The Langlais boy was not really a boy any longer. Twenty five was the age he was supposed to present actually, but in reality he was a handful of years older than that. Luckily for him he could still pass as younger, and overall he fit the part of the Langlais boy that had passed so many years ago, taken by fever in his own home. Pieces had been carefully set for a long while, and now there was finally opportunity to gather information they needed so desperately.<br/><br/>He was aware of some of the things he would be facing, and had every intention of avoiding those things for all that he could. Reminders were not things he cared to unearth, and it was unfortunate for him that fate had other plans entirely. The letter came to him quickly after his arrival, making it clear he would have no peace, especially not when he discovered who the letter was from. A cruel joke, really, because he wanted nothing to do with the boy if he could help it. As it were, avoiding him would seem like a slight, and being raised by that tyrant, there was no way to predict what his temperament was. The rumors went that Sovele had sculpted him into what suited him. Lost to them, and their cause, but he'd never owed it to Maes to look after a child that was not his own.<br/><br/>It still dredged up the past, regardless, and when Basren turned to his attention to him after slipping on his coat, he was a painful reminder, a mix of both his beautiful father, and his mother. He was holding a potted plant blooming with burgundy flowers that cascaded over the ceramic and spiraled downward. They would grow, and reach out across stone if given the chance. A pretty plant, not that he had much care for it, but he'd been told of the boy's tastes, and it was meant to be a gift. With the right sort of manipulation, the petals could both be lifesaving and toxic. He was not sure which would be more useful after infiltrating the capital city, and royal home.<br/><br/>“Ah, yes,” he answered, “I've only just arrived. Alarastian Langlais, here to appear after some absence. I've never been known for my good health,” he explained, and that was true. The Langlais boy, and their family in general had been frail, like much of the royal family. “Please, just Alaras though.” He thought such a long name was ridiculous, especially for such an unimportant boy as far as he was concerned, but the high blooded sorts liked to feel important in any way they could. It wasn't fault of the Langlais family. They were good sorts, and had served alongside him for the cause for a long time, showing sympathy over Maes' untimely death.<br/><br/>Alaras was dressed in a rich navy jacket with golden buttons, matching slacks, and brown leather boots tied all the way up to his knees. It made him claustrophobic, because where he was from, no one would wear so many layers. He was long legged and tall, no longer the fat boy he was depicting, but that could have been explained as the passing of youth. He'd already had to put on some weight for his role, so that he didn't look like a man just managing but his frame only packed on so much. His chocolate brown hair had been groomed, and cut to fashion, as well as facial hair shaved entirely.<br/><br/>He could tell he'd been digging in the dirt, despite his desire to appear more presentable. The garden wasn't like anything he'd seen before, and his eyes wondered, recalling what species he knew of, and those that he wasn't so familiar with. Eventually his eyes would settle upon the statue, and though he'd been able to hold it together after seeing Basren, the picture of Maes writhing in agony disturbed him enough that he couldn't hide his reaction.<br/><br/>He'd startled, wide eyed, unbelieving, meaning to turn, and possibly make a hasty retreat feigning that he didn't feel so well after his travels. A step back first, and his foot caught one of the pots Basren had been using, and he ended up dropping the plant he was holding. It shattered on the gravel, and it took all he had in him to compose himself when he wanted to vomit. If he did, at least he wouldn't have to fake being unwell. Whomever had done the statue surely had to know Maes, to get the scar just beneath his eye. Alaras knew the story behind that scar, because he'd been there.<br/><br/>“I..” Alaras took a deep breath, bent to pick the broken ceramic away from the roots of the plant, perhaps to salvage it. “I'm sorry. It startled me is all. The statue is very lifelike.” He didn't look at Basren when speaking, letting his hair fall into his face, because surely his fury at the mockery couldn't have gone entirely unseen. “This was meant as a gift for you, but this was not how I imagined presenting it.”