Wait this isn't studying

Quiet study in the Necropolis.
Swirling eddies of chaotic, dancing ether glisten like stars from a shield shrine of Morgfyre
nearby. The black marble walls of this room have been polished and shine in the reflection of the
candles that are mounted at intervals. Two archways lead outside to the northwest and southwest
toward two of the four large towers that are attached to the main Necropolis. The doorway to the
east glows with dark energy, a pulsing void that sucks in colours and light. Through this
disturbance, the Megalith of Doom can be made out, its swirling colours nearly hypnotic. Several
comfortable chairs have been placed around the room, interspersed with heavy wooden desks containing
open books borrowed from the nearby library. There are 2 wights here. A painting of a dark room is
proudly exhibited on a nearby wall. Initiate Majestadt, of the Dark Faith is here, shrouded. He
wields a magnum blastworks in his left hand.
You see exits leading east, southwest, and northwest.

Majestadt flashes you a wide smile with far too many teeth on display. "Studying?" He asks lightly.

Reclining languidly within one of the comfortable chairs, a book open across the
join of his crossed legs, Aramaeus does not immediately respond. Instead, a gloved finger idly
trails down along the edge of a page, before flipping in over unhurriedly, the sound of crisp
parchment filling the silence momentarily. Lifting his eyes to Majestadt, the corner of his mouth
curls in a slight smile as he murmurs, idly, "Whatever gave you that impression?"

Majestadt's eyes flash with curiosity, a manic little laugh spilling from his lips at the question.
"Well," he drawls as he rocks back onto his heels in an idle motion. "This -is- a study." The little
viscanti tips his head back to look around the black marble room.

The smile that Aramaeus turns on Majestadt is a brilliant flash of teeth as he
lifts his hand from the page to roll his wrist in a liquid fashion, indicating the room in turn.
"And must one be bound to study? I could be reading terrible romantic fiction, or sleeping with my
eyes open."

Majestadt seems quite taken with a sudden idea, and in two large strides is looming beside you.
Practically draping himself over the armrest of the chair they now seem to be jointly occupying, he
reaches forward with his left hand to lightly tap on the cover of the book in your hands. "I would
be very impress with your conversational sleep talking," he begins, "But I -do- now hope this is a
terrible romance."

Majestadt's abrupt proximity elicits little more than minute upturn of the corner
of Aramaeus's eyebrow, the angle of his head shifting slightly so that the viscanti is more fully
within his peripheral vision. Sliding a gloved hand over the book's cover with a whisper of leather,
and thus covering the title, he draws the black-clad tip of his left hand's finger down along the
spine, mild curiosity in his rich tones as he asks, "Oh? Do you have a particular story in mind?"

Majestadt gives a little 'tsk' as the book title is covered, the noise swiftly followed by another
clipped laugh. "I've never really had much time to read," he answers. His attention shifts to your
hands, the youth's head canting to the side sharply as he examines the gloves thereupon. "I suppose
if I ask whether you ride I'll be met with another question," he murmurs consciously.

A low, throaty sound of disapproval - feigned or genuine, it is difficult to tell -
emanates from Aramaeus as he shifts his head in a tiny back and forth motion, breathing out a soft
sigh. "Alas. I am ever so fond of the well-read. A pity." In response to the supposition, he turns
his upraised hand about, examining the gloves disinterestedly as he flexes his fingers in a lazy,
rippling arc. "Perhaps you should ask and discover the validity of your daring hypothesis."

Lifting his gaze to your face, Majestadt merely flashes a wide smile, displaying far too many teeth
at the remark. He leans forward somewhat, catching the top edge of the book with his left hand and
gives the gentlest of tugs as if to take it. "Do you ride, human who's name I'm unfamiliar with,"
drawls the viscanti in a timbre dripping with civility.

In a manner uncannily reminiscent of one fending off a particularly bold cat's
thieving paw, Aramaeus flicks a finger at Majestadt's wrist, his tone idle as he remarks, "That is
not yours." His grip upon the book remains firm as he turns a dazzling smile upon his chair's
cohabitant, the perfect rows of flawless white accentuated by modestly proportioned, sharp canines.
In a pleasant, curious fashion, slitted pupils thinning to narrow lines, he inquires, "That is a
peculiar way of asking my name. Have you also had little time with which to practice basic decorum?"

Majestadt breathes out a delighted, "Oh, you're -fun-," as he's scolded for his attempted theft, the
man's hand releasing the book to settle across his lap instead. He hums with apparent thought at the
following question, his gaze distant for a moment before focusing anew on you. "I've had plenty of
practice," he explains in a light tone, "But I don't really have to explain myself to a serf." His
rust-flecked eyes lift, and an almost charming smile flashes across his lips.

Aramaeus's smile is a glittering flicker this time as he replies, entirely
unabashed in his self-assured statement. "I am." The angle of the human's finely sculpted jaw tilts
up a shade at the serf remark, which wins Majestadt a slow, feline blink. The corners of his mouth
curl gradually upwards, the nascent smile blossoming into a shining thing that is as polished and
welcoming as a knife pressed to the throat. "Is it not the responsibility of my..." A slight twist
of his gloved fingers indicated the viscanti, and the ensuing word has a subtle inflection to it, as
if he is repeating something overheard from another language, and is entirely meaningless to him,
"Superiors, to stand as paragons after which lowly serfs may be privileged enough to model
themselves after?"

Majestadt leans nearer to you as he chirps out in response, "Oh yes, but you see," giggles the man,
"I'm running a little short in the paragon department." His head tips back to laugh fully at his own
remark, delight evident. The viscanti then stills, his smile manic as states with the pressing of
his fingertips against his heart, "I'm Majestadt." Then, without pause, "Do you ride? What's your
name? I really do hope that's a trashy romance."

There is not so much as the barest flicker of concern at Majestadt's manner or
nearness, Aramaeus's chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm as he relaxes within the
plush confines of the chair, amusement glittering in the deep magenta of his unwavering regard. "How
lovely to meet you, Majestadt." The laugh that rolls forth from him is a velvety thing, languid and
rich as spiced honey. "I would be a poor Magnagoran if I did not. My name is Aramaeus." The
professed hope is met with a rippling tapping of the fingers that rest atop the book's cover. "Why
so fervent in that hope?"

Majestadt lifts his fingertips from his heart, his wrist waving absently as he supplies, "Because
otherwise this riveting exchange of witticisms is for naught - something boring. Beneath such veiled
dignities we're to be espousing." His chest heaves with a dramatic sigh as he finishes his impromptu
speech and then leans all the nearer, his shoulder now touching your. "Plus, it's rather more
enlivening than something dreary, like how to hire a servant."

The tip of Aramaeus's tongue clicks off the roof of mouth in a sound of very mild
reproach, his free hand lifting to trace a lazy, winding path through the air, his motions graceful
and fluid. "There is no such thing as a pointless interaction. One simply needs to be able to
extract value from it." Another dazzling gleam of a smile, there and gone like a flicker of
lightning. "Contradicting yourself, are you? First I am fun, and now our little conversation is
boring." The flowing trail of his hand ends with his leather-clad fingers splayed across his chest
in a gesture of mock offense, fabricated despair dripping from his words as he exclaims, "How far I
have fallen, that I cannot entertain for more than a few fleeting beats of a stuttering heart. Alas!
I am wounded unto my very core, struck a mortal blow by the casually flung daggers of your words."

"Oh dear, Aramaeus," giggles out Majestadt . "Can the wind not change? Or the milk turn in a
sitting?" The smaller man looks with indelible fondness at the human beside him and he rolls only
his left shoulder in a shrug for seeming emphasis of some bewildering point. "You really are very
fun," he chuckles out, his dark eyes falling half-lid with the assessment while attempting to peer
once more at the book's title. "Do you have a horse, or one of those little nightmares I've seen
about? I rather like horses, myself, but I don't think I've seen anyone every wear riding gloves to
casually read in a study, where they are not studying." He purses his lips before amending, "Then
again, the gloves were to ward off the cold when we had them."

"Diamonds do not rot." Aramaeus The statement is followed by a tapping his spread
fingers against his chest, as he says, entirely confident, "My luster does not fade." The repeated
attempts to glimpse the title of the volume are once more thwarted by the artful folding of his
hands, fingers interlacing atop the book in a gesture that is surely only coincidental in its
obfuscation of the sought-after knowledge. "Not presently. I suppose I could secure one if I were so
inclined, but I am in no particular hurry." There is a brief pause, and another, small smile, as he
confides, "I am rather particular in what I ride."

Majestadt muses thoughtfully, "Not, but they -can- break with the right force." He snaps the fingers
of his left hand for emphasis, though the sound is somewhat quiet, as if he were unused to doing
such an action. "And lusters can be scuffed." The viscanti lightly shifts his weight into the
shoulder leaning against your, the momentum then used to fully aright himself on the armrest. With a
little cluck of his tongue, he reprimands impishly, "Aren't you spoiled."

Unconcerned, Aramaeus brushes Majestadt's words away with a dismissive lift of his
chin, slipping on a mask of disdainful hauteur. "Who would seek to tarnish something so precious and
coveted as a diamond? Only the petty and envious, and we do not concern ourselves with such
resentful creatures." Dropping the manner like a discarded coat, he lifts a sole shoulder, the broad
arch of muscle outlined by the fabric that hugs it. "Rather the opposite, as it happens."

Majestadt murmurs to himself more than you, "Some diamonds are meant to be scuffed when they're
entirely too bright and cut too sharp." He falls into a contemplative silence after speaking, his
hand shifting to rest against his right elbow and gently, idly rub there with the barest of touches.
The viscanti then snorts, mirth bleeding back into his mien. "What a shame. I think you would enjoy
a good spoil. Spoiling?" He clicks his tongue upon the roof of his mouth as he smiles, his pointed
canines then openly displayed and the sharp edges of his smile cutting across his face.

The remark is left unanswered, Aramaeus's eyes flicking to where Majestadt's hand
brushes against Majestadt's elbow, and then back to the viscanti's face, expression unaltered. "Oh,
I should imagine I would. I would be rather excellent at being spoiled." His posture shifts in a
soft susurration of cloth as he leans forward, resting his chin atop the pads of his fingers, elbow
propped atop the book. Eyes bright with interest, he turns a radiant smile upon Majestadt, asking,
"Are you offering?"

Majestadt's eyes widen minutely, an almost chocked sound spilling from his chest as he tries not to
laugh. Boldly, tenderly, the viscanti reaches forward and tucks his thumb under your chin, his first
finger curled above to lock his gaze with the human's. Leaning quite near, he whispers in response
as if confiding a grave secret, "If you tell me the name of your book."

The moment that Majestadt makes contact with Aramaeus , there is a subtle change in
his eyes - As if the pools of rich magenta have frozen, growing hard and cold. Despite this, his
smile never falters, and his mien remains as unconcerned as ever as he breathes a regretful sigh,
his chin slipping from Majestadt's grasp as he sits back in the chair once more. "How steep a price
you ask of me. What assurances have I that your attempts at spoiling me will be worthy?"

Majestadt's expression shifts minutely, his brow furrowed and expression distant, and then a wholly
exasperated look about him when he abruptly leans back. "Do you know how bloody irritating it is to
suddenly have people in your mind in the middle of," he makes a flippant little motion between you
and himself, "Whatever the hell this is." Then, petulantly, "Good gods. What timing." The viscanti
huffs, wholly derailed, and a little gout of smog slips out from between his teeth. With an abrupt
laugh, he changes direction to answer, "I'm afraid you would have to tell me, at length, what you
would enjoy."

The laugh that pulses forth from Aramaeus is low and throaty, a decidedly mocking
edge to the heady, dark sound. "So easily deflated? I had hoped that you would be able to keep your
focus stiff and attention erect. How disappointing." The corner of his mouth twists upwards, the
edge of his lips curling to peel back, baring a glimpse of sharp canine. "Well, now I have such
doubts as to whether you would be able to pay me due attention. You may be distracted at the barest
whisper of another, and I deserve better. Don't you agree?"

Majestadt bites out in reply with a smile that never leaves his face, "It's really a shame, then,
that you've already been soiled by my disappointing touch." He lifts his left hand, his fingertips
wiggling for emphasis. "I don't think you quite liked that." He continues easily, "Have an inkling,
yet? Or still puzzling?" His wrist flicks towards his right arm in indication as he speaks. "And
then you've failed to hold my attention from others, but I cannot say anyone is truly perfect." His
gaze levels with your and head tilts to the side.

"I find that most people do not welcome unprompted touch," Aramaeus replies easily,
a small, elegant lift of his shoulders accompanying the statement. "You think I have been trying, do
you? That is ever so endearing." Smoothly, he rises from his seat, brushing past Majestadt so
closely that the warmth of his form is felt, but not touched, as he steps forward and turns to study
Majestadt amusedly over his shoulder. "I have more interesting matters to tend to, for now. Until
next time, Majestadt."

Majestadt's eyes sparkle with mirth as you stands, his slight form slipping from the armrest to
collapse into the now vacant chair. Legs sprawled inelegantly he merely smiles, his left hand
raising in a little wave as he drawls, "Goodbye, Aramaeus. You really are quite fun."

Aramaeus's hand rolls aside in a languid wave as he steps towards the exit, his
tone airy as he says, "I know."