A near-naked man walked out of a morgue, a salvaged hospital gown his only piece of clothing.
His bare feet moved silently across the dirty concrete, and the streets were dark, lit only by the unnaturally blue light of the streetlights that sat on their slowly rotting wooden poles alongside the antiquated telephone wire and electrical wire. Cars roared by on the nearly empty street, smashing the speed limit; many were racing, most of the rest were playing loud music at gut-shifting volumes, and all of their tires were screeching at the speed of their passage. The sound of their engine and the screech of their tires dopplered in and out, pitch changing with their screaming passing. The man paid them no mind.
"You sure you can't even tell me my name?" he asked; to onlookers, he would have looked rather insane given the garb (or, rather, lack of it) and the talking to nobody in particular, but he wasn't insane, in that way at least. He was talking to the voice in his head. Well, maybe they would have a point, he begrudgingly admitted to himself.
Here he was, mostly naked, amnesiac, with so little blood left in his veins that a Third Calcification cultivator was actually feeling cold, and it wasn't even snowing yet. All so that the fungal piece of -
"I can hear your thoughts too, big guy."
"I know," the man sighed, stepping around a pile of broken glass. Strictly speaking, he didn't have to, but powdered glass always stuck to his soles in an annoying way, and he didn't have any sandpaper to scrape it off. "Just frustrated, is all."
"If you wanna, I can give you your name first, sure," the parasite said out of the man's mouth. "But not until you make a little progress, and I can't promise much; you barely had one, you heartless, friendless sneakthief. What's the plan?"
"Steal clothes first," the man replied, ignoring the parasite's jab, the opposite of veiled and obviously designed to rile him up. The amnesiac didn't know why the parasite would want that, and didn't care at the moment. "Then, see how to help this Mother you were talking about and learn more about who I was before; you sure you can't tell me any more 'bout that?"
"I don't got much more info than you do, buddy." In the puddles, the man could see the reflection of an eye looking out from his neck, scanning along with his own. "Remember, you were a few more beats of your covetous little heart away from death, and I didn't have enough energy to both resuscitate you and maintain all of Mother's memories."
The man happened upon what he was looking for; a thrift store, locked up at this time of night. No cameras, but a metal shutter, he noted with an experienced eye for security systems that he didn't consciously understand the source of. "No matter," he muttered to himself, looking around. His eyes locked onto a brick, an old one with nearly half of the mortar attaching it to the bricks next to it eroded away.
He shoved his fingers in and pried the brick away. Walking back to the shutter, he struck the steel with the brick, bending the links open enough that he could fit his hands into it and widen that gap, tearing the shutter apart. Soon, a person-sized hole had been torn and bashed into the shutter and the man slid into the thrift shop, picking out some more normal clothes, a pair of shoes, and a bit of alcohol that had been hidden away under the register. He checked that, too; it was empty.
A few people caught sight of him, but all made the choice to ignore the sight; a cultivator of his level would likely hear them reporting him, and there was no point in antagonizing the obviously unstable man who could likely grind them into a fine pulp.
He walked out of the thrift store, chugging cheap liquor, his hospital gown discarded, and clad in acceptable clothing. His next stop was a weapon, then food, then sleep.
Then, he could truly begin with his work, and find out why being called a thief felt so familiar, so shameful.
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Something as pedestrian as a road trip would never do for such esteemed personages as the Young Master of the Emerald Clan and the Young Masters of that family's branches.
Thus, the private jet. It was parked on the newly-surfaced runway of the closest airstrip entirely owned by the Patriarch; that place was situated only a quarter-hour or so outside of the Capital City if traffic was ignored, and was used solely for their private aircraft, both for leisure and luxurious transport and more than a little for status. Even being able to afford this much land this close to the Capital not actively generating wealth was a boast in of itself, and one the Emeralds were accustomed to making.
Nash sat in one of the few seats in the first class section accompanied by only the other four Young Masters, as the servants and guards were relegated to their own, slightly smaller one that was closer to the luggage. Once again, Lycaon sat with Sorex, Lacerta sat a polite distance away from everyone, and Leo was all the way in the back, as far away from Nash as he could get without directly insulting him.
Flight attendants and luggage carriers walked down the aisle, finishing the last-minute preparations for takeoff, stowing away the frankly excessive luggage the young heirs had brought along and offering professionally prepared food and drinks to each one in turn. Nash refused his, too focused on the pile of papers on his lap and the wide selection of web pages up on his tablet; his eyes flicked back and forth from the clipboard to the screen, jotting relevant bullet points down roughly in his personalized shorthand.
The others were more carefree, for a given value of that word.
Lacerta was drinking some fruity-smelling cocktail as she mixed some poison, an arrangement Nash found questionable but didn't bother objecting to; it was hard enough to wrangle them all on the best of days. He didn't want to add an annoyed poisoner to the list of his problems. Lycaon and Sorex sat together, the Morganite constantly trying to draw the Beryl into conversation. The Beryl didn't exactly blow him off, but still seemed unsure of how to respond, giving little more than terse, polite answers to any questions and asking very few of his own. Whichever ones he did ask were hesitant and oddly phrased, but Lycaon didn't seem to mind. Leo was brooding, as usual. He traced his fingers over the patterns inlaid in his sword's scabbard and alternated between ignoring Nash and glaring at him.
To himself, Nash breathed a sigh of relief. They all seemed to have recovered from the disaster with Amusement, at least for now.
Nash was still yet to recover. Hopefully, this trip would begin that process.
The intercom started, and a polite voice talked through it. Not a sign of crackling audio or imperfect diction was audible in the takeoff announcement, even to Nash's Third Calcification ears, and he mostly let the voice wash over him as he thought. He looked back down at his notes, tapping his fingers in that rolling Emerald way against the clipboard. Grand Harbor - wasn't that where Old Man Looking-In's disciple was set up?
He had chosen the location due to the proximity of Aether-beasts in the nearby mountains and seas, and thus the presence of both resources and ambitious cultivators; perhaps that connection was something to look into, at least since he would be there anyway. Maybe he could even speak to the old man in person and gather some more information on the Temple. Additionally, an anonymous source he had 'stumbled upon' in Grand Harbor would be much more difficult to scrutinize on his Father's part, once he presented his recently-gained information.
He entered another search into the tablet. Might as well.
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Freezing air rushed through the hallways.
Here, the disciples of the Hidden Mountain Temple were expected to discard their comfort, discard their luxuries, discard their weakness as they climbed ever-higher in cultivation, rushed ever-forward in the unforgiving race of a cultivator's life and generation. If they were unable to rid themselves of weakness to the wind's satisfaction, they would discard their life instead, frozen or cut to pieces by the Aetherically enhanced gale.
Perhaps 'rushed' was an inadequate description for that wind. No, the wind here coursed through the hallways, visibly eroding self-healing stone and more akin to the unstoppable force of a crashing wave than the gentle breeze of a summer's day. The force of the air buffeted through the hallways, pushing anything or anyone not heavy enough or bolted down, unforgivingly whipping it or them into the unyielding, ancient walls, crashing or crushing or splattering across the stone.
In one of the adjoining rooms, the door a simple mesh that allowed the wind in, a cultivator sat.
He sat cross-legged on the bare stone floor, eroded by time and foot and wind to such a degree that even the Aether-reinforced stone had been pitted and worn away into uneven bowls and raised portions of bare rock. The walls were bare. There was no tapestry to keep out the chill or masterpiece painting to admire or racks of weapons to wield, nothing adorning the empty stone as they did in the man's other, more personalized room.
Right now, though, he was not equipped to care.
His robes, red and gold and elegantly adorned with pearl buttons and gemstone cuff links, were ratty and soaked with sweat, clinging to his fatless, sallow skin and draping off his bone-thin body to trail across the cold ground. His eyes, reddened by the biting wind, stared unblinkingly, untiringly at the door. His current directives were simple.
He was to maintain his body and cultivation until his emotions could return to be consumed.
In his current state, thoughts came slowly and methodically if at all. A biological brain was not meant to be stripped of emotion, of nigh-every instinct; barely anything remained except for what regulated the homeostasis of his body. Any one of his conscious thoughts that still remained was concerned with searching for danger and either avoiding or destroying that danger. Few dangers had arrived in his seclusion, but it had only been a bit under three years. Only two had arrived.
If he still had the intelligence or predilection of using empathy, if only to model other's behavior, (another concept divorced from his soul,) he would have concluded that it was the threat of his Master keeping his would-be murderers at bay.
He, however, did not.
Each interruption of his constant maintaining of his cultivation, ever-scraping across the normally impassable threshold between the Calcification and Body Destruction realms, was nothing except for a waste of time that made him drift further and further out of spec. Each time, with the simplicity of pure action, divorced from skill or strategy or beauty or preferences, the Ninth Calcification cultivator had used one hand to propel his body through the air, still in lotus position, and used the other one to decapitate his challenger in one strike.
Once the challenger was nothing but a lifeless corpse, he stood up and robotically walked to his spot and sat down once more.
Nobody came for the bodies except for the hungry, flaying wind; enough time passed that even their bones were worn to powder blown away in the gale, and still the cultivator-automata waited.
Boredom was impossible when you had cut it out of your mind, after all.
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A small shack was placed in the center of the Temple, just to the side of that edifice of stone and whorls of freezing-cutting wind. It was a simple thing, made of wooden stakes set in the ground, young saplings cut down and weaved between them and plastered with mud; that earth had been mixed in a time when water did not naturally freeze here. The roof was thatch, and no smoke came from the fireplace.
It was here that the Caretaker lived, that the Caretaker contemplated the thoughts that fit a tree more than they did a man. His thoughts moved slowly, not through inability but rather preference, a measure to avoid repetition. He had thought so many thoughts over his years; it wouldn't do to waste any new ones before he had chewed them thoroughly and spat them out.
Once, someone whose name was lost to history wrote a poem about him in a language that no longer resembled the one spoken here, that few remembered and even less spoke. If one was to take the scrap of paper from the small stack of books in the shack and translated it, it went something like this:
Clad in bronze, gold-shine robes / Anointed in crimson / The sword to cut heaven / The shield to take all blows / Temple-lord, Immortal / [words blotted out] / Wise king, wise lord, wise [paper torn.]
The poem was rendered not in the original form, which the Caretaker had lost, but in a translation; it was a clumsy one, in which most of the beauty had been lost, but it wasn't meant for beauty. It was an archaeological translation, one used by the forbears of the current civilization attempting to understand their forebears. It was being used as a bookmark in a treatise the Caretaker hadn't read for hundreds of years.
The scrap of parchment had been stashed away inside a book describing a primitive cultivation technique, one older than Wolf Country.
Not Wolf Nation, Wolf Country; it was older than the Imperials too, then the dynasty before that, then the half-dozen before them. It had been written before the first piece of iron had been extracted from anything other than a meteorite. Despite all of that, the literary scrap was in good shape, looking only a few hundred rather than multiple thousands of years old; it was stained, sure, and ripped at the edges, but it was better preserved than the other artifacts of that age. In fact, it was better preserved than most anything other than the Caretaker himself.
He did not think much of that poem anymore. He was no longer the one it described.
Besides, it bored him now. He had thought of it much too many times.
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The luxury plane touched down with nary a bounce, so precisely the suspension barely had to engage.
It came to a smooth, perfect stop, and was immediately received by a collection of dedicated staff, retained constantly in the normally-empty airstrip for this sole purpose.
Nash was the first to leave, and he drank in the salty air of Grand Harbor. It had been a while since he had been here; he would need to make the most of it. Behind him came the other Young Masters, then a dozen or so servants and guards. Right on the airstrip, a limousine was prepared for them, engine already humming along. They entered, and the chauffeurs drove for the city proper with nary a word.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
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The limo came to a rolling stop outside of a luxury hotel in the center of Grand Harbor, each one of their rooms already prepared for them. Their servants streamed each way through the doors like an army of ants, taking whatever luggage the Young Masters had deemed fit up to their rooms; elevators chimed with regularity while other, stronger servants simply brought them up the stairs despite all rooms being on the highest floor of the hotel.
They all exchanged a few polite greetings with the owner of the hotel, who had come out to welcome them personally; he was a mousy little man in elegant clothes with perfect manners, though he seemed to be nervous at having five Emeralds to please at the same time. After that formality was completed, Nash directed the others to settle in and work among themselves while he explored the city, getting the lay of the land.
His first official stop, of course, had to be the Lord Mayor's residence.
It was the same old pointless politicking that he simply had to get out of the way; otherwise, he and the other Young Masters wouldn't actually be able to get their work done without the local government effectively giving them a stink eye and an 'I guess’ at every step. But afterwards, he would be free to pursue a few leads; the first one he was thinking of was related to Old Man Looking-In as there was an academy here seemingly related to the old man, or at the very least one of his disciples.
A servant opened the door to the limo and Nash ducked inside, the door closing behind him almost entirely silently. The driver looked towards him. "Where to, Young Master?" he asked.
"City Hall," he replied. He heard the door behind him open and close as the doorman entered. "You, look up the Striking Vine Martial Academy," he said, inclining his head at another guard.
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Once again in the seaside cave where the roaring wind was barely muffed by the limestone walls and it cooperated with the crashing waves in sending massive sprays of salt and water through the air, Old Man Looking-In frowned. The frown was not a frown of disdain or sadness or any similar emotion, but rather the curious frown of one questioning their circumstances, not necessarily hating them but rather confused about how their current situation had developed. "How is he in Grand Harbor already? Why is he even here?"
"Huh?" grunted one of the taller and thinner of the fabric twins, laying on their back and reading a book at arm's length. The pages were miraculously undamaged by the sprays of water and salt, both what should've doused it as they climbed up (likely protected by the layers of cloth) and by the wind that carried clouds of liquid water only a step below an actual wave into the cave.
"The Emerald boy."
"What do you mean?"
"He's not too far, in the city itself; I can feel the eye inside one of his pockets."
"Trying to find you?"
His hand came up to his chest, grabbing his glasses from where they hung from his neck on their chain. He didn't actually bother to bring them up to his eyes, grabbing them more out of habit than any need to focus his eyes; with a gesture of concentration, his gaze suddenly seemed far away, and the vines at the entrance of the cave went stock-still, ceasing their constant jockeying and undulating.
Out of a coat pocket of a young man sitting in a limousine, a small eye emerged; it looked around a little before quickly ducking back in, and miles away the old man controlling it spoke. "Well, if he is, he certainly isn't hiding it. The eye I left him is still on his person, and he knows I can see through it, no matter how far."
The fabric-wrapped cultivator grabbed a small rectangle of cloth from somewhere on their person and set the book down, using it the cloth as a bookmark. Springing to their feet, they rolled their neck and crossed their arms across their chest, stretching and making pops and grunts with the movement, audible even muffled as they were by the cloth and competing with the sounds of the sea. "Any idea where the kid's at?"
"On the road, I don't know the street off the top of my head. He nodded at me, so he knows I'm watching."
The fabric-garbed cultivator gestured to the more muscular cloth cultivator. Without a word, he stood up and knelt in front of his twin, who put their foot on his shoulder while he stood up, stretching it. "Have you asked?"
"He's not alone in the car. I'll wait for him to contact me first."
The broader fabric twin's voice rumbled out. "You'll be waiting a while, if you're waiting for him to be alone. Rich kid like that, he'll always have a servant or something in arm's reach," he said, turning his head to the cultivator wreathed in a robe of tentacles. "Hey, squid? Got any more of that wine?"
Without looking up, another bottle of alcohol appeared from the mass of tentacles and was tossed across the room; as it sailed through the air, it was intercepted by a flung lasso of fabric, and the broad fabric-wielding man popped the cork with his thumb.
Immediately, a cup was tossed to him, and he filled it before tossing it back, somehow not spilling a drop.
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An amnesiac thief wandered aimlessly through the streets of the Capital City, watching the sun reflect off of the rainbow puddles of oil mixed into water, refracting through broken bottles tossed carelessly in the general area of storm drains. He was feeling much better after stealing clothes and eating his similarly acquired junk food. After his short nap inside a cheap motel, paid for with stolen cash-register bills from the second store he had robbed, he had used that newfound energy and decided it was time to buckle down and really learn about his past.
Problem was, he had exactly zero idea of exactly what 'helping Mother' entailed. The voice in his head was little help. It had scraps of information that it held onto with all the unyielding grip of a vise with a broken-off lever, and the thing was almost as memory-challenged as the thief was himself. Perhaps that was due to them quite literally sharing brain cells. The thief could even feel his own cognition slow when his brainmate was considering something particularly hard, taking more of the already limited resources for himself.
"Hey," he said, considering something.
"Dunno," the thing in his brain replied, already having read his intentions. "I dunno if removing me after we're done is possible. To my knowledge, never been done."
"What knowledge? You don't even know what we're supposed to do."
"We've gotta kill that sycophant."
"Not. Helpful," the thief said, glaring at a small pack of delinquents that were looking at him oddly. One's eyes glowed momentarily - a sure sign of a lot of lums being pushed through those channels, that in of itself usually a sign of a low-quality Aether-sight technique - and they backed off, muttering something about him being a lunatic. He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched down, trying to shake off the cold that had set into his body, still reeling from the effects of serious blood loss.
Need some iron pills or something; that's what you get when you're anemic, right? He felt his lips and tongue move on their own as he walked, the parasite talking through them. "The blacksmith clone guy, ya'know?"
"No, I don't," he replied, gritting his teeth while he still had control of them. After this, he promised to himself, I've gotta start taking better care of these. How did they even get pointed like that? Plus, there's, like, six gold ones.
"Maybe," he ventured accusingly, "I would if I still had my memories. Ever think about that?"
"Shuddup."
The nameless man tried to open his mouth to respond, but was unable to, the parasite still holding his lips hostage. "Remember our deal? Progress equals memories; no guarantees they'll be helpful or even that you'll like them, and then I'll help you get that revenge you wanted. We're sticking to that."
The man scowled, having no choice but to wait until his speech organs were liberated before he made his response. "I know, I know. But how am I supposed to hurt this guy if I can't even find him?"
"Go to a library or something, slackwit."
"I can't afford that, and I'm not affiliated with a sect or anything. Maybe I was, but I can't remember it."
For a moment, he felt that characteristic brain fog that meant that the parasite was thinking, actually thinking and not just going off of their body's shared instincts when making decisions. It didn't take long, though, for the thief's full faculties to return to him, and a sense of hope washed over him; perhaps the parasite had deigned to share some knowledge with him, either from the mushroom's memories or his own.
"No idea," the parasite said, and that hope was dashed in an instant. "Internet, maybe?"
"No phone, moron."
"You're lucky I'm not conscious enough to take any insult from that. Steal it or something; that should come naturally to you, at least."
His yellowed and blackened teeth clenched harder, and he couldn't tell whether he felt shame or rage. He wanted to break something; how DARE it -
Why om I smoking?
He patted at his clothes, throwing himself on the ground and rolling, trying to put out the fire that had doubtlessly caught onto his clothes. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils opened wider, searching for any smell of burning; if he had caught on fire without noticing it, there was doubtlessly a cultivator around somewhere. An enemy from his previous life, maybe? He sprang to his feet in a stance unfamiliar to him, but one that came naturally.
His eyes scanned across the distance, and his mouth laughed of its own accord.
Wrenching control from the parasite, unsure how he had even done that, he spoke. "What?" he spat, irritated.
The laughing continued and a tear dripped from his eye involuntarily. "You were just rolling around like a dog! No idea why you were smoking at all! I'm sure the ambusher would be intimidated, if they existed," the parasite continued, cackling the whole way.
"Craving a cigarette yet, you little addict? Maybe if you get some nicotine in you you'll be less touchy."
His eyes narrowed;; a clue. More than that; the parasite was capable of mistakes, of tipping its hand. He couldn't do it deliberately since it was in his head, and even something as dumb hey i can hear you, you worthless thief as it would notice such an attempt, but it was something to take note of. "Nicotine, huh?" His eyes wandered to a liquor store, one that promised to serve a half-dozen other vices along with its namesake. "Maybe that's an idea."
Was it a good connection to his past? Objectively not, but anything was better than nothing. Plus, maybe he was going through withdrawal, though he wasn't sure whether that was even possible with cultivators.
"See if I can steal a phone alongside that," he muttered, not sure if it was to himself or the parasite.
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The Young Masters of the Emerald Branch Families sat around a dining table, reserved specifically for their party in the luxury hotel.
Fine food was set on equally fine plates, each dish to its own, color-coordinated and specially made vessel. The Sea Serpent filet (with a hint of lemon and herbs) was placed on a long, rectangular dish, the porcelain glazed with images of swimming fish and swirls of waves, while the accompanying dumplings of many varieties, from fish egg to Aether-beast pork, were given odd plates of their own with recesses carved to perfectly accommodate their occupants.
The only thing restraining the grip of awkwardness on all of those present was each one's years upon years of political training, keeping everything running smoothly if more than a little vapid.
Silverware carved with unique images clacked and clattered against the plates, cutting off a piece of fish or piercing a dumpling. Conversation was struck and died down as soon as it was polite to lapse back into silence, short formal observations and responses nothing more than a blip in the consistent silence of their voices, seemingly drowned out by the simple sounds of forks and knives and spoons.
"If I may inquire," Lacerta began, holding her cup up in the air to her side, waiting for her servant to finish pouring more wine (a vintage, aged in rune-carved casks and made of grapes harvested in the Imperial era,) "Has anyone made progress in the matter the Young Master assigned to us?"
Politely, pieces of cutlery were set down next to the plates. "Not quite," Lycaon said, adjusting his robe. "I have just begun to settle in, so I have taken no more than a cursory look at the vendor list."
Sorex tapped a finger on the table, drawing everyone's attention and also serving to motion for more drink. "I have prepared a rough list of reputable vendors," he said, reaching into a pocket and taking out a neatly organized notepad. "I also took the liberty to ask about any trustworthy mountain surveyors, to see if it would be cheaper to buy from the source or accompany an expedition, but I have not received a response as of yet."
Leo scowled. He hadn't been in a good mood before the Emerald was brought up, but it had been a much more neutral one, without the current sourness in his expression. "No," he said. The others ignored his attitude, well used to his opinions on the Young Master by now.
"Well, Sorex, you seem to be much more ready than the rest of us. Perhaps you could assist with my own research?" Lycaon asked, flashing a friendly smile across his bearded face. "If you do not have the time, or would prefer to refine your own instead, that is quite understandable."
Sorex stayed silent for a second, clearly unsure of how to respond. He opened his mouth to speak and, in a stunning lack of decorum, Leo interrupted before he even got his first syllable out.
"Why are you all so obsessed with doing that brat's bidding?" he asked as Sorex sank deeper into the padding of his chair, retreating from the conversation.
After his interruption, Leo awkwardly picked at his food, not eating any of it and obviously attempting to appear disinterested. Even still, his body was tense with anger and quickly building embarrassment.
"Why are you so quick to disregard our leader's orders?" Those words came from Lacerta, capping the sentence off with a sip of her wine. She leaned in, her odd eyes staring directly into Leo's with some unidentifiable intention; whether it was reproach or curiosity, Leo could not tell. "I understand that you dislike him, and he seems to understand that too," she continued, her poisonous eyes unblinking. "What I do not understand is your insistence on resisting him at every turn; you were volunteered by your family and ordered by your Patriarch. Should that not be enough?"
"It isn't about that," Leo muttered.
All the servants that were allowed left as politely as they were able, not wanting to be involved in the quickly brewing argument, and once the last had left, Lycaon cleared his throat. "I don't even know why you hate him so much," he lied. His eyes were much easier to interpret than Lacerta’s; they were focused, curious, waiting to see how Leo would respond and ready to dissect every phrase.
Leo's scowl deepened, and he resisted the temptation to sink deep into his chair like Sorex was. "He's a stuck-up halfwit who had everything handed to him. Every one of his breakthroughs probably uses treasures more expensive than the Aquamarine estate. How can't you hate him?"
"I guess that's quite an understandable gripe," Lycaon said, his face impassive and understanding. "But wouldn't an unbacked cultivator say the same thing about you?"
Sorex stood up and pushed in his chair. "I'm... going to go and finish up my research. My apologies." He gave a salute and left, his walking subtly sped by his distance-managing cultivation while retaining its outward elegance, though his emotions were exposed in the stiffness of each loping stride.
"You just have to learn how to accept it, at least for now," Lacerta said, absentmindedly regarding a small vial of something that was probably unsafe to have on her while she was eating. "Look at all the problems you're causing. The Morganite might want to take you apart and see how you tick, but look! You've scared the Beryl away!"
"I don't want to take him apart," Lycaon said with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "How is being interested in psychology more weird than concocting poisons in your bedroom?"
"Because poisoning is a long and storied family tradition, while psychology is a soft mortal career path that deals with yuppies and young money all day long."
Lycaon rolled his eyes, all formality already drained from the conversation. "Weren't you talking to Leo just now? Can you get back to that and stop questioning my interests, you little snake?"
Lacerta smiled and exhaled slightly in the way people did when something wasn't quite funny enough to laugh. "From the Young Master of the wolf-larp family. Alright, then." She turned back to the Aquamarine with that same smile. "Alright, the wolfman wants some more psychobabble case study material. Better start talking before he asks about your childhood."
"I'm not a wolfman," Lycaon sighed.
"Yeah, because having a bunch of wolf-themed Aether techniques is so different."
Leo glared at them both and folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. "What, I'm supposed to just let you interrogate me? Do you think you're so much better than me since the dude who got eight people killed likes you?"
The conversation trailed off from there; there were a few attempts to restart it, with jokes that fizzled out after a few barbs were traded back and forth and a few arguments that simply talked past each other. Not too long after, the meal ceased, and they departed outwardly amicable, if a bit awkward.
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When Nash knocked on the door to the Striking Vine Martial Academy and Mathematics Tutoring Center, it was already beginning to open. An eye, different to the ones he had seen Old Man Looking-In use before, welcomed him.
"Good evening, Young Master," the man inside said. "My Master told me you would come; to what do I owe the pleasure?"