Message #163249

[CryptCypher]

Ashen waves scatter upon deep sea azure, lapping gently at the golden shores of verdant isles upon which shine twin obelisks of polished onyx. Hetero-chromatic paradise mirrored amidst an ocean of fire, freckled beacons bestrewn across a vast archipelago of milk and honey. Like a moth unto flame, many have sought exile before the curtain-call of living flame - yet no colony survives upon her fertile shores. Flesh a cosmic canvas; the eyes a gateway to the whispered secrets of the soul...

Politely and subtly, Hrafn draws back his offered hand. He gently turns his body instead and Sigrid takes her place beside him, walking the market side by side as a smile dawns upon both lips.

This young man seems to possess the rare gift of common sense, humor, and at least some level of decency. Tainted by pride, of course, but she isn't exactly expecting the company of some self-flagellating ascetic monk. Had her grin betrayed notice of Hrafn's casual yet swift reaction? His was the hoped-for result of cause and effect: a simple yet vital test of character passed with flying colors. Both scent and posture showed no sign of sheepish intimidation nor aggressive cockiness - a surprising advent in the presence of a half-Elvish nineteen year old's youthful pride. So far so good. Only a man of respectful stature might find himself privy to her inner thoughts, much less one's affection. In time they could surpass certain boundaries, but the foundation of such mutual understanding requires a healthy dose of trust: a spiritual currency she was taught to cautiously horde for optimal investment. Hers was a faithfulness of boundless depths - a profound sense of wholehearted loyalty whose traumatic costs she learned at an early age. With pain comes cynicism, of course, and with it a certain tendency toward secretive doubt and subtle manipulation. A necessary evil in a world full of thieves and murderers, predators and traitors...

"I'll show you the ruins of what was once Sirion's greatest duchy, with Avamar being the heart of an idealized kingdom within the Republic... maybe I can entertain you and make you forget any worries."

Sigrid absentmindedly brushes a wayward lock from atop her left eye with a grin as wisps of ginger dance upon mottled ivory skin. Blinding light glides across multi-hued iris heralding a wince of surprise as dilated onyx pupil struggles to accompany its vigilant companion - a blinding procession of fluttering lashes as fleeting as the glow from whence discomfort dawned. Slender fingers and elegant toes curl in the hidden confines of well-worn leather as a casual shake of the head banishes the remnant spots of polarization occluding her vision. With a grin turned grimace and back again - therianthropic flickers of pleasure and pain bound to a beautiful sky - she nods to her escort and they embark upon a not-so-simple traipse along the histrionic ruins of ancient folly.

"Copiously shaded ruins of a faded empire sound pretty damn good right about now..."

Its difficult to pinpoint where the market ends or even begins - a vast ouroboros of rich undertones that slither between merchant stalls and smoking forges alike. A din of exotic fragrances waft the sea-born breeze alongside shouted bids and hammers upon anvil, concealing the more subtle undertones left best to the wandering mind. Foreign vessels span the harbors that hug sea and river alike, flowing with precious goods and curious services of a nature as alien as the tongues of those who offer them - for the right price, of course. Once the rebel capitol of West Sirion and Avamar alike, the city-of-the-same-name has long been a melting pot of Elvish and Human cultures whose fluid clash gave rise to a rich amalgam of architecture and history. For so relatively small a city, Avamar has long-since earned a sense of immortality among those who travel the world.

Though empires may rise and all, riders of the trade-winds are ever wise to lay trails of humble kisses at the feet of Avamar's magnificence, lest profits dry in the face of a mistress spurned. Hers is a fickle nature; loyalty paid in tribute of gold and sacrifice. Few may claim her enduring love, but she never forgets those loyal to her. If the city has a heart then her arterial markets pump the blood of trade from the East to the world - a carnal exchange as sacred as the red-lit temple-brothels so beloved by all who visit. For a dead empire in ruins astrew, the Avamarian Lich seems very much alive.

Soaking in the sights, the nobles' first foray is a curio shop specializing in exotic instruments old and semi-new. With a handful of coin and its partner grasping at the neck of a lute, Hrafn makes his offer. Wordless and swift is the exchange as he smiles and makes his way to the exit. Too quick. One expects a measure of haggling to take place and yet Hrafn sealed the deal with exacting grace. As the merchant raises their hand to intersect a beam of light cast narrow across the shop, Sigrid analyzes the opposite face of an odd coin - some turban-clad Elf of strangely familiar features. Spinning on her heel she follows Hrafn to the next stop, drinking in the bounty of culture, language, and unspoken secrets that permeate the air.

This time they stop at a tent laden with such variety of fruit that her mouth waters for colors and shapes whose names she cannot not fathom. Gently poking at some odd yellow spiked fruit whose pungent scent betrayed superior flavor, she turns at the utterance of a quiet gasp to witness the saleswoman lit with surprise. Confused, Sigrid notes the confusion on Hrafn's face as his chin dips down to scan the contents of his outstretched palm. A plethora of those same odd coins subtly hide what resembles an eye bathed in translucent crystal. The saleswoman seems to pale before uttering something beneath her breath.

"My Sultan, you can take what you want... it's everything yours... my life is at your hands"

Sultan? What was that about? Analytical tendrils scatter across her mind, grasping at everything she had learned about Sirion's history. She recalls nothing about a Sultan, though strange half-memories and fleeting fragments from dust-coated texts leave her with a feeling of inexplicable unease. Clearly she's missing some vital bridge of data, so she files it away and departs the confines of her mind just as Hrafn looks at her. They both smile sheepishly - hers born of getting caught deep in thought. If consciousness is a river then her mind's cosmic eye looks upon subconscious ocean.

A few nods and vague gestures later, they pass titanic columns of age-worn marble  upon which serpentine tendrils of ivy cling. Together they enter an immense space replete with ancient fountains of what must once have been a magnificent hall, now conquered by an onslaught of grenery that drank in the sunlight falling through a caved-in portion of the ceiling. A subtle smirk creases her lips as she watches him clean its surface with a pristine cloak only for her plump yet mud-speckled rear to plop down in its place. A rangers' leathers are rarely pristine, especially when marching through the field to face the enemy.

Smirk breaks into full-blown grin as she takes the cue and sits upon a stone bench of decidedly ancient build, patting the vacant portion Hrafn cleaned moments before.

"Let me entertain you before they send us back to bleed in Sordidus..."

Half-lost in thought, Sigrid barely acknowledges his statement as thoughts coalesce into two distinct paths: one regarding their military activities, the other returning to a crystal eye coated in strange coins. With a candid smile her thoughts spill forth unto the river of consciousness taken form and an opportunity is pursued. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but that cat told some damn-good stories.

"Tell me, Hrafn, what's with those merchants earlier? You didn't even haggle, which was weird enough in and of itself. On top of that, you gave them some weird coins I've never seen nor heard of. Not to mention the fruit tent exchange... I smell a story! Do tell, young 'Sultan'. I love a good tale."