43, Spring of 504
He suddenly felt under dressed in his ages sailor's attire, holes agape about the ensemble. The city was alive with festival. No celebration, though. Wet, dark, mysterious. There was no joy in this land, no happiness. But, Trente hadn't come to the floating city for happiness, he conspired to leave his fool-hearty ambitions, and childish hoped behind him, in the distant past, with a soft skinned whore he called a mother. Right where they belonged. No, he came to Ravok for pleasure. Biting his lip he gave an inviting smile to some masked young girls, drifting by upon boat's grace. With a giggle back, he fought to avoid the temptation. With a far from shy wink, he ran off, excitement boiling in his veins. Oh how invigorating the city was, it smelt of it, people, sweat, the thick stench of people, and not an pinch of salt to be detected in the air. It was nothing like the Suvan, and he loved it all the more for this.
Focused, he went jogging down the streets, grin across his face. It was silly, exposing well kept teeth, and tossing his rather unkempt hair asunder in tufts of knotted and bouncing fuzz. He didn't mind, not then. Smiles were still easy for him, this was a time before he learned to be sad, because he learned how to show the pain that scared him. He was the child he had never been able to be on the outside, but always, that scared dying boy would live within him, clawing to get out, to find nourishment for his soul. He would fight back, with winks to girls, and sheening white grins. He was youthful, and he wasn't about to waste another moment of that youth on pain, on suffering.
It towered above him, not the registrars office, but the temple. Never had Trente seen such a construct, in all his travels. It struck fear into his heart, it invigorated him. He stopped to admire it, and its slopes, bold and elegant. Like an older women, he thought, and if legend was true plenty were to be found inside. He laugh out loud, but brought no looks to himself, through the partying crowd, drink in hands, circling about him. There was something unsettling about this, that a laughing boy such as himself in the street brought no queer looks. He dismissed it, and decided to take the sensation as a good sign. He was among familiars.
Drawing his coin purse closer, to keep an eye on it, Trente walked confidently into the smaller building, nestled within the cool afternoon shadow of the temple.
A burst of silence numbed his ears as he passed into the silent office. His head spun slightly from the alteration of mood, and his smile melted deftly away, faltering from lack of focus on what maintained it. His soul felt crushed, chained, and his throat grew tight, the stagnant air gathering in him till he had to clear his throat, drawing more than a look or two from those around him. His cheeks felt hot, mostly from the run there, and he gave a half hearted smile to those that quickly noticed he hadn't intended to draw attention to himself. One, that no doubt thought themselves helpful pointed to a stack of empty papers, waiting to steal Trente's life into flat copy.
Trente gave no sign of appreciation as he followed the silent direction, and took a sheet. His nose wrinkled slightly at the whole process. He hated writing, he truly did. His spelling was atrocious, and his calligraphy sub par at best.
Only then did he bother looking to the previously faceless person who pointed him to the stack. A women, thin of frame, kinky auburn hair, and face dressed with well applied makeup. Much needed makeup. Trent stifled a laugh, and turned it to a smile, what he believed to be charming and flirtatious. In truth his haughty grin won nothing but a knowing and offended look by the off putting, and off put women.
Trente, with some measure of poise and grace, strolled forward, so that he might speak quietly with the women, leaning against a tall desk, with quill in hand. "Thank you so much for directing me the stack there, I would have missed it for sure. I can be so selective in awareness at times. Luckily, I was looking at you." He leaned against the desk as well, mimicking her fashion, and faced her with that same haughty smile.
Her expression offered no warmth in return, in fact gave quite the opposite expression, which Trente missed as he looked to her paper. She appeared to be applying as well, and her hand writing was simply immaculate. Well, not quite, but certainly better than his. He took a moment to look at her name, Brillantia D'Tairro. Trente was surprised at the pretty name, it was so unfitting.
"Oh, Brillantia, what a beautiful name. Fitting in deed." He looked her in the eyes, sunken and brown. Then flexed slightly as they met with Trente's however. His eyes, in contract were striking, twirling and bursting in playful ocean blues, and slate greys which invoked various emotions in others, as they mimicked those within Trente. She was captivated, if only for a moment by them, before winning back her composure.
"Is there something I can help you with?" She offered with a rather sweet voice. Trente's uppity expression softened slightly at its sound, massaging quietly against his ears. Every women had their feature, a feature that was theirs and theirs alone, unrivaled by any other. This women had the voice, the one the only voice of Brillantia D'Tairro.
"Yes, actually." He responded, a calmer tone, and slower pace to his own words. The women calmed slightly as he did, having to readjust his opinion of the boy as his manner suddenly shifted. Trente waited a moment to let her, leaving the silence linger between the two of them for two or three ticks before continuing. "Brillantia, I can not write, for tragic upbringing I've originated from. Could you, perhaps, assist me in the process. If not I'll surely end in the streets, and eventually in slaver's grasp." The lie came oddly nontheatrical, almost flat from Trente's lips. So unlike him it caught him off guard.
The women's brow furrowed, quite blatantly trying to formulate a solid opinion of the enigma before her. After a moment she shook her head, and flicked her wrist at Trente, at is to brush him off. As if he were some lint, clung to her linens. Trente was offended, though not particularly surprised. He was as old as a human in their prime, though short that in appearance by nearly five years. An adult by any standards, but a young one. Young enough that he could hardly seam more than cute to any women beyond thirty, something this women had achieved and then some.
Biting down firmly, and curling his lips up slightly in hurt he looked down at the floor to his side, bits of his raven dark and scraggly hair falling into his face. Still leaning the let himself a moment to think, then finally pushed himself up, and looked back to the women. "Very well." He said, and pulled him coin purse up, then open. "A gold coin, perhaps? And another to make it pretty?"
Then women looked altogether offended, and glared at Trente. "What do I look like, a scribe?" She said, quite uppity herself now. Trente blinked, waiting patiently. She kept glaring, and he looked tot he coin, guiding her eyes to them. Two, circular and shiny, set upon his rough and calloused hands. With a sigh she greedily reached out and grabbed them, then the paper from his hand. "What is your name?"
Trente smiled in triumph, and proudly announced. "Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante," then spent the next chime spelling it out for her. The remainder of the list took little time, and for reasons not even Trente could place the women offered some good advice during the process. With a smile, and another unnecessary wink Trente bowed to the women, and thanked her quite cordially for her time.
He found himself quite easily to the next step of the process, but suddenly wished he hadn't when an intimidating man, in every sense of the word, rest accusing eyes on Trente. He suddenly felt guilty over transgressions he could not recall, but were sure this man could find if he tried. The man reached out, and took the paper from Trente, and the boy began to wonder if this was normal for the people of Ravok. He decided then that if this man didn't gut him, or send him off to jail, then he would purchase a new outfit, with pockets on the inside so he can keep his valuables out of the Ravok people's sneaky and outsome grasps.
With stern, and bored eyes the man poured over the paper, for a time that seemed twice that as what was necessary. Then, with a lower and controlled voice he asked. "Did you write this?"
Trente's brow creased. "No, Sir. I inquired upon another to assist me, for I wished to-" His string of words was interrupted by an accusing and aggressive look from the man, in direct response to the odd speech Trente used. He got that a lot, but this time, and only this time, it caused Trente to shut his mouth, cutting the sentence short. Then, hesitantly he simply said, "No."
The man's eyes narrowed, and he looked back to the page, spending another long period just looking it over, then without looking back to Trente said. "I need you to step back into the room with me, Mister Eclatante."
Trente swallowed hard with concern, "Of course, my pleasure..." He said, and wished, just for once, that his mouth would just stay shut.
The room was dark, lit by nothing save a single shin candle. Stonework, unadorned wrapped around the two, and a single chair set in the center of the room. Trente didn't need to be asked, he went and sat in the chair, then faced the candle. It was odd, the candle didn't seem to move at all, even flicker, and the desk it sat upon, it was tiny, as if only big enough to hold a mug. What kind of room had he found himself in?
The man's voice came, as soon as the door was pulled closed. "Where were you born?"
Trente was suddenly very very worried. He wanted to ask if something was wrong, if he should be worried. He figured he knew they answer though. Of course. "My place of birth, and home for the sophomore fifteen years of life is Syliras. Though, I have not been there for over five years."
The response came firm, and fast. "I only asked you where you were born, Mister Eclatante." Trente's nerves buzzed, and rose along the back of his head. The flame flickered. Trente looked away, and nervously to the man, who continued before apologies could be made. "Why did you leave Syliras?"
Trente almost laughed, were it not for fear of imprisonment. The man did not want to know that story, and Trente did not want to share it. He decided to keep his response vague. "I witnessed a murder, and did not wish to endure the-" his voice wavered a moment in pause, as he deliberated over the next word, "sentence upon the transgressor."
The eery man's nostrils glared, in anger perhaps, or frustration. "I have all day, tell me the full story."
Trente frowned, he really didn't want to do that. But, he supposed there was no way around it. So, completely nontheatrical he progressed with a flat and bland overview. "Well a women, quite insane in her own right, took her husbands life with a potent poison. I mistakenly took witnessed to this event, and was foolish and clumsy enough in my youth to be discovered. She took to me with her wrath, and a Syliran Knight put a swift end to her. All was resolved, for some time, before she returned as a firmly disgruntled," he gave a vast understatement, "spirit. She ordered me to sentence, and execute the Syliran knight on my own, or die trying." Trente noticed a softening to the man's face. He was actually quite taken by the story, something seemed very funny about that, and so Trente continued without pause. "When I refused she threatened the life of my mother, and so I fled. And never returned." This wasn't entirely true, but he did not want to complicate things, for small details.
The man stood in silence a long moment, before finally turning around and leaving the room, closing the door behind him. The flame flickered again. Trente wasn't sure what to think of this. At first he pondered weather to follow or not, but once decided upon remaining he grew nervous. Had he said something wrong? Was the man fetching those that would sue force to subdue him? Trente stood in the shadow, and put his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, then halted. "And what exactly do you think violence will accomplish, Trente? What men would you, a novice, take charge of if they wish to subdue you on their terms? None, that is quite clearly the answer." He thought silently to himself, before removing his hand, just as the door opened again.
The man stood, alone, and offered out some official looking paper. "Welcome to Ravok, Trente. Speak your oath, and be on your way." And so he did. The young Trente knew not who Rhysol was, or what he gave oath to, but he did. He signed his life to evil, without a bat of an eyelash, and spoke clearly and proudly as he did so. He felt ready for Ravok, that he would ravage it, claim it as a lust maid. He would find in time that it were he, the whore to be claimed, to be ravaged. In time, in time.
He suddenly felt under dressed in his ages sailor's attire, holes agape about the ensemble. The city was alive with festival. No celebration, though. Wet, dark, mysterious. There was no joy in this land, no happiness. But, Trente hadn't come to the floating city for happiness, he conspired to leave his fool-hearty ambitions, and childish hoped behind him, in the distant past, with a soft skinned whore he called a mother. Right where they belonged. No, he came to Ravok for pleasure. Biting his lip he gave an inviting smile to some masked young girls, drifting by upon boat's grace. With a giggle back, he fought to avoid the temptation. With a far from shy wink, he ran off, excitement boiling in his veins. Oh how invigorating the city was, it smelt of it, people, sweat, the thick stench of people, and not an pinch of salt to be detected in the air. It was nothing like the Suvan, and he loved it all the more for this.
Focused, he went jogging down the streets, grin across his face. It was silly, exposing well kept teeth, and tossing his rather unkempt hair asunder in tufts of knotted and bouncing fuzz. He didn't mind, not then. Smiles were still easy for him, this was a time before he learned to be sad, because he learned how to show the pain that scared him. He was the child he had never been able to be on the outside, but always, that scared dying boy would live within him, clawing to get out, to find nourishment for his soul. He would fight back, with winks to girls, and sheening white grins. He was youthful, and he wasn't about to waste another moment of that youth on pain, on suffering.
It towered above him, not the registrars office, but the temple. Never had Trente seen such a construct, in all his travels. It struck fear into his heart, it invigorated him. He stopped to admire it, and its slopes, bold and elegant. Like an older women, he thought, and if legend was true plenty were to be found inside. He laugh out loud, but brought no looks to himself, through the partying crowd, drink in hands, circling about him. There was something unsettling about this, that a laughing boy such as himself in the street brought no queer looks. He dismissed it, and decided to take the sensation as a good sign. He was among familiars.
Drawing his coin purse closer, to keep an eye on it, Trente walked confidently into the smaller building, nestled within the cool afternoon shadow of the temple.
A burst of silence numbed his ears as he passed into the silent office. His head spun slightly from the alteration of mood, and his smile melted deftly away, faltering from lack of focus on what maintained it. His soul felt crushed, chained, and his throat grew tight, the stagnant air gathering in him till he had to clear his throat, drawing more than a look or two from those around him. His cheeks felt hot, mostly from the run there, and he gave a half hearted smile to those that quickly noticed he hadn't intended to draw attention to himself. One, that no doubt thought themselves helpful pointed to a stack of empty papers, waiting to steal Trente's life into flat copy.
Trente gave no sign of appreciation as he followed the silent direction, and took a sheet. His nose wrinkled slightly at the whole process. He hated writing, he truly did. His spelling was atrocious, and his calligraphy sub par at best.
Only then did he bother looking to the previously faceless person who pointed him to the stack. A women, thin of frame, kinky auburn hair, and face dressed with well applied makeup. Much needed makeup. Trent stifled a laugh, and turned it to a smile, what he believed to be charming and flirtatious. In truth his haughty grin won nothing but a knowing and offended look by the off putting, and off put women.
Trente, with some measure of poise and grace, strolled forward, so that he might speak quietly with the women, leaning against a tall desk, with quill in hand. "Thank you so much for directing me the stack there, I would have missed it for sure. I can be so selective in awareness at times. Luckily, I was looking at you." He leaned against the desk as well, mimicking her fashion, and faced her with that same haughty smile.
Her expression offered no warmth in return, in fact gave quite the opposite expression, which Trente missed as he looked to her paper. She appeared to be applying as well, and her hand writing was simply immaculate. Well, not quite, but certainly better than his. He took a moment to look at her name, Brillantia D'Tairro. Trente was surprised at the pretty name, it was so unfitting.
"Oh, Brillantia, what a beautiful name. Fitting in deed." He looked her in the eyes, sunken and brown. Then flexed slightly as they met with Trente's however. His eyes, in contract were striking, twirling and bursting in playful ocean blues, and slate greys which invoked various emotions in others, as they mimicked those within Trente. She was captivated, if only for a moment by them, before winning back her composure.
"Is there something I can help you with?" She offered with a rather sweet voice. Trente's uppity expression softened slightly at its sound, massaging quietly against his ears. Every women had their feature, a feature that was theirs and theirs alone, unrivaled by any other. This women had the voice, the one the only voice of Brillantia D'Tairro.
"Yes, actually." He responded, a calmer tone, and slower pace to his own words. The women calmed slightly as he did, having to readjust his opinion of the boy as his manner suddenly shifted. Trente waited a moment to let her, leaving the silence linger between the two of them for two or three ticks before continuing. "Brillantia, I can not write, for tragic upbringing I've originated from. Could you, perhaps, assist me in the process. If not I'll surely end in the streets, and eventually in slaver's grasp." The lie came oddly nontheatrical, almost flat from Trente's lips. So unlike him it caught him off guard.
The women's brow furrowed, quite blatantly trying to formulate a solid opinion of the enigma before her. After a moment she shook her head, and flicked her wrist at Trente, at is to brush him off. As if he were some lint, clung to her linens. Trente was offended, though not particularly surprised. He was as old as a human in their prime, though short that in appearance by nearly five years. An adult by any standards, but a young one. Young enough that he could hardly seam more than cute to any women beyond thirty, something this women had achieved and then some.
Biting down firmly, and curling his lips up slightly in hurt he looked down at the floor to his side, bits of his raven dark and scraggly hair falling into his face. Still leaning the let himself a moment to think, then finally pushed himself up, and looked back to the women. "Very well." He said, and pulled him coin purse up, then open. "A gold coin, perhaps? And another to make it pretty?"
Then women looked altogether offended, and glared at Trente. "What do I look like, a scribe?" She said, quite uppity herself now. Trente blinked, waiting patiently. She kept glaring, and he looked tot he coin, guiding her eyes to them. Two, circular and shiny, set upon his rough and calloused hands. With a sigh she greedily reached out and grabbed them, then the paper from his hand. "What is your name?"
Trente smiled in triumph, and proudly announced. "Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante," then spent the next chime spelling it out for her. The remainder of the list took little time, and for reasons not even Trente could place the women offered some good advice during the process. With a smile, and another unnecessary wink Trente bowed to the women, and thanked her quite cordially for her time.
He found himself quite easily to the next step of the process, but suddenly wished he hadn't when an intimidating man, in every sense of the word, rest accusing eyes on Trente. He suddenly felt guilty over transgressions he could not recall, but were sure this man could find if he tried. The man reached out, and took the paper from Trente, and the boy began to wonder if this was normal for the people of Ravok. He decided then that if this man didn't gut him, or send him off to jail, then he would purchase a new outfit, with pockets on the inside so he can keep his valuables out of the Ravok people's sneaky and outsome grasps.
With stern, and bored eyes the man poured over the paper, for a time that seemed twice that as what was necessary. Then, with a lower and controlled voice he asked. "Did you write this?"
Trente's brow creased. "No, Sir. I inquired upon another to assist me, for I wished to-" His string of words was interrupted by an accusing and aggressive look from the man, in direct response to the odd speech Trente used. He got that a lot, but this time, and only this time, it caused Trente to shut his mouth, cutting the sentence short. Then, hesitantly he simply said, "No."
The man's eyes narrowed, and he looked back to the page, spending another long period just looking it over, then without looking back to Trente said. "I need you to step back into the room with me, Mister Eclatante."
Trente swallowed hard with concern, "Of course, my pleasure..." He said, and wished, just for once, that his mouth would just stay shut.
The room was dark, lit by nothing save a single shin candle. Stonework, unadorned wrapped around the two, and a single chair set in the center of the room. Trente didn't need to be asked, he went and sat in the chair, then faced the candle. It was odd, the candle didn't seem to move at all, even flicker, and the desk it sat upon, it was tiny, as if only big enough to hold a mug. What kind of room had he found himself in?
The man's voice came, as soon as the door was pulled closed. "Where were you born?"
Trente was suddenly very very worried. He wanted to ask if something was wrong, if he should be worried. He figured he knew they answer though. Of course. "My place of birth, and home for the sophomore fifteen years of life is Syliras. Though, I have not been there for over five years."
The response came firm, and fast. "I only asked you where you were born, Mister Eclatante." Trente's nerves buzzed, and rose along the back of his head. The flame flickered. Trente looked away, and nervously to the man, who continued before apologies could be made. "Why did you leave Syliras?"
Trente almost laughed, were it not for fear of imprisonment. The man did not want to know that story, and Trente did not want to share it. He decided to keep his response vague. "I witnessed a murder, and did not wish to endure the-" his voice wavered a moment in pause, as he deliberated over the next word, "sentence upon the transgressor."
The eery man's nostrils glared, in anger perhaps, or frustration. "I have all day, tell me the full story."
Trente frowned, he really didn't want to do that. But, he supposed there was no way around it. So, completely nontheatrical he progressed with a flat and bland overview. "Well a women, quite insane in her own right, took her husbands life with a potent poison. I mistakenly took witnessed to this event, and was foolish and clumsy enough in my youth to be discovered. She took to me with her wrath, and a Syliran Knight put a swift end to her. All was resolved, for some time, before she returned as a firmly disgruntled," he gave a vast understatement, "spirit. She ordered me to sentence, and execute the Syliran knight on my own, or die trying." Trente noticed a softening to the man's face. He was actually quite taken by the story, something seemed very funny about that, and so Trente continued without pause. "When I refused she threatened the life of my mother, and so I fled. And never returned." This wasn't entirely true, but he did not want to complicate things, for small details.
The man stood in silence a long moment, before finally turning around and leaving the room, closing the door behind him. The flame flickered again. Trente wasn't sure what to think of this. At first he pondered weather to follow or not, but once decided upon remaining he grew nervous. Had he said something wrong? Was the man fetching those that would sue force to subdue him? Trente stood in the shadow, and put his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, then halted. "And what exactly do you think violence will accomplish, Trente? What men would you, a novice, take charge of if they wish to subdue you on their terms? None, that is quite clearly the answer." He thought silently to himself, before removing his hand, just as the door opened again.
The man stood, alone, and offered out some official looking paper. "Welcome to Ravok, Trente. Speak your oath, and be on your way." And so he did. The young Trente knew not who Rhysol was, or what he gave oath to, but he did. He signed his life to evil, without a bat of an eyelash, and spoke clearly and proudly as he did so. He felt ready for Ravok, that he would ravage it, claim it as a lust maid. He would find in time that it were he, the whore to be claimed, to be ravaged. In time, in time.
