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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Oct 25, 2023 17:08:20 GMT -5
Mephis had heard rumors about Darkviel City, a sanctuary for thieves, fugitives, and runaways alike. To him, it sounded like the perfect place to lie low. It lived up to its reputation as Mephis crossed the city limits. For what felt like months, he took a deep breath and let his shoulders relax, merging with the bustling streets. His excitement brimmed as he contemplated the possibilities, his thoughts dancing with anticipation. Not unlike his first step into Sol City, his eyes scanned the crowd, searching for his first mark.
Slipping through the crowd, he spotted a few easy targets but realized that in a city filled with thieves, he needed a more challenging mark to feel satisfied. Adjusting his glasses, his gaze locked onto a moon elven man with long, black hair. A smirk crept across his face; this seemed to be the challenge he had been seeking. The man was at a distance, walking in the opposite direction, allowing Mephis time to sift through his mental catalog of pickpocketing techniques. He grinned as he settled on a strategy he called "fixing the collar," taking a deep breath to compose himself.
He quickened his pace towards the man, deliberately appearing distracted, as the first step of his plan involved a collision, either to knock the man over or be knocked over himself. Given Mephis' slender build, he usually ended up on the ground. As contact was made with the elven man's shoulder, Mephis theatrically tumbled to the ground, exaggerating his fall in hopes of eliciting concern. After a moment of feigning discomfort, he slowly rose to his feet, adopting an apologetic tone, "Oh my goodness, I am so incredibly sorry about that, my good sir. It appears that in my haste, I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings." Feigning surprise, he took a step closer, "Oh gods, it seems I've messed up your dashing outfit. Let me fix it."
He proceeded to pat around the man's shirt, slyly swiping anything that wasn't securely attached. As his final act, he swiftly adjusted the man's collar, "There, all better. Now, have a wonderful day, good sir." Internally cringing at his exaggerated politeness, he waved to the man and retreated into the crowd, hoping to reach an alley to inspect his newfound treasures.
1.) quick palm
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 26, 2023 7:12:28 GMT -5
It was common knowledge that there was no shortage of thieves, criminals, cutpurses, and thugs in Darkveil. Nor assassins.
The Specter was one such ghost that haunted the ash-strewn streets. Whispers of a string of political assassinations, sabotage, and impenetrable fortresses that no mortal man ought to be able to break into. There was organized crime and the Ashen Fathers, the people who controlled the city and its innermost workings. Then there were the contract killers, blades with no allegiance save for coin (though there was evidence to suggest the Specter had aligned himself to some political figure of note). They were the ones who waltzed in the shadow, the quiet force when there was a problem that needed cleaning up. It kept the hands of the Ashen Fathers clean, and filled the coffers of those who were willing to stoop so low.
And over the past year, the Specter’s infamy had grown exponentially. Some said he’d even grown bold enough to take contracts on high ranking Sol City officials. The Specter was myth brought to life, a ghost that haunted the dark dreams of those who’d made enemies in high places.
And just like any myth, the Specter spent his afternoons buying groceries for his fiance and kids.
To be honest, Cyran didn’t blame others for identifying him as a mark. When he was off the job, unarmed and in plainclothes, he was hardly anything remarkable. Tall, waifish, the picture of a man who might be knocked over by a strong wind. In Darkveil, looks could be deceiving. In Darkveil, there also lived some of the most daring cutpurses in the whole of the realm.
So; Cyran was no stranger to being identified as a target.
Though he would not have guessed the afternoon would bring as such during an innocuous shopping trip.
At first he thought it was his own carelessness. One of his arms was laden with a parchment bag containing partially-wilted vegetables and a few potatoes for the evening’s meal, and he was in a bit of a rush to get home, you see. So perhaps it was his fault that he bumped into a young fellblood, who was immediately sent sprawling to cobblestone streets.
“Goodness!” Cyran gasped, catching himself before he fell to the ground himself. Setting down his paper bag for only a moment, he extended a hand to the young man, ready to help him up. “No; the fault is mine. I must not have been watching too closely where I was going… are you alright-?”
Though the young man ignored his hand, pulling himself up and immediately going to task fixing Cyran’s jacket, overly polite. The elven man was clearly startled by the sudden flurry of motion, light hands smoothing down his cloak and seemingly brushing dirt off and grime off the fabric of his clothes. Fortunately, he’d not been wearing his knives, but tucked into a loop on his belt, there was a small black-leather pouch seemingly for ease of access. Perfectly loose for a pickpocket to squirrel away, beyond Cyran’s notice.
And nab it, he did.
“Oh - oh, of course. No worries. Have a nice day…” Cyran murmured in polite reply, too startled by the strange interaction to think too much of it. As the fellblood scurried away, Cyran scratched at the side of his head, confused, and reached for his groceries. He put the interaction out of his mind…
Until he reached his next stall.
He just needed to replace a few more spices that they’d run out of, nothing particularly special. But as he patted down his pockets searching for his pouch to pay, Cyran came up startlingly empty.
“Ah. Excuse me for a moment. I believe I have been robbed.”
The stall owner nodded. This was a common enough experience.
Cyran set down the goods he’d been about to purchase and set back down the street, mulling over what he could have done or who he could have met that would…
The young fellblood.
He was not unfamiliar for the ‘frisking’ method of pickpocketing, nor the misdirection to make him think it was only polite concern. Cyran usually wore his coin purse loose on purpose in case hungry kids needed the coin for a meal, but it had been some time since he’d actually been stolen from. The elf was not the vengeful type, nor the kind to steal his money back. But at the very least if someone needed to filch money from others to survive, he wanted to make sure they were okay.
He headed back to the part of the street where he intersected with the young man - it had only been a few minutes, so the fellblood could not have gotten far - and stepped into the shadows, allowing them to cloak him as he began to search back alleys for the spectacled kid.[1] 1. Dark Form (Shadow Dancer III)
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Oct 30, 2023 14:36:37 GMT -5
Now, the most challenging part of pickpocketing lay ahead - the escape. Mephis maintained a brisk pace as he navigated the dense crowd, skillfully weaving his way through it. He knew that running immediately would raise suspicions from his target, but walking too slowly would give them time to catch up. These were lessons etched into his very being after years of practice. He also understood from experience that he had only a couple of minutes at most before his target would realize their belongings were missing, and the coin purse he'd snagged was a rather valuable one.
It had been a while since he'd taken an entire coin purse; initially, he aimed for anything insecure, like pendants or brooches. But the purse's latch had been temptingly loose, practically begging to be stolen. Still, a nagging feeling that it was too easy lingered as he concealed the pouch within one of the many hidden pockets inside his overcoat. He'd save the coin counting for later when he was safely hidden. Though his desire for a challenge wasn't entirely satisfied, he knew that repeated pickpocketing in the same area would result in more people bearing grudges against him. So, he appeased his craving by swiping a bread roll from a nearby cart as he slipped into an alley, aware that his grace period was coming to an end and the man would soon be searching for him.
With his back turned to the crowd, he took a bite of the stale roll, its taste akin to chalk. Still, he swallowed the bite, relieved it had no mold this time. Holding the bread in his mouth to keep his hands free, he retrieved the black pouch from inside his coat. Feeling well-concealed, he began to count the solars. "Jackpot," he muttered through the bread as he finished counting. It held a couple of days' worth of meals and possibly a few nights' lodging if he budgeted carefully. After returning the purse to his coat, he took another celebratory bite of the roll, his thoughts drifting to the prospect of some tavern food as he advanced further into the alley.
As Mephis ventured deeper, his foot brushed against a shadow cast by one of the adjacent buildings. His confidence quickly transformed into confusion as he felt something cold cling to his foot, and his gaze lowered to discover the shadow itself wrapping around his boot. The black shade blended into a dark blue hue as it began creeping up his leg. Startled, he stepped back, relieved to see the shadow remain where it was. However, an unshakable connection with the shadow left him uneasy. Despite his paranoia, he stepped forward, 1allowing the shadow to envelop him.
With another step, the shadow clung to his entire form, nearly causing him to vanish. He blended into the darkness, appearing as a faint silhouette with a dark blue-almost-black hue, save for two yellow circles signifying his eyes. 2These yellow orbs darted to a quick movement on the other side of the alley. Fearing what might be lurking, he pressed his back against the wall, relying on his newfound ability to offer perfect concealment. Panic coursed through him as he realized that whatever was in the shadows was either using them to move or was part of them. Slowly, he gripped the hilt of his dagger, preparing himself for whatever awaited him in the obscurity.
1.) one with the shadows (Shadow Dancer I) 2.) Shadow Sight (Shadow Dancer I)
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 1, 2023 19:43:16 GMT -5
It would be foolish for the young man who’d swiped Cyran’s bag to remain close to the crime scene unless he had methods with which to conceal himself. If Cyran were after a true mark, he’d ideally have a piece of clothing, a scrap, a name, a something. So rarely did he have so little to go off of besides a face and the timbre of a voice… but Cyran could make do. Really, there was no need for him to set after the young man - Cyran was not the vindictive type, especially when it came to the city’s youth. If the fellblood had run across a true danger, he was liable to lose a few of those sticky fingers, or perhaps even an entire hand. The thought of the casual violence that had become so commonplace within the city made Cyran sick.
He could never let a kid go hungry when there was something he could do about it.
At the very least, Cyran could make sure the kid had a roof over his head for the night, and a warm meal…
If he could find him, that was.
A few minutes had already passed and, still obscured within the gentle dark, Cyran was no closer to finding the fellblood than he had been when he realized his pouch had been taken. As he scanned the swaths of people for a pair of spectacles, a long braid, anything, Cyran wondered if he’d lost the trail - most cutpurses and gutter rats knew the city like they knew the grooves and lines within the palm of their hand. It would be all too easy for the young man to dip into the sewers and slip to the other side of the city, and at that point Cyran shouldn’t bother him. Still, something in the back of his mind told him it wasn’t that simple. The young man’s flashy attire, the care and concern placed in his appearance. Regular patterns of human behavior. It was entirely likely that he’d stick to cleaner, aboveground spaces to prevent getting dirty, even if it meant greater risk to his person. So, Cyran pressed on.
It was when he rounded the corner and stepped into an empty backstreet between a tea shop and a warehouse. The bustle of the city receded to a dull hum in the back of his ears, an undercurrent of motion that felt muffled as Cyran padded down the street, footsteps silent, his approach obscured by the darkness. Little light touched this far away from the main street, but the shade was where the Specter thrived. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the familiar dark, when the shadows alerted him to… something. A presence, not an intruder but a friend. He could not see whoever it was, not right away; but he knew they were there, holding absolutely still, somewhere just out of his reach under the shadow’s protection.
It was… rare that Cyran met someone with his own unique talents. There was Del, whom he met under similar circumstances, and had immediately forged a connection with. But that did not mean all who thrived in the dark were friendly.
But could it be the cutpurse he was looking for? There was a smidge of familiarity in the shade’s agitation - it did not speak in common terms but more impressions, and this one said that the presence was not an intruder, a friend, which meant that the presence was one of the few who walked in the dusk suspended between dark and dawn, but as for the person’s intentions regarding Cyran, the shadows could not answer.
And yet, he had a suspicion. Call it a hunch.
The presence did not move; likely, it had felt him too. But whoever it was had decided to play it safe, remaining just at the edges of Cyran’s awareness. The assassin tilted his head, an owlish motion, deep in thought. The darkness cradled those that it blessed from sight. That did not mean they were incorporeal. With that in mind, the assassin pulled a thick rolled cigar from their pocket, a click from the lighter the only sound he made while he lit the front. Within seconds, a thick, black smoke poured into the air, forming an elongated rectangle at Cyran’s will.[2] pulling the cigar from his mouth and putting it out in the palm of his hand, Cyran blew, pushing the smoke lazily through the air across the wall.
Either the smoke would catch on whoever was hiding, or they would move first - but in doing so he would tip his hand, reveal his hiding place.
The choice was his. 1. Volcano Ash Cigar
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Nov 5, 2023 23:57:14 GMT -5
Mephis held his breath as the shaded figure slowly walked towards him, his footsteps making not a single sound. His fingers wrapped tighter around the leather of his dagger's hilt; he wasn't entirely sure if his hiding spot had been uncovered or not. Either way, the yellow circles that were his eyes darted around, gauging the best possible escape route if worst came to worst. He mentally noted a stack of crates and a cloth canopy a little ways behind the figure on the opposite side of the alley. Those would be his ticket out of here if his cover got blown. That seemed to be the case when the shade stopped in their tracks, and the fellblood could feel their gaze on him.
His blood ran ice cold as the figure tilted their head; that was all the indication that he needed to know that he had been spotted. He remained frozen to the wall, holding his breath and fearing the intentions of the figure. He dared not blink lest he miss the smallest movement and end up on the defensive; his knuckles were ghost-white as he held onto the dagger’s hilt. Mephis had to fight back a flinch as the shade reached into their pocket., though his fear washed away into confusion as he realized they had pulled out what looked like a cigar. He watched anxiously as the cigar was puffed and the smoke was lazily pushed in his direction.
His thoughts raced as he realized the choice he had to make here: stay still and have the smoke reveal his location or move and reveal himself. His time was quickly running out, but an idea popped into his head, and a devilish smirk crept across his face. He continued to hold his breath, knowing that the timing had to be perfect to pull this off, and the seconds felt like minutes as he waited for the smoke to barely touch his person. The very second the smoke revealed his position, his free hand held up a hand sign, and with a puff of smoke, a second smoke-covered silhouette appeared 1Both Mephis and his clone sprung toward the shaded figure, and both spun out their daggers, darting between each other to hopefully confuse his opponent. Once within range, the clone jumped and took an illusionary swipe while the real Mephis took a lower route, slipped underneath his arm, and kicked the back of his knee. With that little distraction, Mephis could slip past the shade and scurry towards the stack of crates.
2With a few cat-like jumps and a couple well well-placed hand holds, the fellblood and his clone scurried up the side of the building and pulled themselves up onto the roof. Though being the cocky little shit that Mephis was he couldn’t escape without a word, so both his clone and himself looke down upon his pursurer, confident grins stretched across both of their faces “I am terribly sorry, I wish I could stay and chat. But I really have to go.” He teased with a chuckle before retreating further onto the rooftop.
1.) Clone Self 2.) Surface Scaling.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 10, 2023 21:58:32 GMT -5
Silence, as smoke was carried by the light breeze, intermingling with volcano ash. Cyran watched the alley coolly, waiting for even the slightest movement - he only spared a second for doubt, that perhaps he’d jumped to conclusions that there was anything in this alley, though the shadows rarely led him astray - but nothing happened for a few, tense seconds.
Then the smoke brushed up against something.
“Found you.” Cyran whispered, tapping the ash-cigar out on the wall next to him, eyes trained on the figure -
No, two figures, immediately leaping on him with daggers raised. Perhaps the young fellblood had made the assumption that Cyran was seeking him out to mug him in return and take back his money, which was not an inaccurate assumption given the nature of the city they were currently in. Whatever he thought about Cyran, though, he was not content with being caught first. The assassin’s keen instinct allowed him to react, dropping the cigar and raising his hands to halt the dagger in its path, though the dagger merely sailed harmlessly through his hands, a mirage.[1]
Shit. He’d picked the wrong one to follow.
That was the last one he had before the real thief, not the illusion, slid below him and nearly knocked him to his knees with a well-placed kick to the back of the leg. Cyran winced, hobbling for a moment as he grabbed at his leg. Ugh, he definitely wasn’t as young and spry as he used to be. Though he recovered quickly, the thief had already pressed the advantage and started scrambling up the other wall like an agitated stray cat.
Cyran whirled around just in time to catch the doubles both offering him a shit-eating grin and parting words before slipping away, using the shadows to his advantage.
The youth these days.
Cyran took a step forward as if to pursue, only to pause and reconsider. He didn’t really want to cause any trouble, but he didn’t want to scare the kid by giving off the impression that they’d accidentally stumbled upon a hunter who meant them serious harm. That wasn’t what he was trying to do. But he couldn’t just leave the young man, not when Cyran could not be certain he wouldn’t get into more danger, or run into a bigger and more vindictive fish, and did he even have a place to stay or food to eat? The Specter hadn’t seen a fellblood as colorful and well-dressed as him sleeping in Darkveil’s streets before, so either he was a new urchin or a visitor or… well, he could speculate all he wanted but that wouldn’t stop the young thief from escaping without Cyran making sure he at least had a roof over his head for the night.
So he sighed and drew the shadows to his aid, the darkness coalescing and bursting from his back, taking the form of a pair of spectral wings.[2] The scar on his back burned with the effort, but he ignored the twinge of pain, tapping himself on the shoulder and weaving another spell that propelled him through the air with the speed of a crossbow bolt.[3]
Within seconds, he could see throngs of city rooftops sprawling about him, and the young man deftly scrambling across the rooftops like a mountain goat. Likely confident that in leaving Cyran in the dust, he’d effectively shaken off his pursuer. Cyran dove, allowing gravity to do half the work before putting himself in between the fellblood and his intended escape route. His hands were held in the air, unarmed - a gesture of peace. It had a slim chance of working; when a cat was cornered it was wont to lash out with claws. Yet, he still wanted to try.
“You know,” He started, voice a tired sigh. “Some people consider it bravery to pickpocket in Darkveil city. Others consider it a rite of passage for young thieves testing their mettle. For most around here, it is a necessity for survival. But I would be remiss if I didn’t check on anyone who felt the need to divest me of my coin purse. I never know what people are really going through, after all. I mean you know harm - just wanted to make sure you were alright. And…”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his second coin purse, “Give you more if you need it.” 1. Steel Catch 2. Bat Wings 3. Quicken
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Nov 21, 2023 17:52:19 GMT -5
Mephis dismissed his clone with a flick of his hand. His grin stayed plastered on his face as he traversed the dark rooftops; he had his first successful score in the city of thieves. How could he not smile? With the feeling of success in his chest and the wind rushing past his face as he leaped across the gaps between buildings, he knew he would fit right in. If Mephis didn’t have his family’s agents after him, he would’ve considered staying for as long as possible. Since leaving Moonglade, he has never been awarded the luxury of staying somewhere longer than necessary. However, the looming threat of his capture wouldn’t prevent him from having some fun here.
As Mephis sprung from rooftop to rooftop, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. The fellblood couldn’t get the encounter back at the alley out of his head. Questions rang through his mind as he fixed his gaze on the route before him. Who in the hell was that? Why did I feel a slight connection to him? But the most pressing one that plagued his mind was what happened with the shadow. He had never felt or experienced anything like it before, and it was almost like the shadows had accepted him.
Each question seemed to give way to even more mysteries, which caused Mephis to stop and look at his hands. “What am I?” he muttered after a brief silence. Mephis ran through what he knew about himself in his head; he knew he was a fellblood from Mooonglade. Formerly part of the Ferideh crime family and a man with dozens of lives on his hands, he closed his fists and shook his head at that thought. He wouldn’t find answers, combing through his memory like this. Maybe the man back at the alley could help. He quickly brushed that idea aside as he continued the route, his mind still swamped with mysteries.
Mephis was pulled out of his mind by what sounded like distant whistling rapidly approaching him. He shot his head up just in time to see a figure crash down in front of him; out of instinct, he sprung backward. Before landing, he spun his dagger out, 1summoned his clone, and they darted to opposite sides of the roof upon touching the ground. Despite the hands of the figure being up in a gesture of peace, Mephis kept his dagger in front of him and his cold eyes glued to the figure.
After a brief silence, a look of recognition appears on the fellblood’s face, followed by a quick glance behind him. This was the man he had stolen from earlier, but how did he get up here so fast? “Oh, it’s you. Come to thank me for fixing your outfit earlier?” Before the elven man could speak, both Mephis’ joked, still not giving away that he still possessed his coin purse. Despite his joking tone, his dagger was still placed between him and the man, and both of the fellbloods had begun slowly circling the man as he spoke.
“Tsk, seems like I’ve been caught, and yes, I am well aware of the rumors of the rite of passage around here.” both joked as the tension started to leave the fellbloods. “Oh, you are awfully kind. but I am fin-” He caught himself mid-sentence as he spotted the man reach for his pocket. Assuming he was about to brandish a weapon, they swiftly darted toward him so as not to lose the advantage he believed he had.
However, before getting into striking range, he stopped dead in his tracks once he spotted the coin purse he had just produced. Left speechless and confused, Mephis could only get out, “What?” Not before long, a look of anger washed over the thief’s face. “Do I look like I need your pity? Well, I don't need it. I have been fending for myself for the past five years, and I am perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much.” Though Mephis probably needed the money, the gesture seemed to offend him; he hated being looked down upon. In the moment of silence between the two, his stomach picked the worst time to growl as loud as it could. “Ignore that.”
He spun the dagger back into his belt and dismissed his clone, spinning on his heel to walk away in a huff. As he walked away, he stepped onto a shadow cast by an adjacent building, this time not flinching and letting it engulf his boot, not a foe, but aid. He darted his head around as he thought he had just heard someone speak to him in a voice he had never heard before. He stopped dead in his tracks as he thought over his next move, and with a heavy and reluctant sigh, he turned around. “Fine, but can you explain what is happening to me” pointing to the shadow engulfing his boot, a grimace clear on his face as he hated asking others for assistance
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 27, 2023 17:54:20 GMT -5
Derision and cruel jokes as a defense mechanism, Cyran was used to. This was not the first cutpurse to take from him… nor the first in Darkveil. He’d met plenty of belligerent youths and homeless beggars vying for money however they could obtain it. Darkveil was cruel. So its citizens often evolved themselves to be tougher. Looking at him, Cyran still wasn’t sure whether the kid was a Darkveil native or just someone passing by, but his demeanor was universal. Clearly digging for some kind of reaction out of the elven man, something familiar he could cling to in the unknown. Perhaps it was a negative one. Regardless of what he was perhaps hoping for, Cyran kept his face passively neutral. No cruelty. He merely stayed still while he watched the two fellbloods circle him, like he fancied himself a cat watching a mouse.
The young man’s eyes lit up behind round spectacles when Cyran mentioned the right of passage, twinkling with a familiarity. Cyran hummed to himself. He’d get to glean too much about the young man but already the assassin’s estimation was leaning towards thrill seeker. He hummed, thoughtful. It was not necessarily a bad thing, mind. It was just important to understand one’s motivations when reaching out to them. Like dealing with a delicate hummingbird - one wrong move and they would dart away.
And apparently, Cyran’s offering had been the wrong thing to do. The flippant attitude immediately disappeared from the young man’s face, replaced with something more tetchy and guarded. Anger simmered under the surface. He did not speak for a long while, save the stunned, “What?”; no words were needed. Cyran could already imagine the words at the forefront of his mind.
Who the hell do you think you are?
The verbal lashing was honestly not surprising in retrospect.
Cyran remained silent while the young man spoke, head tilted to the side and brows furrowed in thought. He was far too old to be ruffled by insults and demeaning speech, especially when it was likely coming from a place of pride. The struggle of someone scraping for some manner of control. Cyran wouldn’t rise to the occasion, not when his experience demonstrated that it was important not to show them your anger.
Compassion was confusing to most kids, but -
… Did his stomach just growl?
Cyran was thankfully experienced enough at speaking with the kids of the orphanage that he did not crack a surprised smile at the sudden sound that quite undermined his words. “When was the last time you’ve eaten? It’s not a shame to accept help from others when you need it…” He considered his words, tapping his chin. “Even if you don’t need it, there’s nothing bad about a free meal and place to stay for the night, is there?”
Evidently, the young man still didn’t want his pity. Cyran sighed as the fellblood spun away on his heel, practically stomping off, each step punctuating his point. He didn’t want to push and come off as aggressive… not everyone could be reached right away and he would not force anyone to do anything against their will. Tucking the pouch back through his belt loop, Cyran dropped to the ground, spectral wings of ink-shadow tucking against his back and disappearing into his cloak. Just as he was about to make his way off of the roof, however, something behind him stirred. He didn’t so much as see it rather than feel it.
He turned around to catch the fellblood standing still in his tracks, darkness clinging to his boots.
Cyran’s eyes widened.
So his hiding earlier hadn’t been a fluke.
“You’re like me.”
This was not the first person Cyran had encountered who was kindred to the shadows; hell, he’d met his fiance, Delaela Asiliari, when the darkness pulled them together, and eventually bound them. Such a rare thing it was to meet someone who called the shadows home… whether they knew it or not.
Oh… he’s a little shade.
Cyran waved his hand, dispelling the shadow clinging to his boot. His brows were knit together in concern, lips pursed. “This has never happened to you before? I wonder why today of all days…”
He stared up at the sky, thoughtful, before turning back to offer the young man a small smile. At least this much, he could help with. “I don’t pretend to call myself a scholar of umbramancy, but I’ve been where you are. It’s… confusing at first, but you’re not alone. But let’s talk somewhere a little more quiet.”
Happy to at least have the young man’s reluctant attention, Cyran held his hand out, hoping to shake. “I’m Cyran, by the way. Do you like chili? There’s a hole in the wall nearby that we can get out of the ash and talk in.” He would have preferred to have a private talk in the comfort of his orphanage, but he didn’t want to make anyone feel cornered. A public space, though not one especially crowded since most were at the Dancer’s Den this time of day, would be much preferred. He waited for the young man’s assent and his name, or lack thereof, before making his way down the roof and to the alley below.
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Nov 30, 2023 14:28:41 GMT -5
“I’m … like you?” Mephis repeated the man’s statement as his eyes flicked to where he swore he saw inky wings sprouting, but now it was just a black cloak. Despite his reluctance, Mephis couldn’t deny that something was urging him to interact with him. Even before this, he had always stuck to the shadows, mainly on the count that he had to for the “family business” and even after he left.
Mephis hesitated when asked if this was the first time this had ever happened. He considered lying to him, making it seem like his question was to lure him closer and steal more from him or use it as an escape. Though much to the fellblood’s dismay, he seemed to have answers; thus, speaking truthfully was his only option for getting them. “I’m afraid so. I have always been someone who chooses to stick to hidden places. But this was the first time they had “accepted” me … if that makes sense.” He was utterly in new territory, both figuratively and literally. Yet here he was, telling the truth as if lying wasn’t one of his most robust defenses.
The want to escape pinged in the back of Mephis’s mind the moment the elven man looked up, although the urge left as quickly as it came when he flashed a small smile. Something about the softness of said smile almost completely disarmed the fellblood; maybe this man is to be trusted. His expression softened as the conversation continued, exposing the hint of tiredness in his eyes, and then the proposition to discuss this elsewhere raised his eyebrows slightly.
A secondary location? Every cell in Mephis’ body instinctively screamed not to follow this man elsewhere. Though the ‘voice’ rang in his mind once again, not a foe, but aid, and as he looked up into the man’s eyes, he realized he hadn’t done anything to give a reason for Mephis not to trust him. He then clasped his hand in his and shook, “I’m Me- Dante … My name is Dante.” he had relaxed so much that he had almost let his actual name slip out; it had been years since that happened, and he internally cursed at himself for almost letting everything out. “And chili sounds delightful, and I’ll follow you if you promise not to gut me,” he joked with a small smile.
Mephis followed quickly behind Cyran as they descended from the rooftops to the alley below. The fellblood has always considered himself relatively agile, but even he needed to catch up with the practiced movements; each step and each jump had a purpose, and there seemed to be no theatrics. Once on the ground, Mephis stayed close behind Cyran, and he wondered who exactly he was as he gave him a once over. He was a man in plain clothes who could call the shadows to his aid and seem to outmaneuver the best of them, and the biggest mystery to Mephis was his kindness. Was he just playing the long game and waiting for them to be alone to get him, or was he this nice to everyone?
Mephis was soon pulled out of his mind by the scent of spices and cooked meat as he was led to, in all senses of the statement, a hole in the wall. The fellblood’s mouth started to water, and once again, his stomach growled in anticipation of a warm meal after many days of stale bread and whatever he could find.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 1, 2023 12:13:59 GMT -5
Cyran watched the young man’s stubborn reluctance… crumble when he noticed the spectral wings, the way the darkness seemed to cling to him like a friend when he landed in front of the fellblood. He understood independence, truly. The assassin had spent the better part of a decade in the wake of his exile wandering alone and believing that was all he was worth - fearing the intimacy of another person’s understanding. But in meeting Del he’d learned that it was not so horrible, to have someone see the parts of you that were so dark even the shadows embraced you for it, and still love you nonetheless.
Even without knowing it, consciously doing his damnedest to push others away with teasing and emotional shields - perhaps he, too, sought understanding.
The young fellblood was even so bewildered that the truthful explanation seemed to escape him, unbidden. The plain, honest truth was a terribly heavy thing. But Cyran appreciated it, nonetheless. He remembered stumbling upon what he could do, with no explanation, no help, and no training - just the fear that he’d opened a box he could not close. It was unfortunate he did not have all the answers. But he could try.
He nodded.
“That’s how it happened to me, as well.” He sympathized. “I’d always been naturally stealthy… imagine my surprise when I ducked into a darkened corner and the corner pulled me back when I tried to leave.” He didn’t pretend to understand the whims of the shadows, but it had taken him some time to learn that they truly were almost this living, sentient thing. There were some that they favored and accepted as their own. He would explain more, but it didn’t feel right out here somewhere so cold.
He could tell the young man was distrustful at the prospect of moving - good. A dose of skepticism was healthy. Despite his confusion, he was a survivor. He stumbled on his own name… perhaps it was a fake one, perhaps it was an alias. It was not Cyran’s place at the present moment to pry and intrude upon his business. There was a lot of weight within a name, too. If that was what Dante wanted to be known as, then there was nothing to it but for Cyran to treat that as the implicit truth. Besides, his insight rune did not ping the way it might the way when someone gave a truly false name. There was sentiment to the name - it was part of his identity.
Cyran never put much stock in family names anyways.
“Dante. It’s good to meet you.” He repeated, the same serene smile on his face. Not a speck of distrust as they pulled apart and started moving, Cyran leading him down the building. He merely… walked off the side of the rooftop, his angle of gravity merely shifting to the side.[2] Only his hair and cloak betrayed any indication he was not walking on the ground. Once he was back in the alley, he stopped and waited for Dante to catch up. “And I’m not going to gut you, I promise. Unfortunately, you probably picked the most boring criminal in Darkveil.” His tone was light with humor, but he did mean his promise, for what good his word currently meant to Dante - no harm would come to him under Cyran’s care. Not when he could at least help the young man’s circumstances and lessen the need for this hobby as best he could.
The walk was mostly silent, Cyran’s stride purposeful - only occasionally glancing back at Dante to make sure the young thief was following him. There was little room for small talk, still an air of tension and indecision between them. He did not begrudge Dante that. He’d worked enough with guarded, traumatized kids to recognize the signs of one. Perhaps Cyran was not the best man in the world, but it was better than nothing. And if it helped even one kid on the road then he was content with that. He merely continued his walk, occasionally waving at merchants and other pedestrians who recognized him as a friendly face, until the crowd began to thin. Not enough to be concerning, but a bit off the beaten path. Lesser chance for overstimulation.
The small restaurant was built into a divot between two buildings - quite literally. The slant from the opposing roofs and shoddily patched and boarded rot created an alcove that had been filled with tables and chairs, and a small kitchen inside one of the homes with a window for exchanging food. And ample room for a person to slip back into the streets in the event they were threatened. It was clearly a location picked with Dante’s comfort in mind.
Cyran moved to pick a table, smiling as Dante’s stomach growled. “Here, go ahead and sit. I’ll order us some food.” He made quick work of buying two bowls and extra bread, and a drink for himself. When he sat, a server brought him a glass of wine, and water for Dante.
“I got a little bit extra to eat, it should be out in a moment. I hope you don’t mind I didn’t get you a drink as well. Admittedly, I don’t know how old you are…” He squinted. “Ages are hard.” 1. Insight Rune 2. Boots of Spider Climb
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Dec 14, 2023 18:31:41 GMT -5
Mephis scanned the small restaurant nestled between two buildings, committing each escape route to memory and noticing the wide variety to choose from; his shoulders relaxed slightly as they walked in. Then his gaze drifted up towards Cyran; he wondered if he intentionally chose this place due to that fact or if it was just a coincidence that this hole in the wall provided him with ample spots to run. If the latter seemed to be the case, then he would use that to his advantage when things eventually turned south for him, and Cyran actually does mean him harm.
Though at this point, Mephis is starting to question his distrust of the man. He hasn’t even done anything suspicious since their encounter other than being weirdly kind to him. In the fellblood’s mind, that is reason enough to be on alert for now. He’ll just have to wait and observe; Cyran will reveal his true intentions soon enough. Whether they were malicious or not, Mephis seemed to be getting a free meal out of this, even if he had to swallow his pride to get it. Even he knew pride couldn’t fill an empty stomach.
“Alright, I promise not to slip away into the dead of night while you are not looking,” Mephis joked as Cyran split away from him. The thief rested his elbows on the table and brought his hands up to support his chin; placing it on the back of his hands, he now scanned the interior. Mostly keeping a head count, he counted three other patrons, all seated at different tables by themselves. A tall and half-orc woman sipping on a black coffee while reading a book, Another blue fellblood, though a darker shade than Mephis, so he didn’t have to worry that it was one of his brothers. Lastly, a tired-looking dwarven man almost drifted off to sleep in his bowl of stew. If any of them were working with Cyran for an ambush or at the very least knew him, they were good at hiding it. Just then, Mephis noticed the table he had picked was close to one of the aforementioned escape routes, and he thought that was how he would get out of there.
Mephis hadn’t even noticed that Cyran had gotten back to the table until the waiter brought the drinks to the table. Eyeing the glass of wine with a slight hint of envy, he lets out a little chuckle at Cyran questioning his age; he had always been told he had a slight baby face, but he had no idea it was that bad. “If I remember correctly, I am 25, so I am well above the drinking age for most establishments… But how could I refuse water?” he stated with a smirk. “not to be rude, but Cyran, how old are you?”. He hadn’t yet reached for any of his drinks or food despite his words. Instead, he kept his eyes glued on Cyran, waiting for him to take the first bite to ensure it was safe. Once he saw the elven man take a bite of his chili, Mephis slowly and hesitantly took a spoonful as well. Once it entered his mouth, he had to stop himself from letting tears spring from his eyes; it tasted heavenly and, paired with the cold night, hit Mephis right in his very soul. Mephis quickly took a couple more bites before realizing he probably looked desperate and then placed his spoon down with a hint of embarrassment. Wiping his mouth with a napkin before resetting himself. “So Cyran, now that we are here in a more concealed environment, could you elaborate on what this shadow stuff means? Also, what exactly do you want with me, an accomplice … an employee, maybe? I’m sorry, but no one is this open and kind without wanting something out of it.”
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 14, 2023 20:26:23 GMT -5
“Twenty five?” Cyran blinked, clearly not expecting that response. That was only just a little older than his daughter…
The thought sent a pang through his heart. It was a decent age for those with humanoid lifespans, but In the grand scheme, still so achingly young, far too young to not know where one’s next meal might come from, to not know whether they had a roof to sleep under the next night or not. He shook those thoughts - and thoughts of Marlow - away.
“I am three and a half centuries, give or take. I’ve honestly stopped counting - there’s really no point in it anymore.” Cyran couldn’t remember the last time he’d even celebrated his birthday. He shrugged, leaning down to take a bite of his meal. The fact that Dante waited for him to eat first before digging in, though he was just relieved that Dante had something to eat. Without realizing it, a smile had grown on his face while he nibbled at his own bowl.
Dante quickly composed himself, as if quickly trying to compose himself and erase that vulnerability. His next question was not unexpected, in the sense that most kids were distrustful of a kind act simply for the sake of it. It was much easier for one to see motive in that they did not know - easier to imagine generosity as something transactional. Still, they were heavy questions, and rapid-fire at that. Cyran picked up his wine glass, drumming his fingers against the wood of the table while he considered his answer. Underneath his palm the shadows stirred as he grabbed at them, as if he was dipping his hand into a pot of ink - and then they came alive, dancing, taking the form of a small raven that danced between his fingers.(Mass Shadow Control) A wordless response to Dante’s question.
Keeping his gaze trained on the dancing shadow-creature, Cyran took a deep breath and finally mustered the courage to speak.
“In the realms intertwined with ours there exist realms of magic and chaos - realms that influence ours.” He interlinked his fingers like a chain, the shadowling flitting around his hands. “One of those realms is the Astral Plane. It differs from the others in that it is not necessarily composed of magic, but in cosmic energy. Time, space, dark, light. The stars that guide our paths; the sun that gives; the moon that takes. And the clock that guides it all, keeping us on a steady, balanced cycle. The dark plane…”
Here, Cyran grimaced, running a hand through his hair. Frustration waned and flowed - he did not have all the answers, either.
“Well. Where there is dark, there must also be dusk that borders it, the dark’s connection to the light. As far as I can figure, it is easy for those who were born with natural ties to the Dark Domain to forge a connection with the shadows. It is like… a gate, perhaps, is the best way to put it. They latch onto those they consider kindred spirits, and when you accept them, you open that gate, and…”
He placed his palm flat on the wood, channeling from that deep pit of darkened energy - and when he pulled away, there was a darkened imprint of his hand etched into the wood where he’d destroyed it.(Toxic Touch)
Cyran sighed and tucked his hand neatly in his lap, careful not to touch anything else while his arm sizzled with a rotting, festering, arcane energy.
“You find yourself inexplicably interconnected with the Dark Domain. The place where thought and memory and time go to die - the place where the unwanted is cast into mediocrity. And if you aren’t careful, the shadows will snatch you and cast you there too.”
He pursed his lips, letting that grim thought hang in the silence for a long time before he reached once more for his wine glass - with the non shadow-touched hand - and took another long sip. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the ash still falling around them like snow.
“I don’t… mean to scare you.” He murmured after the oppressive silence felt it had overstayed its welcome. “I just believe in being honest. I wasn’t born this way, either. I can’t tell you why it’s happening to you now. But at the very least, I can do my best to explain it so it’s not as frightening. If it makes you feel any better,” He paused, tilting his head, a small smile on his face. “My fiancé is the same way. We are few and far in between, but you are not alone.”
Dante’s second question, at least, was a little easier to answer.
“Gosh, an employee sounds so formal…” Ashen Fathers had employees. Cyran did not. “I have a few apprentices who learn under me, and I suppose I could find a job for you if you’re looking for some stable pay, but I don’t want anything. Just… to make sure that I’ve done all I can to make sure your needs are met right now.”
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Post by Dante (Mephis Ferideh) on Dec 27, 2023 0:45:40 GMT -5
Mephis nearly choked on his water when Cyran mentioned his age. Assuming the man was in his late 30s or early 40s, Mephis was taken aback to discover that Cyran was lifetimes older than he had ever imagined. After a brief fit of coughing into his napkin, Mephis tried to regain composure. A slight look of disbelief crossed his face as he said, "My apologies, but that caught me off guard. You are three centuries old?" Clearing his throat to recover from the coughing fit, he added, "I don't hold it against you for not keeping track; that would be a lot of birthdays to plan." A snicker escaped the fellblood as he imagined the idea, inadvertently dropping his guard in front of Cyran. Unbeknownst to both of them, they shared the commonality of not remembering the last time they celebrated their birthdays, even when Mephis meticulously kept track of his age and still went by the name Mephis.
As Mephis noticed Cyran's shift in demeanor, his guard quickly returned. Had his questions upset him? Was this the moment when Cyran would reveal his true intentions? Glancing down to locate his dagger and back up, Mephis saw Cyran's eyes fixed on the table. The thief slowly followed his gaze to see the shadows around Cyran's hand moving and dancing around his fingers. Intrigued, Mephis placed his hand on the table, dipping it into the shadow cast underneath. The shadow, colder than Mephis was comfortable with, engulfed his hand in a dark blue silhouette. Surprisingly, the darkness felt welcoming—a new sensation for the runaway.
Pulling his hand away as Cyran began to speak, Mephis refocused on the elven man's words. A sense of familiarity dawned on him; his father had attempted to explain a similar concept when teaching Mephis magic. A brief flash of a punishing memory made him shudder, prompting him to subconsciously tighten the golden covers on the tips of his horns. He couldn't allow Cyran to see what was underneath, no matter what.
The sound of a spell charging pulled Mephis out of his thoughts, and he witnessed the energy dispelling as a dark imprint on the wood. While Cyran's explanation diverged from his father's, Mephis stayed silent, brows knit together in contemplation. The heavy silence persisted, and Cyran's final words lingered in Mephis's mind. For a fleeting moment, the idea of being cast away forever didn't sound so bad if it meant escaping his family.
As the pressure lifted, Cyran spoke again, and Mephis offered a half-hearted smile. "Well, the dark domain sounds perfect for someone like me," he murmured, leaving the meaning open-ended. Admitting that Cyran's explanation alleviated some of his thoughts, a small smile appeared on Mephis's face. His eyes widened at the mention of his fiancée sharing the same abilities. "There's a third person like you and me; what are they like, if you don't mind me prying?" The gravity of the silence lifted, allowing Mephis to eat a couple more spoonfuls of chili, melting the unease that had started to creep back into his mind.
Mephis tilted his head in confusion at Cyran's dismissal of him being an employee. Being nothing more than an employee had been Mephis's role for most of his life, even within his own family. Never a son and never a brother. However, the confusion dissipated when Cyran mentioned pay and jobs. "What kind of work do your apprentices do?" Mephis asked with a smirk, leaning on his hand. "I can do just about any job for the right price... well, except kill someone. I don't do that anymore," he trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Cyran's assertion that he wanted nothing from Mephis, only to help his well-being. The only words that Mephis could muster from his confusion were, "Why me?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 5, 2024 9:53:42 GMT -5
He stifled a laugh behind his hand at Dante’s reaction to his age. “Yes - give or take.” Even before Marlow had been born, he’d stopped noting the passage of time indicating he’d grown older long into his adulthood. When no one else around you cared to remember, you, too, stopped keeping track. That was another thing they had in common, even if they weren’t cognizant of that fact. Though Cyran was less despondent about that fact and more amused at Dante’s sudden amusement, the surprise enough to break down his barriers for even a second. It was, despite the darkened edges at the borders of their conversation, a brief moment of lightness that made his chest feel warm, watching Dante feel safe around him.
But even that innocent moment was not meant to last.
Dante remained silent while Cyran spoke - something dawning on the young fellblood’s expression while he toyed with the small illusion Cyran had created. Haunting familiarity.
Cyran pursed his lips together but did not pry. They all had demons on their shoulder that they did not want to address. Despite the ever-growing concern gnawing at his chest, he pressed forward with his explanation, until he reached the end, with an uttered warning and an air of gravity hanging around him. He almost expected fear or uncertainty, but Dante merely smiled, as if this were something he’d already resigned himself to, and Cyran’s heart broke a little more for him.
It was, perhaps a touch too familiar, but… oh, Cyran worried, and he would never be able to properly stamp out his parental instinct. He reached out and grabbed Dante’s hand with both of his own, giving it a firm squeeze - gentle, but a strong reminder that someone was there. That he was reaching out and his plea for help, understanding, had not gone unanswered. “So it often seems.” He murmured. “I would never prevent someone from walking the path they want to walk, but at the very least, heed an old man’s warning - the dark is as present and powerful as the light. The light domain burns you, but the dark domain seeks to erase you from existence. And your life is worth much more than that.”
He released his grip on Dante’s hand before the fellblood could grow too uncomfortable, settling for picking up his drink. Only the dredges of the wine were left, which he sipped at half-heartedly. The scars on his back ached, the memory of screams and darkened rot leaving a sour taste on his tongue.
“Ah; Del.” Despite the heaviness of the topic, talk of his intended never failed to lighten his mood. His gaze was faraway, but he still wore a hopelessly fond smile on his face. Idly, he twisted the ring on his finger with his thumb. “A fighter, she is. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more headstrong, or so determined to do good in the world. She’s got no ability to cast magic, but she’s been shadow-touched, same as us…” The circumstances of which, Cyran was not entirely cognizant of, nor was Del herself. Even knowing of her past, and the bounty on her head from the crown, he still found himself in awe that he’d met someone so wholly capable of good that was so kindred to him.
“Oh! But if you’d like, you can meet her yourself. I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to meet you.” Not to mention she was already quite used to Cyran’s proclivity for helping those who needed it. A fact that Dante still seemed wholly confused about. It was difficult for the young man to conceptualize that someone might want to help him with no strings attached… which was likely why, as Cyran mentioned pay, he latched onto the prospect of a job. Something familiar he could do.
Cyran opened his mouth to assure Dante there was no need for him to find work, when Dante’s last assertion made the words die in his throat.
Oh, no.
Only twenty-five and already exposed to the dark world of contract killing. Barely older than Cyran’s daughter. Humanoid lifespans and maturity were different from elven ones, he knew. Yet, his heart wept all the same.
He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, attempting to compose himself.
When he opened his eyes to stare at Dante again, there was a renewed sort of resolution in the sharpened silver gaze. The look of a man who walked this path and would go through hell to make sure no child would have to do the same.
To ensure no child would end up like him.
“There would be no killing if you didn’t want it, do you understand me? I would never force someone to - to take a life they didn’t want to take…” Even his apprentice Andromeda, who’d all but begged him to teach her how to be an assassin, never conducted contract killings under his tutelage. He taught her self defense, how to live on the streets and fight. Gave her a safe place to learn and grow. But he would never even ask her to take a life when she wasn’t prepared for it.
“I’ll make this clear.” He said, the firmness of his tone brokering no argument. But he did not raise his voice. He would never raise his voice, not the way his own father did - Cyran would not stain his words and actions with Lormundel’s harshness. Even as firm as he was, it was still patient, slow, as not to startle Dante. “I’m not offering anything that you don’t want to do. What you choose from here on out will be just that - your choice, and no one else’s. My apprentices learn how to hone stealth and shadow to survive in a world where they are otherwise unwelcome. They train and travel as they wish, and they lend helping hands at the orphanage I run. But there’s no work they don’t wish to do, and there’s no expectation for them. I have little to offer but a bed and food and a small allowance. You don’t even have to work for me at all, but it is yours if you need it.”
Dante’s guard seemed to melt away then… guarded cockiness to something softer, unsure. Cyran resisted the urge to wrap him in a warm embrace. Instead, he flagged down a server and placed an order for some more food.
“When I was kicked out of the household I’d known for centuries I was alone. Confused. There was no one to guide me but myself. I’ll be dead in my grave before I ever let anyone go through the same thing I did - if I can help them get on their feet and let them know that someone out there gives a damn about them, then I will.”
He offered Dante a small, melancholic smile. “And I get the feeling that you and I are more alike than you think, Dante. Your life is worth more than what you do for others. Like I said. You have a place if you need it - but the choice is yours, and nobody else’s.”
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