Sleep eluded Arenor, teased him like a sly lover and left him frustrated and cold before the dying fire. Again he traced the paintings with his gaze until the nameless likenesses banked his frustration to anger. How dare Jessamine keep their bloodline from him? One piece in particular caught his eye and held it: that of a sinewy aristocrat with hair like a gathering storm and cheekbones akin to his own, sharp as blades, who stood with his sword drawn and bloodied. Only this portrait dared show open violence, while the others hid it within their gimlet eyes. This figure wore a cloak of blood and shadow riven through with gold and armor which even Arenor found acceptable.<br/><br/>Halfway through the restless night, he left his apartment long enough to catch attention of an older servant, a sort of butler, he supposed, though he knew their roles only in the vaguest of ways. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, the servant assented, and returned an hour or so later with the very cloak from the painting wrapped in silver tissue along with a ring, a heavy spider-like piece that Arenor might wear on something other than his pinkie, and other clothes which the sorcerer had attempted to describe. More importantly, he offered a hand-bound tome which trembled in the servant's gloved palms.<br/><br/>This Arenor took, and with hasty thanks, he dismissed the servant. He spent the remainder of the night upon the uncomfortable finery in the sitting room and poring over the precious pages in the book -- his lineage and that of his family and some of their deeds, no doubt the official version, though he frowned at each little paragraph and attempted to read between the lines. After an hour of digging, he discovered the relative he favored, Prince Castellan, second son to the reigning king 150 years prior and the eventual progenitor of his father's line. His mother and father had been relatives, he realized, cousins, although not first cousins. Such a practice disturbed him at first, but it was not for him to judge such customs. He felt almost relieved, though, that the purge which left him bereft of family had likewise not left him any such distant relative to marry -- or had it? Later, he would squint at the nobles' family lineages and worry more of that.<br/><br/>Sleep at last cast its net over him and drew him in. He awoke sore, with the book on his lap, and surrounded by treasures of his ancestors. A strange awakening indeed, he thought, with a grimace. The early morning passed in a rush of servants and happenings. Alain glimpsed noble youths in the corridors and noted boys who wore their hair shorter than his, shoulder-length, and certain aspects about their clothes. Arenor roped in servants to attend to Alain's needs and to attire him in tunic and trousers of red and gold and Jessamine's ring, which actually fit Alain's largest finger, more or less.<br/><br/>For himself, Arenor shed his traveling sorcerer persona like a reluctant snake skin. He left for himself the leather armor as underclothes, a sense of self hidden close to the skin. Upon that he layered a tunic of deepest red, like blood at twilight, fitted black trousers and boots, the silver ring and the cloak from the painting. It rustled across his shoulders like silk, but heavy, a type of velvet he could not name. He allowed the servant to unplait his hair and comb it until it shone unbound down his back. He knew without a mirror how much he resembled his ancestor now.<br/><br/>In blood lies truth, he thought, and as he lacked knowledge, only resemblance would allow these nobles, these would-be enemies, to see this truth. This he knew, yet he felt as if masks encased his body. At last he considered his staff, which the servants tiptoed past as if the wood might bite them. He dismissed the whole bevy of servants and worked a bit of glamour, not his strongest magic, but he knew enough to disguise the staff as a sword instead, a fine dark blade which he might belt to his attire without suspicion. If need be, he might break the glamour and face whomever he must face.<br/><br/>At last a guard arrived to convey Arenor and Alain to Nikolas and his kin. The two passed like shadows in the corridors. Those who dared raise their eyes in curiosity widened them in surprise the next moment to see such figures. The prince strode with confidence he did not quite feel -- he had long learned such tricks, as well as with strength and natural prowess. Alain, however, looked ill at ease in her-- his finery. Arenor had decided to think of Alain as male only, instead of the back-and-forth his thoughts normally did on the subject, lest he reveal the truth by accident. He looked quite like a noble boy indeed, at least in dress, but with the manner of a spooked owl with eyes wide at the opulence of the palace. Alain wandered off to glance out windows and then scattered back to Arenor's side before the guards or servant could herd him away.<br/><br/>As they entered the dining room, Arenor took in the four occupants, a pair of children, boy and girl, Nikolas with them looking more fae-like than last night in daylight and in his violet attire, and a delicate-looking woman in white with a kindly look to her.<br/><br/>"Like the painting that…" Alain stage-whispered, his eyes wide in his dark face as he stared at Violet.<br/><br/>Arenor placed a warning hand on Alain's shoulder and quieted him, then stepped forward to greet Lady Violet. He offered a deeper nod than he'd given Niko to her curtsy. He caught her hand as it hung between them and held it between his own two and gazed down at her. "Jessamine spoke of you often, if only by name," he began. "Your friendship meant a great deal to her."  He released her hand to reach within his cloak, from which he drew a locket to place in Violet's palm. "She wished for you to have this."<br/><br/>The locket itself was not of the finest silver, but if Violet were to open it, she would see a tiny painting of two young girls within it, Jessamine and Violet as they had been, and reproduced in fine talent and likeness. This, Alain had recognized as well. His attention, though, had wandered to the two young people in the room. The child swallowed hard and his thoughts raced over what to<i>say</i>. Their solitary life thus far had left little room for socializing, and often Arenor's status had left other children shy with Arenor and Alain both.<br/><br/>"Hello," Alain said, finally, first to Lady Violet and then a softer hello to the children. Nikolas, he only glanced at, as he remembered their interaction last night with some indignation still, although he wouldn't speak rudely before a group of people like this. He stuck to Arenor's side as they both took their seats at the table, which put him across the table from the children. He kept glancing down and blushing, glad for his darker skin that the others might not notice the heat in his face.<br/><br/>"You are as Jessamine described," Arenor said to Violet, after they were seated. "I am grateful." Though he spoke more smoothly and looked the part, the sorcerer felt little more at ease than his child at this gathering. He sought Nikolas' violet gaze and wondered what they might discuss once the meal concluded. Thankfully, he felt no stirring of inner darkness as their gazes met. The demon within him kept silent and still, almost as if not present at all, and yet he knew it was forever watching him. A chill passed through him that raised the hairs on his arms, although he did not otherwise react.