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[emberdance]

for nomadicflame

Needless to say, it's unusual for respected guests to arrive at night⸻ but Azar-Ban is nothing if not accommodating to the unusual.

Crow's day job, these days, is essentially to attend parties. The king throws a lot of them, for every occasion he can think of ⸻ everything from the arrival of royal guests to holidays that nobody has celebrated for a thousand years ⸻ and Crow's job is to entertain, to enamor, and to ply whatever politician or business's opinion that's currently paying him. It's no secret that he's for sale, and in this royal court, that's tolerated because his price is extremely high; only the wealthy can buy his services, and thus, only people that the king thinks are worth his attention. The king is a philanthropic man, and Azar-Ban is a city where anybody can thrive, but he's royalty. Of course he has his biases.

Still, it's not usually Crow's job to personally greet new arrivals. There's a whole committee for that, headed by a woman named Phosphor, the type of person who's friendly but in the slimiest of ways, always bowing and scraping for the approval of the guests she's trying to entertain. So when the king had off-handedly told Crow to go welcome their newest guest as he arrived that night, he had of course questioned why.

Because he's clearly an odd duck, and I think you'd have more luck charming his pants off, the king had replied merrily. You always manage to find a way to get the weird ones in your favour.

So, here Crow is. Waiting outside the outer gate. Azar-Ban is a walled city, enormous and sprawling, with the royal complex at the north end set up against a series of red walled cliffs, and residential suburbs radiating outward from there. Beyond its walls lays a desert of golden-red sand, brutal to travel through even in the cooler seasons, but many make the trip nonetheless. Azar-Ban is a jewel in the desert, rich with local mining resources and trade. The walls are high sandstone, guards patrolling atop it visible by the pinprick light of their torches in the night.

And there, over the nearest crest of dunes, comes their visitor.

A couple of camels trail behind him, heavily laden with supplies. Otherwise, Phyre cuts a lone figure in the desert, curiously enigmatic. Crow has met esoteric scholars before, but this one has a particular reputation.

Crow rises to meet him. Dressed in black, his pants are loose at the thigh and knee, tight with dark bandages wound around the shin. Similarly, his shirt is a gauzy thing, draped off the shoulder and loose around his forearms but tight with leather cuffs at his wrists. Jewelry drapes him in a way that should be ostentatious, but somehow he makes it work, thin golden chains clasped over his chest and gold glittering in a braid in his hair. He's not especially dressed up, only a little ⸻ Phyre's arriving at night, after all, one can't expect a man to be in his court best at night, for god's sake.

"Phyre, scholar of Constantinople," he greets when the man reaches the front gate, swung open and welcoming. Crow's expression splits in a smile, somewhere between welcoming and a little too charming for his own good, not even bothering to hide it. "The gates of Azar-Ban welcome you, shield you, and nurture you ⸻ may this city treat you well, and may its people treat you as their own." Formalities, you know how they are. "I am As The Crow Flies, but you can call me Crow. The king sent me to welcome you and escort you to the apartments you'll be staying in."

His gaze tracks to the camels, curious. "Is this truly all you travel with? Most come with an entire retinue."

[nomadicflame]

The Nomad travels only by night, by necessity, and his oddities are known by many as simply the way of things. No elucidation needed, for one reason or another it was always simply accepted.

His position at court had afforded him more luxuries than most - after all, a non-Muslim in the court of the Sultan was nearly unheard of, but his abilities could not be denied - and his reputation was one of legend. A wandering scholar who had been across the world, calling at ports and cities on nearly every continent; what brought him to Azar-Ban, however, was something in particular. Something unusual. Whether Crow knew it or not, Phyre had come looking for him. Not on his own behalf, of course, but through House Tremere: someone somewhere had wanted the assassin's services for something and, as a favor to those in power, the Nomad had been sent on this quest.

He was, after all, still just an Elder. Above him there were the Methuselah; why they could not do this themselves, he did not know, but here he was, at their behest, entering the gaudy, loud city that, in all sorts of ways, tugged back at his heartstrings for Constantinople. A city that was once home. A jewel in the desert, indeed. The lone wanderer, upon arriving at the gates with only his pack animals and himself - clad in Bedouin-style dress to guard against both the sun and the sand - raises just the brim of his keffiyeh to expose dark, blood-red eyes that peer out from under a dusting of dark, sable strands. His face, however, is still hidden by silks and masks.

"I am he," he affirms, his Balkan accent heavy through his speech. He was clearly not native to the city from which he hailed, indeed coming from a land beyond the gates of the grand city long ago. While he is not in any state to match the fineries his host is dressed in - sandy, bogged down by heavy clothing, and most of all, ravenous - he begins to unwind the facial coverings that had protected him from the sandstorms and winds on his way here. Once he has done so, Crow will see the delicate but stark features of the ancient man: delicate, high cheekbones; long, dark hair that ends in snowy white tips; those deep, fiery eyes.

"Thank you for the welcome," offers the scholar, bowing his head in gratitude for the hospitality, the charms in his ears jingling against one another as he does so. The name gives him a brief flight of wonder if the other is, also, a mage who can project himself to get a view matching his name but such questions can be posed later. Leading his tethered beasts of burden forward as they move to enter the gates, he nods.

"I need no escort, simply the supplies for my journey and my work here. My animals will need to rest, however, as it has been many moons of travel." And he, too, finds himself needing to feed. The beast rising within grows hungry; only so many highwaymen on the path could slake his thirst and in stretches of long distance with no civilization choices were few and far between. Much like Phyre's words; unlike Crow who seems bright and happy to engage in conversation, the Magister uses only the words needed to express what must be said.