People Are Complicated

The entire world is a dull, cold, lifeless gray today. It's hard to tell what time it is. There's light outside, but the moon is up, occasionally flashing through the almost-black, threatening looking clouds. Whereas normally one might expect a fog in weather like this, instead there's a wet, uncomfortable mist that hangs in the air, like a barrage of a million raindrops soaking into everything. Clothing, skin. Anything it touches.

It's the worst kind of weather.

But Malik is out in it, chasing after a member of the arcanist society, looking like they're embroiled in an impassioned debate. "I'm telling you, it'll work!" Malik says, keeping his voice low enough to maintain decency, but loud enough to be clearly heard. "If you would just --"

The senior caster pays him no heed, not even bothering to look him in the eye. "It -might- work," he tells Malik in turn. "Or it might tear a hole in the fabric of reality. Or you might make one small gesture wrong and light yourself aflame when you fail to contain the energies. Or a million other things," he says, a tone of dismissive haughtiness in his voice.

"No," Malik contends, "not when you account for --"

The other wizard opens the door to the arcanist society, turning to face the younger wizard. "Mister Gitanos," he says pointedly. "I've listened to your theories for weeks now. And I must say, I'm growing concerned. You seem to have a sure disrespect for the basic foundations of the Art, and the safety of yourself and others. And I think it's high time we're done here. Have a pleasant eve."

Malik looks like he's about to retort, but the other wizard slams the door in his face, leaving Malik in the mist, hair already starting to drip as he stuffs his notes back into his bag, making sure the ink doesn't run. And he may have a word or two of less-pleasant calibre for the other mage.

A satchel over his shoulder and a sheaf of scrolls in his hand, Seldan exits the city library into wet, mucky weather. Pausing at the doorstep, he slides the sheaf into his satchel and tucks it away, cinching the bag closed against the damp. Whatever is in those scrolls, it's important to him. He looks up at the overcast and drizzly day, and sighs, pulling up the hood of his light cloak against the weather.

The voices raised near the arcanists' guild are nothing unusual, but one of them is familiar, which draws his attention, and he looks over that way as he descends the stairs.

Malik is still distracted by his earlier conversation. But he's already making his way to the library, rummaging through the bag at his side as he grumbles and mutters.

Which is probably why he doesn't notice the horse until it's almost too late.

He steps out in front of the thing, only noticing in his peripheral vision as the beast is barreling toward him. Quick as a cat, he turns on his heel, pressing out of the way of the beast as he dives for the stairs of the library, and relative safety --

-- which, naturally, means that he's now managed to also launch himself like a human missile straight in Seldan's direction.

Seldan, who had stopped himself as the horse went trotting by, blinks in startlement as a figure launches himself straight at him. "Wha--" He dives to one side to evade, but not in time. One leg gets caught, and he sprawls to the steps, the satchel bouncing open and the sheaf of scrolls spilling out and down the dampened stairs. "Agh!" He doesn't seem to be hurt, aside from his ego, but he picks himself up fairly slowly.

Malik, on the other hand, doesn't land as gracefully. With one leg caught in Seldan's, he manages to clock his shoulder fairly hard on the stone steps. While that might put most other wizards in the infirmary, Malik seems to at least be made of somewhat sturdier stock. He just winces tightly, slowly starting to pull himself up to his feet. Maybe a bit quicker than Seldan. It takes him a second to register what happened, and who he managed to body check on the way. But eventually he just runs a hand through his now dripping hair. "This is why you have no actual friends, Malik," he mutters to himself. "You ok?" he asks, picking up one of the scrolls out of the mud and laying it across his lap as he mutters basic arcane intonations, holding his hands over the page as the dirt starts to disappear and the water marks start to dry before the ink has even had a chance to run.

The scroll, once the dirt is off of it, appears to be a handwritten family tree going back five or six generations. Several of the names have notations in the margins around them, in a different hand, all in Tradespeak. The last names of the last three generations is Padaryn.

Seldan picks himself up off of the stairs, brushing himself off and applying a similar spell to himself before looking Malik over curiously. "Yes. Are you all right? That was close." Only when he sees Malik cleaning off one of his scrolls does he look around for the others, suddenly alarmed.

Malik rolls the scroll up carefully, setting it on top of his own bag for now as he moves on to the next. "Been worse," he sighs. He's moving a bit gingely, still wincing a bit any time he has to move the shoulder. There's likely already a decent sized bruise where he struck the corner of the stairs, assuming that the bone isn't fractured. But he remains as stoic as he can. "Mostly just injured by pride."

Still, he works quickly and methodically, moving to dry the scrolls and clean them before any of the ink is damaged, setting them off to the side under the satchel flap to avoid any more exposure. "Sorry to make such a mess," he says, a bit sheepishly, still making no move to stand up completely, though he's at least managed to avoid most of the awkwardness by disentangling his legs from Seldan's. But that doesn't stop him from concentrating. "How goes the search for your family history?" he asks.

Frowning, Seldan finishes gathering the last of the scrolls and sets them aside, his expression making it clear that he isn't buying the stoicism. "I am nearly done, but never mind that a moment," he tells the other. "You hit that stair quite hard. Let me look." Apparently his own research takes second place to this. He doesn't wait for an answer before gentle fingers reach to touch the bruised shoulder, if Malik will let him, to examine it gently with fingers that are clearly experienced at this kind of thing.

As Malik cleans the scrolls one by one and the rest are put in his reach, he can see that the sheaf itself is well-read and is a letter, clearly from his parents. It is written in more than one hand, some pages in one hand and some in another. The well-notated family tree is written in a hand that also contains an eye-rolling lecture about his duty to the Sunlord. (What?) Several of the others are in a different, more feminine hand, and is more in the nature of a letter to a faraway relative. The writer is clearly in the city of Bryn Myridorn.

Malik seems to hesitate for a moment as Seldan offers to look him offer, like he might pull away on little more than reflex. But as sense takes over, he nods his assent, unfastening the brooch from his cloak and pulling the shirt up over his head, leaving his upper torso bare. Those same strange, almost-geometric lines run along his upper back and down his spine, over the tops of his shoulders and biceps, Seldan now able to get a closer look at them. And that shoulder, with the nasty bruise, and the very likely dislocation, if the bone is still intact. He's putting on a good show of it, but it likely hurts like nine different hells.

As Seldan works, though, Malik takes a sidelong glance at the scrolls, and the writings there. From Seldan's family, Malik assumes, and the lineages that they spell out. Most likely an impressive number of titles along the way that Malik won't recognize, and has no idea of the magnitude of, though he's at least starting to get a sense. "Damn," he mutters, though whether at the injured shoulder or the long lines of lineages, it's hard to say.

The notations in the margins, though, aren't all titular in nature. In fact, most of them aren't. The notations in the margins are more racial and associative - who -were- these people? He seems to be associating names to tales and deeds, though why that would be of any interest to someone who isn't a bard is unclear. What is clear is that many of them are servants of the Gods of Light, in one capacity or another. The more recent ones are mostly Daeus Sunlord, but further back, there are others noted, including one or two that held evidence of ties to celestial beings ....

Seldan isn't paying attention to that, though, frowning as he makes quick assessment of the injury. "I do not -think- it's broken, but it's almost certainly dislocated," he says quietly. "Do not move. I will do this as quickly as I can." He places one hand on the top of the shoulder, grasps the bicep with his other, and with a sharp jerk, forces the shoulder back into its socket, then without moving his hands, murmurs a set of prayers that almost sound like meditations. A golden/silver light forms under his hands. It is likely to still be tender, but it should hold.

Malik barely flinches as Seldan resets the shoulder, the barest of grunts escaping him as joint gets set back in the socket. Maybe he's been through this before. "Nice touch," he chuckles, starting to move the shoulder a bit --

-- until that healing starts. -That-, he has a much different reaction to. Maybe he wasn't expecting that kind of magic, but whatever he was about to ask gets choked down in his throat, the wizard leaning forward and grasping onto Seldan's shirt as he buries his forehead in the man's shoulder. "Hoooly gods..." he gasps, goosebumps raising up on his skin. Resetting joints he's apparently used to. Divine healing? That one seems to be new.

Surprised, Seldan immediately lets his hands fall away, the glow fading at once, and he peers down at Malik, suddenly uncertain. "Does that trouble you? Forgive me, I had not intended such." He pushes a lock of rapidly-dampening hair out of his face, studying Malik, the scrolls forgotten beneath the flap of the satchel. "I really ought to have asked first, forgive me. I do not have my kit, and I did not want it to come undone."

Malik sits up a bit straighter, adjusting in his seated position a bit. "No," he says, a bit too quickly. "No, it -- didn't bother me." He clears his throat, taking a deep breath and trying to clear his head. "Thank you," he tells the other man, reaching over to pick up one of the scrolls and hand it back over to Seldan. "I, uh -- so you're looking into your family history, right?" he asks, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. Smooth, wizard.

The look on Seldan's face says that he isn't buying what Malik is selling, but he does not challenge the point, instead looking around for the scrolls, and accepting them as they are handed back, examining them quickly to be sure they are unharmed. "Yes. I wished to know whence my powers came ... I am not a traditional wizard, as you are." Diffidently, he picks up Malik's shirt and offers it back to him, his hair falling back into his face as he does so. "I do not think that any evil runs in my blood, at any rate. I have been able to learn that much." The point seems to be a source of some relief.

Malik pulls the shirt on, listening to what Seldan has to say about the search, an eyebrow raising a bit as that impish smile comes back. "Evil in your blood?" The wizard rests his arms on a knee, leaning forward a bit. "Why would you be worried about that in the first place? No, wait," he says. "Let me guess. Impure thoughts?" He gives a sage nod to that one. "Those are the -worst-." Though he eases up a bit on the teasing as he hands over the letter, the one in the two different hands. "Sounds like your parents approve of your life choices about as much as mine do." There's definitely a note of sympathy in there.

Seldan blushes fiercely at the mention of impure thoughts, but counters, "So you have experience with such things." He takes the rest of the scrolls containing the letter, and bundles it all together, still blushing. "My honored father sought a son to serve the Sunlord as he did. The gods had other ideas." He is silent for a breath or two. "I have not been home since I was called to Her service, but Mother wishes me to return home for the winter holidays." Mist is starting to bead on his hair.

Elyanna has arrived.

A misty, grey day is turning into a drizzly, misty evening. Despite this, there are still a few people out. Malik is sitting on the stairs to the city library, his shirt in his hand, talking to Seldan standing on those same steps. A satchel is open facedown on the stairs, as if having been dropped or fallen, with several pieces of paper visible beneath the flap. Seldan is holding several more pages of scrolls in both hands.

"Of course I do," Malik says. "Just betting that you and I handle that problem -very- differently." Though after a beat, he adds, "Or maybe not." The blush, though, causes the smile to widen again. But only for a moment. The rest of that sentence brings him back down to a more somber, serious level. He shrugs the now-far-less-injured shoulder. "Parents can have a lot of dreams for their kids," he tells the man. "Sometimes, the powers that be have other ideas. Doesn't mean you did anything wrong. Even if they disapprove. Ultimately, it's not them that you have to answer to, is it?"

Elyanna walks the street on the wet, waning day to get a feel for the city at large, perhaps. The hood of her mantlet is drawn over her features, warding off the drizzle, though as likely not as it's primary duty. Her footfalls do not carry her yet directly toward the library as she sees to be taking a vague, circuitous tour of the area, instead.

Seldan snorts quietly, his half-smile one of agreement. "Mother is fine with it, or so I am told, but you are quite right. I answer to the Dreamer, and my honored father, much though it might pain him, was not asked for his opinion on the matter. It does not stop him from lecturing me, however." Did he just roll his eyes? Yes, he did. "I usually ignore it."

Malik finally stands up off the steps, making a few precise motions with his fingers. Seldan's clothes are drier almost instantly, since they've been standing in the pseudo-rain long enough that both of them are likely soaked. But they won't stay that way for long, in this weather. Still, he seems undisturbed by his own state of dampness. "Seems like you've got the right outlook on it, then." There's a warmer smile there for a minute, and then a brief moment of clarity. "I was actually hoping to run into you," he tells the paladin, catching himself a moment later. "I mean, you know -- slightly less -- literally." This time, it's the wizard's turn to be awkward again, but he digs through his bag, bringing out a large, decorate book in flowing elven script. "Here," he tells the man, handing the tome over. "I think that this might be helpful."

Elyanna carries along her abling tour of the area, leaving the two men their privacy as they discuss familiar affairs and fine literature. She pauses at the foot of one of the statues and looks slowly up along it's length to consider it's countenance for a time in silence.

"Even so?" Seldan peers at the book, taking it with his free hand. There is no recognition in his eyes of the script or its meaning, though. "I do not read the language, but my thanks for the thought. I am certain I can find assistance in its translation." He moves over towards his satchel, to tuck the sheaf of scrolls and the book away.

Before he can do so, though, the semi-drizzle that had been going on abruptly picks up speed, big droplets pelting the square and its occupants. Suddenly, the square is a hive of activity as everyone in it seeks shelter, but the closest shelter to the stairs is also the closest shelter to the statues where Elyanna stands, and that's the entranceway to the library.

Malik sees the look of confusion there, eyes widening a bit. "Oh. I didn't realize that --" Yep. Sheepish moment again. "So -- your name is in that book. Your family name. 'Padaryn'," he explains, pointing at the book. "It's not a Sildanyari word --"

But he doesn't have time to get further than that. The sky opens up, and water starts pouring down in earnest. He nods to the cover, a quick, "Let's go!" shouted to his companion as he makes a break for it, this time more carefully watching for horses, watching as the plaza explodes into a hive of confusion.

Elyanna, bemused as her... artistic consideration is suddenly called on account of the weather, lowers her gaze and turns to the nearest shelter from the rain, as is the case with many out at present. Well, save, perhaps the two men who were originally standing on the stairs. She considers them in passing as she is mostly focused on getting out of the sudden downpour.

For all three of them, the closest shelter is the entranceway to the library. Grabbing his bag off the steps, Seldan fairly dashes up the steps to that entranceway, arms full of book and scrolls and bag. Only when he's safely under cover does he put anything down, quickly assembling the bag again and cinching it down. It's too late for him to not get wet, reddish blonde hair darkening as it slicks itself to his neck, but at least the scrolls and book are mostly unharmed.

Malik can't help but laugh as both of them get soaked once again, the run to the nearest shelter having gotten his blood pumping once more. "Here," he tells his companion. "Hold still." He makes a simple gesture with his fingers, holding his hands about an inch away from either side of Seldan's face, working from the top down inch by inch as warmth starts to return and the water disappears back from where it came. As the raven-clad woman looks like she's about to keep right on walking, he adds, "Might wanna wait here for a minute. Looks like it's gonna get worse before it gets any better." Lightning is already starting to arc in the sky, the rain coming down in a solid sheet.

Elyanna draws up into the alcove at the man's words, considering the two more fully. There is a beat or two of consideration, then, an accented, "As you say, then... Thank you." Her hands make several gestures under her cloak as she whistles a short, comparitively intricate melody, and her cloak is similarly left bone dry, "This is... the library, yes?"

Outside the shelter of the entranceway and its roof overhead, the rain pours, drumming on every surface, and it's loud enough to require the three to raise their voices to be heard. Other people huddle under the eaves and in the shadows of various buildings around the square, and merchants have scrambled to protect their wares at the cost of getting drenched themselves.

"Yes." Seldan tells Elyanna in a thick Myrrish accent, nodding his thanks to Malik. "Look to yourself as well, I know that spell as well as you," he tells the other man with a smile. The bag now closed, he looks over at the woman, studying her more closely.

Outside the shelter of the entranceway and its roof overhead, the rain pours, drumming on every surface, and it's loud enough to require the three to raise their voices to be heard. Other people huddle under the eaves and in the shadows of various buildings around the square, and merchants have scrambled to protect their wares at the cost of getting drenched themselves.

"Where I grew up, rain was the least of our worries," Malik answers in turn, his accent only having faint traces of his Tsuran heritage, though his looks give it away well enough. He turns his attention to the newcomer, starting to ask, "Would you like me to --" But then, she's doing her own thing, and he just nods. "Right. I see you've got that under control," he chuckles. Turning his attention back to the other man, he says, "I thought the name sounded familiar, so I went and got a book from a friend. There's a whole chapter devoted to Padaryn of High Kingdom in there," he tells Seldan. "I haven't quite pieced it all together yet. It's an old book, and the language is -- uh -- stuffy." He wrinkles his nose a bit at the thought. "But I can put the basics together. It's -- kind of interesting. If you buy into mythologies."

Walery has arrived.

"A minor thing, but why track water inside?" her tone conversational. With the man's scrutiny, she doesn't shy away, but she makes no move yet to lower her hood. There is a glance between the men and, with a moment to collect her thoughts, "I an Elyanna."

Sage Orum's plaza is generally bustling with people. And today isn't any different -- save for the fact that the day has been damp and grey, the mist in the air soaking everything to the bone. And just a few moments ago, the skies opened up, the rain coming down with a vengeance. Merchants scramble to cover their wares while people seek shelter anywhere they can find it. Malik, Seldan, and Elyanna managed to find a dry spot in an alcove near the library, but the rain is still beating down, keeping them where they are for the moment.

The information leaves Seldan blinking. "I had known we had served the Myrrish Crown for centuries, but I knew not of any link to the sildanyari. My thanks for this." There's genuine appreciation in his expression as he turns it away from Elyanna, apparently satisfied. "Seldan Padaryn of the Silver Guard," he answers Elyanna. She might have seen him around the Explorers' Guild before. "Yes, of course."

Walery comes out of the Artificers' Hall, sees rain, and grumbles. He scrambles for the cover of a tree in the plaza, then dashes from cover to cover on his way toward the library. His last cover before the library is the tree with Malik, Selda, and Elyanna, and it's a long run to that building. So he pauses for a bit, and nods politely, if absently.

Walery comes out of the Artificers' Hall, sees rain, and grumbles. He scrambles for the cover of a tree in the plaza, then dashes from cover to cover on his way toward the library. His last cover before the library quite a long way, but there's the tree with Malik, Selda, and Elyanna, and it's a bit closer. So he dashes for there instead.

"Malik Gitanos," the other man introduces himself just as Walery runs up to join them. "Nobody special." He gives Elyanna a pleasant nod, stepping over to make room for Walery, but Seldan's comment brings him back to the conversation at hand. "Connection to the -- no," he says, shaking his head hard enough that the little drops of water at the end of his hair spray out a bit. "That's not -- the book is called 'Childer of the Gods'," he explains with a chuckle. "It's supposedly an account of divine blood. Which I guess is maybe how they're explaining royalty? Not really sure what that means. Like I said, the language is kind of dense."

GAME: Svarshan accepts a meet and will arrive momentarily.

Svarshan has arrived.

When the skies open, a door opens. A sith-makar steps out from the Arcanist's and lifts his muzzle up to the sky. The water sizzes, burbling as it hits his scales. For a while, he just stands there--muzzle lifted. Rain pouring downwards. Steam hissing, rising here and there from the scales.

Well, some sith-makar breathe fire. Or, one could have come from the Arcanist's. One very well could, with their experiments and fireballs, and apprentices who launch 'goblin grease' at one another in the halls (burning pitchballs).

Well.

Svarshan shivers, hard, and then looks down the street and...does nothing at all. Just lets the rain pour down.

Elyanna nods some, noting the accent. It doesn't seem to be an imminent issue. But, with the full introduction made, she ammends hers, "I am, of the von Diesel family. Well met, Sir Padaryn." Then nods again to the others, "Is this typical weather?"

Walery looks over at the people he finds himself with, and nods a greeting. "Good evening," he calls out. As to the weather, he says to Elyanna, "It often rains when there's clouds of this sort." He points skywards. "Rainclouds, you see." A master of science is our mister Walery.

Seldan shakes his head at Elyanna, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. "I have not been here more than the summer. I cannot say." He, with the others, has taken shelter at the entrance to the library, and now stands with a satchel between his feet, watching the rain pour down over the square. "I shall see about acquiring a translation of it," he tells Malik. "If there is information in there that might aid me, then it will have been well worth the trouble." He nods in return to Walery. "Thank you, Sir Obvious."

Svarshan rolls his jaw, and cracks the neck. A man waking up and rejoining the world. The rain continues to pour, rushing down and over the scales. Over the eyes. Reptilian eyes that blink, abiet slowly, with the inner lids moving yet more slowly inwards...and then back.

He stands there a while longer, and stares...down the street. Continues to smoke, faintly. Just traces of it. One might miss it easily, due to the weather. The downpour.

Or the bit of fire-pitch that hits the cobbles, and begins to dilute in the street. The deep, then deeper intake of breath and...at length, a shift of focus. Towards the library and to--the group huddled there. He stares at them, as though not really /registering/ that he's seeing them. The inner lids flicker, a little more quickly. Just not much.

Malik can't help but cover a laugh when Walery talks about the nature of the weather, eyes brightening a bit. "It does seem kind of predictable like that. There could be a lucrative living in it for a diviner." But he leans back against the marble, watching the rain as it falls, letting the others talk. He turns to Seldan, saying, "I've got some dictionaries back at my place," he tells the man. "Might save you a few gold. Assuming that you're willing to take a trip to a slightly less reputable neighborhood than our current locale, that is." But then? There is a sizzling sith-makar making its way toward them. Something that Malik is apparently unfamiliar with. There's the barest sense of him tensing a bit as the reptilian individual approaches, that light in his eyes turning to a note of caution. It might be the appearance of the person.

It could also be the fact that he's sizzling.

Walery gently corrects Seldan, "Oh, no, I'm not Sir Anyone, no titles for explorers and adventurers, it seems." He nods, distracting himself as he goes on, "in any event, there are quite a lot of clouds that -don't- make rain, it's quite important to be aware of the difference, you see." He glances up, glances back to the group. "Have any of you made a Sith very mad? Only there's one coming this way and I think he may be steaming."

The smoking sith-makar in the middle of the plaza has drawn Seldan's attention, too, and he doesn't immediately answer Malik. It's not the steam rising off of him, though, that has the man's attention. "He bears the marks of the Sunlord. I doubt he will harm anyone here," he says seriously. "If one was angry, you would know." His Myrrish-accented words hold calm certainty. Maybe he's just hot stuff.

Well, it takes a while. Slow-moving, but perhaps some scaled are. Perhaps some prefer to lie atop a warmed stone, and bask in the sun. Or just...

Well. "Peasse to your nessts. ..." The scaled tilts his head to the side. And then, raises a claw to point directly to Seldan. "One heard," he says. The voice is as warm as the bits of smoke. "Delilah. Kin of Donna. One heard, paladin," Svarshan says. The words are slow and awkward--more than one might encounter from a simple 'difficulty translating.' The awkwardness speaks of injury--either body, or mind. Or...something.

The tail flicks the once, heavy and slow-moving. The eyes narrow, good-naturedly. "One came to invite you to. The choir."

Malik just keeps his back pressed against the wall, for now. But at least he's not quite panicking. When Svarshan speaks, a bit of the tension drains out of him, letting him and Seldan interact as he turns his head to look at the man talking about the weather. "Back home," he tells him, perhaps trying to distract himself, "clouds can produce just about anything. I once saw it rain fire. That was -- not a pleasant evening. I'll take water any day." Though he naturally turns back to the big sith in front of him, the wariness slowly and steadily turning into curiosity as it becomes clear that they're not about to be on someone's menu.

Elyanna gives the fellow's state of the obvious a flat look, biting back a sneer for the sake of civility, though she turns to the two she originally was conversing with. The, mention of a steaming Sith is made mention and she turns that way to see the spectacle for herself. Huh. She gives a nod of her head to the draconian's valediction, then, "Well met."

Walery steps aside a bit to invite Svarshan into the little cluster. And not at all to take a step safely back from the steaming paladin. He might not be here to smite anyone, but Walery's not taking chances. Not worse than he normally takes, anyhow. "Raining fire, you say?" he asks Malik. "That's actually quite interesting. I have a few theories in that regard..."

The claw pointing directly at Seldan is unnerving, to be sure. That hasn't happened before, but the tones and greeting are clear enough, if stilted and awkward. "Peace on your nest also," he answers, pushing a lock of hair behind one ear to get it out of his eyes. If he is surprised at being called out, and perhaps a little awkward, he certainly doesn't seem frightened in any way. "I ... oh, of course. Yes, the knight-captain. I am honored, though I did only what was right. But ... I am unfamiliar with a choir." He cants his head, in human body language a clear invitation to say more. He isn't paying attention to the others just at the moment, although he does glance back at them.

Verna has arrived.

"An informal choir. Others gather and. Ssing. We perform at ssome of the taverns as well as the Temple. If you are interessted we. Sshould sshare words later. Ssome nights we battle the Angoritess with our. Voisses," the sith-makar returns, voice warm. The eyes dance some, inside the reptilian exterior. He looks to the others, then.

"Svarshan, warrior-casste and. Sservice to the Ssilver Empress. This one sshares Fire with you, by the Treaty," he says and adds the last, with a lowering of his muzzle. Am'sheri manners, those particular set of demands and behaviors, means that he does not look to Malik as the man moves. He remains there with his muzzle lowered, a trace longer than he'd need to, before raising it. "Raining fire. Ssounds. ...wonderful."

Victor has arrived.

Victor emerges from what is likely a path from the dungeons under the Arcanists' Guild. For those who aren't familiar, these are less the 'hopeless sunless prison' variety of dungeon and much more the 'sprawling underground complex filled with treasure, mystery and possibly monsters.'

Verna emerges from the Arcanist Hall, lacking both of her typical travelling companions. The presence of prolific precipitation would readily explain the lack of any floating tomes, at the least. Her heavy gray robe and hood appear to shed water well enough for the moment.

Walery nods to Svarshan about singing contests. "Yes," he agrees. "I'm afraid several of our flock drink heavily in preparation," he says, almost apologetically. "Your choir -does- sing very well," he allows Svarshan. "But we almost always surpass you in raw volume." Angorite priorities being what they are.

Malik reaches down to grab at his bag, looking at the intimidating rain. "Rains of Fire are great, if you don't have to worry about, you know. Dying." He shoulders the bag, looking over to Seldan with one of those bright grins. "Think I'm gonna try to finish my notes," he tells the paladin. He digs around for a scrap of paper and a quill, scribbling down an address. "Come find me later and we can talk about that book more. GOnna get out of the rain before the damn scrolls start to mold." And with that, he's making a break for it, ducking into the library, even though he's almost assuredly going to get a stern lecture from the librarian for the amount of water he's about to bring in with him, even over such a short distance.

Malik has left.

Kaydin has arrived.

Walery peers to Svarshan about singing contests. "That sounds dangerous," he offers. "I think I would like to be in a safe area to watch that duet," he muses. "With a helmet, I think. And some armor." He can only imagine a sing-off between Daeusites and Angorites. Danger only begins to describe the possibilities. "But I must run. Be well, all," he says, and dashes the last leg of his original journey into the library.

Seldan turns and nods to the departing Malik as the other slides into the library. "My thanks, once again." The door closes behind Malik, and then Walery, and he turns back to Svarshan. "A kind invitation, and my thanks. I sing well enough to please drunken otyughs, but I cannot promise you better than that," he tells the sith-makar. There -has- to be a story behind that remark. "I will try, though, if you wish."

There is something in Ely's eye at the mention of a sing-off, while quite another hides within the subtle shift of her jaw. Her chin lowers a smidge, and she leaves the matter between the principles, withdrawing into herself as the nature of the immediate crowd changes around her in the rain.

A tilting of the head. A man finding words, a man who isn't good at them. Whose sentences come out chopped, with uncomfortable pauses. "...ssa. That will do well. Enough," Svarshan says warmly, when he can find words to.

Svarshan looks to the retreating female then, and tilts his head. ...and then looks away. Am'sheri manners. The air around warms though. There's a far-away flap of a leather wing, and a sense of kinship and strength enters the air. "Perhapss you will sshare the tale of the otyugh, between ssongs," he says to Seldan then. Then looks to the others--not the female, of course--and the heavy tail thumps, once. "Peasse to your nessts," he says, the words having the tone of one about to leave.

Kaydin enters the plaza and smiles, his bow unstrung. He looks to Seldan and smiles as he approaches, not seeming to mind the downpour of rain as he looks to Svarshan. "Well thats someone I havent seen in a long time. How goes your battles to slay demons, my friend?" He asks as he watches the sith makarr.

Victor is drawn to the small knot of folks, not realizing how unusual they are at braving the rain. If anything he seems to be searching for someone, and has to come withing earshot - and speaking range - to give each the careful inspection required to verify they are not the one he seeks.

The downpour appears to have been a brief one, and already the rain is beginning to slack off a little. Seldan nods to Svarshan. "If you would find me, leave word at Eluna's Temple for when and where I am to be, and I shall share that tale. Peace to you and yours." He watches the sith-makar prepare to leave, perhaps a little bemused? He looks down at the satchel between his feet, and the haphazardly-stuff edges of scroll sticking out of it.

Elyanna watches the sith shift slightly and, with a short, courtly bow, she bids the lot, "Good evening." and begins down the stair into the wetness beyond.

Verna moves out across the plaza, towards those gathered and conversing, though perhaps not focused on interception. "Greetings," she offers politely to those, familiar and not (mostly not) once near enough that conversational volume is enough.

The reptilian follows the look, and offers a thump of heavy tail. "Peasse to you," he says, warmly then. Then, a second thump to Kaydin. "It hass been ssome. Time," he says. Then, "Thiss one is due at the. Temple...the rain..."

He says, and then pauses. "One could not. Ressist. Peasse to your nessts."

Victor raises a hand in a slightly stiff wave at Verna. "Greetings. My name is Victor." He glances around at the others. Like Verna he knows some of the people here, although unlike her there are only a few he doesn't recognize. Herself included.

Svarshan has left.

Kaydin salutes Svarshan and he looks to Victor. "Hey Victor!" He calls out to the golem. He then goes out into the rain to see who the golem was talking to. "Making friends?" He asks with a friendly smile. "I normally dont find myself this far in the city. Dont like to be out of the wilds too long." He says as he watches the golem and woman.

Verna notes the sith'makar's departure before responding to the construct. "I am Sage Mourner Verna," she offers, hood turning to include others in the introduction as well. "Well met, save for the possible exception of the current weather."

The mention of Temple gets Seldan's attention. Temple ... temple ... evening prayers! Suddenly alarmed, he hefts the satchel over his shoulder. "If you will forgive me, I am wanted elsewhere." With no further concern for the rain, even though it is rapidly fading back to light sprinkles, Seldan dashes down the wet stairs and out towards the paths to the Temple District, following Svarshan.

Victor inclines his head to Verna. "It's a pleasure meeting you," he says. He then adds, cautiously, "Sage? Is that an official title? I have not heard it since arriving here in this city."

"Maybe it is a magical title to one of the various guilds and institutions?" Kaydin says as he watches the two now and then he looks around at the rain. "I like being out in the rain. Its like swimming from the sky.

"You are both correct," Verna confirms and clarifies, "It is an official title from the Society of Arcanists, of which I am a member and mentor. The title of Mourner is obviously more broadly spread and known."

"A mentor?" Victor repeats. "Fascinating. I have been seeking a mentor." He hesitates and then adds, "Although not for tbe arcane arts.

"My mother is a part of the various druids in the area. She believes in coexisting with nature. I grew up in the wilderness away from the city. I have only been recently allowed to come here to take part in it's struggles." Kaydin says as he watches verna. "So you are a part of the society of arcanists...they study magic, yes?"

Verna's hood dips with a nod. "The arcanists study magic empowered from the sea of mana and shaped by will and intense study. As a Mourner of Vardama, I also uphold Her will with magic empowered by Her divine grace." Her hood pans to Victor as she adds, "I more recently began studies of artifice, as well, though it is more an academic and theoretical pursuit than the practical design and construction emplyed by the Artificer's Guild."

Victor nods with vague interest. "I have also studied artifice in an academic capacity. But the mentor I seek is in speech and communicating with others. Perhaps the performing arts may be the most accepted term. Or the diplomatic arts."

"So you need teaching in social ettiquette." Kaydin says as he reaches into his pack for some venison jerky which he offers to the two of them. "I am afraid I am not the best teacher. Maybe you can find me a teacher as well. I am told I shouldnt do things which I see as okay to do." He says as he watches the two of them.

Verna lifts a gloved hand, palm out yet vertical, rather than horizontal in acceptance. "Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. As for the topic of education, I am neither diplomat nor musician, but I am familiar with etiquette and discourse. The minstrels and fooles are perhaps the paragons of those skills, yet I can share what I know, as well as provide referrals to additional sources."

Victor mimics the gesture, also declining the jerky. "I don't eat food," he explains as casually and matter-of-factly as if describing the heavy rain. He turns towards Verna. "Interesting. I have spent many days over the last few weeks, in tbe theatre district. I don't think it has helped me. Perhaps I shoud approach it more academically."

"I fully support academic study, as well asobservation," Verna states, perhaps unsurprisignly, "though I expect those to be insufficient on their own. Moreso than other areas of study, those skills require practical exercise to improve. I believe that your efforts to date were not wasted."

"At the root of my difficulty in speaking with others, may be inability to understand them." Victor makes small hand gesture in Verna's direction. "By all accounts, war golems have difficulty understanding to or relating with the emotions of humans and other races."

Verna's hood dips. "That is one distinct challenge, yes. I admit that it is not a challenge only faced by crafted kind. Many of flesh fail to understand each other in many ways."

Victor seems to make a decision. "One of the primary reasons I went to the theatre district," he admits. "Was to observe others in various emotional states. I similarly arranged to visit many inns and taverns. But observing appears insufficient. That is one of the reasons I returned here, to the University. I seek a spell that will allow me to read the thoughts of others. The surface thoughts," he adds quickly. "And only those they do not seek to guard."

Verna's hood tilts to the left slightly. "You seek the knowledge, itself, rather than infer via trained observation. It is more efficient and more accurate, though the subjects may well take offense if they are aware of such action."

Victor looks curious. "Indeed?" He seems to consider. "Such a reaction may be just as illuminating as the others," he concludes. "Now all that remains is to find the one who knows the spell - and is willing to share the knowledge with me."

"Some may consider the act an intrusion," Verna offers, "rather than a search for understanding. Should you employ that method, I suggest that you receive consent beforehand. It will also make the process much more likely to succeed. If you wish to acquire such knowledge, scrolls are available for study. I scribe them, as many do."

Victor nods slowly. "If you think it wise." He remembers Verna claiming earlier to be familiar with etiquette, and decides to follow her advice. Perhaps she will indeed serve as a mentor, of sorts. "Can you scribe a scroll of Detect Thoughts?"

"I can," Verna confirms, "and I shall, if you wish to purchase such. It will require a half day, at most, though I presume that there is no great urgency."

Victor says, "You are correct. Thank you, and thank you for the advice." He pulls his cape aside with one hand so that it is easier for the other to reach into a pocket sewn into the inside lining. He withdraws a handful if coins and then offers them to Verna. "Is this sufficient?"

Verna extends gloved fingers to quickly count and accept the required coin. "It is. I can deliver the scroll to you at a time and place of your convenience, preferably within this city."

Victor nods quickly. "Of course." He turns towards one of the paths. "If you leave it with one of the guards in the dungeon they will ensure that I recieve it." He turns back and the looks up at the sky. "Now if you will excuse me, I will return to a few of the taverns I have selected, and make the ither arrangements."

"Very well. Until then," Verna dips her hood in farewell.