"No," you say softly, "it wouldn't."

"No," you say softly, "it wouldn't."

Svier shakes his head. "No. And it wouldn't make you happy either. This isn't the third option for you, Roland, but that doesn't mean that there is no third option. Just coming here was step one to many different 'third options.' There are no expectations for you here, not yet. You can choose those for yourself, and then who's to say you've disappointed them?"

You feel warm inside as he places a comforting hand on your knee, and you smile despite your itching eyes. "Yeah," you say, rubbing them, **** not to cry, "you're right. But what should I do? What can I do here?"

Svier hums in thought, and you can feel it through his touch. "Well, isn't that a problem. I'd recommend alchemy of course, it's quite enthralling. Of course, without a sponsor or a small fortune, you can't get your training. Most craftsman's trades do, really, so you'd have to work some other kind of job first... but then, you didn't care for farming either, did you?" He says, a twinkle in his eyes. "After all, what's the fun in that?"

You blush at his teasing. "Right. I guess I don't have the best work ethic."

"You're young," he assures. "That's how it is for everyone at that stage. Really though, I'm sure there's something you could do..."

This time it's his turn to bashfully turn his head. "Well, I suppose there's always... no," he says, pulling away. "Sorry."

"What?" you press him, and he laughs higher than normal.

"Well, sorry if it's rude, but I thought that perhaps your mother had the right idea in more ways than one."

"A whore?!" you blurt, half alarm and half stunned amusement. "But I'm not... I'm a man!"

"You're a boy," he corrects, "and a cute one too."

Svier seems a little uncomfortable, but you're not going to let that by you. "Cute? I'm cute? I don't want to be called cute!"

The man giggles - there's no other word for it. "Sorry, it might be insensitive, but it's the truth. It's not a bad thing, there's women that like cute boys. Men, too, and you won't find a lack of either in the city. There's always potions for that too, but then we've already talked about potions to solve our life problems, haven't we?"

You're rattled by the statement, but while that might've been a serious blow to your ego even a few minutes ago, it doesn't hurt the way you might expect it to. "You really think I look cute? What makes me cute, anyways? And if you say it's because I'm short..."

"Ah, well, I won't say that, then," Svier says, and you give him a light punch on the shoulder.

"Actually though. Um, your face is... cute," the alchemist says. "And your hair, especially if it was longer."

"How is it cute," you demand.

"It just is," he says, exasperated. "Why is any man handsome? Why is a woman beautiful? I thought you were cute when we started talking, it was the first thought I had when I saw you. Your shoulders are slim like a girls and you're hairless like one too. Your legs-" he starts to say, and then his mouth snaps shut. "Anyways. Good luck with everything. You can put your armor back on. And your clothes."

He starts to stand up, but before your brain can catch up with your body, you've grabbed his hand - soft from years working with quill and glass. "Go on," you say softly, heart racing and unbelieving of your own words. "You were talking about my legs."

The alchemist's eyes flicker to the door, but he slowly sits back down. "They're nice, I suppose," Svier says.

"You suppose? You were doing better earlier," you tease.

He rolls his eyes, before finally looking back at you. "You look soft," he says, his voice low. "Not weak. I can tell you worked on a farm, but your body wasn't built for it. You look like a noble's child. I'd bet on it, actually. You said you never knew your father?"

You shake your head, and blink in surprise. "My mother, she told me she was maid, but never where. You don't think...?"

"I do think," Svier says. "I've met many of royal blood in my line of work. You start to see the differences quickly."

The revelation rolls over you; it's a shock, but not too surprising that you pass up an opportunity to jest. "Are you telling me I look like a prince?"

"Or a princess," he shoots back. "Grow some hair, your highness."

"It's a good thing I'm a bastard, then," you say. "Royalty can't mingle with other races, after all."

Svier takes a moment to catch your meaning, but when he does, you move closer. He returns your kiss slowly, leaning into you. The moment stretches, and you ache throughout all of it, caught up between the rush of emotions throughout your conversation with the half-elf and the feeling of his lips on yours. Your hands meet each other, and there's a flutter that runs through you at the feeling of someone else so close to you, caressing you, that simple physical contact you've starved for without knowing it, that the confusion of being touched by a man almost leaves you.

Almost. And that "almost" wriggles and worms and pokes through your memories and arrives one not too long ago, it dredges it through your mind and paces it through the logic that has all but escaped you in this virgin kiss.