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[Luvadros Orthilia]

Winter 33, 510 AV There had to be more accounts, divergent theories. Well over a dozen generations had passed since the Valterrian, since his people had developed this affliction. Luvadros was unwilling to accept that, in all that time, none other had made much attempt at finding a solution beyond the mass kidnapping of foreign females and the ceaseless thinning of their blood through such practices. His tutor had certainly intimated as much, and it was true that the Esterian movement was relatively young, but there had to be some division between the great medical minds of the past. The young idealist was determined to find it. It wasn't common for him to embark to the Cribellum on his own, though he was beginning to suspect he'd need to make the trip regularly. Despite their unrestrained objections to his chosen abstinence regarding surrogates, the Orthilia Web approved heartily of his pursuit of a medical career even if such held no history with them. It was reasonably prestigious and well-paying and, they hoped, might influence him away from his current rebellion in seeing how desperately the surrogates were needed for their people to continue. Thusly, it was the elders of his family that had paid for his private lessons, continuing his education past that all Symenestra received. This was appreciated, but now... Recognizing the feasibility of it being mere paranoia, Luvadros had nevertheless begun to suspect that his education was being carefully controlled to steer him back towards the mainstream beliefs. Resenting any such duplicitous control, he meant to chart his own course toward the knowledge he sought. The Cribellum, after all, was open to all Symenestra and the elder Orthilia couldn't possibly keep him entirely from such research. Or could they? A brief twinge of doubt had his step faltering as he entered the large, open room of the library's great hall. There, not thirty paces away and reading intently by the soft illumination that bathed the interior, was his cousin, Vikenti. A thirst for knowledge was not a trait he recalled in the slightly older male, hence his immediate suspicion that his relations were keeping tabs on him. Never having been one to hide or submit, and generally more direct than was in his best interest, this suspicion only had him walking decisively toward the familiar Symenestra, pausing just where he would cast a shadow over the tome being supposedly read so his presence could not be missed. “Vikenti, what are you...?” Trailing off, he simply stared at the other man, dark brows pulling together as something he couldn't quite identify struck him as out of place. Perhaps it was simply Vikenti in the Cribellum as he'd already considered, but there seemed to be more that wasn't quite right.

[Laszlo]

A familiar name—not his—stirred the quiet peace that had settled in the dome of the Cribellum, reaching Laszlo's ears with the gentle insistence of a feather's polite fall. The glittering amethysts of the false Symenestra's eyes were lifted from his reading, meeting the gaze of man who looked at him as if he were a puzzle. It was no one Laszlo could recognize, at least there was no name he could ascribe to this particular face. Whoever it was, he knew Vikenti. His eyes were violet, hair dark, so he might have been family. Nassanye hadn't yet introduced Laszlo to every member of the Orthilia Web. "Sorry, you're mistaken," he replied evenly, in Common rather than Symenos. He rested the tips of his nails on the last passage he had read, lest he lose his place in the tome. Tonight, Laszlo's research into Symenestra culture had not been entirely fruitful. He had been attempting to find passages written by Vethis Orthilia, but short of reading through articles written roughly during the time when Vethis was alive, there was no easy way of tracking down any particular author. "I'm not Vikenti, but we share a certain resemblance. My name is…" Nassanye was still calling him Vethis. Laszlo grimaced. He was Vethis, and yet he wasn't. That name represented another identity, another life, one the Ethaefal couldn't remember living. Using that name felt like wearing a shirt that no longer fit. "I'm Nassanye's friend, Laszlo. The Ethaefal she's been keeping around." Laszlo didn't move from his seat, keeping the book in his lap. The language of the Symenestra was still a challenge for him to interpret, so he hoped that the stranger's grasp on Common was at least somewhat firm. The Ethaefal could speak Symenos if he tried, but it slipped away from him quickly if he thought about it too much, like the slipping grasp on the memory of a dream. "I don't think we've met?"

[Luvadros Orthilia]

For the briefest of moments Luvadros considered that rather than spying on him, his cousin had suffered some serious blow to the head. First caught reading in the Cribellum—I'm surprised he even knows where it is, he thought to himself in mocking exaggeration—something in hthe seated Symenestra's gaze had also seemed off, and now he was spouting gibberish. Seconds later he registered that they were in fact words, just not in a language he'd expected to hear. Indeed, outside of lessons, the only place he ever heard the Common tongue was in overheard snippets while climbing past some visitor's basket transport. Well, no, there had been the occasions he'd been taken to the Purging for a practical lesson in his medical studies. There it could be heard in agonized screams; he'd tried to ignore that, though. While compounding the little inconsistencies was hardly helpful in explaining them, before he could get too irritated his supposed cousin cleared things up, still speaking a language he only mostly knew and rarely practiced, each words taking a moment to translate in his head. The surprise that registered on his face was therefore a gradual addition, not having expected this. Suspicious nature aside, there was little doubt that the quasi-Symenestra was speaking honestly. While it remained possible he was being misled, this made more sense. Why would the family even try and conceal it if they were watching him closely? There had never been any pretense concerning their disapproval of his established beliefs before. No, in all probability this was a simpler and yet most bizarre encounter for the young man. “I see,” he replied slowly, holding to Symenos and disregarding the clear opening for him to introduce himself. This was a Symenestra city, after all; it was the proper language to speak. But no, he was just being petulant, he knew. As much as he disliked the language, he had taken the time to learn at least a smattering of it and that seemed a wasted effort if he were going to abjectly refuse to use it. “The definition you have of 'friend' is a strange one,” he continued, making the switch. It was apparent this was not his native tongue, his syntax a little odd if still not strictly incorrect. “The title I shall call you, it is grandfather?” Even through his somewhat clumsy command of the language, a degree of sardonicism was likely clear, though admittedly it was slightly less than he'd have leveled at his actual cousin. This was a strange situation for him; he was not at all sure how he felt about this imposter dwelling in the city, much less with the Orthilia Web. Their heated disagreements and his general dissatisfaction with Viratas aside, he remained fiercely loyal in the sense he would not tolerate anything that truly damaged his family or people. At the same time, if all the Ethafael inflicted was a bit of apprehension and uncertainty, he could appreciate the focus this would take off his own so-called indiscretion. At last he gave his introduction along with a curt nod. “I am named Luvadros. Orthilia... 'black sheep,' I believe so goes the expression.”

[Laszlo]

The gentile courtesy fell from the Ethaefal's face, for a moment replaced with something closer to dread. His violet eyes grew a little wider, and were Laszlo's complexion not already ashen, he might have gone pale. "I'd… prefer if you didn't," he stammered clumsily, tossing his eyebrows and quickly looking back down to his book. Belatedly, an amused, if nervous smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "My existence is confusing enough without attaching familial terms. Please, it's just Laszlo." The Ethaefal turned and set his open book on the nearby desk, pages still parted to his current article. He rose from his seat then, his eyes lingering for a moment longer to finish one last sentence, his progress monitored by the gentle trace of a black claw. Finally, he looked up to address the other Symenestra properly. A hand swept toward a nearby chair, to politely invite Luvadros to sit. Luvadros, Luvadros… Laszlo tried to remember whether that name had been mentioned to him before. Certainly there must have been some rumors if there was a black sheep in the Orthilia family, but thus far most of the conversations Laszlo had had about the Web were introductory, about Symenestra culture in general. The Ethaefal had been treated more like a pitiable amnesiac and a curiosity than a member of the family. Not that Laszlo minded much, either way. "Pleasure to meet you, Luvadros." The Ethaefal studied the Symenestra's features, looking for hints of his own, if he truly was a grandchild of Vethis. Briefly, he gave an attempt as Symenos. "Symenos is… not easy for me, yet." His accent was surprisingly diminished for someone who claimed to not speak the language, though it maintained a noticeable Syliran drawl. He reverted to Common immediately. "Feel free to sit, if you like. I'd hate to have to maintain an awkward distance out of social uncertainty." In order to avoid an uneasy silence, Laszlo politely continued. "I'm still getting acclimated to the Web. You're not one of Syrladiv's children, I'm guessing?"

[Luvadros Orthilia]

The false Symenestra's response to Luvadros' insincere offer of calling him grandfather gave the second pause. He'd initially assumed the otherworldly man would attempt to milk his strange circumstance for all he could, but it seemed he was no more comfortable with the arrangement than some of the Web itself was proving. Or at least that was the veneer being provided at the moment. The suspicious young man was more than ready to believe this was some deception, but he'd yet to find any evidence of such. He would accept the proffered disposition for now. “As it is you wish, Laszlo,” he replied with a slight nod. His habit of addressing those who were not of the Orthillia Web formally by their surname did not apply, not because he considered the man family—though honestly he'd have resorted to keeping his relations at comfortable arms' length as well if not for the awkwardness of referring to so many people is one room as “Mr. Orthillia”—but rather because he didn't count Laszlo as Symenestra at all. Formal address, used defensively or not, was too good for outsiders. The nod came again in response to the polite greeting, the same returned with a somewhat bland, “Charmed, I am certain.” The switch to Symenos arched his eyebrows by a degree, mildly surprised to find it sounded not nearly so clumsy as most travelers who attempted it. Indeed, it was likely closer to “proper speech” than his own forays into Common. Some accent was noticeable, but as Luvadros was hardly well-traveled himself, he couldn't identify it. Reverting to the native tongue himself, he stated with a hint of reproach, “You'll want to learn if you intend to stay for any length of time.” Glancing to the offered seat, his violet eyes briefly scanned the room, roaming over the shelves and volumes he'd meant to look into. He knew they held things of interest to him, a certainty he didn't feel about the Ethaefal. Still, the journals would remain, ready to be sorted through at any time. The same mightn't be true of the strangely timeless creature. Giving in to curiosity, he sank a mite stiffly into the chair with a clipped, “Thank you,” again using Common for the other man's benefit. A snort that belied his derision was blown through his pale nose, followed quickly with, “No, and thank Viratas for this.” Really it was unlikely the family tension would have been significantly greater had he been an offspring of the firstborn, but as his uncle's immediate family was a little more removed, they were easier for him to vilify. “I am Vodranth's child. The youngest of his. I like it to think that my father and I both being the sons second born keeps him from claiming I am liar child, not truly his.” It was an exaggeration—Luvadros knew he'd have to do quite a lot worse than being an outspoken Esterian to actually get disowned—but the opportunity to air his dramatic thoughts to one who was somewhat detached from the whole thing was a rare opportunity. “And you?” he continued conversationally. “Who is Laszlo, if not a blessing from Viratas, dear, lost long grandfather returned to offer guidance?” There was that sardonic tone again. It never withdrew for long.

[Macabre]

Thread Award

Luvadros Orthilia
XP Interrogation +1
Lore N/A

Laszlo
XP Subterfuge +2
Lore N/A

I’m sorry I couldn’t award much. It was the beginning of a meet and greet, however interesting it could turn out to be. Thanks, Luvadros (if you ever see this), for not being entirely clueless about the fact that an Ethaefal found its way into your Web. Everyone knows everyone else’s business in Kalinor, and I enjoyed reading your reaction to grand-daddy chillin’ at the Cribellum.