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Wanderlost

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Wanderlost last won the day on August 23 2016

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About Wanderlost

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    King of Swords
  • Birthday 02/29/1996

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    Wanderlost#0957

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  1. "Avaerus, Talra. Firstborn, of the dragon, Talra." His response was a boast, if not blatantly so outside of his flaming pride. "I believe, you met my nephew. Soris." He had not elected to crowd over the woman or care for the contents of her charge. The things he did concern himself with were very literally otherworldly. Establishing contact with Lucas on behalf of his family would be advantageous, and he had a scheme brewing that could help solve their family's issues with a particular whelp. Perhaps Lucas could teach him how to handle life as a host to a cruel power. It would be quite an endeavor to coordinate, so perhaps he could find a way, somehow, to gain a sort of debt from him... He didn't count such a convenience likely however, and he was left with much to ponder. Then, however, was a better time to think on the other question. He had agreed to a stroll, not to accompany this mortal one and her trembling hands on some supposedly dangerous hike. And to risk his life? That certainly wasn't a desirable outcome. "I am here, to discuss. I care little, for the conditions, under which we do."
  2. Lucas turned his attention, and Avaerus receded into a deep, rumbling bout of laughter. Everything he had wanted on a neat little platter: he was pleased, and doubly amused at his verbalized aversion to altruism. Theirs would be a fun stroll. "I have never, concerned myself, with the affairs, of the weak." He spoke to no one in particular, acknowledging that he bore no concerns for the values Lucas seemed to worry he might care for. He didn't expect to be paid any attention of theirs, hoping they would finish their conversation. They would soon have time to discuss what he wished. It was always good, forging alliances, or at least making acquaintences. Having this Lucas Black as a contact could prove useful, were any of his kindred to travel to Valucre again. Although he would have to find a tactful way to inquire about their lifespan. It was always unfortunate to send people seeking a dead man. Avaerus stepped down from the barstool and took up his staff. Looking over the wary patrons, glasses left, and the grim-eyed bartender, he made no move to apologize for any of it, and seemed to be of a mind that it didn't matter. When Lucas was ready, they could have their travel, and they could discuss. He only wondered whether they would still have the woman in their company. The dragonson didn't think he'd mind. Her lack of fear pleased him, she was unoffensive, and with little else on his mind, he could afford her interruptions. Things ahead were beginning to look promising. "Travel, it is."
  3. Theirs was a cursory clasp of hands, skepticism-strained on behalf of the dragon before the woman was distracted by Lucas's ramblings. Shortly, his clawed and scaled hand slipped from hers and clinked against the glass as it enveloped it. Finishing it, he ordered another. Waiting, he nodded along to Lucas's notes on the properties of red hair, and was surprised to find him as learned as he was for one so naturally gifted. He was absolutely right, it oft depended on the nature of the user's magics, what components were most important. Being one who drew from many arts, and knew more, there were a handful of things that came to mind, but most that involved humanoid hair were of a more occult nature. Being the firstborn of Talra, and a descendant of the fae queen Anala, Avaerus and his kindred were something of a unique oddity. He had siblings, but next to him, they were failures. His sister concerned herself with less direct magics, and had a fascination with mechanics and those that laid on the edge the legality of reality, and his brothers had both gotten themselves killed in time. Sona had dishonored their fathers wishes, but Vicorus had made something of himself, even in death, and in the wake of their conflict with The Order of the Faceless, continued to bring security to their home. As such, most of his father's living lineage was made of his own descendants, though he had great hopes for his nephew Soris. The elder archmage knew Lucas's struggles as a building extrasensory menace that dissipated in reaction to his yelling at the floor. The gathered power had almost drawn a reaction from him, but he had confidence in his wards, and the half-elf seemed yet to harbor any ill will against him, despite bearing a massive strength that, at least in nature, seemed to disagree. Whether they were separate entities was a concern. Then his control would come into question, but if he was in control, he would find no fault or blame from Avaerus as to the methods that allowed that. He sipped at his newest drink, the same well draft, and ruminated. How would he treat an actual dragon, were he holding similar company to it? A crackling chuckle helped affirm that he wouldn't choose to act much differently. Then, the half-elf greeted him, and he nodded. He tasted his words and thought, and took longer to reply than was polite in the company of mortals. This was something he recognized, but he found it convenient to take the time to consider, and use it as a way to test the man's patience. For all the very little he desired, he would need his patience. He finished his drink and placed his coins on the counter for his next, interlaced his claws, tended to his posture, and let his eyes drift to meet the half-elf's. "Valucre, As I have, heard it... Is a temporal, anomaly. "And in this world, At the center, of worlds, You stood out. "Not a dragon, Yet you breathe shadows. Not a monster, Yet you bear, such menace. Not of strong blood, Yet I doubt, your mortality. "To a foreign arcanist, you are, a curiosity. And one, worth befriending, if circumstances, allow." Still trying to keep his flames from escaping his throat, Avaerus traded more coin with the bartender for his next glass. "For his, next drink."
  4. A frown fell in shadows over old Avaerus's face at the subtle shift in Lucas's fount of great energy, but the force of a half breed was paying attention to the girl, and further attention from the firstborn revealed that he had begun with a defensive shape to that dark aura. At that, the dragon withdrew into a long sip of his drink and the following rumination over its flavor, which was not a good flavor, as a way to disguise a moment of focused thought. He decided there was little need to weave any further spells, as he had the defense and escape methods he would need for his intentions already, but it had caused him a moment of doubt in those things, learning the kind of fine and free-handed control the man had over his magic. He'd met certain Edian Angels in the past with similar control, and fighting one such person had been a trial of his own ability to come prepared. But perhaps it would be best to acknowledge Lucas in turn, and what better way to do it than to paint him a picture? The clawed hand of the dragon drew a line in the air, silver energy glowing, which was not how he usually drew his runes in modern times, though it was effective for his intentions. It was one of the simplest spells of its kind, a universal rune of abjuration, which he hoped any mage in any world would recognize, and let it drift to his staff and disperse into it, to the visible scorn of the bartender. "If you're looking to use any of your magic, I will not have it in here sir." Hot saliva rumbled in the dragon's throat. "That, is the idea." Proud as he was, it was an attempt to reassure the man, for whom he was growing some respect. Otherwise, powerful and ancient arcanist or not, Avaerus knew his limitations. He was a spellcaster in most things, save for some rougher exertions of power, and while that offered a wider expanse of arcane utility, it limited his speed next to one who controlled their own aura in minute detail as Lucas seemed to. He had to buy time to weave his ancestral magics into other spell shapes, otherwise all he had to work with was fire and pure energy, both of which asked a lot of him to use in the necessary amounts. Letting these ruminations rest, he returned to the point of his intent. Taking in Lucas then was a cursory thing. Greater consideration was demanded for the ginger flower of flesh and scents of many things, bundled in many cloths. He wondered how much she knew of what she had gotten into. He was a half-dragon, and the half-elf wore his power on his sleeve. It wouldn't take much of any ability to recognize either as foreboding, but she showed no fear, nor did she indicate any recognition for the situation. Perhaps she was confident that the omen-elf saw her similarly, in that it was always better not to burn the trees when fighting in a forest. Though again, it seemed like neither of them sought any sort of conflict that day. The half-dragon finished his shot, dropped two gold coins in the glass, and slid it forward for the bartender to take. "Another." His tone called the word a necessary labor more than a question or a demand. While he waited for the bartender's action, he dug through his pockets, and eventually withdrew a small rectangular box; in it, he knew there to be a tea bag. It was something he kept for a very rare and specific sort of occasion, and he knew he could recreate it. On top of being a pleasantly smoked rose pedal blend, it had a particular property that would offer the imbiber a supernatural level of clarity. It was a tea he had used once before to weave a ritual spell of innovative intricacy. At least at the time--that was at least a century ago. He slid the box to the woman. "A gift, "For your "Daring."
  5. A curiosity had taken Avaerus in the brief time he had used to divine his nephew's location: something old and powerful in the world of Valucre; a dragon by his first guess, risen again, but it had taken him time to recover from other trips between worlds and dimensions, so it took him a few days to return to Valucre, and more still to divine its location. He hadn't tried to conceal his scrying, so he expected that whatever sort of being he was tracking knew that he was coming. He had considered weaving the sort of dweomer that would change his form to something more mundane, more humanoid, but the ancient half dragon chose to wear his heritage proudly. Something that when he got to hell's gate, proved interesting, for surely his kind was something of a rarity here too, and it took him until a hoodlum teen poorly concealed the phrase, "Just another freak," To understand that it was already a world of oddities, and few would care for his particular type. It was an amusing concept, however, to call a tall dragon with shining golden scales, who was clearly adorned in a robe woven of colored dragon scales and walking with a tap to echo his booted steps, "Just another freak," But who could speak to the foolery of children? His staff was of an ironwood tree, the last forest of which had been razed some centuries past on his world, and the head of it had a crystal eye embedded in it. He neglected to draw similarities between Valucre and Siwailigol. He had been to other worlds before. Though, that did not mean he was disinterested in the unfamiliar sights of such a dirty industrial city. Taking his eyes away from that, he channeled his magics. First, a rune that he let fade into his dragonscale robes, and second, a crystal he could use to leave if the situation demanded it. He judged the power of this being, this 'Lucas,' If he had managed to divine a real name of it, was enough that he would rather be prepared in approaching him. His mark was not a dragon, notably, and if again, he had gotten a real name of him, definitely humanoid, but that had not undone his curiosity. The Weary Orc was not any significant sight to him, as common ales and other alcohols often disappointed him next to the crafts of some of his descendants. Folding an excessive amount of foreign gold in the bouncer's hand served as well as a bribe as anything else, and the humanoid dragon found himself on the threshold of the bar, not needing much of his arcana to identify his mark as the gangly, gaunt half-elf sitting alone at the bar. Though that wasn't to say that he neglected to check what he saw with his arcane sight, which only brought an acknowledging nod from him. Avaerus found a seat to his liking: one on the corner, where he could get a good look at the face of the ominous, slumping figure, but before he opened a conversation or elected to perturb the one he had been tracking, he slid a gold to the bartender when he came to attend him. In a voice that boiled and crackeled under the heat of the flame within him, he said, "Something fumy." "Sir, I can't take this." The bartender uttered a phrase that took any sense of life or even kindness from the face of the draconic mage. Some sleight of hand brought a second from his palm, which he placed on the table, leaving his claw to pin it down. "A second, for the chore, of translating it then." Despite the unique, grating nature of Avaerus's deep voice, there was a cadence to it, which flowed and drew out certain words, letting the sounds roil and die in his throat. Eyeing the gold the claw was sunken into, he nodded his ascent. They were large, and obviously pure. "Something fumy." The golden liquid that settled in his glass was clearly of the well sort, but the dragonson didn't seem to care as he let its fumes fill his senses, his scales and fangs clinking just as his claws had against the glass, though he seemed to bear the delicate finesse required to avoid shattering the object. Setting it on the table, he finally gave himself to a bold, or unabashedly curious stare at the half-elf's face.
  6. I don't really write here anymore. I still do, and I enjoyed my time here very much.

    I can be contacted on Discord at Wanderlost#0957

    Be well.

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