19th of Spring, 517
It was now thoroughly clear that Morwen's refusal to bring Winter would have a very significant and tangible effect upon Syliras. Spring was unseasonably hot. Dra-Vaerin had only experienced these outside seasons once, and he remembered the spring and fall seasons being much more temperate. He had taken to spending his time when he wasn't at work walking around the fish markets and docks because of the occasional gust of cool sea breeze. He was aware this was not the most efficient way to stay cool: but it did allow for him to get some exercise. The aerialist had learned his lesson the first time he was here to be very observant over where he was going. He was not a clumsy person by nature. In fact Vaerin had barely bumped into anyone since he accidentally collided with that sailor and his friend. It was objectively a good thing, because this hot weather had made almost everyone uncharacteristically short tempered.
Even he had felt his usually almost constant polite demeanor start to show cracks. His mood was now often crabby. Slight comments heard in passing that he would have usually ignored entirely would now result in his heckles being raised, and a stormy expression rooting itself onto his face for half a bell at the least. Although, he did partially chalk that up to the emotionally turbulent winter that had heralded the end of 516. He had felt his emotions spent in a way they had never been before: and by the end of the season, hardly left his apartment for anything other than work. The hot weather was just exacerbating this. It seemed as though the Vantha persecution was over now. Dra-Vaerin still had no desire to discuss his heritage with anyone. Just to be on the safe side. Viratas would always favour those that were shrewd. It was still not the right climate to try and forge links with the two halves of his blood.
In order to cope with the heat, the young man had foregone the under-bindings that his people often wore, as that did not promote as much air circulation due to the fabric's weave construction. The loose fitting and draped overlay of clothing he usually wore had a lot more breathability by itself. He had the sleeves rolled up and latched to the cowled neckline to keep his arms free of fabric, and had similarly rolled the pants up so they were now shorts. If he had not felt so physically exposed he may have enjoyed the way it looked more. He knew that he was not as frail as the full blooded Symenestra: but he was now a lot more visibly identifiable as being of their ilk because of the swaddling of cloth that kept him covered for the majority of his time in the city. Prior to this climate-induced costume change, he might have just looked like quite the eccentric dresser. Now with his face and sharp teeth, spindly and long limbs, and black finger and toenails fully visible to the populace such an illusion was fully dispelled.
Though, Dra-Vaerin took it in his stride as he always had. His skin may not have been as durable as steel, but it was thick. Even if he still felt deeply hurt on the inside he would not let the outside world know how it hurt him so.
He was currently walking past one of the main thoroughfares. You're not that far away from the fish markets...you could try your luck with getting something to eat. In the nearby distance he spied a gaggle of people. It was clear to him from their body language and the general din that was being made that they were unhappy about something. Perhaps Raoul was in town again and had taken to haranguing another stranger?
However, it did not seem that this was the case. He couldn't make out what was being said, but it was too many voices to be a similar situation to the one he had gotten himself in with that sailor. Unless he had managed to somehow get everyone in that crowd up in arms - which after the first few chimes of their initial meeting Dra-Vaerin could have envisioned happening.
As was usually the first reaction of someone seeing something interesting, he quickened his pace to find out what was going on. However, he decided to keep a bit of distance and try to gauge the situation before he tried to intervene or involve himself. It seemed like something of a dispute or angered conversation around the lack of food. The movement of the group made it appear as if they were making their way to the docks.
So the youth tailed them, still trying to grab onto bits of information that would allow him to understand what was going on. Once again he kept a respectable distance from them so it was very obvious he was separate from this group. He did not want to be associated with it. The flurry of voices from the men, women and children all combined into a cacophony of ill content. His ears were lucky to pick up one or two words from any one conversation before it was drowned out by another. He was starting to get the feeling that this mob was working its way up into a frenzy. Possibly in order to assist them with whatever it was they wanted to do? He started trying to look around for guards to alert them of the situation so it could hopefully end peacefully before it culminated into something.
In this moment he found himself scornfully judging the Sylirian knighthood. In Kalinor, the Ochya would have already resolved this issue by now.
"This city...truly amazing." He muttered to himself in his preferred tongue, still looking for the distinctive faction and its presence. The group was now firmly planting itself by the docks. His specific phrasing of this gave the implication of his current derision of Syliras. However, he did not worry about anyone overhearing him over the noise of the close by group. Even if they had, they most likely would not have understood him anyway. Many of those that walked Mizahar had no use for or seen a point in learning the beautiful language of his mother's blood.
