There was a flow to the world as Al-kin followed the chief into his waiting tent. There, warmth and a slight darkness, lit only by veered sunlight off of the doorway and the candlelight, and then when the door flap closed, only the candle light, everything conspired to make home seem close.

Walking with a velvet softness, like one who might have made it a custom to go without sound, Al-kin crossed to the bowl of warm water. Bending, closing eyes, Al-kin cupped and led steam upwards, directed it to brush cheeks and lips, before making a sigil in the air above it and bowing low before the bowl.

Customs finished, Al-kin removed the cloak that had hidden everything but boots and knees and hands, face and some of the neck.

Now, with the thick cloak pooled in dust on the floor, the entirety of the chief’s guest came to light, so to speak. Following the cloak fell an empty scabbard, a heavy belt that must have money in it from the dull metallic clunk. After this, hand guards that looked very much like some manner of archer’s glove. Wrist guards as well. Each piece of leather and cloth was a piece of another land, of another being, of the travel that had been nonstop for almost two years.

The visitor dropped down, crouched at the foot of the table. Shin guards removed from the inside of laced up boots were placed to the side along with an empty knife sheath which had been strapped to a calf. The boots too, came undone and were put atop the pile, lacings laid over all like miniature river snakes.

Unburdened, there was an ethereal grace to everything Al-kin did. Dressed only in a dark green shirt reaching down past hips and to forearms, as well as dark brown pants falling just below the knee and gathered just below where the boots would have covered, all that remained was a frailty draped over slim shoulders. Slender calves sloped down to delicate ankles, covered in dust but golden nevertheless. Fine boned feet showed long miles of calluses. Hands made of bird bones raised to the bowl as the entire body uncoiled to rise above and bend over the cleaning water. A hem of the shirt was dipped into the warm water and Al-kin bent to wash face and hands with it, watching the grime of travel swiped away with each pass.

Now, perhaps it’s time to choose? You’ve opportunities, brood mare or competition to the masses, my dear.

Al-kin frowned. That was a difficulty being with a people to whom gender raised certain expectations. But with guest status, there was time still to decide.

So in truth, there was a little of each gender upon Al-kin when turned to the chief. Taking the cloths for washing, Al-kin dipped them into the water and wrung them out. Then with a balance that rivaled that of some birds, lifted a foot and began to cleanse it, whilst standing on one leg.

"In depth," Al-kin allowed amusement to tinge the tones. "I don’t suppose you have a year, do you?" A delicate arched brow raised and then fell as, intent on the balls of one slender foot, Al-kin bent double to cleanse it.

One leg done, the other was next and Al-kin did not look up to continue the conversation. Rather, content with cleansing and a less formal manner, continued without the common story telling posture. It was not, in the end, much of a story.

"I am named Alanin by mine. We are the People. But we are considered many a thing by the others in the land. Elves call us cruth mar athrú. To the dwarven people, we are dek braut. Humans seem to have many names for us. We are called pooka, sea folk, shapers though we are not so malleable as the true shifters, fae." Al-kin slowed and smiled while straightening into a long, limber stretch. There was, in that stretch, all of the comfort of having a moment to breathe again.

But the deep breath which accompanied the stretch broke into the thick cough of before and Al-kin reached for the table for strength, waiting for the paroxysm to pass.

Using a sleeve that was thankfully dark enough to have covered the bloody spittle, Al-kin took a smaller breath and, after the spiced drink was gathered in hand, walked barefooted to where the chief sat. With a show of embarrassment for the travel dust that remained, Al-kin settled upon a cushion and let loose a weary sigh.

"It matters not what we are called. What matters is that of late, I have journeyed a long way. It has been my desire to find one of our own who had been cast out. It is my belief that this one was falsely accused and I strive to right a wrong. But, our customs dictate that such an act is wrong and as such, bad luck has.. hounded," Al-kin’s lips curve at the pun, "my every step. The latest of which was breaking in on a party of hunters and chasing off their game. I think, for a time, they have come to think of me as the new prey."

With the realization that most hunters would not chase anyone down over such a slight, Al-kin debated but a moment before adding, "It was a Hunt, not just a band of hunters. A fortnight ago I fell in upon a Hunt and the Hunt Hounds have not lost my scent since." A smirk crossed those thin lips and the dusky eyes dropped to the cup which hadn’t yet been tasted.

"Thus, night time will be a proving point, I dare say. If you’d rather I left before, you need only say."

[ooc: I can say with a great deal of surety that I trust whatever directions that you take my character, so no - it was not considered by me to be a power play but a means to move us on in a particular direction. Please feel free to do so again. As for plot, yes. I agree on that score. I was, at the moment, just feeling things out. But if you'd like to give it more direction, I await any ideas you have, or you could give it a push and I'll go with whatever you decide. Otherwise, I'm sure the characters themselves will throw a monkey wrench or two into the heretofore nonexistent plot line. Heh.]

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‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis