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[[ Teslyn's One x One of the Moment ]]; documented o;
Topic Started: Mar 30 2009, 09:08 PM (211 Views)
Teslyn
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a fleeting presence
NAYA

The deserts of the Desti’ove plateau were vast and unrelenting it their barren dryness. The land—ruled over by the High King Rasti and his priest-mage Velan—was know for its huge fortresses and barrack-like cities, as well as its lack of vegetation and sparse habitation. The populaces of the kingdom of Lintavain were generally well-off due to the small communities and well established work-caste system, and boasted one of the largest armies in the Westlands. Not only that, but due to the large number of people who had ready-magic in their veins (due, again, to the small population) the kingdom and its cities were quite indestructible. But the desert… anyone who ventured through the Desti’ove plateau without treasure at the other end of their journey was a fool. There was only one spot for water in three-hundred-mile wide desert of Orion, the largest of those in the Desti’ove Rhin province, and it was an oasis roughly midway through the desert.

There was a small fortress there, under the cypress palms, the city of Antolia. It was a place full of trade and progress by day; a safe haven for criminals by night. Great towers jutted from the center of the city walls—an impressive brick enclosure that was five feet thick and twenty feet high, made of granite—hinting at the sprawling complex of towers and walls inside, out of which shops and residences were carved. It was essentially one entirely connected building, the city, separated into rooms and shops by walls and doors and spiraling staircases.

The lower city was the most vulnerable to attack, being at the base of the road that wound around and around, in smaller circles, to the entrance of the castle of the Earl of Rhin Habib Ledesti’ove. The man who resided there ruled the city in name, lording in Uppertown, surrounded by finery; but it was common knowladge throughout the region that the true rulers of Antolia lived far from the frivolity of high-class citizens. They lived in the slums, and ruled from there—and the Provost never made any move to hinder their dealings. Nobody thought this particularly odd: the city was a criminal hiding place, due to its placement in the middle of a wasteland. The thing that was not privy to most people’s straining ears and gossiping mouths was the location of the actually court where the king of thieves resided.

The Lady Rose was not a brothel, as the name might suggest to certain people, it was an inn. More specifically it was an inn which did not have a front entrance to the street, but had to be entered from a side, connecting door to the neighboring smithy. Not surprisingly, both the Rose and the smithy were owned by the same person.

“But I need to speak to him,” the bearded man complained, peeking around the slightly taller, albeit much slimmer figure which leaned against the entrance to a long hallway, blocking it, arms crossed over her chest. A long auburn braid snaked over one narrow black-clad shoulder, small silver spikes adorning the metal tie that bound its end. The ruddy, rather hairy man shot nervous glances its way every now and then, but was persistent with his advances despite his anxiety, “It is an urgent matter, I assure you!” The female raised a well groomed eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Then tell me, Brennan,” she drawled lazily, “and I shall be sure to inform him of whatever it is you so desperately need to alert him of.” Her hazel eyes glittered wickedly as the young woman added, “He is rather… indisposed, at the moment.”

The man—Brennan—cursed under his breath and shot the girl a dark look, “Rebekah-“ he was quieted with a glance at her right hand, which was toying with a rather nasty looking dagger at her belt, the only one unconcealed on her person. Closing his eyes as if to calm himself, he shook his head and muttered, “Tell him that an Imperial delegation stayed in the city last evening. That is all. It had something to do with the Prince; my men will have the specifics as soon as they can.” Turning on his heel, the spymaster of Sulai Lawrence, King of the Court of Thieves, stalked off.

Rebekah laughed silently to herself, her wide, full lips parting slightly as a grin overcame her; such meetings with Brennan Vernal never ceased to amuse her. He had always been bitter about the fact that she—a woman two decades younger than his forty summers—had acquired the position of Lieutenant in the same court he served. Then again, she had more of a stomach for killing than most. Certainly more than he. She also possessed magic in vast supply, and had been trained by the priest-mage Sahultan himself, who was now the head of the Imperial University in Callas, the capital of Lintavain.

A door behind Rebekah opened and a fair-haired woman brushed by her, retying loose bodice strings as she went. Rebekah broke into another grin of mirth—Sulai had most definitely been indisposed. With a sigh she turned around to face the king himself, her chin jutting up in a gesture of curiosity. “She was pretty,” was the reply that issued from the black haired man of twenty-five, striding toward his cousin and turning her around by her elbow, taking her arm as they walked across the dim room towards the table closest to the hearth. Rebekah laughed lightly, “If you tumbled every pretty girl in Antolia you would not have time to run the court, much less eat or sleep.”

“Is that an observation?” began he, seating himself in his chair, and gesturing to a serving wench for ale, “Or a dare?” His cousin looked at him from over a piece of parchment she had produced from her shirt pocket, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s a fact,” Rebekah intoned, brushing a loose curl away from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. She began to read, forgetting him, and as the ale came, Sulai observed her silently from over his tankard. The girl really was very loose when it came to talking about love and other such things. Her eyes and the left side of her face were cast in shadow from the flickering fired she was in profile to. High cheekbones; long, slender nose, pert at the end; pointed chin. They matched his mothers—Rebekah’s aunt—so well. Pretty women ran in the family; no wonder he liked having them around! This amused him and he chuckled inwardly; after a few more moments, however, his mind returned to more prevalent matters.

“What was it that Brennan needed to speak to me about?”

Edited by Teslyn, Apr 3 2009, 09:04 PM.

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Teslyn
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a fleeting presence
TESLYN

Tomas del Rasti, Prince of Lintavain and heir to the High King Rasti - formerly, at least - was in a thunderously dark mood as he stalked through the streets of Antolia's Lower City. The grime of the city clung to his black-booted feet- but compared to the suffocating dust of the desert which covered him from three days' worth of traveling, it was nothing. Dark brown breeches looked a little worse for wear- nowhere near as bad as the rest of him. His once fine, light and once-pristinely white cotton shirt was now some ambiguous shade of a lighter brown; beneath the dirt that coated his lightly tanned skin, a stinging red sunburn spread across his face and the back of his neck.

A longsword of the highest caliber steel, the high-quality carefully-worked black sheathe also covered, hung attached to his belt. Despite his appearance, Tomas walked with a smooth, relaxed and almost arrogant stride; it was a gait that made it clear to any intelligent enough to understand the message that the weapon belonged at his hip- for his size, which was tall and slender in comparison to his father's stocky, sturdy build, Tomas was surprisingly strong and extremely quick, both qualities which had contributed to his reputation as one of the finest fencers at Court.

Court, he thought viciously, blue-grey eyes narrowing with anger. Gods-damned Court! The High King's Court bred poisonous vipers; malicious malevolence and the intent to betray and backstab were hidden behind pretty faces and coy looks. Secret alliances were forged and broken at the drop of a hat - a word from the his Majesty's lips - and not a thought was held for lasting loyalties. Power and money bought allegiance, and Tomas del Rasti had always made a point to avoid immoral Court games. Tomas del Rasti had always made a point to remain apart from the vicious sycophants that lingered and lobbied for the King's favor-- and oh, how it had cost him, because he with his Sight had never thought to hide his disgust for courtiers. Tomas had been to secure in his righteous sense of sanctimoniousness - had always believed himself to be better than the others because he refused to sink to their level. He had been a naïve fool to believe that refraining from dirtying his hands would save him from the ambitions of those at Court. No, it had merely taken twenty-one years for them to strike- a collaborative effort headed by the bastard priest-mage who held his father's confidence and ear.

The irony was not lost on the disillusioned prince when Velan had announced to the Court that an heir, a crown prince will betray his loyalties to seize the Throne- will throw the kingdom into anarchy, will open Lintavain's veins in a flow of blood -- unless he is stopped only in terms not so plain. Every member of Court had united as Tomas had never thought such lawless people could do to, every member of Court had listened to Velan's flowery, "prophetic" prose had pointed a collective finger at Tomas… and that was what had given birth to the plan to leave him in the desert to die.

Despite his Sight, Tomas had been blind- but not anymore. Perhaps Velan's false prophecy would nonetheless be a self-fulfilling one, because Tomas was done avoiding the powerplays and machinations of Court. He was done using his Sight to see the nature of courtiers and thinking himself safe. He was done being stupid and naïve, idiotic and weak - Prince Tomas del Rasti wanted revenge. A deep-seated hatred like none he'd ever felt before, a hatred that made his blood burn cold rather than hot because it was not the sin of human nature that he hated -it was the people who had deliberately wronged - deliberately tried to kill him. In trying to oust the Sanctimonious Prince, the Court didn't realize that they were making the foretelling they had created come true - if making Lintavain bleed was what it took for Tomas to take the Throne, then by the gods he was going to do it.

Of course, he was going to try to be a little subtler, a little more intelligent about it. It was because he wasn't going to be a fool and get himself killed that he was now standing in the middle of the road, head cocked as he studied the building curiously, fingers running through dark brown hair long enough to fall into curls but short enough not to be a mess even after his near-death ordeal as he tried to figure out just how he was supposed to enter The Lady Rose. A frown tugged at his features, which women he'd once scorned seemed to think was handsome enough, and frustration began to surface until he caught Sight of an indignant man who had an aura of something that made Tomas think the man knew what he was looking for.

He was not so stupid as to ask- Tomas did not want to be detected until he chose to reveal his continued existence, so instead he entered the smithy the man had just exited. A quick, furtive glance around revealed a door that blazed in the Sight which sporadically gifted him with insight impossible for him the otherwise know or realize. The door he stared at was the door he wanted, so he strode towards it purposefully and knocked sharply- two, hard raps - before waiting.


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Teslyn
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NAYA

Lifting kohl rimmed eyes up to meet her cousin’s gray gaze, Rebecca gave Sulai a faint smirk. “He wanted to inform you about something that the entire city observed. There was an Imperial battalion here last night—no doubt doing some of Rasti’s dirty work. Brennan says it had something to do with the prince.” Sulai raised an eyebrow fractionally, “Oh?” But that was all he said—The King of Thieves was a man of few words. Folding his hands over his chest, he sunk backwards into his chair, thinking the situation over from the perspective of a ruler—for he was one, in his own right. Rebekah quietly fell back into the letters and figures of the Provost’s weekly report she was studying. A pleasant enough silence shrouded the pair—at this time of day there were no other patrons about; no one to see Sulai about criminal matters (or any matters of business, in fact); and only one serving wench tending the fire.
The two raps that issued from the far side of the room, where the door that opened onto the smithy lay, did not startle either Sulai or Rebekah, but they did look up—almost simultaneously—and shared a glance. Neither was expecting anyone and they both were aware of that. Folding her piece of parchment and placing it into her pocket, Rebekah rose. Dressed entirely in black, from boots to the man’s shirt she donned, which tucked into cotton breeches, she looked taller than she was and quite more intimidating than an average woman. Her curves were masked by the looseness of the fabric of her top, but her features were unmistakably those of a rather attractive young woman. “Let me,” murmured she to her King.
Striding to the door, her steps were light despite the leather boots she wore, and her fluidity betrayed a good upbringing in the female art of courtly charm and grace. Lightly she placed a hand to the hilt of her belt-knife, while opening the door smoothly, casually. She doubted an enemy would be so meek as to knock on the door; any man, if he needed to, could break the bolt that locked the Rose and kick in the door. Blocking the entrance to the Inn with her slender frame (on the off chance it was someone who bore Sulai a grudge) Rebekah appraised the man that stood=2 0within the shadow of the doorway. His blade was the first thing that drew her attention—however, because he did not have it drawn and she did not notice any agitated movements towards it, she brought her calculating hazel eyes to his face, sweeping across face, his neck, and his clothing, noting the large amount of dusty sand that adorned him. Judging from his sunburn, Rebekah doubted he currently had enough strength to pose a threat to her or her cousin. So she brought her gaze back to his face and asked quite seriously, “May I help you?” Her manner, though it was polite and well-bred, lacked kindness or warmth; if anything, it was devoid of the essence of a woman, though the clear, musical voice that issued from her lips quite obviously belonged to one.


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Teslyn
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TESLYN

Tomas did not have wait long; within minutes, the door had eased open to reveal an attractive woman who did not look too much younger than himself, leaning on the doorframe and blocking his way. A guard, he presumed, or a whore of the Theives' court. Probably the former, he decided, noting the casual way she appraised him, the way her eyes traveled to his sword first and then the slight release of tension which indicated she had decided he was no longer a threat. And- he had to admit he wasn't a threat, not at the moment. He did not want to attack the Court of Theives as he once had- that was and always had been the Lord Provost's job, but now his newfound ambition and determination to see it through fueled his Sight which in turn hinted that this woman might be able to help him. He caught only flickers of this - splashes of red and black (his royal colors) in her aura but his vision was otherwise blocked by what he assumed was her own magic.

Her voice was cool, delivered in a clearly feminine but otherwise inflectionless tone. At her calm words, any doubts he had as to her position as something other than a mere whore were chased away.

"You are the one they call the Rogue?" he asked, normally deep and rich voice rasping through lips that were cracked and dry from his desert ordeal. "The King of the Theives?" He doubted it, but if she were at the Lady Rose than she would be able to lead him to the Rogue.

It was with him that Tomas had business; it was the Rogue's support that Tomas wanted to garner, with the Rogue that he wanted to strike an alliance - a deal, anything. The Sanctimonious Prince (oh yes, he knew what they sneered behind his back- how could he not?) had lowered himself to assocation with theives and scoundrels and somehow he found that the idea wasn't as appalling as he once found it. In fact-- he thought the idea of men and women who didn't try to hide their inner nature somewhat refreshing.


NAYA
“And if I were, what would your business be with me?” A slightly mocking inflection crept into her speech, as if this, now, were a game of chance – the choices being guess correctly and be allotted some answers, or guess incorrectly and be turned away. Her eyes crept back to his blade. It was a lovely weapon, obviously well-made; the young woman was a great connoisseur of fine blades and was thus able to appreciated his taste in arms. That stood for something in her mind. Raising an inquisitional eyebrow, back now against the frame of the door, she struck a rather languid pose. “You must be quite intimidating,” she said, “or at least posses the means to bribe the right people. It is difficult to find us so quickly.” This was a statement, not a question – she pondered his person aloud, almost mockingly.

Rebekah had always been rather direct.

After several moments of careful consideration, she shifted her gaze back to his face, “What is your name?” She searched his features for signs of falsehood; she was a practiced, powerful mage, but the magic of Sight eluded her. She had only common sense to educate her on the inner workings of people's minds. She could feel his Sight, though, prick the outer reaches of her magic. Her defenses were altogether too strong to worry about him penetrating them, but it alerted her to be cautious.

“And do not lie to me,” she added after a moment, “for I dislike cheats and frauds and all sorts of untruthfulness.” There was a plain warning there, fingers returning to her dagger, hanging from her trim waist. She caressed its hilt while waiting for an answer, eyes now locked with his own.

TESLYN
She's playing with him, her tone a challenge - a game, of sorts. Obviously, she was not the Rogue he was looking for, but she was a rogue he must get past before he can do anything else. He bristled slightly at her mocking tone... He waited in vain, however, for the anger that he thought would surely rise at her insinuation that he bullied or bribed someone, both extremely dishonerable things to do. Surprisingly, that anger was absent and it was slightly unsettling to Tomas that he could let his once rigid morals go so easily. Then again, they did not go easily- they were gone because he had no room for them next to his determined, silently smoldering need for vengeance.

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice light when he shrugged and dared a wink, "Intimidating? No, surely not me - I merely followed someone." He paused, and then added as though he were confiding a secret to her as he'd watched many-a people do in Court, "Though I must confess I had a bit of help."

Help from plans and papers and schemes and attempts at finding the Rogue drawn up by the Lord Provost, plans and papers and schemes and attempts Tomas had seen and taken because once, he had wanted to catch a man as immoral as the King of Theives himself.

He couldn't stop himself from laughing at the irony of a theif telling him not to lie because she disliked dishonesty - how was it p ossible that a coven of lawless men (and women, apparently) managed to have more honor than one lord or lady, duke or baron, at Court? "I, too, am rather unfond of dihonesty," he answers smoothly, painfully aware of how he and his aristocratic accent hardly belong in this place. "I am called Tomas."

And it is not a lie at all - his name is Tomas- Tomas del Rasti - but he is called Tomas, or 'your highness' or 'the prince'.

NAYA
His tone is to familiar for her liking; she is used to serious conversation, to people who plan and scheme for their own personal=2 0game; to people who would cut another's throat without a second thought. The young woman is too serious for her years – that is, after all, what got her such a high position in the Lower City’s hierarchy. Her rosebud lips part slightly in astonishment at his frankness, he obviously does not know who she is, and therefore must be new to the area, for Rebekah Habib is infamous in Antolia.

“Cone with me,” she begins, softly, almost dangerously, “but if you ever disclose our location or my King's identity to anyone who means him harm, I shall cut your throat.”

She still does not realize his identity. She left her family before ever being properly introduced at court, or his face, the most eligible in the land, would have been burned into her mind by the woman who had been her mother. There are a thousand Tomas’s in Lintavain. It is his accent, though, that strikes her as familiar. Moving backwards, she allows him to pass into the room, so close to her that he will brush her lithe frame as he passes. Moving swiftly, with purpose, the young woman returns to her table, stopping in front of her Lord. “Sulai,” her first words are for the raven-haired man, her cousin, her King. They are a whisper,=2 0“He wishes to speak to you. I do not think him to be a threat.”


The older man nods – he knows Rebekah’s judgment is trustworthy. She would die for him. He rises, a cloak of power seeming to fall around him; this is his domain. He surveys the man swiftly, carefully, with his storm-cloud eyes, before gesturing to a seat on his left, closest to the fireplace. Rebekah does the introductions, “Sulai, this is Tomas.” Her eyes dart back to the young, handsome man, “And this, boy,” she is impertinent on purpose, “is Sulai Lawrence, King of Thieves and the Lord of the Court of the Rogue.”


TESLYN

He's surprised her, and he supposes this is a good thing. Get them off on the wrong foot- throw them off. He wonders, as he follows her into the Lady Rose, if he should try to strike a bargain as Tomas the nameless man rather-- no, he scraps the plan as idiocy. His only bargaining chip, at the moment, is his position - former position, he needs to remind himself. The High King and the Court must think him dead by now. They must. He can't afford to spend the next segment of his life dodging assassins and the like; he needs to plan, needs to have time to learn to be comfortable with who he his now (though he seems to be doing that unnaturally fast...)

They stop at the table of a young man not too many years his senior. Strange, that someone only two or three years older than him has managed to doge an old and supposedly wisened Lord Provost. It's enough that Tomas thinks it's admirable. The woman introduces him, referring to Tomas as 'boy' in a tone that pulls at his lips in a smile because it's chosen his next move for him.

He's never been very skilled in the manipulation department, and this whole deal has been kind of spurr-of-the-moment with a healthy dose of anger, but now he's actually consciously decided on a course of action before it actually happened. Maybe it's that his Sight is flashing, guiding him here and advising him - or maybe it's just to see the look of shock and surprise he anticipates on the woman's alltogether too serious countenance (too serious, like he was, once.)

"Well-met, Sulai Lawrence, King of the Theives, Lord of the Court of the Rogue," he begins with a slight bow- shallower than the one he would give to the High King, but still deeper than the ones he favors nobles he outranks. The man is a king after all, and this is his domain. "I am Prince Tomas del Rasti, Heir to the Lion Throne, Duke of Menan and his majesty the High King's eldest son."

NAYA
Stiffening slightly as she hears his title, the girl sits rather heavily in her chair, the surprise dropping her like a stone. She senses that he is smug. Or is it her hot temper telling her so? Her King, however, does not miss a beat, a faint smile curling the corners of his wide mouth up in a rather amused way. Looking once at his cousin before he speaks, Sulai Lawrence is a degree more polite than the young woman. “Welcome, Your Highness,” he murmurs, not giving more than a slight salute to the younger man – he bows to no one but the Gods, and Tomas is not in a position to protest, “to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

A slight snort passes Rebekah’s lips, hardly an honor thinks she, disdain flitting onto her pretty face for a moment. She dislikes nobility.

“Rebekah,” Sulai warns softly, “be polite. He is not here on business of a hostile sort, I think?” The question is for the prince to answer. Rebekah merely grabs her glass of ale and avoids the eyes of Sulai, nursing her wounded pride. The King of the Rogue gestures once again to the fireside seat. “Sit, Prince Tomas, and enlighten us as to why you grace us with your presence, here.” He is serious; no sarcasm hides in his voice. Rebekah stares into her glass of alcohol, sullen, but listens to every movement made; every word spoken. She is tense with embarrassment and anger - it is people like Tomas she seeks to harm, not help. As Sulai sits Rebekah shifts, staring quite hostilely at the prince from over her glass.

She is not one who is subtle with her emotions.

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