Thick-skinned (Ifran)

[Laszlo]

Fall 28th, 511AV Two Bells Past Sunrise "Hey, goat-head!" Laszlo slowed to a stop, taking a few seconds to realize that unfamiliar voice was calling to him. Shuffling his backpack to his other shoulder, he turned around, looking for the source of the insult. In this early morning hour, the streets of Alvadas were less eventful than usual (though the roads themselves seemed to be made of mud, today). Among the attractive Kalean architecture, there were only a few other people moving along and attending to their morning tasks, and none of them seemed remotely interested in the Ethaefal. Spying nothing out of the ordinary, by Alvadas standards anyway, Laszlo shrugged and continued onward toward the Bizarre. "I'm talking to you, God-Forsaken!" He whirled around again, gritting his teeth and running a hand through his fiery auburn hair. More thoroughly now his molten amber eyes scanned the area, looking for the offender. Laszlo's annoyance was evident in the way he gripped the strap of his satchel, his fingertips turned white from the pressure. A few passersby glanced at him briefly in bewilderment, but their interest was only passing and they moved on by him. Who was yelling then? Laszlo searched the windows of nearby buildings, looking for someone cowardly enough to hurl insults from hiding. Why would anyone be so uncouth? The Ethaefal had barely made friends in his short time here in the city, let alone enemies. Was something just looking for a fight? Laszlo narrowed his eyes. There didn't appear to be anyone here! Just quiet buildings, a statue peppered with bird droppings kneeling on a pedestal, a few birds flying between the rooftops, and a stray dog sniffing around the muddy streets. Out of superstition, Laszlo's eyes hovered on the statue. The few present citygoers were all too preoccupied with themselves to even notice the Ethaefal standing here. There couldn't be anyone shouting at him… unless… "Hey, bright eyes! Are you an Ethaefal? Or did someone just glue a pair of croissants to your head!" Laszlo raised his eyebrows. "You've got to be kidding me." "Look, everyone! He put it together! Let's give him a hand, shall we?" It was the statue? Fascinated, the Ethaefal temporarily abandoned his intentions on visiting the Bizarre and approached the sculpture. It looked as dead as the buildings next to it, but that wasn't saying much in a city like this. Was it acting as a puppet, or did it really have a mind of its own? Was this a trick, or was it actually a talking— "Paint a picture, sunshine, it'll last longer." "What are you?" Laszlo asked experimentally. "Are you wearing a ponytail? Really? Is that was passes for fashion in Alvadas these days?" All Laszlo could manage in response was an incredulous smirk. Now that was something. Thank you, City of Illusions.

[Ifran]

Ifran hadn't quite gotten the hang of traversing Alvadas. That is, he could get where he wanted to go most of the time, but the scenery along the way always changed, sometimes distracting him with will o' the wisp cunning off the beaten track, away from where he wanted to go. But sometimes he wondered if he didn't end up where he needed to go in such instances. Though he hadn't spent too much time in the presence of the Idol Slanderer -- after all, who would want to? -- he knew it for what it was, had asked some questions and done some research since the first time it offended his sense of dignity, and took pity, perhaps, on the Ethaefal. "There's no arguing with it," he said calmly from behind, pausing to look up at the thing. "All hail the Prince of the Crumbling Ruin," scoffed the statue, "breaking wind of the North!" "One must just remember that it was supposed to be the crowning glory of its creator," he said, unflappable, "but turned out to be a stunning disappointment." Fire could very well be fought with fire, but it was anyone's guess whether the statue had any true feelings to hurt. "Ahoy, sword-swallower!" the statue shouted at Ifran, "that's a nice wig. What's it made of?" "Your mother's chest hair," the Eypharian shot back. Then, to the Ethaefal, "Really, it's best to ignore it." He glanced toward a street that led away, though to where, he wasn't sure. Only the natives really seemed to know for sure where they were going. Perhaps the sky-man would heed his advice, and perhaps not. Ifran, at least, turned to go. One could lead a horse to water... But those with celestial blood must needs look after one another.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo turned his head enough to get a glimpse of the stranger from the corner of his eye. When the statue accosted him, the Ethaefal turned back to it, raising an eyebrow in dull recognition of the thing's backstory. A disappointment? How could a talking statue be a disappointment? What was it supposed to do? Laszlo was rather sure statues didn't normally talk at all. Had its creator intended it for something else, or was this just something that happened to sculptures in Alvadas? Exhaling through his nose, Laszlo smirked. By the Goddess, I think I love this city. "I love it," was the incomplete thought that left his mouth. When he turned his head again, however, the stranger had gone. Tearing his attention from the statue, Laszlo turned around to find the man walking off, presumably to go about his business. "Not quite the pointiest arrow in the quiver are we? You lot are never quite as quick-witted as Leth's, in my experience." "Hey!" Laszlo spun back around with an immediate, but playful glare. It was such a sordid thing, but Laszlo was heeding the stranger's advice. If that's all the statue did, then there was no sense in taking it personally. Taking a tighter hold of his satchel, the Ethaefal pulled his boots from the muddy street and began to follow after the helpful fellow. With the streets changing as often as they did, the Bizarre was just as likely to be down that road as it was any of the others. "Thanks, I—" "Making new friends? You plan on keeping your claws sheathed this time, I hope!" Laszlo hesitated. "Thanks," he repeated. He seemed about to say more, but he finally had gotten a good look at Ifran, and the grateful expression on his face was replaced with bewilderment. "My word, do you have six arms? That is, do you actually, or is that just the city playing tricks? It's still difficult to mark the difference. I'm new here." I'm new everywhere, he mused ruefully.

[Ifran]

Ifran paused in his journey to twist back toward the horned one to listen, to observe the marks the Radiant One had left upon her prodigal servant. They were about of a height and build, though he hardly thought six arms to be strange when the man remarking had horns, but this was not Ahnatep where such things were commonplace, and most things were illusory here. "I myself have only been here since summer," he said, not quite finding the cadence of slang in the Common tongue. It seemed such an insufficient language after tonguing the words of the Arumenic poets, but it was another learning experience. "Long enough to know most sights here are tricks, though my arms are not. I am a desert creature. Ifran of the House of the North Winds." He did not bow, for his blood was noble, stemming from the divine blood of a dry Eyktolian river, but he nodded as if to an equal, for this one had obviously slipped out of the Ukalas themselves, and people in Alvadas seemed more egalitarian than he was used to. When in Alvadas, do as the Alvadans. Wisdom, that. "And you are quite welcome. This place must seem more alien to you than it does to me." His head canted curiously to the side on the ivory pillar of his neck. He wore strange clothes, blue, that accommodated rather than covered his hexabrachian form. A cloak rather than a tunic hung from his shoulders, his chest otherwise bare. He would find a proper couturier eventually, and deck himself out as was his way, but for now the air was warm enough that he wasn't worried.

[Laszlo]

Desert creature. Ifran said it so dismissively, as if it were enough explanation; he's from the desert, of course he has eight limbs. Like a spider. Laszlo's eyes darted downward thoughtfully. The notion was quickly forgotten, as there was nothing else about Ifran that seemed remotely arachnid-like. The word 'desert' had become more interesting. The Ethaefal knew what a desert was, but he'd never been to one. Briefly he searched his memory banks for a past life that might lend more than just a cold definition to the word, but his soul was silent. Too much to hope for, he supposed. Though Laszlo appreciated the nod in his direction, he was a little too absentminded to return it. "Everything seems alien to me," Laszlo revealed with a shrug, glancing down the Eypharian's form and absorbing his dress and appearance. Ifran was proud, Laszlo could tell from the way the tall figure carried himself. It was a bit intimidating, and put the Ethaefal on edge. "But I learn quickly, or at least I thought I did. It may be my imagination but I swear these streets and buildings seem shuffle themselves. I was on my way to the Bizarre, but the route I mapped yesterday brought me to the Wolf's Cave. Which isn't… well." Laszlo swept his auburn curls from his face, looking out at the innocently dead buildings and glistening muddy streets of the city, wrinkling his nose in playful contempt. "But I'm not in any hurry. Where were you headed, Ifran of the House of the North Winds?" Breaking wind of the north. Laszlo tried not to snicker. "You must know this city far better than I do."

[Ifran]

"They do," he affirmed. "The entire city seems to be in flux. What has worked for me is to keep my desired destination firmly in mind as I walk and let the city itself put that destination in my path. This works when the city is in an accommodating mood. Sometimes I just have to keep walking until I get where I want to be." He considered. "I could go to the Bizarre with you. I'm somewhat familiar with the city, anyway." Ignoring the statue's shouted taunts, he turned to go, assuming the Ethaefal would follow or not. He imagined the Bizarre as his feet began to move their measured tread. An Ethaefal was someone he could treat as a relative equal, which would be nice. He was tired of being surrounded by lesser creatures, pretending to think of them as his peers or, worse yet, his betters. Of course, Ifran of the House of the North Winds would never admit to wanting or needing a friend, not even to himself, but now Aru was gone back to Ahnatep with a present for Izdihar and he was left to his own devices. It was depressing.

[Laszlo]

"I'd like that." Laszlo gave a cautious smile to Ifran, glancing once over his shoulder at the talking statue. The hexabrachian man's theory on the shifting streets was a strange one, but if there was such a thing as a talking statue that hurled insults at passersby, the Ethaefal supposed anything was possible. The important thing was that Ifran seemed confident that he could find the bizarre, and he was better company than the Slanderer. "I'm Laszlo, by the way." It still didn't feel like his true name, 'Laszlo'. He had hoped that the more people called him that, the more natural it would feel, but it still sounded like someone else's name. He'd grow used to it, eventually. That's what he kept telling himself. Not a fan of silence, Laszlo immediately began flipping through items of interest in his head to make small conversation. He thought of casually mentioning how he'd arrived two days ago, but that would be awkwardly coupled with an inquiry into what brought him here. And honestly, he had no well-worded explanation to give. "I'm not very well traveled," Laszlo voiced aloud, turning his head to catch Ifran's eyes. "I'm mostly familiar with humans and Symenestra. You're neither, so what manner of creature are you that comes from the desert?" He gave a sidelong glance in the other direction. "What does that mean, Prince of the Crumbling Ruin? It sounds romantic."

[Ifran]

Ifran edged to the side, allowing for Laszlo to walk beside him. He nodded acknowledgement, and then said his name, a mnemonic device, as well as a chance to savor the specific cadence and careful enunciation of the new name. "Laszlo," he said. "I suppose that suits you." As they walked and the silence grew, he could sense a tension within it, so he was not surprised when Laszlo spoke again, answering unasked questions. "My race is Eypharian from the jewel of Eyktol, Ahnatep. One could call it a Crumbling Ruin. Certainly parts of it have never recovered from the Valterrian, and the desert sands frequently encroach upon its borders when not properly managed. My blood is high, though I would only be a true prince if I married into the royal family. Who is to say whether that is my lot. "Not well traveled, you say. Should I take that to mean you only recently fell from the heavens?"

[Laszlo]

"Yes." Laszlo returned his stare to the road, sliding his hands into his pockets. Eypharian. The word came off the tongue easily, smooth, exotic, and graceful. It seemed appropriate for Ifran, with his dark eyebrows and finely tanned skin. "I'll be two years old, come Winter. I was born in the Suvan." He paused to smile distantly. "You know of the Ethaefal, then. Not a lot of people do. I think most see a creature which walks upright and speaks their language, and just assume it's a person. That's what I do." The high sun was beginning to dry the muddy roads, creating a fine lattice of cracks in the soft earth. Laszlo's horns glittered in the bright light, looking almost like fine, translucent glass. The warmth could be felt on his shoulders, but the air near the ground was still cool with an autumn chill, leaving his toes to feel cold in their boots. He kept moving, ignoring all of it, as he observed the city's artful architecture and tasted the smells of the nearing markets. "I've never heard of Ahnatep," Laszlo remarked curiously, "but I know where the Eyktolian Deserts are. You're a long way from home, aren't you? What could you possibly be doing in a place like this?" He felt a little hypocritical, asking a question he'd just avoided inviting, but perhaps it would help to hear other people word their answers. Besides, it was only small talk. Meaningful conversation for him was usually as rare as it was uncomfortable.

[Ifran]

"Baptized in the sea," he said, nodding. "Welcome back, then. Some few have fallen near Ahnatep and stayed among us, though many seem to wander as if to find their way back home." He could understand the feeling, as he was often homesick for Ahnatep, though it was hardly a piteous state for him. "If a man has horns, I entertain the possibility that he belongs to the Sun or the Moon, though in this town, I have seen illusionists horn themselves, or morphing magi, perhaps. Your kind are unfailingly beautiful, and many seek to own that." The last was said with the dispassionate appreciation of an artist. Oddly, his admiration was sincere, but detached. He did not want anything, or gave the impression that he did not. "I am far from home. But there is a method to my madness. At home I perform the Semhu, a performing art particular to my people and our rather complex language. But there is a troupe of performers sacred to Ionu, the Inverted. And there is something of illusion about what we do too. So I am here to learn, and perhaps study the Inverted, too. Though I will return home someday." He cracked a smile. "You were not wrong: there is something romantic about being a prince of the Crumbling Ruin. "And what brings you to Alvadas?"