[The Rearing Stallion] Playing the Game (Closed)

[Vizyous Aconitum]

A small smirk of satisfaction surfaced when Rovan noted his cunning, informing him of where he came. The Symenestra wasn't surprised at finding out the man hailed from Zeltiva, however he'd suspected that Rovan was indeed from Syliras at first. The question was asked in simple, habitual curiosity; never judge another by appearance, he'd learned long ago-- one never knows when they'll meet a shape-shifter. "The Grasslands would indeed be a long journey," and had Vizyous learned any form of self defense aside from clever words and clever bites, he would have taken advantage of the situation, "and had I any knowledge of a capable defender to aid you in this travel, I would direct you to them. A knight, once again, may be able to direct you to some transport or swordsmen." A clever smile lit Vizyous' face, "Could you guess from where I hail, man of Zeltiva?" His claws and canines were carefully held to draw less attention, "I enjoy games, Rovan, as most of my family do-- however, mine are much more playful than my kin, and while my blood may be obvious, where my heart calls home may not."

[Rovan Dermane]

"Could you guess from where I hail, man of Zeltiva?" The tone of this man strangely made Rovan feel like prey in a web of elegant words, spinned by this most mysterious person. How odd. It was usually him who had others put off by skillfull speechcraft, now he was suddenly victim to his own medicine. Rovan realised it was a long time ago since he had last spoken to an intellectual person. Taken aback at first, he now felt the thrill of challenge - even as he put great effort in hiding it. He took a moment to size up Vizyous again for notable features. The man definitely insinuated of being something else than human. He had noted, what he first believed to be extremely long fingernails with the man. Then there was the ghostly skin, and the curious color of his eyes. Had he not seen a set of very sharp teeth as well, in those smiles the man had sent? Could it be this man was one of the ill-reputed spiderfolk? Or perhaps a Kelvic? No, not possible. He judged the man's clothing and manners to be far too civilised to fit any of those - at least, compared to the stories he had read. The old history scrolls and books told how the Symnestra lived in caverns and wore strange shell-like armors. They were deadly and dangerous, poison running thickly through their teeth and spittle. It was difficult to picture this one living like an insect. Perhaps it was his lack of worldy experiance that made him doubt this. "Hm-hm. Well sir Nightshade, I am no expert on anthropology, I fear, " he said, pausing for a moment. He wondered if he ought to play along at all, but the entertainment of solving this sort of riddle was too luring. It was simply in his nature to be drawn to puzzles and try solving them. "Yet, if I were to take a wild guess, I would say that you likely carry traits of mixed blood. Mayhap of the Symnestra." He had often found that it was the mix-blooded who reveled in their splitted origins, often glorifying the one side of their heritage over the other. "But where ever you hail from, I would not know. There are many cities and settlements in this world - with just as many different people inhabiting them."

[Vizyous Aconitum]

Vizyous remained neutral as Rovan made careful observations, not missing the slight surprise that had so easily shown on the man's face. In the rowdiness of the tavern, his sole focus remained on the human across from him, amethyst eyes staring into the examining pair that stared back. "Hmm." He mindlessly responded to being informed that he was no expert of anthropology. If he'd been as proud as his brother or his mother of the Symenestra race, Vizyous would have struck the man at being called a Dra, those who were of mixed blood. However the outrage that would have normally been felt didn't even rear it's head, a smile slowly revealing itself. A clawed finger raised to tap against his forehead, Vizyous mimicking the earlier action that Rovan had made to mark his cunning. "Correct!" He exclaimed, hand lowering to rest atop the table, "I hail from the City of Illusion, mister Dermane, home to the God of Illusion, Ionu. My kin live in Kalinor, home of the Symenestra, however I do not call it home." After a brief pause and a quick widening of his jagged smile, "I've met another that studied in Zeltiva, a man that practiced shape-shifting." Unconsciously, his hands grasped each other, fingers entwining, Vizyous' body remembering how startling it had been to see his own hands molded onto a human's. "I presume you are not one who also practices this?"

[Rovan Dermane]

Rovan felt the little hairs on his neck rise. If this man truly was a of Symnestra blood, he was a potent danger. The scholar leaned back in his stool and folded his hands on his lap, to cover his unnerve as he listened. When Vizyous told of his origins, Rovan raised his brows slightly in curiousity. The City of Illusions. He had heard of that mysterious place, almost as a fairytale story. It was said that those who hailed from there were blessed in the arts of deception. This did not surprise him about Vizyous. He let out a small "Oh?" as another from Zeltiva was mentioned, who obviously possessed magical powers of shapeshifting. Again, the conversation turned into a question directed at him, whether he practised this as well. He felt the conversation was turning into an interrogation. "Alas, I do not." he answered. He found it absurd at first to be assimiliated with a morphing magician. But as the thought settled in, he felt it was also a bit enjoyable to be regarded as a powerful wizard. He could feel less threatened then, by this inhuman converser. He leaned in towards Vizyous. "My powers stretch far beyond such trivialties." he said, directing his statement narrowly to the man - as if to avoid the inn being frightened of his words. He curved a smirk of bemuse. Whether the man believed him, it mattered not. The statement might as well be regarded as a simple jest. He pulled back to his former position in his seat. "But tell me, what might have seperated you from your people? Do you dwell in human settlements - by choice?" he asked out in the air, flailing his hands out in an effortless manner. Then he looked at Vizyous, squinting one eye whilst widening the other slightly, "Or perhaps, you have never been with your kinsmen at all?"

[Jonathon DuFraine]

Jonathon entered the Rearing Stallion, a small frown on his face. It was more crowded than usual, and a bit more rowdy. Jonathon usually took a table to himself; he still didn't have many friends in Syliras, and he saw none that he knew. Navigating under and through the throngs of tables, chairs, patrons, barmaids, food, drink, belongings, and the occasional word, Jonathon at last arrived at 'his' table.

The table wasn't owned by him, of course, but Jonathon always liked to sit at this particular table. It was often the least-used table, so Jonathon was surprised to find not one, but two men chatting at his little corner of the Stallion. Well, that was fine with him... he hadn't had a real conversation since yesterday.

Jonathon took a seat suddenly, an equal distance between the two men. "Hello there..." Jonathon didn't feel the need to be overly welcoming. They're conversation, while seemingly light, gave Jonathon a tense feeling. Hunter instincts never lie. Well, except for that one time. Stupid Hrain and his false alarms...

"I notice you're sitting at my favorite table." Jonathon ordered a mug of ale. "If you don't mind, I could use some conversation with my drink."

[Vizyous Aconitum]

Vizyous' expression turned curious at Rovan's words of power, however he assumed without a doubt that the man most likely was just playing. The questions turned on himself, the Symenestra accepting it without much trouble however feeling a bit of discomfort at having attention drawn to himself. The way he'd survived for years, was to direct as much focus from himself as possible and learn as much as he could of others. Self-indulgence brought laziness and lack of foresight, whereas being alert to others was destined to lead him down a less narrow path; that was his logic, anyways. "By choice, since I left them years ago." The Symenestra began, claws idly clinking together, hands still entwined. "I disagreed with my family's... courtship wishes for myself. They wanted a certain arranged marriage, you see-- and not only that, but for me to be the persuader, of sorts, to convince certain women into marrying my brothers." It was glossed over, much prettier description of the Symenestra Harvest: the act of persuading and deluding women of other races to sire a Symenestra male's child, deliberately doing so to ensure no loss of his own races' women. It wasn't something Vizyous would enjoy at all, neither the persuading nor the resulting child born. "I disagreed with that occupation." What would have been silence was interrupted by another man that joined the table, young and looking to be around the same age as himself with remarkably gold eyes. A shudder passed through Vizyous, his amethyst gaze quickly averting from the man's in extreme discomfort. It was the same shade of gold as a woman he was close to, that had passed into the afterlife many years ago. A thoughtless, "Hello," in return passed through his lips, quiet and timid. He said nothing in response to the man's later remark, mind focused on examining the smooth glass of his empty cup.

[Rovan Dermane]

Rovan was startled as the man suddenly sat by their table and greeted them. The scholar uttered an incomprehensible exclaim. His focus had been with the Symnestra who spoke of his past, completely oblivious to the stranger before he joined them. By instinct, Rovan raised a hand to his chest protectively, looking at the man after his brief shock. "Good heavens," he managed to say, before the man added that they were sitting by his favorite table. He felt light irritation with the way the man acted, as if he owned the place. Rovan glanced to Vizyous. It did not seem like he would respond very much to the newcomer, his gaze kept down on his glass. Rovan eyed the man again. He was definitely not shy in his direct manner. Most others would have been a bit more careful in their approach of two unfamiliar men. Either he had great selfesteem, or he was trying to proove something, Rovan thought. It took a moment for him to assemble a response to this man's presence. "Your favorite table?" Rovan let out a brief Huh. "Sounds like you are an old patron here." he said with a sullen tone. He pulled the sleeves of his robe absent-mindedly, to have them cover his hands better. If the situation grew awkward, it comforted him to know he could always leave. These were still strangers to him, after all. But his better judgement told him to stay put for the time being. New contacts could mean a great deal in as large a city as Syliras.

[Jonathon DuFraine]

Jonathon watched for their reactions. Upon looking at them more closely, he found them to be not obviously common to Syliras.. They weren't your average citizens stopping by for a drink, they were something else. Maybe he had interrupted a business meeting? Their reactions might have been different then, had they been regulars; more welcoming. Most regulars knew he often took this table, and occasionally, if they wanted to chat with him, this was the place to go.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." Noticing one of the men had an empty cup, he also ordered him a drink, too. "Yes, I come here very often. Sometimes for the food or drink, other times, business." Jonathon sipped his ale. Meanwhile, he observed the others. One man had more raggedy clothing than the other, and seemed more quite and reserved. He also had a sneaky look around him, but maybe that was just Jonathon's imagination.

The other man was dressed finer than Jonathon himself, and carried himself differently. He also spoke soft and strong. "The name is Jonathon DuFraine. Yours?" He directed this at the quite man, hoping to draw him out into the conversation.

[Abdul ibn Alazari]

A cloaked figure walks in from the street. His hands and his face are wrapped in black cloth. He walks over to the barkeep and hands him a few coints. As he sweeps aside his traveling cloak to reach his coinpurse, you think you see the twinkle of a swordhilt. He eyes you with his one eye as he sits in a dark corner.

[Vizyous Aconitum]

Rovan seemed to be discomforted by the sudden appearance of the man as well, but had taken the initiative and begun asking questions. While the Symenestra's eyes seemed to be examining the structure of his cup, his gaze was actually trained on a figure just past it, behind Rovan's shoulder. It was an impressive sight, a person of possibly either gender wrapped head to toe in black. "Nilvisin Nightshade," Vizyous answered fluidly once realizing that the stranger had answered Rovan's questions, recalling the false name after a moment of searching within his memory. His eyes remained fixated on the stranger for a moment longer, then looked up at Jonathon. "Thanks for the drink," he added later, as if in afterthought, "although this may have to be my last lest I become a regular as well." A small grin flashed by, passing as quickly as the Symenestra's glance towards the stranger wrapped in black. "I'm not only easily addicted, but a bit of a lightweight."