Gods, even the rain was more bearable in the Harbor than it was in this Kingdom's godsforsaken capital! The stain of industry and progress was even on the fanciful buildings of Uptown and the chill of spring lingered between the buildings instead of being washed away by the sea breeze, and while Vienda had a very specific sort of charm to it, Corwynn was convinced he'd grown immune to its siren song decades ago, if he'd ever been enticed by it at all. Not to say he didn't have his favorite haunts or particular pleasures in this city on the Arova, but he couldn't say that fundraisers full of his fellow galdori peers were at all high on his list.
He'd come alone from Old Rose by aeroship, specifically for the evening's gathering as well as to check on two associates and their illicit shipments arriving in the Soot District, which he'd be inspecting at his own family factory tomorrow morning. The flight had been long but relaxing, the quiet allowing the busy galdor to clear his mind while in the clouds and yet leaving him restless. While he could have taken a carriage or a rickshaw, the Bad Brother instead chose to walk.
He'd worn his comfortable Turga crocodile boots (always a conversation starter in Anaxas) and a very dark almost charcoal suit that seemed to match the overcast weather just so that it would contrast with the soft blush of his Hoxian silk shirt and the darker hue of his cravat. Tucked so comfortably at his side beneath his coat was, as always, the smaller of his many firearms, his Songbird, pressed with familiarity in its soft leather holster against his ribs.
As fancy as the fundraiser was expected to be, the older galdor was in no hurry to be on time, and so he'd taken the leisurely stroll through the zoological gardens to let his crystalline gaze wander over the sad representations of wildlife from across the Six Kingdoms before heading out to trudge through the sand up Moon Beach toward the Boathouse to select his means of transportation to Doyle's Island in order to rub elbows with far too many drunk, stuffy gollies talking social change and concords. It was a strange position to find himself in—Hawke's face among the privileged—when he'd made nearly every other effort in his life to not live near his own kind in any professional or political fashion.
He supposed he did well enough, considering the current position of success of the King of the Underworld and his Bad Brothers. If nothing else, he at least made it all look good.
The wet sand was hardly an obstacle for the experienced sailor, the rain falling down in its typical Loshis constant drizzle and making its noise on his umbrella before he reached the Boathouse and its tin awning. Unconcerned by the weight of wet trousers, he read the sign that had been left for those invited:
Ferry from Moon Beach to Doyle's Isle: Every Hour
Smirking, his crystalline gaze swept over the corralled collection of paddle boats set aside by fancy velvet rope while his four-fingered once dominant hand reached for his pocket watch in order to asses the next arrival of the ferry. He could wait another half an hour or he could transport himself in ten minutes or less—
Paddle boats: Free for Use Today*
*For galdori invitees only.
The steady patter of someone running over wet sand, puddles, and cobblestone caught Corwynn's attention, the blond gunman far too used to the dangers that lurked in the less than savory parts of the Harbor than the Seventen-maintained illusion of safety that Vienda preferred to wear. His other hand began to stray to his coat and he tensed, glancing up to see a pale, lanky figure jogging in his direction and behind him through the grey haze of rain a dark-haired, well-dressed man and his umbrella.
Ah, another guest. Perhaps he recognized the galdor, but his immediate response was directed to the wet, huffing servant: "Good afternoon. Are you in charge of the boats to Doyle's Isle, sir?"
"Me? Oh, tocks, no. Do I look like a sailor to you?"
Corinth Wynngate III's grin was full of wry wit, the too tan for a local older man not at all ashamed of what he really was but not about to admit that he was an experienced pirate and criminal in so-called polite company. Not yet, anyway. With a flash of white teeth and a sly glint in his sharp blue eyes, he tilted his head toward the sign, unsure of if the human could read or not, "There'll be a ferry in half an hour. Or you and your man there can take a paddleboat—" He glanced over the other selection of passenger vessels available as if sizing up a beast of burden for the task, tucking away his pocket watch as he did so and readjusting the way his long, currently very on-trend coat settled over his broad shoulders, "—though I'm just enough of a hobby boat enthusiast to be able to take all three of us in that rowboat if you'd rather."
Shifting his attention to the fashionable—clearly so very Bastian—and undeniably easy on the eyes dark-haired galdor as he approached, Corwynn nodded his greeting, the rich baritone of his voice laden with a conspiratory sort of mischief, "It appears we're both fancied up for the same soggy get-together and not at all sorry for being a little late. I'm certain I've seen your face before, but perhaps we'll have to remind each other of our names."