When Giants Collide (Ambrose and Ifran)

[Ambrose Kain]

22nd of Winter, 511 The Crook, so it was called. What, like the crook of one's arm? Or a crook, a charlatan, out to trick innocents out of their money? Either way, the name puzzled Ambrose, yet he'd promptly forgotten his puzzlement as soon as the play had begun. He couldn't even say what the name of it was, let alone the plot--he'd received the tickets to the play only an hour or two earlier, thrust into his hands after he'd befriended a talkative Svefra on her way through the city. She'd purchased them on a whim the day before, only to realize she wouldn't be in town long enough to attend. Always eager for new adventure, Ambrose had immediately made his way to the appointed location, a process that had taken him nearly all the time allotted, thanks to the capricious behavior of the streets. He arrived outside of the Crook, tired but looking forward to the play, to find himself amid a throng of other patrons already on their way inside. The size of the place surprised him; like most places in Alvadas, its insides were deceptively different from what could be seen without, and he wasn't sure what to make of all the strange angles and mishmash of colors. At least the stage, itself peculiarly precise and careful in its layout, provided a fair view of the actual drama. A drama which, in retrospect, Ambrose couldn't say he'd fully understood, but had immensely enjoyed. He only remembered a few details from the actual dialogue--he was mostly intrigued by the variety of characters present in the play. The six-armed man was the most surprising. Ambrose had met only a tiny handful of other Eypharians since arriving in Alvadas, and he could not boast of knowing any of them particularly well. All the rumors he'd picked up bespoke of a proud race not easily cowed, and what he'd experienced first-hand did not disagree with that sentiment. Thus it seemed out of place for an Eypharian to deign to partake in a play where he was not the central hero, but only a side character--and a nearly buffoonish one, and that. Well, not a buffoon...but definitely an 'outsider.' Ambrose could only wonder at what circumstances would lure a proud exotic outlander to agree to such a role. As the play reached its dramatic conclusion, and the visiting populace of Alvadas and other more far-reaching cities made their way out into the wild streets, Ambrose lingered. He didn't know the procedures for such a large theatre--given its size, he would assume the actors rarely if ever made contact with the audience after the figurative curtain fell, but he thought he'd try his hand anyway. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else especially important to be that evening. And besides, that lead actor had been quite the looker--Ambrose would not have minded sneaking an up-close look at him, not at all. Uncertain of how many exits the stage had, Ambrose made his way as far back as he dared, finally pausing outside a location that looked to be a stage door. He had the vague feeling he wasn't supposed to be there, but until someone explicitly told him to leave, he could always linger, could he not? He tried to look a little busy picking up pieces of trash off the ground, past pamphlets and tickets and half-chewed stubs of cigarettes, which he discreetly found a receptacle or dark corner to deposit them in. Of course, he was dressed like a gentleman and not like a janitor, but hopefully he looked harmless enough that he could loiter long enough to catch a closer look, if not a word, with the exiting actors and actresses.*

[Ifran]

The performance had been a success all things considered, though Master Fabel promised notes on the morrow. Ifran did not mind, finding himself to be more of a perfectionist than even the exigencies of the theater's manager made him. Anything worth doing was worth doing right, and theater was his life. Politics would one day be his stage, he hoped, but for the time being, he was content to be a part of the alchemization of the air, the breath passed between artist and audience, and back and forth until they finally spilled out of the house and into the streets such as now. He knew the chill was coming. Alvadas had a winter that even the coldest nights in Ahnatep could not prepare a man for, but luckily a costumer had taken a shine to him, or at least the styles of his people, and had fashioned him proper clothes, but of a heavier wool than the lighter things he preferred. All that impressive skin was covered from the tip of his pedicured toe even up to the light hood covering up his dark hair. In the light of the streetlamp, his ivory skin looked cooler, like malleable marble, and he was a hard man under all the suave adaptability of his training. But knowing the chill was coming only allowed him to enter into the night without tensing up his muscles, without hissing at the unwelcome cold. If only he could make it to the Sun and Stars, Victor's drink would warm his belly, or Seven's or Laszlo's, depending on who was working. His forward progress was arrested, however, by the stooping form of some man picking things up from the ground before him. His dress was too fine to be a servant or an indigent, but then, they were in Alvadas and things were rarely what they seemed. "Pardon," he said, the musical timbre of his voice inviting one to listen, even with such a banal request.

[Ambrose Kain]

Somewhat lost to his reflective musings and daydreams, most of them involving the lead actor of whom Ambrose had become quite enamored during the several-bell run of the play, he had shamefully dropped his usual awareness of his surroundings. The voice startled him, and he stood up too quickly, very nearly crowning himself on a low-hanging beam that stuck at a juxtaposed angle from the supporting wall. "Oh," he answered, feeling a shiver of awareness rise on his hackles as he put voice to form. It was the first time he'd held the direct gaze of an Eypharian, and he found the exotic race to be as--if not more--intimidating up close than they were from afar. Though the heavy clothing worn by the man--could one call an Eypharian a man?--obscured his form somewhat, there was no hiding those multiple arms, or the cool pride behind his stare. Ambrose' smile broke into something less assured of itself, and he had to work to draw himself straight, not shrink back into the shadows. Luckily Ambrose was not a man easily cowed, or he probably would have high-tailed it already. "You're one of the actors," he announced, too oblivious to the inanity of his statement to hold it back. The Eypharian might be a mystery to him, but Ambrose knew enough about theatre, and about actors in general, to suppose that even (if not especially) an Eypharian would be glad of compliments. So Ambrose thrust his hand out, following the Zeltivan custom of putting a physical gesture to every significant line of dialogue, and said effusively, "That was wonderful, really riveting! Well done, sir! Er--" Fumbling a bit, he reached into the pockets under his tunic, producing his rumpled copy of the pamphlet and a small writing utensil. "Beg your pardon if it's not the custom here, but may I request your autograph?"*

[Ifran]

"I am," he agreed, and if he was not exactly warm, he was certainly polite, which was more than could be said for most. He did not dismiss a man skulking about outside the talent door, nor smirk at the rush of words of which his tongue could barely keep track. "You are too kind," he said, a hand on his heart and an incline to his head for all the compliments. "The customs here are as strange to me as they might be to you," he offered, taking the pamphlet and stylus. "I will sign my name for you if you wish. Ah..." His dark brow furrowed for a moment. "I believe I am supposed to address it to you. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?" Holding those things in readiness, dark blue eyes fell upon the comely youth, the entirety of his attention granted for that moment. Ifran of the House of the North Winds was as much courtier as artist, having grown up among the Noble Houses of Ahnatep, but surely even he would happily receive sincere compliments.

[Ambrose Kain]

Privately, Ambrose had feared that the exotic creature would have his mystery betrayed by a common accent and proclivity for slang. He was pleased to find that wasn't the case. Beaming hugely, he echoed the Eypharian's nod, then glanced at the pamphlet held in his many hands. Such interesting hands... "Ambrose Kain," he supplied in a rapid breath, and continuing to follow impulse, he held out his own hand for a shake. It was true to custom to shake hands with new acquaintances from where he was, but more than that, he wanted very much to know what the touch of an Eypharian's skin felt like. Belatedly fearing his eagerness might be explicit in his expression, Ambrose coughed self-consciously and tilted his gaze away. Luckily there was plenty to ogle in the haphazardly constructed theatre, though even the most bizarre woodhewn trapezoid paled in interest compared to the Eypharian. "So you're...you're not from here then?" What a stupid question. Who heard of an Eypharian being born and raised in Anhatep? "I-I mean, you're a recent transplant?" Where did most Eypharians come from? On the spot, Ambrose couldn't recall, but he hesitated to ask. The Eypharian might be tired of hearing such mundane questions, or even offended by them.*

[Ifran]

"Ambrose Kain," he said with the strange cadences of Arumenic, then again with more perfect recall. He had the trained ear of a singer, after all. "Ambrose Kain." Ambrose Kain, You are looking at me with admiration, and it humbles me. May you find your truth, whether in a theater or wherever else fate and your feet take you. Best wishes, ifran As he wrote these things -- they might even have been true words -- one of his free hands reached out to clasp Ambrose's. The tall Eypharian's hand was cool on the surface, but as they pressed their skin together, a hidden warmth seeped through, a dry heat as if he had absorbed decades of the desert to give off in the future when his path took him to colder climes. With a solemn smile, he handed back Ambrose's things. "I came at the beginning of the year," he assured him, "from Ahnatep by way of Riverfall with its jewel-toned men. I fear my stay in Alvadas will not be permanent, though. I will spend some seasons here, but the desert calls me back. I do not approve of such cold." He smiled again as if charmed by Ambrose's stammering, a smile that assured him everything will be all right. Crocodiles did that sometimes, smiled.

[Ambrose Kain]

Bubbling with energy and nervousness, Ambrose did not read the note at first. He bowed his head in eager thanks, tucking the pamphlet against his chest with little care for if the message became smudged. He was much more interested in keeping his gaze arrested on the Eypharian, imagining his words with the vividness afforded him by an overactive imagination. On his travels, Ambrose had already passed by a few deserts, and he found them arid, uncomfortable affairs. Still, it was all in what a body grew up used to; he understood that. "Ah, yes. I miss Zeltiva as well," he admitted, figuring a bit of relating might ease the conversation along. He had the feeling that every moment was stolen, and the Eypharian was only engaging in talk out of politeness, but he still intended to make full use of his first chance at talking to one of the exotic beings up close. Casting about for something to discuss, he glanced down at the pamphlet in his hand, then finally made note of what the actor had written. He felt heat rise to his cheeks, and quickly looked up to give apology. "I-I don't mean to stare," he blurted, then, cringing a bit, tried to temper his words. "I-I mean...I fully...I do not intend to offend you, by any means. But you are very handsome--ah, you have such presence, I guess I should say? Or..." It wasn't like him to get so tongue-tied. Privately, Ambrose chastised himself, wondering where all his wits had gone. The moment's reflection allowed him to step back from himself a bit, and recapture some of the smooth comportment he was more akin to. "You must have been acting for a long time, elsewise you're a natural. Have you always had an interest in the theatre?" Ambrose asked, with hardly a trace of his nervousness from just a few seconds ago.*

[Ifran]

Whatever Ifran's interior monologue, he made no move to leave or hurry Ambrose along. For the moment, he had the entirety of the Eypharian's intense regard. Dark blue eyes were almost black in the vespertine light, reflecting back lamplight and little else. His smile was the masterwork of an artist's brush, and he smiled for Ambrose. Had he not met the aesthetic criteria, he would not have been pulled aside to be trained to the Semhu in Ahnatep, or to a different purpose within the high art. "Zeltiva is cosmopolitan, I understand," he said. "And home to many a pre-Valterrian building. It must be beautiful." But Zeltiva was words on a page, a point on a map to him. When he said beautiful, his eyes were on Ambrose himself. Whether it was meant as a compliment or not was open to debate. He laughed at Ambrose's discomfiture after reading the note, but it was not unkind. And he noted the quick change in demeanor with interest; apparently he was not the only actor, though perhaps Ambrose was not paid for it. "Thank you," he said simply, without false modesty or reveling overmuch in the admiration of others. "In Ahnatep, we are chosen young for looks, grace, voice, and intelligence before training for the Semhu. You might know it as Eypharian opera? In any case, I was five when apprenticed to my master, Taharqa, and it was seven years of intense study before I was taken on as an apprentice at the Royet Theatre. So perhaps a natural, as you say, but honed and tempered, as well. And you need not apologize for looking. I was literally made to be looked at, and heard as well."

[Ambrose Kain]

"Oh," Ambrose breathed quietly, a little taken-aback at the fluidity of Ifran's speech. He was certainly dazzling, and more and more, Ambrose found himself unable to look away. As strange as the Eypharian was, he was twice as fascinating, and Ambrose struggled to hide his expression as images flitted through his mind of running his hands over all that smooth, golden flesh. What would laying with a six-armed man feel like? "So you're a singer," Ambrose's mouth said, but his mind was far separated from the course of his words. There had been some singing in the play, but as Ifran had not played the central role, Ambrose hadn't paid as much attention to him during the musical numbers. Now he rued losing his chance to absorb what sort of voice the Eypharian had. "That's...that's very impressive. And convenient! An instrument you will always have with you, that you will never have to worry about forgetting at home." He laughed then, and patted his side, but came away with a slight frown. "Speaking of forgetting, I just recalled I left my flute in my inn room tonight. Ah, but then, I'm only an amateur." Well, that wasn't quite true--Ambrose had received a great deal of praise for his flute-playing before, though such praise may as well have been directed at his looks than any actual skill--but still, it wouldn't do to go bragging to an actual paid actor. "A-anyway, ah...were you on your way out? I apologize for keeping you, if so. Ah..." It startled him a little to realize it, but he really didn't want to part with Ifran yet. The Eypharian interested him too greatly--there was so much his naturally inquisitive mind wanted to know. "...Are you hungry? I didn't have time to eat before the play, so I'm actually quite famished. Perhaps you'll let me treat you, as thanks for your taking this time to address the concerns of a rabid fan?" Ambrose laughed again, and all the air seemed lighter for it. As his mother had often said, he was a buoyant spirit.*

[Ifran]

"A singer, yes," he said, "and it is a convenient thing at times, though it also requires a great deal of maintenance and care." He had to be moderate with his alcohol, his smoke, and his coffee. Many things dried out the vocal apparatus; some of the more intense artists abstained entirely, but Ifran was of the mind that one had to live life in order to bring the proper gravitas to a role, but he only argued the intricacies of the art with other artists. Civilians tended to walk away with bruised feelings. "I cannot eat overmuch before a performance, so I do tend to find something afterward. If you would not mind the company, I would go with you, whether to a restaurant, or to find your flute." Ah, so much could be blamed on the translation of Arumenic thoughts to Common words. Certainly there was nothing in his demeanor to say that he was being forward, untoward, or flirtatious, but his words... "Please, Master Ambrose, lead the way."