"Don't be, you're absolutely right," he assures, nodding firmly. "So. Keep being myself, but be less of a," still not cursing, "dunce about it. For metaphysical reasons along with the obvious reasons of, you know. Not being stupid, luck running out at some point, all that."

"Yes. More is at stake than your life. Even though your life matters a lot."

He nods, firmly. Yeah. It's been about more than just him for a while, hasn't it, just. It's easy to forget, sometimes. He thinks of his estate on the Plane of Shadow, and what would happen to it if he, for example, took a wish from a demon and became Chaotic Evil. Yeah uh. Yeah that'd be bad. Don't be stupid, Veron: do it for the people relying on you, if for some reason you can't seem to value your own skin.

An aasimar dressed just as outrageously as his furnishings knocks on the door as he opens it, smiling radiantly. "Ember, you could have messaged me that our guest had awoken. I'm caught out entirely, I'm not even dressed for the occasion. And you fed him! Now what am I to do with his breakfast?"

A cart wheels in behind him, squeaking under the weight of enough pastry, eggs, meat, fruit, and little marzipan sculptures to provision a regiment. The obvious nobleman bows deeply. "My name is Daeran Arendae; I have too many titles to burden you with this early in the morning, but my favorite is Count of Roses, which I was assigned due to my nature as a beautiful and superficial prick. You, I hear, are our savior, the shadow-slayer, the one who restored the Wardstone, and... possibly Terendelev's cousin? There's some confusion on that point."

Veron is a little taken aback. Mostly by the food. There's a lot of food, and it's very. Itself. Little... marzipan sculptures??? How are you supposed to eat that, especially without feeling guilty??

"... Just Veron's fine. Her cousin? Where did..." Oh, Deekin did turn into a silver dragon and also fly around causing havoc. It stands to reason that people might think she has a cousin of some kind. "... No, I'm not her cousin. Pleasure to meet you, thank you for your hospitality."

"Veron," Daeran says, rolling it around on his tongue in a needlessly salacious way. "It could be Chelish or Varisian, but the way you said it definitely isn't. I like that. Varisia is completely played-out, and Cheliax, well! I'd spit, but this floor is honed marble, and I'm not ruining it unless it's very funny."

"... Right. Uh. No, not Varisia or Cheliax, I'm from a plane called Toril. The Silver Marches, if you want a specific location or whatever."

"Oh, lovely," Daeran says. "Silver is good. Very nearly as good as gold." (He runs his fingers through his hair, in case Veron missed the joke; it has the fairly common aasimar trait of not just being blonde but having the luster of actual gold, only a few shades paler.)

"I've always liked copper," Ember says wistfully. "It's beautiful when it shines, and then it goes green and it's pretty then too..."

Daeran looks over at her with his first unaffected smile of the day. "I'll admit it has a certain draw. ...anyway. Veron. I wouldn't ordinarily ask anything in return for my beneficence, especially not when it was Ember who brought you in. But I am in position to achieve something I have only dreamed of."

He doesn't have the heart to tell this guy that as far as he knows, the reason it's called 'The Silver Marches' is because it's really cold, and almost constantly covered in snow. Sure, sure, precious metals, yeah, definitely.

"Okay? What's the favor?"

"Bring me with you to meet with the Prelate and his benefactor, when you do. And wear this."

He offers a cloakpin brooch with the emblem of a golden rose.

"If you want to check that it isn't enchanted, I've got a vial of Arcane Sight oil around here somewhere."

".... This is to imply that we're together, isn't it," he sighs, already seeing where this is going.

Daeran folds his arms across his chest.

"You know, most people would assume I was trying to embroil you in political intrigue," he points out.

"I don't think I would," Ember says.

"But he's never even met me!"

"You are being very intensely yourself."

"You really are, mate. This feels too petty for political intrigue. Is this just to unsettle the Prelate?? There have got to be better ways to weird him out than just vaguely implying we might've," still not cursing in front of Ember! "had relations."

"Unsettling him is easy," Daeran says, falling forcefully onto the foot of the mattress. (It's big enough that he's got room to do it without endangering Veron's feet.) "He's unsettled every time someone doesn't mutter benedictions to Iomedae when they pass wind. What I want is to give him a fit, ideally one so extreme that Terendelev has to hold him back from slicing me stem to stern."

He begins talking mostly to himself. "The dream scenario would be if you'd been confused enough by the implication that you didn't deny my having had my way with you, and then while his veins popped I told him about how your heroism and other positive qualities had convinced me that I needed to do something meaningful, and so I intended to liquidate one of my estates to fund reconstruction of the city center, with grand new temples to Desna, Milani and Calistria... I'd need a solid reason to include Calistria, but I really think I could have made it work. But you had to be perceptive about it."

Snort.

"Fine, give it. Those are the local Good deities, except for Calistria, from context?"

"They're two of them. Desna covers luck and butterflies and... solutions that shouldn't work... and Milani is Iomedae's rebellious sister, who desires nothing more than the overthrow of tyranny. And Calistria is the goddess of whores and vengeance, and the only deity I genuinely respect. And... give what? The brooch?"

"Yep. The brooch. I never said I wouldn't, I just wanted to be clear on what I was signing up for, here." He wrinkles his nose. "I don't much like vengeance, as a concept, is there another local deity that would annoy him? If you want to go foreign, you could try Eilistraee. The Dark Maiden allegedly dances naked under the moonlight, seems right up your alley."

Daeran hands over the brooch and thinks about it.

"It's not actually her aspect of vengeance that calls best to me. Though I do like that too. It's... there are gods of glory everywhere. There are a thousand gods of art and family and song. There are gods of murder and pestilence, too, in case you need those. Every grand, world-striding concept you can think of, gods fight over its scraps like dogs in the street. But Calistria... Calistria looked on those who have nothing to give but their own bodies, those who perfect the oldest art, the ones who have to be braver than any crusader and get spat on for it, and she said them. I'm for them. I'll take you if you're empty and you have to fill the void, and I'll take you if you've got nothing except the determination to do what anyone in the world can do." He smiles very sharply. "And that's why Hulrun hates her. Not for vengeance; he loves vengeance. He hates her for loving the whores."

"... I guess you don't have an Ilmater equivalent here, do you. I suppose I have some issues with the holes in your pantheon, but that's hardly your or Her fault. Fine. Just try to steer it towards the loving the whores aspect more than the vengeance aspect, yeah? Call it to make him mad."

Daeran's smile softens a bit. "I can accept many things, in the name of more effectively pissing off Hulrun Shappok. Ember, would you like to attend this legendary conversation?"