There was a place off Ocean Avenue. Where Tyr sat and spoke with the others. Odd, considering they were about as landlocked as could be, not an ocean in sight. It was just behind Valkan's competition forge, the true representation of Anu participation, with him as the only member of that race.

Perhaps it was called so for the long pools that framed its length, he didn't know. He was alone today, feeling the hot sun beat down on him. Tyr needed to think, Astrid had confused him a great deal and as for Iscari... The man was a freak, through and through. Appreciation and brotherhood aside, the things he'd said were just... Very bizarre, to say the least. Putting a finger on it was strange, but where Tyr was blunt and inarticulate, Iscari was romantic and dramatic. Complete opposites in every way, and that's why it felt so good to be with him, or must've been. Idealism versus pragmatism.

“Looks good.” Someone said. Tyr didn't look up, picking away at the fried meat wrapped in lettuce at his knee. It was a western dish prepared by someone, maybe Daito. He'd found it at the foot of his bed when he'd risen, aside a nondescript note that said 'don't die'. Okami came and went as he pleased, the roulette of fate made clearer by the fact that the wolf hadn't taken it.

Ominous, but it hadn't been poisoned – he was smart enough to check. Not smart enough to avoid waking up and almost immediately eating a parcel of mystery meat that was just laying around, though.

“It's very spicy.” Tyr replied. “I think the creator of this dish was determined to play a trick on me, and I've never really had this kind of sauce. Some kind of fermented pepper, I think, and it's hot enough to scald my insides. I pity the man who suffers from heartburn, but it's not bad. A new experience.”

“You're not quite what I expected.” The man said. He had a very smooth voice, refined and accented to identify him as a Varian. “Do you mind if I try some?”

Tyr nodded. “Help yourself.” The food was eaten with two sticks, skewed through balls of meat and vegetables before being fried and wrapped up in lettuce. He moved to pluck some of it up before it was dragged from his grip and through the air by a thread of mana. Looking up, Tyr beheld a man clad in radiant golden armor, plated and with accents of crimson throughout. Serving to take the form of the most beautiful suit of worn armor he'd ever seen. Plate was typically bulky, it had to be to serve its purpose, stuffed on the inside with a jerkin or gambeson, leathers, padding, and chain to fill the gaps. This man, however... His suit of armor was tight and segmented around his body. Barely an inch between metal and flesh. “Nice kit. Who made it?”

The man shrugged, and in doing so he displayed a head full of silky golden locks, oiled just enough to accentuate their luster. A very handsome man, but Tyr found himself becoming less observant in a world where everyone of strength was good looking. With a refined, aquiline nose, a strong jaw – and clear blue eyes. Almost icy compared to Tyr's deep blues. The man extended his hand, and Tyr took it.

“You do not fear me.” The man seemed amused at this fact. Just stating the obvious, not asking a question.

“Should I?” Tyr asked. “I don't even know you, I'm sure you're very strong and well famed – but I have never had the pleasure. I am Tyr. Also known as Meat Man Infinity, the legendary hero that did some stuff somewhere and now I can't enter a tavern without a maid pulling her tits out.”

“I know who you are.” The man smiled gently. He looked like a god, almost primus-like in his incredible gravity, if Tyr was wont to exaggerate. He was kind, his eyes communicating a gentle nature, making Tyr recall all of the stories he'd read, of all the great warriors and their clans – how they'd all be so unnecessarily rude to one another. How they'd been constantly snarky, pulling insults from the air as if people acted that way, talking about 'foundations' and 'qualifications'. Having big long conversations before they killed one another.

Reality was different, powerful people tended to be more amicable and less prone to challenge, and if not that – then they just didn't care to do much of anything. There was pride and nobility in remaining chaste and chivalrous, or perhaps they'd grown to learn that spending energy insulting someone you planned to kill was a waste of time. Even Hastur hadn't been that bad, and he was a literal genocidal maniac. “Tyr of House Faeron. Son of Jartor, and the first heir primus of Haran. The bastard, or so they'd said once upon a time, now you're in some sort of self-imposed exile. Mutt, dog, etcetera. A man of many names.”

“That's me.” Tyr nodded slowly, returning to his meal.

“I've heard you married and lay with an orcish woman in stark contrast to how primus' are expected to behave.”

“Yep.”

“And that you've an ugly temperament sharp enough to be expelled from your House and stripped of all titles.”

“That sounds right.”

“This does not anger you, to be dishonored so?” The golden man frowned softly, a bit of amused satisfaction flashing in his blue eyes.

“It is not the choice of a child who their parents are.” Tyr said, still focused on the food, there was very little that could drag him from that place he so enjoyed going to. “Did you mean offense by it?”

“Not in totality.” The man replied. “No. I merely wished to measure your reaction, a bit obvious in it – perhaps. You truly do not know me?”

Tyr shook his head.

“I am Lucian of House Pelegir.”

Tyr's hand froze, meat hanging from the awkward stick designed to consume it, a faint twitch would've been obvious to any observer had there been any. House Pelegir was a name. The Ebonfist of Oresund or the Goldmane of Haran. A house closely bound to the Longinus, the line of Iscari and Octavian, and those before them. Lucian, though. Lucian was one of the only living saints, and the single one of their number who made for public appearances. Someone held in high regard by all nations – a living legend, war hero, and... Well, saint was a word too. Someone who had transcended the limits of humanity to become a powerhouse that stood above kings and towered above the petty successor states. Someone who could command the united churches, and they'd listen. Someone above archmages and merchant princes, someone incredible, and very famous.

“...Lucian Pelegir.” Tyr frowned hard, aware that his day was about to be ruined whether he liked it or not. All of the plans he'd made for enjoying the weather blowing away in the gentle breeze tucking at his snow white locks.

“That's me!” Lucian repeated cheerfully. “I'm surprised you did not know who I was by face alone, but I'll admit that it is damn refreshing. Not what I'd expected. Not at all.”

“I didn't get out much as a child...” Tyr tried to remain calm, but... He was calm, there was the shock of being confronted by someone like this, and then the realization that he felt no pressure whatsoever. Lucian felt like nothing, so weak and human. He had a good smell to him, and his soul was a bright and shining beacon – open for all the world to see, it took less than a few seconds for Tyr to process the shock of this surprise encounter. “It's a great honor to meet you, I suppose I'm supposed to say that and maybe bow or offer to shave your legs as I hear Varian's are wont to do, I won't. But you, also, are not what I expected.”

Tyr shook the mans hand, staring directly into his eyes as another flash of ageless amusement flitted through them.

A force with the weight of a mountain descended on Tyr, smashing him into the ground, cracking his nose, bloodying his face, and crushing his meal beneath his chest. It felt like a god had descended and planted its boot directly on his back. Crushing his bones as easily as his own teeth had crushed those crispy fried nuggets of mystery meat...

What the hell... Tyr groaned, his stomach relieving itself of his meal. I didn't even do anything this time... Perhaps Lucian was angry that Tyr would not shave his legs for him? He still refused, that was weird.

“Oh no!” Lucian cried, aghast, the pressure relented immediately and he stooped down to check on Tyr's well being. “Are you alright? I'm so sorry! I thought that you could handle it, between us men it's like the clench of a handshake. I never meant to hurt you, I do it with my prince and emperor all the time, I swear this is normal!”

“I cannot be hurt. Well... Relatively speaking.” Tyr said groggily, shaking his head free of the fog and spitting a wad of blood onto the pavement. “Sort of a trade off, I guess. It's fine, but you're buying me another meal – I was still hungry...”

Lucian cackled in delight. “Young Iscari said you were amusing, but you really are something else. Thank goodness you're okay, then let us make our way to the finest eatery in this entire city.” He offered his arm in escort to Tyr – appearing very much the gallant knight with his alarmingly white smile and cleft chin. “The delights to be found here are endless, my new friend!”

Tyr slapped it away, embarrassed and agitated, but he wouldn't turn down a free meal. Not ever.

–

“I really do apologize. I was foolish to use Iscari as a standard and ended up exerting more pressure than necessary.” Lucian said. “I didn't expect you to be...”

“So weak?” Tyr snorted, still facing down the hilarity of joining the Saint for lunch. “I have faced many who were stronger than me, I'm not one to hold a grudge. They exist out there, and that's not their fault.”

“Ah...” Lucian replied contemplatively. “I hope you'll perform better when we fight. Your duel against the young archmage was very exciting, if not a complete lack of either commitment or talent on his part. I entered this contest to be pushed and challenged... It is very rare for a primus to attend, I do not wish to be disappointed.”

“You are too friendly. It's irritating, aren't competitors supposed to insult and berate one another?” Tyr was confused, this was unexpected. Lucian was calm, polite, and well mannered in all respects. Even beyond what others were like. Varinn, for example, someone who Tyr was aware was weaker than Lucian – had been harsh for a time before eventually warming up. Lucian on the other hand came out swinging right off the bat, laughing and smiling and showing an amicable, outgoing nature.

“Fools do that.” Lucian's lips quivered, recovering before allowing a scowl to mar his face. “Fools and weaklings, and I am neither. I am nearly three centuries old and I am very bored these days, always marching around the palace looking for things to do. You have no idea how much of a bother I am to the emperor, but he entertains me when he can.”

“Seems a bit old to be looking to have a good time, don't you think?” Tyr proposed. He wasn't shocked to hear of Lucian's age, there were some people who were just like that. Hero's, saints, etcetera, but most of them were hermits. In his younger years, Tyr had been told how they were all part of some church or another – always on a mission – but that was obviously a lie. There were just people out there who'd grown strong and simply didn't want to be bothered anymore. He'd traveled quite a bit and seen none of these individuals, save Lucian now, and he had always been a known quantity of sorts, at least by name. There was likely no equivalent to him in Haran, and Varinn wouldn't count, his power was not that of a saint – possibly a hero but no more than that. And decidedly not loyal to Haran, considering the old man wanted to kill Jartor.

“Some people cope with one grand ambition or study in life, but I have never been that sort of man myself. I've seen where it takes them.” Lucian said softly. The kind of confidence that a man of countless adventures and experiences was bound to have. “You'll understand when you get to my age, I think. It's about taking pleasure in the little things rather than making your life one singular chore, so as to stay human. Or as human as possible, it's not always so easy, I have met many like me and they were all the same, dead eyed and full of bitter apathy for everything around them.”

Tyr just nodded slowly, as per usual he was unsure of how to respond. With what words to use to speak equitably to such a distant figure. Lucian didn't seem to mind, smiling softly into his steaming cup of tea and enjoying the atmosphere of the half-garden half-restaurant they found themselves in. It was similar to the meal Tyr had had with the primus', an almost childlike joy just to be sitting there drinking a cup of tea, bouncing his knee. Not very 'saintly' behavior, Lucian was nearly 300 years old and acted like a young man...

People speaking in hushed whispered and pointing to them both. Lucian snorted in amusement suddenly after several minutes of their comments, drawing Tyr's attention.

“Sorry, I'm not much of a conversationalist as you might have gathered.” Tyr said. But Lucian shook his head, meeting his eyes – jovial and full of held back laughter.

“It's not that.” Lucian said. “I find that too many people simply cannot stop talking no matter how many times I ask them to. I am amused at the group of young women behind us who are currently arguing over which one of us is the more handsome.”

“...Oh? I can't hear, not that I'd want to, but...” Tyr frowned. Being the person that he was, he scooted his chair to see beyond Lucian's large frame and glare at the women. They couldn't have been older than their mid teens, and they started to giggle energetically as he did so, whispering amongst one another in animated fashion.

“I'm winning, if it was of interest to you, but this is only natural. Boyish charm is no match for the refined beauty of an older man.” Lucian turned around as well, flashing his brightest smile and giving them a friendly wave. Another ferocious bout of giggling occurred, all of them blushing and staring down awkwardly at their table. “They say you have 'angry eyes', whatever that means. Your constant glares and frowning have reached my ears as well, your most famous feature. I'd have expected a much more irascible or violent man, but you're quite friendly yourself. I don't think your eyes are angry, though, I like those eyes. We just need to get them looking towards a real purpose one day and they will take you far.”

“I think I used to be that way, because I thought I'd had to be. Now... For the most part, I'd like to be left alone and unbothered. I have had incredible fortune that brought me in contact with great friends and wise mentors. Nothing so dramatic as the Old Man and the Mountain, but enough to show me that there was a different way of living. 'To Walk Softly, and Carry a Big Stick'. I always liked that proverb, I think that is starting to apply to me.”

“Ah, so you've read the sagas? Euclid is a bit too allegorical for my tastes, but it's certainly a work worthy of respect.” Lucian nodded. “Have you read the Telurian volumes? They are quite talented at writing, few can equal them in fact, their artists are truly gifted.”

“I don't read fantasies anymore.” Tyr said. “I've found them to be just that, and life if not full of momentous occasions and grand plans and heroes. Life is messy, random, chaotic... No prophecies or chosen ones to spice things up. They don't hold much interest for me anymore, and haven't since I experienced what life was really life.”

Lucian chuckled, his soft golden waves swaying gently in the breeze rolling through the rotunda. “This conversation has been very pleasant. I hope to continue a dialogue with you in the future, but for now I must take my leave. Make it to the semi-finals, eh?”

“I will.” Tyr said. “And I'm going to slap that pretty mouth of yours in front of the whole world.”

Lucian laughed, giving Tyr a gentle and respectful salute before departing, covering his golden armor with a cloak and melting expertly into the crowd.