Legend of Ransera

An amused smile not dissimilar to Haera's was Laurevere's only response to that for the time being. As for Aicanar, "Despite the losses we suffered in lifespan and record, our people do seem to have an almost empathic racial memory. The birth of Humanity with Arsoren's sacrifice, along with his followers', felt like a a wound. A loss. No doubt people reacted in a variety of ways, but for whatever reasons, we diverged. We cannot know for certain why he made that choice. Perhaps he needed time and would have gone to her were his life not cut short."

He answered a question for Sivan before Tyrann asked another.

"Ah, Aranel. Indeed, he was said to be quite the fashion plate. That was his parade armor, of which only the vambraces remain. They were runeforged to be effective, but had the added ability to alter at the wearer's desire to be more impressive. So, presumably, that style was de mode for the time. We have his diaries, but they do not speak specifically to this portrait."

"So many stories," Sivan murmured to himself, "and all we can do is fill in the blanks as best we are able. Make guesses and suppositions..."

"Indeed," Laurevere replied. To Tyrann, "If we still had Aranel's helm, I might need little else to be comfortable in your realm. It produced fresh air to protect the wearer from environmental threats, and the more creative and terrible weapons that once were used in warfare. He saw other worlds, by his own accounts. Worlds where the air was poisonous or acidic..."

"Easier still to find some fish who might allow me to meditate long enough to pull a bit of their essence into my Rune and adapt myself to the waves," he said, fingers coming up to feel at his throat where he supposed he would place gills. Of course, it would have been all the easier to just borrow a Neptori form. He could have with that mouthful of Tyrann's seed that one time, but he hadn't been given permission to do so and so it would have broken consent.

Thankfully, though, more questions were asked so his mind didn't run down the various avenues it might have in order to come up with solutions to the problem of visiting the submarine realm of Tyrann's people.

"Well, my father didn't really have people. At least, none he told me about. I didn't know him well... When my mother returned to Dalquor, she took me with her." It hadn't occurred to him that their shared blood might be through his mother. They were in the Hytori homeland and he found his mind adhering to more Hytori mindsets.

Perhaps he owed his mother and his half-family a visit after all this time and all this time spent in his father's land. But he didn't know whether bringing up the possibility of Dratori cousins would upset Tyrann. He knew Laurevere was sensitive to such things, being of mixed blood himself, albeit Siltori rather than Dratori.

"He did look a bit like the ancestor the blood wight showed us. Perhaps I could recall her to spill out visions of my ancestors, though, until one of them looks enough like one of yours for you to suss out the connection." He laughed lightly, though Laurevere watched thoughtfully.

"Please, Sivan. No blood wights before dinner." Laurevere made a slightly pained expression, but softened it into a smile.

"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to ruin anyone's appetite."

Without any communication from the kitchens either guest saw, Laurevere straightened—as if his posture could get any more correct—and said, "Dinner is served. If you would follow me to the dining room..."

The small talk continued as he led them past other portraits, other collected statuary and such, and eventually into a relatively modest dining room. There were only the two guests and him for the meal, after all. No need to be dwarfed by the empty banquet table in the larger dining room. Lighter refreshment was offered with the first course, a seaweed salad, but nobody would stop them from polishing off the aether wine if they so chose.

"It was suggested," Laurevere said mildly, "that a surf and turf culinary situation would best support a pleasant experience for mixed company." A faint smile that stilled as he brought his glass to his lips. The motion of wine to mouth was not arrested by the final question, though a faint eyebrow rose slightly.

Sivan, though, froze fully. Then, he glanced at Laurevere. His own reputation meant less than the son of a lord's. The Hytori were hardly precious about sexual congress, but kissing and telling was frowned upon as well.

After swallowing, Laurevere glanced at Sivan, and then back at Tyrann.

"A trifle malapert," he allowed, "but not damning given your short tenure in Sol'Valen." He paused. "While we haven't a romantic attachment, we have, at times, been more than friends. Can you blame me?" He smiled. "Me, a stranger in a strange land. Sivan, a comely neighbor." He paused. "Ought I to ask what your intentions are with my sometimes neighbor?"

Sivan made a small noise of exasperation, quickly drowned with a sip of wine. His eyes then dropped to his meal, and he began to eat—studiously.