arielbeaumont

[arielbeaumont]

A letter was handed to Ariel Beaumont by one of the Withermore Husk’s appearing as a baphomet at the conclusion of the event announcing the new Council members, his name written in elegant script on cold stark white paper.

Ariel Beaumont, We were pleased to see you were able to deliver us not one but two applications and that both individuals were elected. We are glad both seem capable of taking a life when required and that magic on both their parts is not a prevalent strength. We were aware of your closeness to the Chevalier girl when you both resided at court however, and hope you will make sure she releases any anger she may potentially be holding onto for our court. How close are you with the other candidates? With the first meeting approaching it is important that you make sure the Chevalier girl accepts the offer we made to her. The council should know that Withermore residents should receive a higher standard of care than those from the other courts. We would also like for you to reach out to Kaitoa Rotbringer and suggest perhaps one of the best ways to limit law breaking within the city is to ban or, at the very least, limit magic, it is a dangerous thing that can ruin us. We trust you can get this done. King Alistar Vasiliev

An additional paper is attached to the first note from the King, penned instead by his younger sister, the smaller paper hidden within the larger.

Dearest Ariel, You are working well at doing what should be done to bring me to power. The young Chevalier girl with her distain for those of the court and the chaotic jester are wonderful additions. I will be sending you a gift shortly, once my brother is not watching me so often, but for now, inform both that they have my unyielding support without letting your co-hort Leopold Dawson discover your words. Do not take my brother’s advice. Do not inform Kaitoa Rotbringer that magic should be banned within the city. Myself and the women of the other courts were also able to convince leadership that the council held too masculine an energy and have instated a Herald of the Divine Feminine to aid the council with advice, you should make sure my letter was clear that she too has my personal support. Princess Royal Olesechka Vasiliev

Ariel read over both letters twice on the carriage ride home, a muscle jumping in his jaw each time he read the line about his friendship with Bellamy. It irked him that the king had noticed his fondness for her--and to suggest he ought to be working at her somehow, convincing her to forgive a court that had used her and then abandoned her.

This was why he did not often care to make friends. Ariel found himself less and less inclined to help the King keep his throne every day.

He went directly to his desk on arrival home to craft his replies; it would not do to keep the royals waiting, after all.

To His Most Gracious Majesty, King Alistar Vasiliev, King of Withermore, Defender of the Faith, and Sovereign of the Realm, I thank you for your letter, and your generous advice. I am most gratified that my work thus far has pleased Your Majesty. As far as my relationships with the candidates, I am little acquainted with any of our new council--excepting, of course, Miss Chevalier, who Your Majesty so astutely remembers was quite dear to me at court. I will, of course, do all in my power to soothe any anger she still holds and remind her of Your Majesty's benevolence. I confess though, it has been many years since Miss Chevalier and I were acquainted, and I do not know how much sway I may hold. I will seek out Rotbringer with all haste, and seek to improve my relationships with the rest of the council, that I may better serve your will. I remain, with all devotion, Your Majesty's most humble, obedient, and faithful servant, Ariel Beaumont, Emissary to the Court of Withermore.

His lip curled slightly in distaste as he sealed the letter and all it's obsequiousness with wax and pressed his ring into it. At least now that he was away from court, he only had to lie to Alistair with his pen, and not his expressions.

To Her Royal Highness, Princess Royal Olesechka Vasiliev, You do me great honor with your kind words. I am most pleased that you approve of my candidates. It is my humble opinion that both could be valuable in pursuit of your goals. The jester, I think, could be quite... malleable. I wonder, Princess, if an olive branch of a sort might be offered to Miss Chevalier. May it please Your Highness, a reminder of what Withermore might be under your rule could go far. We blood drinkers are vengeful creatures, you understand. Your word is my command. It is, as ever, a privilege to serve the true Crown of Withermore. I remain your steadfast ally and friend, Ariel Beaumont

Another seal, and he sent them off. The second letter, at least, was not quite so nauseating to write. He would pass on the Princess Royal's support, he thought. Why not? Coups did not exactly lend themselves to peace time.

Mentioned: @bellamychevalier @merrymockthejester @leopold--dawson

[arielbeaumont]

His eyes roll heavenward at the mention of a gift, of her fear--as if they were not made of the same ashes, as if they were not crafted by the same blade. Games, and games, and games, and how tedious to play with someone who knew all the same moves. She will not get the better of him again. He is two hundred years old, and she is a child, and--

His mother's name on a chunk of stone, and for a beat he doesn't understand--he's never seen it before, he never went back--home--back, never, in two hundred years. His mother's name on a chunk of stone, and suddenly Ariel is stone, too. He is carved from granite, and he cannot look away from her name, and his father's newest monster is prancing around his living room, but he can't hear what she's saying, because his mother is screaming. She's screaming, and screaming, the sound of her death layering over itself like a symphony, her blood splattering on the walls, on his expensive carpet, on the stone--on him, and he can taste it now, and--

He shuts his eyes, and it doesn't stop--his mother is still screaming, screaming, run, Ariel, run--but now he can move, now he can think. It isn't real, none of it--none but the stone, and the girl, his sister, and he could kill her--could he kill her? He finds himself wildly calculating, how recently he's fed, how recently he thinks she has fed, he could kill her--but no, of course, he couldn't. Not without summoning his father's fury.

He takes a breath, and then another, and stands, collects the chunk of gravestone with precise, rigid movements. His mother is still screaming; there is blood pooling on the floor, splashing beneath his boots. It isn't real.

"You will find no meal here, nor any welcome," he says, nearly shouting, and the humor is gone from his voice now. He is cold with rage, no longer granite, but ice. "Go and find your own meal--it's easy enough in this town still, plenty of throats and little enough protection, I expect even you can manage it. If you have some message from father, then complete your errand and be gone. I have no use for little girls."

❝  only  the  beggar  and  the  priest  relies  on  xenia.  i  brought  you  a  gift  to  earn  a  welcoming  meal...  but  i  fear  to  give  it  to  you  now,  brother.  ❞

sumptuous  eyes  glance  towards  the  strangled  vase,  unable  to  resist  the  smile  that  followed.  pleasure  was  such  a  rare  thing,  as  fleeting  as  a  breeze  ———  but  the  sight  of  ariel's  little  slip  of  anger  was  enough  to  grant  her  succor,  honey-sweet  and  promising  even  sweeter  dreams  in  the  night.  she  would  even  ignore  the  urge  to  drink  from  his  nape  for  his  slight  (till  he  screamed,  and  then  begged,  and  then  made  those  delicious  spluttering  noises  when  his  lungs  began  to  fill  up,  drowning  in  his  own  body  while  she  ———).

she  retrieves  his  offering  from  the  folds  of  her  skirt,  shifting  through  the  silks  without  a  sound  and  hiding  whatever  it  was  behind  dark  leather.  siblings  were  supposed  to  suprise  one  another...  or  so  guinevere  read  a  few  days  ago.

with  a  heavy  thunk  upon  the  desk,  the  dhamphir  reveals  a  slice  of  gravestone,  a  pauper's  granite  enragved  with  lilianne.  with  the  dancing  steps  of  a  little  girl,  she  makes  her  way  around  his  abode,  resuming  her  exploration.

❝  please,  ser  ariel,  try  not  to  turn  your  mother  into  dust  a  second  time.  ❞

[arielbeaumont]

It took almost more restraint than Ariel had to keep from scoffing at that; as it was, he had to turn his face away from her to hide the way his lip curled slightly in contempt. A God. Hardly. Ariel feared and loved and hated and admired his father in equal measure, but he had no delusions of deification.

His lip only curled further at her sudden proximity, though he did not bother to hide it this time. The nerve of this creature! Had he not spent nearly two hundred years in service to the man she worshipped? And yet this child stepped into his space and put her hands on his things as if she had the right.

The vase he'd sought to protect fractured beneath his grip, hair-thin cracks spider-webbing beneath his fingers, barely containing the surge of rage that came as he held his ground.

"Love!" Now he did scoff, placing the vase he held down with enough force that the narrow neck of it broke off in his hand. "What a notion!" His fist clenched, grinding the chunk of ceramic he held within it. Only dust remained when he opened it, but his temper was under control once more.

"Certainly I've had guests, sister," was the answer he gave, dusting off his hands and crossing to take a seat. He made a show of crossing his legs, smoothing the folds out of his trousers, plucking at his sleeves until they lay just so, before he finally met her gaze again. His smile was placid, hands folded in his lap. "Typically, guests are invited. As I have issued you no invitation, I find I feel no obligation to you as a host. Why? Did you need something? A carriage back to the nursery, perhaps?"

❝    nor  should  you.  father  is  the  only  god  we  need.    ❞

abandoning  his  belongings,  a  hand  traces  over  his  desk,  leaving  a  rudimentary  g.f  in  the  grain  despite  the  thick  leather  of  her  gloves;  such  things  were  hardly  an  obstacle  with  a  heart  beating  other  people's  blood.  the  question  was...  did  her  dear  brother  share  such  strengths?

she  rises  onto  her  toes,  inhaling  the  air  between  them  ———  cutting  into  his  space  like  a  needle,  her  mouth  lingering  near  the  crease  of  his  collar,  of  his  throat,  of  that  body  that  shared  with  her  own...  brows  furrow.  wine  and  women  and  papers.  hardly  things  that  would  enrich  his  vampirism.

❝    let  us  say,  i  came  because  of  love.    ❞

she  did  not  deign  to  explain  further.  humans,  in  all  their  short,  painful  lives,  often  felt  the  need  to  talk  and  talk  and  talk.  poor  things.  what  choice  did  they  have,  with  so  little  time  to  think  for  themselves?  ariel  would  not  be  afforded  such  pities.

❝    you  are  a  terrible  host.  have  you  never  had  a  guest?   ❞

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel was decidedly not frightened when the entire shop of figurines seemed to collectively wake, glass and ceramic suddenly malleable and moving as if to shake off sleep. No, the expression that came over Ariel's face as he looked around the shop once more was not fear, but delight.

"Marvelous," he said, the word more breath than sound. The elephant alighting on his shoulder startled a laugh out of him, and he clapped his hands together in excitement, said, "Marvelous!" again, louder this time. Head craned slightly to look at the small glass creature on his shoulder, he held his hand out to it the way one might extend a hand for a dog to sniff.

"'Ariel' will do fine, my lady," he assured her. He would have waved a hand to dismiss the titles further, had he not been occupied by stroking a finger over the top of the ceramic elephant's head, the edge of one of its infernal wings. "How utterly charming you are! Perhaps I'll take you home."

He was still grinning when he finally met Lilim's gaze again. "A pleasure, Miss Morrigan, truly." He raised a hand to gesture at the creature perched on her shoulder, apparently unfazed by the many teeth. "And who is this fine fellow?"

It didn't take much to get on the witch's good side when she wasn't out playing with her victims. Not running scared from her stuffies was the easiest way to her heart, especially with Freddie Teddy perched on her shoulder. But compliments to her wares also did the trick. Especially since not everyone appreciated the more ... unusual pieces in her shop.

The witch's pleasure became apparent as all of the figurines in her shop seemed to come alive, wings flapping and noses twitching in interest. They may have acted like they each had a personality of their own, almost preening in hopes of being chosen by the man who'd entered the shop. The reality was they fed from Lilim's emotions as long as she held onto their little sparks of possibility. She let go of all but the ones closest to the man, gently pushing the elephant with six legs and demonic wings to jump off the shelf and onto the stranger

"Lilim Morrigan, your grace?" She'd never met an emissary before and thus had no idea how to address him. Ariel bowed, so she did her best approximation of a curtsy. "Sir? Your eminence?"

"But um, yes! I am the artist." It felt odd to call herself an artist, honestly. She'd always seen her craft as making friends for others and not just herself anymore. "My torch and kiln are out back."

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel's grip only tightened as the would-be pickpocket struggled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. It had been so easy to learn to love this part--the prickle of fear he could practically smell, the intoxicating power of it.

His eyebrows raised minutely when the other man leaned in, a hint of surprise followed by pleasure. His answering grin was broad and devilish, his own fangs lengthening just enough to be visible, as if to match his captive's gleaming canines.

"Ariel," he said, and his gaze was intense--intense enough to be unsettling, even--his curious now piqued by this clumsy pickpocket and his apparent taste for danger. Though his grip remained firm as iron on the other man's wrist, he followed through on his quip, pulling the man's hand down and planting it firmly on his own arse, his eyes gleaming with mirth. "And yours, little crook?"

It wasn't the first time Jackson had been caught, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last, but typically when he found himself in situations like these he'd pull himself free and run, and typically that would work. But when the cool fingers wrapped around Jackson's wrist and he tried to pry himself free with strength that could usually overpower others, he found himself locked in an iron grip.

Fuck.

The man's words were smooth and easy and didn't even shake as Jackson struggled quietly against his hold. Icy hot fear snaked down his spine and settled in his stomach as he realized this man was far more dangerous than he'd so foolishly assumed. And foolish he was, because despite that fear that sat in his gut, Jackson's lips spread into a crooked grin as he leaned in slightly.

"Well then if that's all it takes, what's your name, handsome?" His grin widened slightly and his canines sharpened instinctually, not above biting the other to get away if he had to.

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel's expression betrayed none of the surprise he felt on returning to his home to find it already occupied. It was a surprise, of course. He was feeling rather confident after the election--two candidates elected, two royals pleased, a governor of the sort that would certainly please his father. Perhaps confidence was making him lazy, for he'd seen no signs of an intruder.

Or perhaps she had simply been trained by all the same hands as he, knew all the tells he would look for. There was, after all, no denying the family resemblance.

He held his tongue in the face of her jibe, a muscle jumping in his jaw as she moved through his space--but his restraint only went so far, and when her hand reached for a particularly fragile vase, he made a sound that could only be described as a hiss, darting forward to snatch it up before it could be destroyed.

"You'll find I care very little about holiness, sister. Not at all, in fact." His voice was steady and unflinching, but his displeasure remained evident in the tightness of his jaw, his white knuckled grip on the vase he held. "Why are you here?"

❝   is  this  the  home  of  my  brother  beloved,  or  a  simple-minded  slattern?   ❞

a  voice  breaks  through  the  warm  silence  of  @arielbeaumont's  home;  uninvited,  cold,  her  tones  a  flat  line,  only  betraying  revulsion  at  the  very  end,  tongue  curling  in  her  mouth  as  if  speaking  in  his  space  was  enough  to  gain  a  sour  taste.

guinevere  turns  from  the  window,  facing  its  rightful,  and  newly  arrived,  owner.  the  scenery  did  nothing  to  aid  her  lack  of  colouring;  a  white  dress,  white  limbs,  an  elaborate  system  of  white  braids  ———  but  neither  sunlight  nor  darkness  could  bleach  those  kaleidoscopic  blues.  ariel  should  know;  they  shared  the  same  shade.

even  as  she  moved  about  the  room,  gloved  fingers  tracing  over  various  trinkets  and  flicking  them  to  the  floor  with  the  comfort  of  a  particularly  naughty  cat,  she  did  not  offer  him  relief  from  her  stare.  everything…  she  desired  to  see  everything.

❝   thou  art  to  restrain  thyself…  or  so  says  some  holy  book,  i  am  sure.   ❞

[arielbeaumont]

"Oh, you're sorry!"

Ariel's voice was taut with annoyance as he looked down at his trousers. They were lovely, cream colored and soft as butter, cut just so--and now they were splattered with filthy water past his thighs.

"Well, then by all means, splash away, as long as you're sorry," he snapped, shaking water off his fingers. He was ranting now, fangs bared. "Do you know how expensive these were? They were purchased in Crirtha! From a human seamstress, almost a century ago! Do you know how hard it is to keep trousers in wearable condition for a century?! Are you going to travel to Crirtha and resurrect her to craft another pair?!"

He lifted his head, finally looking at his attacker properly--because this was a sartorial attack--and then abruptly cut off, brow furrowing. For a moment, he looked as if he was calculating the answer to a complicated equation, and then he said: "Again? Did you say 'not again'? Do you often ruin stranger's clothes? What kind of villain are you?"

CLOSED STARTER for @arielbeaumont location ; Destarin streets

Yazi had finally gotten his sandals. Meaning he could now move through the city and have the wind and the mud and the water all hit his naked feet. It was what a Pandok needed - though of course it wasn't scales, it was weird two-footer skins - to survive the day. They were also slightly waterproof, meaning that so far Yazi had stepped into five puddles and also walked down to the ducks and hung his legs over the planks.

As a result: his sandals made a soppy sound whenever he walked on them.

He found a new puddle and with a huge smile jumped into it, water splashing every way as he landed because it turned out it was much deeper than he'd guessed. His smile soon faltered as he looked around to see if the water had hit anyone. "Not again! Sorry," he said to a single bystander. His eyes were wide.

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel's father had written him.

As correspondence with Nikolai went, it wasn't terrible. He had earned no admonishments of late, and the amount of threats was frankly negligible. In fact, Nikolai had gone so far as to compliment him, expressing his pleasure at Ariel's earning and accepting his new role as emissary.

Naturally, this had left Ariel on edge.

It wasn't the compliment itself. Those were rare, but not unheard of--not for Ariel, who had crafted himself so carefully into a creature that would please the man who'd made him. No, it was the seven little words that followed it:

Your lady mother would be so proud.

Whether it was meant as a taunt--likely--or twisted but genuine sentiment--unlikely--it had the same result. It brought to mind memories he did not much care to recall, stoked the fires of madness that burned brighter within him every day, creeping him closer. All the way home from the tavern, he kept his eyes down, certain that if he raised them he would see his mother looking back at him from the face of every passerby.

The result of this was that he made it all the way home without noticing he was being followed.

He hadn't planned to go to sleep. He was drunk, and weary, yes, but sleep meant dreams, and on a night like this... Well. He hadn't planned to go to sleep when he threw himself dramatically on the divan, a book in hand--but the words on every page swam, shifting into his father's careful hand, your lady mother would be so proud, page after page until he exploded, tearing several out and tossing the ruined book across the room. He pulled a cushion over his head to muffle his roar of frustration, and then--

And then he was dreaming, the parlor of his new Destarin residence gone, replaced with the sprawling estate he'd been raised on. It was empty and silent, the warmth of the summer sun coming through the windows--and a pool of blood on the marble floor.

Voice trembling in a way it no longer did in life, Ariel said, "Mother?"

It was becoming harder to resist the nagging in the corners of his mind, the desire to slither his way into someone’s nightmares. It should have been a simple thought, for Tennyson had that innate understanding that sleep and illusion and dreams were where he needed to go. It had already worked once, on the poor soul beside his bed the night previous, as he blended himself into the shadows and concentrated into his subconscious.

He didn’t stay in there long, of course. Just made himself look like a friendly dog, to roam around and stretch his legs, so to speak. Tennyson needed the reminder of what it could do for him, and when he pulled himself out, he felt refreshed. Not as exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes weren’t as jarring. But it wouldn’t work on someone beside him - if he slipped up, it could spell trouble. The man had been at the hostel every day that Tennyson himself had.

So to the streets he went. He found a busier tavern, where he could keep himself blended in among the crowd, an average citizen doing the most mundane things as he scouted out the crowd.

Tennyson wasn’t sure why exactly he landed on this particular patron, but there was a sixth sense he had that there was something cooking in his mind, almost like a lure to a creature like himself. His close eye rewarded him when he stepped out of the tavern moments before his target exited. Tennyson kept himself blended in shadows as best as he could, but with lanterns and the hustle and bustle of the crowd, it had its difficulties.

Finally, coming up on a quieter street, he had his chance, darting between crates in the road, posts and whatnot, keeping himself safe in the shadows, seeing a house ahead. Perfect, this was a perfect spot in between lanterns to settle in, to mask himself within shadows before the other drifted off to his unassuming sleep.

All he had to do was wait.

@arielbeaumont

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel was early. It would have been rude not to be, he thought, and while Ariel was indisputably monstrous sometimes, he was not without manners. Seated at a table, he was idly swirling the contents of his glass of wine. He'd hardly touched it, really--it was nearing time for him to feed, and he could not help but find the cabernet a much less appealing vintage than the pretty barmaid's racing heart. His eyes were locked absently on that same pretty barmaid's throat when someone new entered The Kyngeshed, bringing with them the scents of freshly washed skin and spices, and--

Bellamy's friend was not difficult to spot--the broken horns, the shade of his skin, the already familiar signs of Bellamy's work on his garments. Ariel did not need to hear the man inquire after him at the bar to know this was the man he was expecting, but he heard it all the same.

Glass of wine abandoned on the table, Ariel stood, smoothing the front of his jacket down with one hand as he went. "You must be Merry," he said, and swept into a theatrical bow. "Ariel Beaumont, at your service." He straightened then, offered the tiefling a hand bedecked in golden rings, ready to press a kiss to his knuckles if it was taken. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance." Turning to the worker behind the bar, he added: "Tonight, anything my new friend desires is on me."

location: the kyngeshed - cheridi district

with: @arielbeaumont

It wasn't every day that someone sought his company, it was something he would have anticipated before, when he was still at his lord's court. Back then that would be numerous events and social gatherings that Merrymock graced with his presence but not so much here and now, regardless of the unexpected invitation to meet, it was of course only natural for the tiefling to pounce on it with all the airs of confidence that he had on offer, which was a lot. Because of course, it was only natural that one would want his company, he was very fine and attractive and had the best humour and believed himself to be the very best of company, it was only right that his attention would be sought and very wrong when it was not. Merry was therefore dressed in his best, keen on making a very good impression, which he was certain he could do even if he wore only a sack but his dear friend stitched together such lovely articles of clothing for him that he would be doing her a disservice if he didn't act as a walking talking advertisement for her talents. He even bathed and had little cloves nestled in the mess of his dark curls for an added bit of spice and fragrance.

Who exactly he was meant to be meeting, Merry was not entirely certain, at least, not of what they looked like. He'd been told what the man looked like but being told how someone looked and knowing them by sight were entirely two different things. It was much easier to identify Merry in a crowd of others for his features were so unique, a tiefling with broken horns and a prosthetic metal arm had a tendency to stick out. "Do you know if there is a... Ariel Beaumont here?" Merry inquired to the one working the bar, the sharp points of his nails tapping against the smooth surface of the bar top as he waited for a response, scanning those already in the tavern and those entering, trying to determine if he could recognize who he was meant to be meeting.

[arielbeaumont]

It was second nature to scrutinize her reaction to his answer—to analyze whether it was disappointment or relief that she hid behind her straightened shoulders and determine how he might be able to use it—but Ariel stopped the thoughts before they could go too far. There were few people Ariel was not willing to use for his own gain, but Bellamy was his friend, and he had no interest in dissecting her emotions in search of leverage.

“Do not waste your worries on me, my dear,” he said, waving a hand airily. “I shall endear myself to the locals somehow, I’m certain. Besides, I suspect my Princess’s true desires lie much closer to home than to dear old Destarin.” His smile turned sly at the last, for Bellamy knew the court’s dynamics as well as he.

“Ah, of course—the sun.” He tipped his head back to look at the night sky for a moment, as if he’d forgotten it existed. How strange to think of Bellamy confined to the darkness, and yet... “The moonlight suits you,” he said, and meant it. A shame though--he'd have enjoyed giving the crown's money to a friend.

His eyebrows raised minutely at the mention of her friend, obvious interest in his sapphire eyes. A friend of a friend would do just a nicely, wouldn't it? He was about to say as much, but stopped, lips parted at her final comment. Half a beat, and then he was smiling, understanding in his eyes. "Well, I shall have to match his generosity in kind, then, hmmm? Send him my way, darling, and I will see to it he receives the funds for as many bells and juggling balls as he requires."

Dramaticism was welcome, she enjoyed the indulgence and would readily indulge him as much when the appropriate time rose. "Please," she said of his compliment he would need commission something. It would be a joy, she was sure of it, to make something special for the man. Occasionally it was hard to find what people liked, as she did not know them, but she felt she could make something appropriate for his position with little reminders of his past that might make him smile. "You must come by the store one evening, I will get your measurements and create something awe inspiring," she insisted.

The subtle response at the mention of his father was to be expected, she was, at least, in a few ways, glad for his physical indications rather at the displeasure of the actions of her sire. She was much the same. Pain for a loved one held more merit to her than pain for another, and she had many times considered if she ripped the wings from another might she simply be able to sew them back into her skin. It was a complicated way to feel, or complicated to explain to those with a more robust empathy.

His lips pressing together however made her smile, he would enjoy how simple killing was here, how easy to simply throw a drained corpse into the waters of the dock or leave it behind a shady establishment. If only she had more on her to offer him, but everything she had bottled was in her small apartment by the docks or behind her sewing desk at work.

The 'no' was at least an immediate response, so her hope could not get to high, Bella slipping the vial she wore back into her corset, the chain remaining draped around her neck as her shoulders straightened once more, muscles at her back tight while her gaze lifted to him for the rest of his explaination.

"That makes far more sense," she reasoned aloud, glad he had not been here for the ball. No doubt she would have insisted he dance with her all evening to keep away inane company, but then she would not have met Notelaih... "I hope your Princess does not actually desire for you to be successful here, I would hate to see a target on your back from the locals," she mused what was partially concern and partially mere fact. "You grew close enough to her she sent you here though, something you did of your own volition?"

As for the festival Bella shook her head, playful smile on her lips. "Much like he we should not name I cannot go out in the daylight, so I have no use. I am hopeful I can convince my friend Merry to request some funds, he is a jester. I know he is desperately in need of a few things even if he might disagree with me on what exactly." Bella paused, considering the words she followed with.

"I will try and send him your way, if also because he is handsome and inclined to...generosity," Bellamy commented, sure that Ariel would catch her implications. Bella held no doubt Merry would flock to someone who would give into his desire for pain, to be bitten, and Ariel would need to feed beyond just killing drunkards in the dark, Bella knew she did. "I have never indulged...but he would with another."

[arielbeaumont]

There was distaste behind the compliment, perhaps, but Ariel showed no sign he'd noticed it. He had, of course--he wasn't an idiot, after all, even if he'd been known to play one when it was convenient. In this case, well--he was fancy and pretty and foppish. He could hardly take offense at someone noticing, and his new companion had no way of knowing Ariel did not altogether mind getting dirty--not yet, at least.

"A dog!" Another laugh at that, the hand he'd offered to shake withdrawing without note or visible offense. Ariel tipped his head to one side, leaned in to whisper, as if sharing a secret: "I quite like dogs, actually. A fine thing to be."

Though at the moment, he felt a little more like the proverbial cat that got the cream. If he looked just a little smug at the man's agreement, well, no one could blame him--and anyway, they'd have to see him first, and the expression only lingered a moment before it was driven away by the return of the still-plain serving girl, who set a bowl of stew and a pint of ale. He paid her, offered her the full force of his most charming smile, and, when she was gone, ventured a tentative spoonful of stew.

It was much more palatable than he'd feared--though not half as appetizing as the man sat across from him. "Delicious," he said, and then raised his glass in a salute to his companion. "A pleasure to meet you, Nolan Callaghan. A repair shop, how charming! You must forgive me for being unfamiliar. I feel a certain responsibility to get to know this lovely town, as I've been charged to do it service. What exactly do you repair, Mister Callaghan? Clocks? Jewelry? Children's toys?"

"Fancy man with a pretty face," Nolan grunted around a mouthful of stew, not even fully aware of the compliment he paid the other as he did so. "Stay too long and you will get your fancy clothes dirty." The words are said almost like a threat, but there's little weight behind them.

Nolan raised a brow as the man drew attention to himself, the energy he was exuding was the exact opposite of Nolan's.

"Ahhh, so you are their dog." Nolan looked at the man, the faintest hint of teasing in his eyes. "Fancy dog to do their bidding." He added with the smallest curl at the corner of his lips.

When their eyes met, Nolan's first reaction, of course, was to refuse the man's company. It was instinct at this point, to push others away. And yet, despite that, Nolan still found himself in the crowded taverns night after night, when he could so easily just take his food home with him if he craved solitude so much. Yet each night he found himself there, craving the noise and the pulsing of others around him. Despite his reluctance for company, he was lonely.

So that was what Nolan chalked it up to when he stared back at those unnatural blue eyes and grunted a reluctant reply.

"I guess I cannot stop you from staying," he spooned another generous mouthful of stew into his mouth before offering up his name with a grumble. "Nolan Callaghan. Owner of Callaghan's repair shop."

[arielbeaumont]

If asked, Ariel would swear he'd spent the day wandering from shop to shop, district to district, in the name of better acquainting himself with Destarin and its residents. It wouldn't even be a lie, really--but it was not the whole truth, either.

The truth was that Ariel liked to shop. And why shouldn't he? He was a wealthy man, he enjoyed fine things, and there was a whole town's worth of new--to him, at least--merchants and artisans to trade with.

There was already a wrapped parcel tucked beneath one arm when he ducked into the glass shop, but his purse was still heavy with coins waiting to be spent--and from the way he was marveling, delighted, at some of the more unusual figurines on display, he'd be spending some of it here.

"Yes," came the distracted reply to the question addressed to him, but it was half a moment before he turned away from the display. He gave a respectful-if-theatrical bow, grinning as he straightened up. "Ariel Beaumont, Emissary to the Crown of Withermore. Are you the artist, madam? Your work is... bewitching."

emissary | ariel & lilim

It was just like any other day in the shop. The witch had only arrived in Destarin a couple of months prior, but the mundane day to day was already starting to get to her. The only thing on the horizon she was even remotely looking forward to was the upcoming Strawberry Moon Faire.

Otherwise it was the typical day of sculpting more ceramics, creating more glass creatures. It hurt her to sell them, but she had to do something to keep her occupied. Otherwise she'd focus too much on the family that wasn't present, the company she craved the most.

She was pulled from her momentary reverie by the bell over the door sounding out, head tilting as she took in her newest customer. 'Anything I can do to help?"

@arielbeaumont

[arielbeaumont]

It was not, by any means, impossible to catch Ariel off-guard. He was an observant man, certainly, but... Well, he was prone to distraction--a pretty face, a particularly sweet-smelling pulse, a beautiful song, a fun game, one of his many visions--there were plenty of things that could grab Ariel's attention in such a way that he might not notice, say, a hand slipping into his pocket.

Unfortunately for the man who collided with him outside the shop in which Ariel had just purchased a new coat, today Ariel was paying attention--and while the would-be thief certainly had a pretty face, it was not quite distracting enough for Ariel to miss his clumsy attempt at theft.

"Yes, you should," Ariel agreed drolly. "You ought to pay better attention to a great many things, pet. For example--"

The hand not holding his wrapped purchase moved, deceptively-strong fingers wrapping around the stranger's wrist and removing the hand from his pocket, holding it up between them.

"My purse is in my other pocket. Or were you looking to grab a handful of my ass? I'm flattered, I'm sure, but you could at least ask my name first."

When it came to surviving, Jackson somehow managed by the skin of his teeth. Sure, his time spent with Auralia taught him some useful tricks and his natural reflexes helped, but Jackson was far too ruled by his impulses and greedy fingers to be that decent at pickpocketing, always finding himself trying things far beyond his level.

That and his brazen stupidity had Jackson following the golden-haired man down the street. He'd smelt him first, the strong whiff of soap mixed with flowers and spice had turned Jackson's head immediately. Even beyond his cleanliness, the man stuck out like a rose among weeds in the grime of the trade district, and Jackson couldn't help from practically drooling at the thought of how much money the man could be carrying on him and how many drinks that could buy him.

With the money he hadn't even earned already spent in his head, Jackson watched as the man entered a shop, disappearing for a few minutes while he ran through his half-assed plan in his head. When the man exited the shop shortly after, Jackson ducked his head and was moving with little hesitation. Their shoulders collided as he'd planned, his fingers quietly moving to slip into the other man's pocket as he rattled off an exaggerated apology with the tip of his head that was meant to help distract from his sneaky fingers.

"Sorry, pardon me, I should watch where I'm going, my apologies, sir."

@arielbeaumont

[arielbeaumont]

Ariel didn't bother to hide his interest as the younger man seemed to shed a layer of his garment. Let him appear lascivious and lustful--he frequently was lascivious and lustful, and who could blame him, anyway, when the man was practically unwrapping himself like a present? Certainly, there was some amount of aesthetic appreciation in his interest.

But that was not his only interest. It was curiosity more than anything that lit a spark in Ariel's eye as his gaze flicked from wicked blades to tattooed skin, taking in the characters inked there. They were not a language Ariel knew; he'd have thought them abstract if not for the hints of the familiar he could pick out here and there. They were beautiful, in their way. Ariel wanted to commit them to memory, to recreate them on parchment and study them--but that would have required an unsettling amount of staring, and he'd only just got his companion to sit down.

Curious eyes lifted at the question, Ariel's grin stretching into something just a little bit wicked. It was so tempting to tease, to press, to see if there was more of that almost-flirtation under the cool surface, and Ariel did not often resist temptation--besides, if he could get this man into bed, he'd certainly get a better look at those curious tattoos, wouldn't he?

He only managed a conspiratorial, "Did you want it to be?" before the arrival of the waiter stopped him. He understood every word of the order, of course, but there was no trace of that understanding on his face, only that same wicked grin, tongue running idly over his own teeth.

"You have my gratitude for your assistance," he said when the waiter had departed. "I've heard much about the lawless, boorish manners of Destarin, and yet I am made so very welcome. Ah--and yet here I am, forgetting my own manners! How uncivilized you must think me."

A hand was offered across the table, gold rings and gems glinting on three of his fingers. "Ariel Beaumont, Emissary to the Crown of Withermore."

An invitation, Hastalik observing the cleanliness of the man's shoes. Many who lived within the town had near permanent stains on their shoes and at the bottom of their garments from wandering about the various dirty districts. This man's attire showed no signs of wear and tear, so he was either wealthy enough to avoid them or new enough to have been unaffected yet. He considered both, especially as both could be true at once.

Hastalik considered Oh Chung Ae within the offer, he was meant to be following him, reminding the witch that his efforts within the town were always being watched, but as he took a cautionary glance around the establishment Chae was not there. So the witch grabbed at the layer of fabric, no longer black from the bleaching of the sun, wrapped over his shoulders and removed it. More cloth beneath but this time shaped, wrapped around his torso and tucked into the layered belt of fabric around his hips and waist. It was clear all parts of what he were were simply the same sheet of fabric styled differently.

"I can offer some assistance for the evening," he agreed, blades by his sides now exposed as were his hands, both covered in runes. The blades themselves were engraved, while his cinnamon skin was inked with markings, not a language of Cheridi, something specific to the coven itself but based on one of the languages from the center kingdom. Some runes were likely able to be guessed but they would be educated guesses rather than facts. The most prominent one seemed to wrap around his wrist, imitating what could have been read as 'necrosis' but mixed with another word 'truth' or 'pure.' Certainly bastardised by any means.

Hand on the table, aware he could not hide the markings but assuming they could not be read, he ran his index finger along the soft wood. "Company could be good for the evening," he acknowledged, even if it felt dangerous. This was what he was meant to do. Without needing 'missions' or 'tasks' from the coven. He was meant to charm dark things, lure them somewhere, and destroy them mentally and physically. He didn't like the thought, for a moment looking away in the direction of the kitchen, giving himself excuses that it was too busy in here to lure someone anywhere, people would notice and besides he didn't know how important this evidently rich man was.

The gaze flicked back at the promise to not bite, warm brown eyes not believing it for a moment. Index finger making a small circle on the wood as he observed the brilliant blue in the blonde's eyes.

"Was that an option?"

He didn't mean for it to sound like he was flirting, it was meant to sound strong, threatening perhaps, but as Hastalik was not strong in his intentions it did not come out as such. It came out like a need, a desperation. He wished he could swallow the words back up and try again.

Fortunately, perhaps, the waiter appeared, dark hair slicked back as he gave a nod to both Ariel and Hastalik, lower to Ariel than to the witch who he knew. Requesting both of their orders, Hastalik leaning up and placing the order entirely in the language of the waiter. Not to show off, but simply because it was how he typically ordered, and it seemed like another language might clear up the tone on his tongue he had previously been victim to. He ordered exactly what he had suggested to Ariel for them and then for himself too.

[arielbeaumont]

If looks could kill, Ariel had no doubt this man's glower would have done him in, but unfortunately for his dinner companion, the dhampir was made of sturdier stuff than that. The displeasure radiating from him was as tangible as smoke--and for the space of a breath it was smoke, great clouds of it, billowing around him, Ariel could see it, smell it, thick and choking and filling the tavern--and then it was gone again, a slight tick in his jaw the only outward sign of the brief hallucination.

Neither the hallucination, nor the glare, intimidating as it was, were enough to deter Ariel. He continued to smile, unperturbed, as if the human had answered him with a rousing welcome rather than considering silence.

"Someone like me?" he asked, with a laugh and a press of one hand against his chest. "And what, pray tell, am I like, hmm? I assure you I am not too high-born to enjoy the fine fare of this tavern and the pleasure of your company, sir, though it flatters me you think I look it. Do you think me a prince? I have the jaw for it, no?"

He sat up straighter, posturing, chin tipped up regally, as if posing for a royal portrait, before he laughed, bright and loud--loud enough to draw glances of other patrons, though Ariel did not seem to notice.

"No, I am not royalty, only their ever loyal servant." A hand held out in introduction, gold rings shimmering in the light. "Ariel Beaumont, Emissary to the Crown of Withermore." And then, unnaturally bright blue eyes meeting the human's, Ariel gave the gentlest of psychic pushes as he added. "Surely you could use company this evening, too."

Unlike some, Nolan had come to the tavern for the stew. It wasn't one he frequented that often except on the specific nights that he knew they'd be serving the thick, creamy stew. He'd been watching the barmaid walking through the tavern with his food, too preoccupied by the anticipation of his meal to notice the man until he was already seated. Tensing visibly, the annoyance rolled off of him like a wave and his dark eyes narrowed towards the stranger.

Nolan had been around long enough by now to have built up a reputation as someone that did not like to be bothered, espeically when all he wanted to do was enjoy a meal in peace.

Grimy fingers curl around his spoon as Nolan's eyes traveled over the other, taking in the pristine clothing and unnatural eyes while he shoveled a hearty spoonful of the stew into his mouth, his unimpressed expression unchanged.

Chewing slowly, Nolan considered the man for a moment, a rumble of displeasure rising in his chest that he swallowed down with his food, knowing better than to start something with someone who was likely inhuman in someway.

"And what could someone like you possibly find stimulating in a place like this?" Nolan raised a brow before scooping another mouthful of stew, trying his best to convey his disinterest in socialising.

[arielbeaumont]

When spending the day out do you prefer solitude or company?

"Oh, give me company, please! Not that I don't find myself exceedingly pleasant, but it seems a terrible waste for my wit and charm to go without an audience, doesn't it?"

[arielbeaumont]

So you do call him father? Or does he make you call him something else? Master? Supreme Seeder?

"Father, yes, or 'sir' if you're groveling. It's less about paternal affection, and more about authority, you understand; to call him anything else is to be punished. I expect his current crop of youths is the same, though I should very much like to see his face if one of my brethren were to try out Supreme Seeder. Good way to lose your head, but it would certainly be entertaining."