In The Arms of a Thief (closed)

Rohaan Ja'aisen entered the small village just as the blue of the sky was turning from cerulean to inky black and the deep navy that lay halfway in between. People had already begun to light the torches lining the small roadways between buildings, filling the small settlement with contrasting splashes of cold blue and warm orange light. Through large windows, Rohaan could see parents storytelling to their children before sending them to bed, single couples finishing up a late supper, and young men grooming the family horse or donkey outside their stables. Bakers, though their shops were closed, prepared for the day ahead, and feriers had begun to hang up their tools. The whole town, it seemed, was winding down for the evening.

Rohaan counted this as luck, as he didn't exactly want to be seen by everyone in town. Not that he was trying to not be seen at all, but in this case, he figured the less people that saw him, the better. He was, after all, a wanted criminal in many territories, and certainly so in this particular part of the world. His face was known by many who kept up on such things, like soldiers and government authorities, and his legend was known by more still. It was said that he was immortal, unkillable, or perhaps some kind of phantom, but these rumors were all wildly false. But there was many a prison warden who cursed his eventual escape from their grasp (and therefore execution as well) and, in frustration, tried to come up with some explanation. Truthfully, Rohaan was just good at what he did, and particularly good at making sure he could continue to do it. Escape was survival, and survival was essential. It helped, too, that Rohaan was of the Vokurian line--a once thriving race of people who could change the form of their body at will. The tiniest cages and the tightest chains could not keep Rohaan Ja'aisen in place because of this. However, this gift of his brought him misfortune, too; over time, many came to know Vokurians as deceitful, lawless beings and their reputation quickly deteriorated.

Needless to say, Rohaan was not in the mood to be seen by throngs of people, particularly any kind of armed soldier. Thankfully, many seemed to give him no heed at all, save for the fact that some thought it was odd that this obvious traveler rode no horse nor led one behind him.

The blonde man tied back his shoulder length curls and produced a tiny silver bell from a pouch in the leather bandolier slung across his chest and proceeded to ring it. A soft tinkling sounded through the quieting streets, challenged only by the occasional snort of a horse or the din of a shutting door. The bell was a widely known sign throughout the land that meant that the ringer, a traveler, was seeking shelter for the night and would pay. Rohaan did not know whether this sign was known or recognized in this region, but he found that it worked more often than not, so he tried anyway in the hopes that he could find a warm bed to get him through the long winter night.

Rowan was sweeping the floor of the general store. She was on the ground level and above her, her father rustled around as he got supper ready. It was the end of another long day and like every other night she did her closing duties with the promise of dinner once she was done. After sweeping away the days grime and dust she opened the door and brushed it out onto the ground. As she did so she heard the familiar tinkling of a bell that meant a traveler needed a place to stay the night.

They had a spare room and often took people in for the extra money. She walked back in and grabbed a lantern, it was lit and she hung it on the overhang of the building, letting the traveler know that board was available where she was. The light hung above her and bathed her dark black hair in light, she was a smaller woman that had an air of delicacy about her. Every motion of her's was graceful. A gift, she was told, by her mother. She was a half breed, daughter of the fay and a human. Her mother was no longer with them but Rowan got along just fine without her. She enjoyed her father and his company.

She saw the figure in the distance, and raised her hand to wave at them. She was sure her father would be fine with the guest as he always seemed to make far too much food, for just the two of them. When the figure drew closer she offered him a smile and let her hand lower "Welcome." She spoke. "If you would like, we can give you room and food tonight." She offered gesturing to the door.

"Welcome!" A young woman called as she came outside to hang a lantern by her door. Knowing he was successful, Rohaan tucked away his bell in a pouch with a brass snap and approached her. Generously, she offered to take him in for the night. The Vokurian touched the back of his first two fingers to his forehead and dropped them down to his waist. This was not a gesture many people knew or understood, but he was raised to use it and the habit stuck despite knowing that it was really only meaningful in his own culture. So the blonde quickly bowed afterward. "Many thanks, milady," he said as he stepped into the light of her lantern.

From a distance he appeared to be just like any other wayfarer that passed by--rough, perhaps a bit dirty and strapped up in a myriad of leather pouches, belts, and straps that held his life and all that he owned. But as he became more illuminated, it was quickly clear that he was different. He carried no weapons, even for hunting, except for a basic knife tucked in his boot, and there was a small braid woven just in front of his left ear that he kept down despite the rest of his tangled waves being tied back; at the bottom of this braid was a weathered brass coin, the significance of which was obviously some kind of foreign custom. But more than that, he had a very different air about him. Something in his eyes, or perhaps the array of steel hoops that pierced his earlobes and cartilage, the scarring around them and the mark left from one that looked like it'd been forcibly ripped out, or even a thin scar on his face or thick ropy ones on his hands that gave him a fierce, hardened image that suggested more than 'traveler'.

Despite all appearances, Rohaan smiled amiably and handed over a few gold pieces as payment. "No need for a stable or anything tonight--it's just me. Again, many thanks. You may call me Rio," he said, for that was indeed his name, or part of it, rather. In his culture, people were given three names, and which one was offered depends on who it was offered to. His full name was Rheoaan Rohaan Rio Ja'aisen, though most knew him as Rohaan. The shorter the version of the name, the more informal, thus, those who did not know him, he introduced himself as Rio, friends called him Rohaan, and only a single living soul was allowed to call him Rheoaan, for the first of the three names is sacred and reserved for immediate family and a spouse. "What are you called, milady?" he asked politely.

Rowan studied the man carefully and she wondered where he was from. She could feel that there was something about him, perhaps he had a bit of magic in him. Normally she could only feel when magic was present if it was in use. He looked out of place in this town of hers, here everything had a routine and everyone knew their place. He was sure to get the odd looks and the stares in the morning, or that was what she thought. To her he looked quite interesting and she was curious to know as to why he carried certain things. Perhaps it was something she could bring up at dinner. In this town she rarely got to speak to anyone who looked this exciting.

He introduced himself as Rio and she smiled and accepted the gold. "You may call me Rowan and my father who is upstairs is called Gwain. He is making supper tonight and by the smell of it we are having stew." She let him inside and locked the door behind him. Then she took him through the general store front and climbed the stairs to the second floor where they made their home. "Pa!" She shouted for her father "We have someone staying tonight." She walked to the kitchen and made the introductions.

Gwain was a large man, his bulk came not from fat but rather muscle. He had started to grey in the past years and it started mostly with his beard. Like his daughter he'd had dark black hair in his younger year but now it more resembled salt and pepper. "Well met." Gwain said inclining his head slightly. It was a Fay greeting his wife had taught him.
"This is Rio." Rowan explained, "He is staying the night, and I do not think he would object to some food either." She sank down into a chair at the kitchen table and Gwain moved the giant pot to the stone that served as a hot plate.
"Please." he said gesturing to a chair. "Help yourself."

The woman led Rohaan through a store, into the back and up a flight of stairs where the smell of food encircled him like a cloud. At the mere mention of it, his stomach involuntarily growled; he remembered just how hungry he was. "Rowan," he repeated, nodding. "Nice name. Never heard that one before." Inwardly, he smiled, guessing that if she knew his full name, she wouldn't have met anyone else with it, either. He wondered if he'd ever heard anyone with the same name as he, and though he couldn't think of any specific instances, he guessed that a long time ago there were many Rheoaans (the Rohaan Rio part of his name, he knew was exclusive to him, as it was merely a different representation of the first one and was thus made up on the spot). Now, however, as he began to gain more renown (either in fame or infamy) among his own people, Rheoaan became a name so heavily laden with connotation that few considered it as a name for their child.

Upstairs, Rohaan met Gwain, the shop owner and the woman's father. He looked powerful and strong, but he seemed good, too. This juxtaposition of fierce and yet gentle was an instant reminder of someone very close to him, someone that he loved dearly and respected fully. Rohaan found that he was inclined to feel the same way about Gwain despite having just met him. The blonde bowed low, once again repeating the gesture with his fingers on his forehead. "The same could be said of you two," he said in answer to Gwain's greeting. "Again, thank you for taking me in. I never have been one for cold weather...under the wrath of the sun is where I belong."

Rohaan smiled and went to stash his belongings in a far corner of the room. He almost left his bandolier on, as it felt more natural on him than it did off, but he decided to leave it with his surprisingly light pack on the floor. He sat and dished himself a bowl of stew that he was eternally grateful for; he wasted no time to let it cool and instead began eating as quickly as the heat would allow. In the stronger light, his eyes were a more startling blue, much darker and brighter than one might consider usual. But he never allowed the chance for someone to study them too directly, for that color blue was particular to his people and was a feature that they could not change despite their shape-shifting abilities. In places where Vokurians were particularly unpopular, soldiers would use the eyes as a telltale mark and arrest anyone with that distinct coloring. While Rohaan doubted this village was as extreme as executing every one they met, he would not be fooled into thinking his kind was respected without further proof.

"I was about to ask what the two of you do for a living..." he smiled, "But I suppose I know that already from the store downstairs. I assume you've both lived here for a while, then?"