RP:Elegant Deceptions - Navigating High Society

From HollowWiki

 Summary: Having waited two days, Uriphiel takes Lady Cynarith's offer to stay at the Hazlebend Chateau, where he dons the role of a foreign dignitary on a business excursion from the land of "Ardengale". Here, he bears witness to Elimdorian society and its inner workings.

Date of Writing: March 22nd, 2024. 










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Elegant Deceptions - Navigating High Society


 Hazelbend Chateau , Elimdor
Along the avenue, nestled amidst two other prominent homes, stands the opulent Hazelbend Chateau, a testament to the wealth and power of its well-to-do occupant. Its towering spires reach towards the heavens, adorned with intricate carvings and gilded accents that catch the sunlight at dawn. A grand courtyard paved with marble greets visitors, leading them to the colossal oak doors adorned with golden crests. Inside, a labyrinth of halls boasts tapestries depicting epic battles and chandeliers dripping with crystal. The great hall, with its vaulted ceilings and roaring hearth, hosts extravagant feasts where the ton of society mingle amidst lavish furnishings and fine art. Beyond lies the lush gardens, where exotic blooms perfume the air and fountains dance with enchanted waters. Hazelbend Chateau stands as a symbol of luxury and prestige in Elimdor, a beacon of extravagance.



  • [Uriphiel] The verdant season has arrived once again. It is the time of year when the cold bitter wind of winter, the icy stranglehold that asphyxiated the world for the few months prior, is ushered off by the gentle, loving push of Spring. Nature’s unyielding need for creation has given birth to life anew; The flare for the artistic flaunted as they bring brush to canvas and paint the landscape with polychromatic splendor; With the brightest of greens for the forests and fields, the lightest of blues for the clear, sunny skies, and every radiant color in between for the abundance of flowers beginning their seasonal bloom. Nowhere is the advent of the new season more apparent than at the painstakingly immaculate Hazelbend Chateau, where the groundskeepers labour tirelessly to ready the manor for a bevy of upcoming social events. That is to say, they would still be working now had the stranger not arrived.

    It started with the sound of horses; The dull reverberation of trotting hooves grumbling along the avenue on a passing breeze, and then the shape of a carriage appeared on the horizon, being pulled by two steeds whose coats were as pure and white as the freshly lain snow of Frostmaw. It was a pearlescent-white colored coach with large spoked wheels and a gilded trim that declared an untold, yet vast wealth; So much so that it piqued the fancy of the nearby neighbors who had wandered out of their yards in order to sneak a peek at whoever was passing through. The wait would not be long. The carriage drew to a halt as the whinny of the steeds signaled their arrival at the esteemed Hazelbend Chateau, where the driver, a seasoned old-timer, hopped down from his seat and hastily made his way to the side of the vehicle to announce the arrival of his fare to the front gate attendant. “Sir Durelan Carnelian, the Fourth, Queen’s Counsel from the nation of Ardengale, to see one Lady Cynarith.” The door to the carriage softly clicks and swings open under the driver’s direction; And upon doing so, the car creaks and groans in a cry for help under the strain of the passenger’s tremendous seven-foot frame stepping out onto the pathway. He was a well-dressed man of luxury who seemed to have an adoration for the complimentary colors of navy and gold; The latter pigment used for his waistcoat and tie, while the former pigment colored his custom, silk tailcoat, and neatly pressed silk slacks. His ensemble was accented with a white, button-down dress shirt, a dark brown belt, and a pair of dark brown monk-strap dress shoes. Being an Avian, Durelan was adorned with two massive golden wings that lie neatly folded against his back; The hue matching the glimmer of his cold, stony gaze, and the two drop earrings that hung from his long, pointed ears. His flaxen undercut, most recently trimmed, was sparingly gelled and combed to the right. Durelan thanked the driver with a small pouch of coin, unable to help but notice the various stares he had been receiving from the locals down the road, and much of the hired help that had been nearest to the gate upon his arrival. Here, the diplomat would wait until the gate attendant was ready to lead the way.


  • Cynarith is discussing some finalizing details for a ball she is having as one of the first to host this season and she must make sure everything is perfect, but the pair are interrupted when a footman excuses his interruption, nearly out of breath, "Sir Durelan Carnelian, the Fourth, Queen’s Counsel from the nation of Ardengale-" he takes a deep inhale so he may continue. "Has arrived, ma'am," and then he makes haste to carry on with his tasks, leaving the party organizer a little shocked as she mentions what a mouthful that just was. Cynarith offers a shrug of one slender shoulder and the simple explanation of, "foreigners." With a sigh, she stands while smoothing the skirt to her deep purple velvet dress, "I am so sorry to cut this meeting short, but I must play the part of gracious host." With a motion of a hand, she helps guide the woman to the exit which happens to also be the entrance which Sir Durelan Carnelian has been waiting to be received by the lady of the house. The woman leaving gets a glazed-over look in her eyes as she gawks at the man and Cynarith's turquoise hues blink slowly in secondhand embarrassment. By someone's gods, did she do that when she first saw him? Thoroughly feeling the ick about herself, she decides to just push on through while approaching Uriphiel to politely curtsy before offering a hand and a soft smile on her lips which is bordering on genuine. Is she just a little excited that he accepted her offer? Maybe, but she'll never admit that as that honeyed plummy timbre greets, "welcome Sir Durelan Carnelian, the Fourth. I am Lady Cynarith, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance after such a long correspondence." Out of the corner of her eye, she can spot a neighbor or two craning their necks in order to observe what is happening in awe and this gives Cynarith a tiny rush of butterflies, but she ignores them… and the neighbors. "I do hope your long journey to Elimdor was not too arduous, my lord," the footmen bustle alongside them to and fro as they have been unloading the extensive wardrobe the diplomat brought with him. "Stibbons here," she mentions as a butler appears next to her, "is one of my most esteemed under butlers and he will show you to your quarters. He will be your go-to man while you're enjoying your short stay here at Hazelbend for anything you may require. It is most unfortunate that you cannot enjoy our social season longer, but I understand that one of the Queen's counsel must keep you quite busy." There is a small moment when she admires just how dapper he looks in such regal clothes and that damn scent hits her like a ton of bricks, yet she surprisingly keeps her cool. This might be because she spritzed a bit of her favorite men's cologne on a fashionable silk scarf around her neck which breaks that little spell. "If there are certain dietary requirements my cooks should be aware of, please list everything to Stibbons and he will ensure you're well taken care of." The reception is surprisingly prepared and welcoming as if they knew he was coming. Makes one wonder what story Cynarith would have concocted if he did not show up. "Would you like to get settled into your rooms and have a rest from your journey first or would you prefer a tour?" Her hands fold together in front of her in a gracefully poised manner while waiting for the 'diplomat's' reply to her question.


  • Uriphiel paid no mind to the help, nor the gawking party planner, as his belongings were gathered and moved indoors, finding himself rather fascinated as he looked around the vast acres of the estate quite carefully. There was something different about him today. He stood with confidence, with his head slightly elevated and his hands in his pants pockets; It was a subtle arrogance that was not on display the last they met. Whether this was more in tune with his true nature, or a method of getting into the role of a diplomat, would not immediately be obvious. There is an air of pretentiousness, a sharp judgemental tone that drips from the man’s lip, his words almost frigid as he replies to the woman who had just arrived to greet him, “Ah. Lady Cynarith. What a… lovely home. I would most graciously welcome a tour if you don’t mind. If I am to be a guest in your manor, then I may at least get to know this land for all its worth.” Finally, the avian’s calculating study of the grounds comes to an end as he looks to his host, his eyes briefly meeting hers, before he scans her attire from head to toe, appearing to subject the woman to some sort of fastidious scrutiny. In truth, he found her to be dressed eloquently, in a sensual style that would turn any man’s head in her direction. He would make no comment one way or the other, instead displaying an almost pompous, uncomfortable smile. He did after all have a part to play. “The trip was quite unremarkable. Ocean for as far as the eye could see, and then the drab blemish that is, what I presume to be, a human settlement further to the south. Thankfully the city of Elimdor is… for those of more appreciably refined tastes. You elven sorts always did have a flair for exquisite.” Uriphiel cast his judgemental stare over Stibbons, making no motion of a formal greeting, instead listing his head slightly forward in acknowledgment. His words stayed their focus on Cynarith. “It is important work, of course, but I am sure what time I do spend here will hold some sort of value. It will be nice to have some time away from her beck and call; And no, I shall require nothing of the sort. I am not finicky, I assure you.” The avian’s nostrils flare as the pungent aroma emanating from Cynarith forces its way into his senses. It was a peculiar scent. Quite masculine. He could only wonder if this was a deliberate choice, or an accidental exchange with someone, perhaps a lover, from a morning rendezvous. “So, how has life been at Hazlebend Chateau, then? Are preparations for your party in order? By the way you described these events in the letters, they sound positively entertaining.” Small talk for those still present, until she was ready to give the tour.


  • Cynarith accepts his compliment with a hand over her chest in earnest as she offers, "why thank you. Let us enter through the foyer then?" She is internally relieved to meet this version of the dapper avian because it is not a pretty color on him and a part of her is curious if this is a shade of his real self. He had been in a desperate way before and that may have been an untrue side of the man. Doesn't matter to her in the least, she spends nearly every waking moment being someone else- especially during the social season. Although, when his judgemental stare drinks in her appearance, she wonders in the back of her mind if he can imagine her as she was in the drawing room whenever he likes now, but why does the idea of that still thrill her? It is irrelevant and she simply endures the scrutiny with grace accentuated by a poised smile. Once he is done eyeballing everyone, she begins the tour with that gliding gate to her movements as she shows him inside the manor. His mention of his time here holding value earns a knowing glance up from Cynarith as she replies in code, "I can assure you it will." While she walks alongside him, she is sure to keep a respectable distance, but it is more for her own sake than putting on some show for the workers. That damn scent lets her guard down and he already knows too much while also seeing too much! She guides him through the main hall which houses beautiful paintings and a couple of beautiful pieces of furniture by the large fireplace, "we are shaking off the bitterness of the cold winter so it has been quite uneventful over the last few months, but spring is here and I am to host one of the first balls here in the conservatory, just through here," she explains while doors are held open for them and it is like they suddenly ventured into a whole new world. A pleasant smell from the exotic flora surrounding them permeates the air and tall lush greenery thrives in the sun rays shining through the endless windows, even the roof is glass. "Since you are my honored guest, I shall show you where you can invite the other gentlemen for spirits and cigars as the festivities start to wind down," with another pointed glance up to him, meaning that this will definitely be something he'll want to do, she leads him through a separate door into the library. "This is just a modest collection," she explains as the two story room is revealed with a spiral staircase which wraps around an ethereal seeming tree that blooms at the stained glass dome part of the roof. There are brown leather couches, chairs and lounges near a crackling fire along with a wet bar containing all the top shelf spirits. With so many servants and workers bustling about, it is difficult for them to ever really get a moment alone that won't end in scandal. So, she simply continues the tour while giving any info she can to questions he may have about the grounds.


  • [Uriphiel] “Very well. After you,” the faux dignitary replies, using an illustrative gesture as a signal for his benevolent host to lead the way inside. Uriphiel gracefully glides alongside the woman of rose-gold colored hair with his hands tucked behind his back, shimmering golden irises moving in a deliberate survey of his surroundings as he meticulously set to memory every piece of furniture and fixture in the residence, as well as any and all windows and doorways that he could spy. He would need to know every inch of this abode, not only for his own personal enjoyment, but for the day that he may need to make a premature exit if the architects of his abduction were to discover that his vital status was still of a living condition. It was not that the avian discounted Cynarith’s earlier claims of the island being relatively free from the cult’s influence; no, it was more to the fact that Uriphiel had become too comfortable since his return to terra firma, and in doing so became careless and without vigilance, nearly costing him his life. “Interesting,” the man said, finally, taking in the impeccable charm of the conservatory. “And these balls that you host, what exactly do they entail? Are they well-received by the more affluent inhabitants of Vhys? What might I expect if I were to attend one of these prestigious events?” Such questions seemed like general curiosities for someone who presented themselves as a diplomat from a foreign land, but in this case, it was Uriphiel’s veiled attempts at gathering information that may be of some benefit. Whatever the woman’s answer, Uriphiel would nod along with her words, keeping a steady pace as she led him to the library. “Cigars?” he asked, pausing briefly to gaze down upon her with a hint of curiosity. It wouldn’t be long before the knowing look that she flashed was swiftly registered, and he offered a dry smile in turn as he commented, “I suppose when in Vhys, one must do as the Vhysians do.” The Avian begins to observe his surroundings upon entering the library, finding himself lacking the ability to speak at first. He could not help but marvel at the beauty of the layout that made up the expansive room. His eyes feasted, his heart skipping a beat as the staircase that spiraled around a tall, ethereal tree came into view. “This is quite the study, Lady Cynarith. A master class in design. Truly exquisite.” The avian gestures to the large array of books lining the surrounding shelves. “Is this literature from a personal collection? Have you read them all? Or are they some form of dressing to intimidate visitors into thinking your intellect vastly outmatches their own?” This was said with a light quirk to the side of his lips, revealing the fact that the nature of his words were derived from a place of jest - not insult.




  • Cynarith answers any questions this faux diplomat asks with a subtle enthusiasm as they continue to fool her staff expertly. Their ruse tangles them together further and it continues to thrill her, but how disappointed will she be when the games must come to an end and he’s off leading a revolution on the other side of Lithrydel? No… she mustn’t think of that now. “There is a set list of songs a four string quartet will play for the guests and every lady has a small card which lists each song with a blank space next to it. These cards are typically fashioned to the lady’s wrist with ribbon and even a small fountain pen for. By the time the band starts up, the guests have mingled long enough for the gentlemen to request to be on a lady’s dance card for his choice of song. I implore you to ask at least one lady if you may add to her dance card, as it is only polite during your stay,” she had not considered that he may pick her to dance, but Cynarith decided that might be reaching- even though it may give them an advantage to speak privately during these events. “Are my parties well received? I believe so, but you shall just have to wait and see for yourself tonight,” the reply is carefully thought out so as to not be gauche. “Once the main dance numbers are over, some of the guests continue to mingle and nibble on the catered gourmet food. During this time, it may be beneficial for you to get acquainted with some of the business owners, other nobles and even some tradesmen. Sir Dorrel, for one. He owns a curiosities store called The Cryptic Closet and owns the best box at The Emerald Opera House. I believe his family line helped build most of Elimdor and he is especially proud of The Emerald Opera House.” Her cheeks turn a shade of pink as does the tip of her tapered ears at his compliment on the library and she cannot tell if his closen words are from Uriphiel or from ‘Sir Carnelian’, but she does smile in a coy way all the same, “you’re too kind Sir Carnelian.” She pretends to fidget with the scarf around her neck, but really, she is allowing that cologne to waft a little in the air in order to keep her shield up. His playful jab is met with the shrug of one shoulder, “a woman of my standing wouldn’t dare confuse her thoughts on so much reading.” It is a stock answer and she briefly locks her gaze up at him one last time as she yearns to tell him the truth about the library, but just as she is ready to elaborate they are so rudely interrupted by the house butler, “pardon me ma’am, but the new modiste is here to fit you for the gown you are to wear during tonight’s ball.” Cynarith practically forgot! “Right, Stibbons,” she barely finishes his name before he is right by her side once more, “why don’t you show Sir Carnelian here.” Out of pure habit, her clean and well manicured hand reaches out to gently rest on Uriphiel’s arm, right above his elbow. “This way he can settle in and get ready for tonight’s festivities,” she concludes while dropping her arm back to her own side. “I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight and I shall see you in a matter of hours.” Cynarith is whisked away to her own quarters to be pampered and stuffed into a corset in order to fit the dress design she picked out for tonight. Stibbons bows deeply to Uriphiel before leading him to that same wing he had been stowed away in mere days ago, but this time they stop at a room which occupies a whole corner of the wing. Inside he will find his own sitting area, an even larger room than the previous one and a private wash room with a deep tub (he’s a tall fella, afterall!) The best part might be the balcony because it is not only covered and has cozy lounge chairs, but also overlooks the beautiful meadow where Lead to Gold Stables houses an array of prized equines.


  • [Uriphiel] The idea of touching another person in such a manner; Bodies held so intimately close together, locked in an ostentatious tradition that he had little experience with, filled the man with more dread than even the greatest foe he’d ever faced in all his centuries in the land of Lithrydel - And he’d fought the armies of one of the most horrifying foes to ever exist. The carefully groomed blonde hairs at the back of his neck bristled just thinking about it. Uriphiel could not ever recall a time he had danced before. Perhaps, long ago in his youth, when forced to attend Cotillian as a right of passage, but with it having been so long ago, he could not recall an instance with any real clarity. Even when he attended royal galas in his knighthood, it was mostly a transactional affair to watch over the parties in case any bad actors dared to show up to ruin the festive event. The avian’s actively roaming thoughts then began to wonder if she was sending out some sort of signal. A coded suggestion for him to make certain that when the time came, his selection of dance partner should be focused solely upon her. No, that is highly unlikely, he deduced. More reasonably, it was simple advice to help him blend in with the locals - such as Sir Dorrel, owner of The Cryptic Closet, a possible founder of the town of Elimdor, and is of significance to The Emerald Opera House. Important information heeded. With the appearance of the well-meaning butler, Stibbons, Uriphiel remained in silence, even as the woman made contact with his arm - an action that caused his breath to falter and become still while the muscles in his neck contracted with a hard swallow. Glittering gold falls downward to view the offending appendage, not long shifting focus to that gentle pond of turquoise as he offers a polite smile and his reply, “Yes, of course. May the rest of the day find you well until then.” As they parted company and his footsteps began to be guided toward his quarters, Uriphiel would give one final glance over his shoulder to steal a glimpse at his host, before putting his mind back on the task for the evening. Few words were spoken during the short traverse to his room, with Uriphiel offering only a curt ‘Thank You’ once they had arrived. He wasted no time examining the quarters provided, finding they were much larger than he’d require for his stay - although he would be lying if he said that part of him didn’t enjoy the luxury. This blessing was only more realized once he found the balcony, where he would wind up spending quite a bit of time just taking in the refreshing cool breeze and soaking up the graceful rays of the midday sun until it was deemed time for him to get ready for the evening’s main event.



    • Later Than Evening




  • Cynarith is one of the first to open up the season with a ball that is held within a conservatory on her property, a scene of unparalleled romanticism. As the evening unfolds, the conservatory becomes a magical oasis, bathed in the soft glow of twinkling lights intertwined with the lush foliage. Fragrant blossoms perfume the air, their delicate scents mingling with the laughter and whispers of the guests. Couples sway gracefully across the dance floor, their movements guided by the gentle melodies of the four string quartet. The sound of rustling leaves and the occasional chirp of a distant bird adds a symphony of nature to the enchanting ambiance. Light from the two moons filter through the glass roof, casting ethereal patterns on the floor below as if nature itself is joining in the celebration of love. In this romantic setting, hearts are ignited and sparks fly as couples steal longing glances or share tender embraces amidst the verdant surroundings. Each step taken in the conservatory feels like a dance of destiny that weaves together the threads of passion and desire which bind the party goers together in a whirlwind of romance. The guests are awaiting their hostess and music swells as she makes her entrance from the top of the stars leading to the upper gallery on down. The gown she adorns tonight is crafted from luxurious navy blue satin draping elegantly over her hourglass figure and delicate soft pink embroidered flowers adorn the lower parts of the skirt which swirl gracefully down the fabric in a cascade of blossoms, adding a touch of feminine charm and whimsy to match the theme of her ball. The neckline of the gown is modest yet alluring as it frames Cynarith's collarbones with a subtle sweetheart cut and the bodice is fitted to accentuate her curves with precision tailoring. Gold trim embellishes the edges of the neckline and sleeves, glinting softly in the candlelight which adds a regal touch to the ensemble. The skirt billows out ever so slightly from the waist and swaying with every step down the stairs, gold trim catches the light which casts a radiant glow around her, making her the epitome of elegance laced with sophistication at the ball. Surely the gown is all the rage with the women as they whisper to each other where she could have possibly acquired such a find. There must be a new modiste in town and they must find out who before the night comes to a close. Viscount Ievis Reyfaren III is waiting patiently at the end of the stairs to take her hand and deliver her to her guests, but not before he bows his head in order to kiss the back of her hand while maintaining eye contact with Cynarith. That well practiced smile shines upon everyone in attendance and then to her current flame, but the path of her gaze hitches for a hiccup of a second upon Uriphiel while a few ladies swoon at the couple. She can still see how he looked at her when she dared to touch him earlier and it is burned into the back of her mind now, making a note to never lay a finger on him again. She decides not to be a pompous ass and subject her guests to a speech before simply queuing the band to start. “What is that stench?” Cynarith speaks low enough for only Ievis to hear, at least she hopes so. “I spent months formulating the perfect signature scent for you and you couldn’t even wear it tonight, of all nights?” Even though there is evident irritation in her tone, their faces never falter - continuing to be the picture of perfection for all to envy. Delightfully, her guests begin partnering up for the dance number and she waits for Ievis to get his act together, wondering how long it will be before it dawns on him to ask her for the first dance.


  • Uriphiel had come this evening dressed in a magnificent and expertly tailored black tailcoat with intricate gold embroidery that lined the notched lapels and cuffs; Accented by a form-fitting silk vest, complete with tie and pocket square of a similar hue to the large feathery appendages tucked neatly against the back of his intimidating, statuesque frame. It was a design of regal sophistication, born from deep traditional Elven lineage - a garment of a formality that he was not so used to wearing. In fact, this would be the first time in many centuries that he would put on something so fine and only the second time in recent memory in which he would attend an event of a courtly nature. Unlike the last gathering he was invited to, Uriphiel would not find himself in physical discomfort this evening, no, because his harbourer had a keen eye for sizing and style, ensuring that every nuance of his attire fit to a perfect T. As he moved into the conservatory in a deliberate and graceful fashion, the surrounding soft lights caught the golden feathers of his wings, causing each and every one to shimmer with a mesmerizing potency that matched his determined, piercing gaze. He could feel their eyes upon him. Stares and glares from the affluent guests attending the annually elegant event this evening. Avians, as he had come to understand, were a breed not often seen this far out into the nation of Vhys, therefore making him somewhat of an oddity placed amongst the elven majority. Many had seen his grand entrance earlier in the day, finally afforded the chance to unabashedly gawk, taking in his strange, yet dashing, appearance in a much more close and personal manner. Many guests, especially those looking to expand their pool of love interests, and those looking to sate their unyielding curiosity, stopped the feathered giant's traversal on several occasions in an attempt to try and figure him out. Who was he? Why was he here? What does he think of Vhys? Is he single? - And as instructed, he would make nice, introducing himself as Durelan Carnelian the Fouth, Queens Counsel from the nation of Ardengale. This, of course, brought on a flurry of further interrogation from nosy partygoers, meaning that Uriphiel would need to fill in the details he had yet to figure out. A familiar voice suddenly cuts through the buzz of tedious chatter, the agitation within clearly evident, and it causes the avian's glimmering irises to flitter about in search of where the noise originated. Through the diverse number of swaying dance partners, Uriphiel found the vibrant pools of radiant turquoise that belonged to the pastel-haired woman with whom he had been longing to speak. Excusing himself in the most polite manner, the golden-winged Avian delicately moved through the crowd with his mind set only on one thing. There was a strange air of confidence in the man this evening as he approached Cynarith - He paid no mind to her date, who seemed to hold the woman with very little respect or regard. “Lady Cynarith. You look unequivocally resplendent this evening. May I have this dance?” He asked, holding aloft his left hand, which was dressed in a fine, snow-white glove that matched his silky white dress shirt.


  • Cynarith is excited to see that so many are interested in her 'guest' and that he is being perfectly polite even though she can see a hint of agitation shifting within those enchanting golden feathers. Ievis is saying something, but she couldn't really focus because the avian is making her way towards them and even though she knows she should, she cannot look away. At least her expression is far more neutral than those of her guests, yet she wishes she can just shrink away from the party already because there are walls she cannot build tall enough for a winged being such as this. The way he is cutting through the small crowd with that drive and confidence about him is already throwing her off, as if that haunting familiar scent isn't bad enough. Surprisingly, she remains just as confident once their shadows finally meet on the stone floor and she decidedly ignores Ievis' glare being leveled between them as jealousy radiates off the elven man. "Sir Durelan Carnelian the Fourth, you honor me with such flattery," the woman replies in honest praise and a blush graces the apples of her cheeks along with the tips of her ears, which is also unplanned at this moment. Luckily it isn't too noticeable, she hopes, as she bows her head that accompanies a slight curtsey. "You look quite princely tonight yourself," the repaid compliment is genuine even though it seems her gaze cannot hold anything other than those pools of gold as hasn't had a chance to see him fully. Ievis is clearing his throat or grunting or- something? Cynarith honestly couldn't care less as Uriphiel's next words are exactly what she wants to hear and her hand slips from Ievis' tightening grip so she may accept Uriphiel's offered one. Heeled footsteps follow the avian's pull onto the dance area and she can feel her heartbeat thump in her throat as it is thundering within her ears, nearly drowning out the music. Ever the picture of grace, she allows Uriphiel to lead them into the dance and now the pair may speak freely, "what a clever line, Sir." Now is the moment she is able to remember that everything is just for show and Sir Carnelian is not real along with any flirting he may try as she focuses on the exotic scents from the fauna surrounding them. "We don't have long. Do you see the pale older man with the squire style top hat and emerald gemmed monocle?" As most forsaken elves, the man she is pointing out has shiny black hair and quite pale, but he definitely has old money vibes. As they spin around, Cynarith darts her eyes in the general direction where Uriphiel can see who she means, "that is Sir Tarquin Dorrel, proprietor of The Cryptic Closet and he should be able to get his hands on what you seek." Speaking of hands, she gently clears her throat, "and I do not believe your hand is supposed to be that low… Sir." She shines a smile on one of the jealous ladies who would die to be in Cynarith's position right now, "I apologize that we must jump through hoops like this, but just give it four more songs and you shall see things will start to settle. Then you may invite the gentlemen to retire in the library," the song comes to an end and she gently breaks from Uriphiel before giving him another slight bow with a short curtsy. As the next song begins, Cynarith is stolen back by Ievis who is giving a pointed glare up to Uriphiel and the pair dance harmoniously together, but the words being exchanged are far from even though their well practiced expressions and body language make it seem so. The pair dance nearly to the end of the musical number, but suddenly Cynarith breaks from Ievis and slips out of the conservatory, which goes mostly unnoticed even though Ievis is not far behind her.


  • Uriphiel could sense the jealous leering of his dance partner’s sluggard of a love interest, but he cared very little for any hardships his action may be causing between the pair. The avian was dead-set on getting what he needed, no matter whom he had to step over along the way; And while that may play against his more polite and reserved nature, this was a matter he deemed far to important to take leisurely. “Thank you. I certainly feel princely in this attire. I can not believe how well it fits. It feels so… expensive. I am not sure how I shall repay you once this is all said and done, but I will find a way.” Uriphiel, recalling lessons from his youth, takes a firm lead in their dance, pulling the woman into a gentle twirl so that his his commanding gaze could drift from Cynarith’s to Levis’ for but a moment, just enough time to make it a point that no matter how much throat clearing or grunting that he may push out of his gullet, he was not going to separate the two any time soon. “Ah yes. We’ve met, briefly,” Uriphiel replied, turning his attention to the dark-haired gentleman across the room. “Have you any idea on how quickly he may be able to acquire this item? Not to press you on this matter more than I should, because you have been more than gracious in your aide thus far - but this may be quite a time-sensitive endeavor. I can wait a fortnight if I must, but any longer and I fear I may have to find another way.” The entire time he speaks, the avian holds a charming smile with the hope of fooling anyone who may be observing, putting on the facade that this is nothing more than a magical dance for two. “Sorry,” he says when she adjust his hand. It has been quite some time after all, and he was merely mirroring a few of the other guests that he has been watching. When the dance number ends, Uriphiel bows gracefully, taking upon himself another dance partner who was all too quick to scoop him up before someone else could. Despite the woman’s attempts to draw conversation from his lip, the avian with golden eyes could not help but to keep them concentrated on Lady Cynarith and her beau, who sounded to be in quite the quarrel. When Cynarith suddenly breaks free from Levis and runs off, and the man follows close behind, Uriphiel felt a strong need to excuse himself, thanking his dance partner briefly, before trailing behind the pair with a look of concern upon his brow.


  • Cynarith can feel anger creating a fire in the depths of her stomach and anxiety radiating an icy feeling in her chest. Anger caused by Ievis being ridiculous and anxiety caused by her fear of suddenly shifting into a dragon. She just needs to get some space from everything and some air, but the sound of footsteps behind her is definitely not helping. "Cynarith! I command you to cease," is all she can hear from Ievis' halting tone as she continues to walk and then she feels the man's hand wrap around her bicep with a firm yank. Fury flashes over her gaze as she narrows it up at Ievis and then down on his grip tightening around her arm. "What are you getting at Cynarith?! Are you trying to make a fool out of me? When you told me you were to host an avian diplomat, I was expecting a long-beaked talon-footed feathered-fReak," his haughty tone cuts through the silence of the outdoor area of Hazelbend's gardens. Through clenched teeth Cynarith requests, "unhand me. Now." Only he does not heed her warning and his grip becomes a vice on her arm as he gives the woman a subtle shake, "you will send him to Elimdorei Hotel tonight or you ca- Hmpugh!" The man lets out a pained groan because Cynarith lands a swift kick to his special place and then rips her arm from his grasp before disappearing into the hedge maze. Ievis is left on the cobblestone pathway as he nearly falls to his knees in pain and then he gathers himself enough to limp back inside the party like a dog licking its wounds. Everyone inside the conservatory, unbeknownst to the drama happening outside, continues to laugh and dance as the party roars on within. It may be easy for one to get lost in the hedge maze, but Cynarith knows exactly where she is going and finds sanctuary at the center where a glimmering pool is hidden with tall columns bordering it along with beautiful vines adorning the tall structures. With a shaky sigh, she slips her heels off and gathers the skirt to her dress just enough to be seated at the rim of the pool so her legs may dangle off the edge for her feet to cool in the crystal waters. For a woman who changes her perfume and jewelry at least once a day it is odd she always has this out of place anklet on. She softly rubs the area of her arm from where Ievis grabbed her as she lifts her gaze to the heavens in hopes to observe some constellations in attempts to calm herself, but all she sees are dark clouds rolling in. Instead of stargazing, she considers Uriphiel’s hurried demand and is fairly confident that Sir Dorrel’s connections will produce this Tulpa within time- although, it will take some buttering up on their parts.


  • Uriphiel moved with caution, his footsteps agile and surprisingly silent for a man of his stature. He had no intention of allowing the pair to know of his intrusive eavesdropping, regardless of how altruistic of a place those actions had emanated. While one might appreciate the concern, it was quite assured the other would not. It took every ounce of his iron will for Uriphiel to not react when Levis began his tirade; the order issued, the hand tightly gripping her arm - had this been any other place in the great land of Lithrydel, there would be no doubt that the avian would have drawn his blade and put that vulgar egotist in his place. However, Uriphiel resisted. It was not the time, nor the place. He was a powerless outsider that knew nothing of the politics here, the customs that could very well dictate the behaviour among the inhabitants, and most of all, he’d hate to jeopardize the mission by acting out in an unwarranted fashion. It was with great luck that Cynarith was more than capable of handling her abuser, the kick to the groin quickly settling the matter with haste, which in turn caused Uriphiel to wince in some sort of strange empathetic way toward Ievis, despite his disdain for the man. Once the coast was clear, Uriphiel secretly made his way into the maze, making sure that no one saw him enter so that he would not bring unwelcome optics upon Hazlebend or its proprietor. It was a daunting venture at first, the man not having been prepared to find himself within the confines of a literal maze, but his keen sense of smell allowed him to follow that familiar scent that Cynarith had been wearing this evening. Once he found himself through to the pool where the hostess of the evening sat, quiet and in contemplation, Uriphiel tucked his hands into his pocket and made a careful approach. “Does he always treat you like that?”


  • Cynarith sniffles and then jumps at the question for she had no idea anyone followed her! An accusatory glance is leveled at his wings, assuming he simply flew up and spotted her. She was right, there would be no walls high enough to keep this one out. Tears had threatened the rim of her lids, but had not been significant enough to trail down her cheeks. "No," she is quick to lie as she does with everyone even though there is something about Uriphiel that just will not allow it. Maybe she figures he already knows what she considers to be the worst of herself - so what is the point? Her shoulders slump ever so slightly in defeat, "not typically. He has been in rare form lately… or maybe I am starting to see his true colors since we became official just before this season started," she helps herself up so her feet have a chance to dry before she tries to slip her shoes back on as she has yet to meet Uriphiel's gaze. "We should just focus on you, My Lord. Silly relationship problems are nothing compared to the task you've set out for yourself," she is all too good at shifting anyone's focus back to themselves since it is quite the vain and self centered society she has ingrained herself within. The red handprint around her arm has already subsided significantly and she appears relieved as she glances down to observe it. "I do believe Sir Dorrel will help us, given we can do something for him. He has an awful habit of betting at anything, really. If you make a game out of the whole thing, he will be intrigued as if it is a challenge to be won. Whatever he wishes you to do, do it. If I can help in any way, I will. If he ever invites you to his private opera box, definitely take it because otherwise he will view that as a slight worse than spitting in his face. I may warn you that when these gentlemen are out of the range for us ladies to hear, their conversations become… unsavory," with a shrug of her shoulder she continues, "not sure what they could possibly converse about that they think we don't already know, but I advise you play along." Her hands smooth down the fabric of her flattering dress and the skirts sway ever so slightly, causing the twin moons light to catch the gold accents in soft glimmer just as they peek from behind dark clouds, "now… do I still look dignified, Sir Carnelian?" Finally her gaze lifts to his own with a soft smile on her lips.


  • Uriphiel's lips pulled to one side with a disapproving frown, the golden hue of his stare not one to waver from the crestfallen woman. It truly was not his business to interfere, yet, despite her attempts at brushing the subject aside, he persisted in his prodding. “I see. If those are a man’s true colors, then I can only surmise that such a problem in one’s relationship may not be so silly. If a man acts in such an intemperate manner more than he ought, I would think one might wish to reevaluate the sort of relationship that they are looking for,” he said, with a stony insistence. Uriphiel took a moment to consider his own words, realizing that perhaps he was being a tad too forward. “Forgive me. I do not intend to meddle in your affairs so crudely, nor do I mean to offer unwanted advice on how you choose to handle your relationship. I am letting my emotion, my disdain for such actions, get the better of my judgment.” The avian fell silent, taking a deep breath as he contemplated her next words carefully. He loathed the idea of having to fraternize with a bunch of boorish elites, let alone join in on the cruel, ignorant jabs at the expense of others, but it was just one more bump in the road on the way to completing the goal he’d burned into his heart. He had to get back to Schezerade, to free the people from a tyranny that has plagued the avian populace for far too long. And if that meant that he had to cast aside his morals, for even just one night, he would do so without hesitation. Uriphiel would only nod to the elven woman’s suggestions, confirming that he intended to follow through and continue playing along with the customs of this society. When Cynarith asked him how she looked, he politely reflected that very same smile back in her direction as he said, “Delightfully radiant, Lady Cynarith. Shall we?”, and extended his arms so that she may lead the way back to the party before anyone began to wonder where their hostess had run off to.


  • Cynarith is a little caught off guard at his digs concerning Ievis and if she were a woman of lesser intellect, she might see a sliver of jealousy in his words, but what could Uriphiel possibly be jealous of? “It’s no matter. He’ll be tossed aside by the conclusion of the season like I’ve done to many others. A woman of my standing cannot possibly be seen going to events as a spinster,” she shivers slightly as if the idea physically creeps her out. “He’s not mister right, he is just mister right now,” her conspiratorial smirk returns. "What I am looking for doesn't exist anyway, Sir," the horrible truth said in such a matter-of-fact manner is in part by past experiences and the fact that she accepts it fully for what it is. "That is quite alright, my lord. I think you've got the right to meddle, I got you into this mess haven't I? Now you're wondering how you can entangle yourself in my plan when I make such horrible choices, but trust me- I know Ievis is a horrible choice. Unfortunately, his long lineage here in Elimdor is extensive and I would be stupid not to take advantage of where that can take me in this society," the conclusion is met as she lifts her skirt enough to see if the water has dissipated enough to slip her shoes back on and that anklet glitters in the moons' light once more. His compliment throws her off once more because there is no one around and he can definitely drop the act, so she must wonder if these words are genuine while she is blushing anyway. "Oh, uh, thank you, my lord," the acceptance of his compliment while their gaze lock and she must softly clear her throat to answer his question. "We shall, but probably not together," her gaze flicks to his wings again wondering why he doesn't just leap over walls of the maze. "I can lead you out, but you will return before me and when I am certain everyone's attention is back on you then I will slip back in, unnoticed." Then she holds a hand out for one of Uriphiel's gloved ones if he would be so kind to give her support while she slips her shoes back on.


  • Uriphiel nods, allowing one blonde brow to steadily peak as he looks upon the forsaken elf with judgmental overtones. “I should be surprised. And yet, after all of these centuries, it seems as though the politics of power and wealth continue to be a baffling exercise in keeping up appearances. I never fully understood it, myself. I suppose, in some strange way, I acknowledge the idea of using such courtships to raise one’s status in an exclusive ecosystem. However, I could not fathom being so willing to subject myself to a relationship without the fundamental cornerstones that have been necessary to most of civilization; A desire to love and be loved, to want to have someone to hold and cherish, to even want to settle, and bring new life unto this world. I am at least relieved to know that you are mindful of your arrangement and seem to long for something better, despite your jaded view.” The avian, who had thus far been a perfect gentleman, continues to showcase his mastery in the subject of polite behaviour by extending a gloved hand for her to take as a means of stability, offering more words of wisdom while she slipped into her shoes. “I am not certain that I share your scorned outlook. This is a vast world of untold possibilities. You reside in but a small part of that world where, perhaps, you may not find what you are looking for immediately. The society that you choose to live in, and those you associate with, have a certain worldview that either you share a deep connection with, or simply, you do not. And if you do not, then unless more outside sources move inward to this society and bring diversification, then no, it is unlikely that you will find that which you truly seek. Perhaps you must evaluate what it is that you desire, and think deeply about what measures you could take to move forward, in order to manifest that desire into reality.” Uriphiel offers a light shrug, the faintest hint of a smile preceding his next words, “Then again, perhaps my advice isn’t something worth taking. After all, I have not a relationship to boast of, nor have I held one for more than a passing breeze, given that my previous affairs kept me far too busy to even fully entertain the idea.” Looking down, the subtle glimmer of gold caught the man’s attention, shifting his focus for a short time, “That is a lovely piece of jewelry, if I may say so. It is not the first time I have seen it, even though you seem to change up your fashion regularly. Is it a piece of significance? Of some sort of sentimental value, perhaps? Forgive me for prying. As someone with… experience in the jewelry market, I do have a curiosity for unique pieces.”


  • Cynarith As Uriphiel’s advice sinks in, Cynarith realizes her hand still rests in his, prompting her to quickly withdraw it. Wasting no time, she leads them through the maze as he elaborates on her choices with a profound understanding that she has not considered in ages. The maze becomes a lot more figurative as he begins needling at things she has long buried away and she sets her gaze ahead at nothing in particular in fear her eyes will give too much of herself away. With a furrowed brow, she absorbs his unexpected openness, acknowledging the nobility in his desires even as she admits her own less idealistic outlook. “It is noble what you want,” but what she wants is not so noble. “If I were to ever seriously consider any of the men in my social circle, I fear I would be let down considerably. I once craved a true love, the type of companionship my parents worked on in unison. I used to long for someone to fully understand me without judgment or the habit of trying to change me, be a partner, to share laughter with and not feel intimidated by my success. Then I witnessed what true love did to my father when my mother passed and decided that maybe it isn’t for everyone. Only a rare few experience love like that and I’ve accepted that it is not something I’ll experience,” by now they reach the exit of the maze and their time is cut short when he draws attention to her anklet. Her chest feels a little tight because these are truths she has not shared with anyone and now Uriphiel will see her how she truly is, just a cynical cold bitch. Already feeling more exposed than their first true meeting, despite the vulnerability, she decides against deception, opting instead for honesty tempered by timing as their gaze finally locks once more, “it is less sentimental than it is necessary. A story I may share with you at a more convenient time, my lord.” As she nods towards the conservatory while commanding softly, “go, mingle, have fun deceiving the ton. I’ll rejoin shortly.” The next time he sees her will be in the conservatory after another song and she catches his gaze from across the room with a subtle nod as a signal for him to invite the gentlemen to retire within the library.


  • Uriphiel inquired no further, leaving the woman with a considerably simple, “Very well,” before he moved on ahead to rejoin the party unaccompanied. When he entered the conservatory, he was once again met by a small crowd who wondered where he had run off to. “Apologizes. I was a little overwhelmed and needed a bit of air. I don’t often have time for such festivities in my homeland, so I underestimated how stimulating this would be. I am fine, really. It’s a lovely event.” For the next little while the avian did his best to mingle and mix with the partygoers, conversing about anything they so deemed of interest. He answered questions about the made-up land he came from, their customs, and how he had come to correspond with the woman of the house. And when it came time for the scheduled dances, he was seemingly at the top of the bachelor list, and he happily partnered with anyone who came to him first. Truthfully, despite his reluctance to attend the gathering, Uriphiel was having a fairly good time. For the first time in some time, he was relaxed, and perhaps, as much as he would never admit it, having a little fun. It was some time later into the party and Uriphiel was in the midst of an engaging conversation with a group of men that included the integral Sir Dorrel, when he looked up and caught Cynarith’s signal. It was time. “Gentlemen, this has been an absolutely riveting conversation. Perhaps we should move out to the library to grab a drink; Where we can converse somewhere a little more quiet, away from the ears of your lady companions,” he said. Having been shown where the library was earlier in the day, Uriphiel led the way, nodding in return to Cynarith as they made their exit into the next room.


  • Cynarith easily folds back into the party as the gentlemen retreat into the library and none the wiser as to where she has been. No one can tell that Uriphiel set forth a buzzing array of thoughts within the socialite’s usually calm mind, but she takes comfort in the fact that he could only confide such delicate topics to her because she is not a viable option for him, obviously. One of the elder noble ladies in attendance can probably be heard asking, "Lady Cynarith, when shall we expect you to settle down with a wealthy man?" Her mouth curves into a clever grin as if she has the secrets of the world behind those lips while she remarks, "why Baroness Olowarin… I am a wealthy man." The ladies fall into fits of giggles just as the library door closes behind the gentlemen. "Viscount Reyfaren, when can Cobalt’s expect a payment on your ledger book?" Soon, Uriphiel might gather that 'Cobalt's' is a prestigious gentlemen's club where they meet up to play cards, bet on local sports, hunt or drink in the lap of luxury. It seems Ievis is behind on his dues and betting wagers! "Baron Olowarin, my good man, you know my family and that I am good for it. Plus, once this season is over I will have enough to pay what I owe three fold," Ievis replies quietly to the question before easing himself down carefully into one of the many leather armchairs. "Stibbons," he barks at the butler while holding out his drink and the butler quickly obliges, "this drink is sub par- fix me another." The men begin to mingle and Sir Dorrel meanders near the large fireplace. One of the other distinguished men plops down in the armchair next to Ievis with a glint in his steely gaze and a sniveling smirk on his thin lips, “ah, Reyfaren, my good man. I see you’ve taken on the impossible task that is Lady Cynarith. How is the cold one treating you?” The pair continue to joke at her expense as it is obvious this must be a scorned ex lover.


  • Uriphiel's felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach; He detested the idea of having to spend any more time with these men than wholly necessary, and regrettably, it was exactly that - necessary. It didn’t take long before someone, a certain man of whom the avian already disliked, got under his skin by speaking down to the butler. He would say nothing in protest, only speaking to the hired servant when he asked the diplomat if he’d like a drink. “Wine. Strawberry if available. If not, any red will suffice, please and thank you.” Please. Thank you. Two words that can go a long way with someone, and it was a shame that a man of Viscount Reyfaren’s prestige did not learn such manners in his youth. The way in which he spoke to Stibbons was bad enough, but as soon as they started to denigrate Lady Cynarith, Uriphiel was so offended that he narrowed his gaze and stared upon the ill-mannered ignoramuses with a level of disdain not far from the amount held against the vampiric race. However, it was unlikely that either of the men would take notice, because as Cynarith had suggested, Uriphiel was to fit in, as much as he did not want to, and offered a forced smile and fraudulent chuckles to make it seem as though he was enjoying the derisive mockery. While he was playing along, he would nudge things a little further to see if he could delve into some truth about the woman, “I was not aware that Lady Cynarith had such a reputation. She seemed fairly gracious and welcoming during our correspondence. Should there be a reason to use caution around her?” The avian, now with wine in hand, would thank Stibbons once more and sip upon the sweet-tasting liquid while he listened to their response.


  • [Cynarith] Viscount Reyfaren scoffs and rolls his eyes at the avian’s prodding, just before replying without actually making eye contact with the diplomat (as if he is above such things.) “I’ll admit she has ingratiated herself quite well among us, but everyone knows she isn’t old money as much as she tries to be.” The other scorned lover chuckled with a nod in agreement with Ievis before chiming in, “the woman acts as if any suitor, no matter their title, money or status, is not good enough for her. She is so cagey it is ridiculous, I say.” Viscount grins devilishly when advice is asked and shrugs, “probably not. Aren’t avians staunchly xenophobic when it comes to picking romantic partners? Everyone loves Cyna until they try to love her, if you know what I mean, but you’re not interested romantically in anyone unless they happen to be avian, so you’re good, ol’ sport.” Sir Dorrel tsks three times and raises his glass to his lips, but before sipping, he barbs Viscount Reyfaren with, “hesitant in love is better than a mile long list of mistresses, ey Reyfaren?” The viscount narrows his gaze at Sir Dorrel, but fails to formulate a jab in return. Whether that be out of respect or a slow wit, no one can truly tell. “Don’t get me wrong, we have all sewn our wild oats gentlemen, but aren’t you getting a little old, Ievis? Grow up,” Sir Dorrel finishes, but surprisingly the Viscount wishes to sully his good name further as he boasts, “as if marriage stopped any of us from having our cake and eating it, too.” The group of gentlemen roar with laughter… all but Sir Dorrel who simply sips his absinthe.


  • Uriphiel bears no smile nor semblance of levity when he responds; In fact, his words are as cold and hard as steel, showcasing the infamous Avian arrogance. “You misunderstand me, Viscount Reyfaren. I seek no relationship with this woman, or anyone else in this country of land-dwelling elves for that matter, other than one that is, essentially, business-minded. My queen wishes to procure a partnership in this fragrance business, to bring Lady Cynarith’s product to Ardengale for a purpose of a profitable nature, and I am merely making sure that there is nothing of note that would make my travels to this land a waste of both our time.” When Sir Dorrel spoke his piece, it took everything that Uriphiel could muster not to elicit a vindictive smirk and bask in Reyfaren’s defeat in the battle of wit. Instead of engaging further with the man who was obviously beneath his moral code, Uriphiel turns his attention to Sir Dorrel, the individual that he’d been waiting to speak with alone for a good portion of the evening. “Well played, Sir Dorrel,” he said, raising his wine glass and taking a sip. “I only wish that I could share your acuity when dealing with such juvenile miscreants.” Those words were spoken at such a volume that it was possible that Reyfaren might have heard him; Whether or not he had was no concern to the avian whatsoever. His next words, however, were lowered, trying to keep the next matter between the two mentally mature parties in the library. “Tonight has been a riveting experience. I do thank you for your company, and for making things particularly interesting during my first festive event in Vhys. During my roaming and mingling, I was made aware that you were a man of many connections, and I could not help but wonder if you would be kind enough to help me with a little curiosity that I have been tasked with retrieving. My Queen has heard of an item, a… Tulpa, as it is called, and she so wishes to obtain one, for her private collection, you see. I have heard tell that such items can be found in the lands of Vhys and the Archmosia empire. Have you heard of such an item before? Do you happen to know of a way in which I might purchase one for my Queen? She would pay handsomely.” Another sip of wine is drawn as he awaits the forsaken elf’s response.


  • [Cynarith] Viscount Reyfaren pretends not to hear as various conversations break off between clusters of gentlemen. “Cynarith is no challenge for me, I’ll have the bitter shrew tamed before this season’s end, mark my words,” the cretin speaks so cavalierly about the woman as if she were a mere object to acquire following a conquest. Should a dastardly rake like him enjoy, or even deserve, such a prize once he procures it? Only time will tell. Cynarith is not so important that this is all those few scorned lovers talk about as the subject naturally moves along to the great hunt. “Why thank you, Sir Carnelian. Pomposity for pomposity sake is rather boorish in my opinion. I know how clever dear Cynarith can be and I am curious how her quick wit would have shut the droll troll down,” his cackle is infectious as he packs some sweet smelling tobacco into an ornate mother of pearl pipe. “It is not just Vhys you’re in, but Elimdor, my good man,” he says in an informative way without sounding like he is scolding the avian for the misstep, but sort of trying to take him under his wing in the ‘proper ways’. Sir Dorrel pretends to be aloof about the topic at hand, but this golden winged man has gotten his goose. A challenge! Yes, the elusive challenge- for he already has every luxury that gold can afford. “Ahhh… yes,” he looks off into the distance as if knowing exactly what Sir Carnelian is speaking of, “the elusive Tulpa. Of course. Remind me of some details, I am quite long in the tooth,” he expertly pretends as if he knows what a Tulpa is, but tasks the man to explain it. Once all the details are laid out, he goes quiet in a thoughtful way while lighting his pipe and a plume of dense white smoke lingers around his craggy features. “I’ll tell you what, Sir Carnelian- may I call you Durelan?” Oh, Uriphiel better say yes because referring to others so informally means they’re getting friendly and Sir Dorrel is definitely a friend he would want. “I’ll let you in on a poorly kept secret. I am a betting man and I know when to admit I am out of my league. It’s the horses, you see. I have never been good at determining the winning horse. Come to the track in two day’s time and bring dearest Cynarith. I know she can pick out a winner any day, but I could never get her to confide which one it will be to me. Unfortunately- she doesn’t believe in betting on the races, the sweetheart, but…” his grin grows. “She just might divulge such information to her dashing and charming guest if you are twigging.” Once he recognizes that the avian is on the same track, he concludes, “she will tell you and then you will tell me. As soon as the race has benefited in my favor, then I will see to this Tulpa business.” Drink in one hand, he secures his pipe between his teeth so he may extend a free hand for a firm shake and he asks through pipe clenched teeth with joy, “we have a deal, Durelan?”


  • Uriphiel's jaw tensed for but a moment upon the Viscount’s words meeting his ear; The uncouth and derogatory manner in which he spoke about his so-called paramour was dreadfully repulsive. Still, he opted to keep his mouth shut, knowing full well that his moment with the lady of the house was fleeting. Rather than let it eat him up from within, Uriphiel put all his concentration into his conversation with Sir Dorrel. “Yes, of course, sir. My apologies. Elimdor is quite lovely. Hmm? Oh. Right. Well, as we have been informed, a Tulpa is some sort of spiritual entity that has a variety of uses of which we are not quite certain. There is tell of a guise, a magically crafted item imbued with the spirit of a Tulpa that allows one to change their appearance at will. I suppose they are rare and hard to come by, which is why, as some have led me to believe, you may be able to help me.” Another draw, this time held for a moment to allow the sweet liquid to roll over his tongue so that he may savor it for just a little longer, as there was no telling when he would be able to enjoy such delicacies next. Upon swallowing the mouthful of wine, the avian nodded, giving his reply, “Yes, Sir. Durelan is quite fine. I suppose if my mother didn’t want anyone to use the name, she would have given me another.” Uriphiel cracks a smile in jest, although it would fade quite swiftly once Dorrel’s request was put out into the open, causing the man to take a moment to weigh his options. Surely, if Lady Cynarith won’t tell Sir Dorrel, a man she has known for some time, the information he seeks, then there is no reasonable way that she would tell a complete stranger. Especially something she feels so strongly against. Yet, she has opened her home to him. Offered to help him fulfill his quest to return to Schezerade. Even crafted a ruse in which to fool those closest to her. All for a complete stranger. Would she confide this secret to him, if he pleaded his case? He would be reluctant to have to use deceitful tactics upon her, but if it truly came down to it, what choice would he have? With a resolute nod, Urphiel took Sir Dorrel’s hand and shook it firmly. “We have a deal.”

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