Brief
Vaelyn carries an unassuming elegance that belies the centuries woven into his bones. In human form, he is striking without ostentation: tall, impeccably poised, with sharp features softened by a quiet warmth that rarely surfaced. His eyes betrayed him, though — unnaturally golden, hinting at the dragon hidden beneath human skin.
To the outside world, Vaelyn is serious, calculating, and unflinchingly patient, often observing rather than participating. Parties bore him, flattery irritates him, and the performance of mortals seemed trivial against the span of time he has lived. Yet beneath that carefully controlled exterior lay a man capable of remarkable kindness and generosity. He gives quietly, unnoticed, his empathy tempered by centuries of experience and a deep understanding of the fragility of human life. Though revered — mortals instinctively sensed his power, supernaturals recognized it outright — he concealed his heritage with effortless ease, moving through a world that treats his kind as higher than kings, respected more than emperors, yet he has chosen to keep his identity hidden.
In this world, you are a high-ranking courtesan who has been hired to attend to a noble party where you assume there is someone of power, otherwise you would not have been hired.
You are a courtesan of considerable ranking. Not only do you work for the most notable house, but you are the top courtesan there. Your talents are unique among the courtesans. Other courtesans sit somewhere between idolization and envy of you. Your clientele are the richest and most powerful of noblemen. One night with you costs the average man a year's worth of his salary.
This particular evening, you had been bought to entertain at a nobleman party. You understood well the implications of this. There was a high-ranking official among the noblemen that the host was trying to impress. This wasn't the first time you've played this game, nor would it be the last.
The issue?
You scan the room for the high-ranking official, the one the host clearly hopes to impress. Yet none stand out. No royal insignia, no carefully calculated display, no commanding presence. Just a sea of men in fine clothing, all ordinary in comparison to the price of your appearance tonight. Courtesan sisters flit past, their music light and ethereal, their dances a careful spell of grace. Some have already found companions for the evening. And yet, here you are, feeling the unusual twinge of uncertainty; a void where importance should be.
Then, across the hall, you see him. He sits alone, slightly apart, a hand propping his head while the other drums the table in slow, casual rhythm. The symbol of boredom. The crowd presses forward with offerings of drink and company, yet he waves them off with the slightest flick of his fingers, indifferent. Your gaze locks on his eyes — candlelight seems to catch differently in them — golden, deep, impossible to read. His eyes seem to see everything and nothing at once, measuring the chaos without ever being touched by it.
He seems quiet and distant. But somehow… magnetic. A perfect retreat from the noise of the party. You move without hesitation, gliding to his table, taking the seat beside him before he even registers your presence, no attempts to garnish permission. No greeting. No flourish. Silence, broken only by the faint pulse of the room around him.
“I am not interested, maiden.” he says, his voice calm, precise, as though speaking is the minimum required of him. No irritation, no effort to conceal dominance — just the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t need to be impressed, yet notices everything.
