jessica, she called it. Fine, he'd acquire this Jessica - if that was what she wanted. Maybe he could bribe her with it; the doll for directions, or something. Nodding his head at the girl in tattered clothes, Alistair made a dive for the dog, attempting to grab it as it maneuvered to run past him. He caught it, finding himself at least nimble enough in his current state to catch a rebellious canine. Thank the Seven.

Forcing this Jessica from its jaws, the mage pointed it out towards the black haired girl. He smiled faintly.

"Here you go, little one," Alistair said. "Do you know where we are?"

[Plague]

In his arms the dog struggled, but not desperately. Instead its entire rear vibrated wildly, thrashing from side to side. Alistair was rescuing a doll, but to the dog they were playing a grand game. With only one arm on the beast, it didn't take long for the energetic creature to slip beneath the crook of his arm and bark once, twice, lowering its shoulders and pushing up its wagging tail. Tongue lolling out the side of its mouth it barked again, dancing around the doll, expecting him to hurl it that the dog might retrieve it. Despite the mange that afflicted the poor creature on its right flank, the dog seemed to have the same joyous, boundless energy of any domesticated hound.

The girl wiped a tiny fist across her face, smearing the tears and snuffling loudly. Blood still peeked through her fingers, clasped to her injured knee, but the distress seemed to leave her. Slowly, this time, she picked herself off the dust of the road and took her hand off the injury. It was an abrasion, surely, and Alistair's mind immediately settled on the best way to treat it. Somewhat severe, but hardly fatal. Her greatest risk would be infection...but children were strong. She approached him warily, reaching out to take Jessica from his offered hand. Reticent, as if he would reconsider his offer and hurl it for the dog. Moments before she took it, the girl seemed to remember her fingers were smeared with blood and roughly wiped them against her stained dress. She snatched the doll from his hand and clasped it tightly to her narrow chest, momentarily burying her face against its placid stitched smile before looking up at him again.

Her eyes were sharp, a light violet-blue...like the petals of a flower, and she studied him. The mutt continued to romp, forgetting the game with the doll and immersing itself in the dust of the road, yipping and rolling. "My home doesn't have a name, sir," she said at last, quietly, "But mama says Lysoria is South and so is Ne'haer." She blushed, rubbing Jessica against her face, "Mama says the boats have masts like trees! Like trees floating!" A giggle, as if the very concept was absurd, and then quickly back to a solemn suspicion. "Mama says I'm to be wary of of strangers, sir. But papa always said to be polite." She seemed conflicted by this, debating between both parents, "Papa wants me to be brave while he's off to war, so I'll be polite." Her smile was sudden and dazzling, tiny teeth perfectly lined. "You must be the tax collector. Mama says he dresses with our money," It was parroted, no malice behind the words, "You dress fancy, sir. Fancier than Jessica." She brandished the doll briefly and then brought it back to her chest. "My name is Elle, Mr. Taxman." She reached out a hand to shake, seemed to remember herself and snatched it away, giggling. Instead she drew up one part of her ragged dress in a sloppy curtsy. "Papa says all the fancy people from Lysoria greet this way. I'm his little lady and I'm to stay brave while he fights the monsters in the North." Her confidence ebbed and waxed seemingly without reason and suddenly she was shy again. "You saved my Jessica. Papa says Jessica is my respomsi...um...responsiv...responsility till he gets home. The he'll make me her brother."

She hugged Jessica again and seemed to consider her, finally offering her out to Alistair. "Do you want to say hello, Mr. Taxman? Jessica is saved only because of you."

The dog danced around them both and Elle reached out absently to catch his shaggy head, patting it. "Don't be a cur, Gnasher," She chided the dog, "Jessica is not for biting."

[Alistair]

The dog wasn't as rebellious as he imagined - only playful. As the Baron acquired the doll from its grasp, the little rodent merely pranced around with panting breaths and a wagging tail. Alistair had to admit, it was sort of cute. He'd always liked beasts, and with its simplicity, he almost forgot where he was. Somewhere else, different.

Immediately after acquiring the doll, his attention returned to the girl. She was injured - not in a serious and lethal way, but still clearly marred by her retrieval and likely noting an ever-present, stinging pain. If he had his bandages and antiseptic fluids on him, he would've treated her wound. Unfortunately, all he had was... his fine silk-

Fine. Green brocade wasn't his thing, anyway, and he had many more outfits. He wasn't sure if it was an act of altruism or another form of bribery, but regardless he tore the sleeves from one of his shoulders with an aggressive tug, immediately after Jessica had been returned to the girl's tiny hands. Beginning to tie a weave with his fingers, he attempted to shape his silk sleeves into a proper bandage wrap, peeling the cuffs back and twisting them into a bind. Tying them into a ribbon, he successfully managed to make a proper knot, one that he could tighten to wrap around her knee.

She was a good girl. Her father tasked her with something, and she did it. She was... compliant, like he was as a youth. He could even remember his own experiences, chasing a dog around, the Pekingese his mother had bought from that exotic beast peddler. Something about that box had made him so nostalgic, this trial. It nearly distracted him from finding where he was.

My home doesn't have a name, she said. No? Every home had to have a name - a banner. A place they belonged to. There were few exceptions that he'd known, mostly in the central-west, in the steppe between Uthaldria, Etzos, Hiladrith...

And Ne'haer. North of Ne'haer? North of Lysoria? How was that possible, at all? Those lands were so desolate. They'd been torn through by nearly two hundred arcs of war.

"Ne'haer... does have boats with masts like trees; they're massive, little one. Some of them even have three masts, with multiple sails among them. I don't know how many they amount to - six? It's like a tree with a blanket blowing in the wind. You'll have to see some day," the Venora stated, beginning to patiently smile. He had to admit, the girl was cute. He rarely found things cute, but she was among them. Part of him wanted to hold his hand out and ruffle her hair. Innocence, a beautiful thing.

Though, with her father off to war, he wasn't sure how long said innocence would remain.

"You do your father proud, little one," he called her. "He's right - always be polite, even when you're wary. There's little more dangerous than rage, and smart ones like you should know how to evade it. Politeness is a powerful weapon to wield." He nodded at his words, before holding out the bandage he'd made from his torn sleeve, just as she began to compliment on the fanciness of his attire and the profession she'd apparently designated. He grinned as he looked upon the wrap, nearly laughing. Tax collector. His thoughts immediately went to Peake Andaris, the scoundrel.

"No, little one, I'm no tax collector. I'm a Lord," he told her, tipping his nose with a raise of his head. It was a gesture - let me have your knee, and I'll wrap it up. "From a land very far from here. You probably don't know of it. We have a lot of boat-trees though, just like Ne'haer. And dragons -- well, sort of. They're called Jacadons, and they're not really dragons, but we still call them dragons." He laughed. It sounded stupid to foreigners, but they were majestic beasts; it was an easily failed distinction. He'd never seen a real one before.

"Elle," he called her. She had enchanting eyes, not too unfamiliar from ones he'd witnessed - stared into at length, actually, though the one they belonged to was far more brutal and horrific. He wouldn't wish to associate a child with that legacy.

"I'm Alistair," the man said. "Alistair Venora, and remember, not a Taxman. A Lord, like the Lysorian ones," he rose, before bowing gracefully in response to her relatively... improper curtsy. It wasn't terrible for a random farm girl off in the middle of nowhere, he supposed.

Then, it hit him. He wondered if she'd meant that her father was fighting for Lysoria in their proxy war against Ne'haer, but that couldn't have been it. They weren't openly engaged, and Ne'haer was south - far south. North, Faldrun's Holdings, but there were no governments here in any open conflict with them, either. Northwest was the Horde, but they kept to themselves, for the most part. While he wasn't a master at the geopolitics of the West, he had spent enough time there of late to know that no such battle was taking place. She was... wrong. Imagining things. Why would she imagine that her father was at war, going North? Did he lie to her?

Alistair didn't know. He wouldn't ask. Her family business was her own.

Instead, he'd say hello to Jessica, as trivial as that was. He wasn't above playing nice with children.

"Hello, Jessica," the noble waved, half-smiling and staring into the button eyes of the doll. She wasn't half bad, he supposed, though the remnants of dog slobber were still around as a drenched clear stain. Gnasher. He blinked. That was a very intense dog name. Then again, they were quite hard in the West, significantly less frilly than where he came from.

"Elle," he called the girl, lowering back to his knees so that she was closer to eye level. "Where is your mother? Can you take me to her?" Alistair asked. "These lands are dangerous, you must know that. It's best you return before dusk," he nodded. "Besides, I might need a place to sleep tonight, and I find that people are less hospitable when the sun has fallen from the sky. Do you think your mother would consider offering me room and board for a trial? I have some nels." Some.