Steven
Mikhail took the handkerchief that was offered, and cleared his eyes of the tears that still threatened to spill over. He was a mess, Bradai was right about that. He listened when he spoke, and nodded when he said it wasn't his intention to be harsh. He hadn't thought that was the case, but it was nice to have the reassurance he wasn't intentionally being cruel and trying to get rid of him. 

"I may not grow past this, now's as good a time as every to begin learning who I am." He commented, and folded the white and gold around his fingertips. "As soon as the arrangements are made I'll head out. I'd rather not delay any answers Azarya may offer me. If you think the necromancer can assist me, I suppose it's the best shot we've got."
Rhonda
The Pirate King settled back into his seat and gave a soft nod. "I can assure you, boy. It's the absolute best chance we 'ave at giving you vha life you deserve. I appreciate you being understanding. Well, Mikhail, I'll get to it immediately." A soft smile crossed his lips and he dug into his desk, removing an additional sheet of parchment. He released the glass and picked up the quill, dipping it into the blackened pot before looking back up a the boy. "If uhm... You'll excuse me, I've got a letter to write."
Steven
Mikhail nodded, and watched as he headed to his desk. There wasn't really a dismissal, and he wasn't certain if he was expected to stay or not. When he asked to be excused, the blonde boy nodded, tucking the handkerchief into his pocket before finding his book and leaving the office. He made his way through the manor and back towards his own room. He wasn't at all tired, a million new questions flowing through his mind.

Mainly, about Azarya. He knew nothing of it besides it's placement on a map. All the times his mother had sat him down on the rugs in her library in Vincentien, teaching him what histories he could, he'd always been more drawn to the south shores, the isles, to Amoroth. They were closest, and what he thought he'd get to see with luck. He couldn't remember the stories of Azarya, but he knew someone in the manor who did. 

He'd never actually _spoken_ to Dimitri. They'd seen each other in passing, but he'd never said a word to the man, and he was almost sure the man didn't even know who he was. Why would he? He stopped a servant on her way down the hall, asking if she knew where the Viceroy might be, and was given vague instructions to try the balconies or the bedchambers. Deciding the balconies was probably the less embarrassing situation, he headed that way.
Carl
The Viceroy in name only was, in fact, perched in a balcony for a quick cigarette. He passed his thumbnail over the embossed surface of his case to appreciate the resonant taps and clicks more than he'd ever care to admit. ...Not that he had anyone remotely interested enough in the minutiae of his day-to-day life for the opportunity to present itself. As he opened it, he looked to the perfumed candle sitting atop the small table to his right. "Of course." It had gone out while he was occupied by his simple auditory and tactile treat. More annoyed than he'd been in almost three days, the man leaned far over in his seat, took the wick between his thumb and first finger, and reignited it. As a creature of habit, he plucked a cigarette from the case and moved to hold it over the candle's flame. But why? He was perfectly alone with no-one to cast aspersions for his use of such elementary magic. He placed the cigarette between his teeth, held the tip as he'd done the wick, and shielded the ensuing flame from the wind. ...But it didn't work. The man's brows furrowed and he dipped his chin downward, as if that would allow him to see the end of the cigarette more clearly. The irate mage increased the size and intensity of his flame, but it was still no match for a well-timed breeze. "<Son of a bastard's whore,>" He grumbled around the cigarette. Dimitri crossed his arms and sat back in his seat with a petulant scowl upon his tired face, cursing the gods, er, *God* For disallowing him to pursue his vice.
Steven
Mikhail had found the right balcony it seemed by chance. The soft illumination had caught his eye, and it seemed like a spark of flame appeared before being swallowed by the breeze that came over the hill. It carried the smell of the sea, and Mikhail realized he'd grown to like that smell. Azarya most likely wouldn't be anything like here, or Astoria, and he wondered briefly if he'd learn to like the smell the wind carried there too.

Unsure how to approach the man, he stood in the entry for a full minute before finally swallowing down his nerves and letting his knuckle tap against the rough surface of the stone that constructed the archway. "Lord Novikov?" He asked the name as he inhaled, and continued as he exhaled. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."
Carl
Almost embarrassed to be caught to out of sorts, Dimitri snatched the unlit cigarette from between his teeth, returned it to the case, and corrected his posture all in the blink of an eye. He turned with the intention of asking what one could possibly want with him during his time of leisure, but it died in his throat when he saw who'd addressed him. "Hmm." The man's lips pressed into a thin line and he cast his gaze toward the sights beyond the balcony. It took an active effort to keep his mind ~~blank~~ devoid of any negative thoughts or ideas about the ~~walking corpse~~ boy, lest they'd leech into his words and actions toward him—undeservedly so. "Of course," He said, returning his gaze Mikhail with a contrived smile. With a bare flexion of his fingers, he pulled another chair toward himself and gestured for the lad to have a seat.
Steven
The look made him uneasy. Which, was an odd emotion to be feeling. Nerves hadn't gotten a firm grip on him since he'd returned to the living, and in the last hour they'd managed to manifest. Someone would probably call that progress. He nodded, moving to the chair that was indicated to him, and slowly lowered himself into it. 

"King Maith is wanting to send me to Azarya, to see a necromancer, it seems. But, as it turns out, I know nothing of the place, and since it's to be my home for..." The boy trailed off. "The foreseeable future, I was hoping you could tell me a little about it."
Carl
The mere mention of a necromancer caused Dimitri's expression to fall into judgmental neutrality. The man's tongue darted out to lick his lips at an unnecessarily languid pace and he nodded once. Had he been a touch more uncouth, he would have cracked wise about the impending journey being the poor lad's equivalent of a doctor's visit. "I see," He said, raising brows. The man tucked the cigarette case away in his jacket and drew in a long breath. "A little bit about Azarya," He echoed, seeking to fill the silence as he contemplated where to begin. "It's a kingdom rich with traditions and many cultures." He blinked. "Some of which are irredeemably incompatible and treated as grounds for civil war after civil war." Perhaps that wasn't the best thing to lead with. The morose Lord brought his hand across his chin to stroke a non-existent beard and inclined his head toward Mikhail. "A good number of its inhabitants are deeply religious and superstitious. In some regions, this leads to a *Dangerous* Ill-ease toward those gifted with or touched by magic. In others, it's as boring a thing as watching a water wheel. What else is there..." He trailed off.