[Mini Event] The Handover of Arlathan

The announcement of the next challenge rang true with Carasson. Though there were few alive that knew of his past, it remained a stain upon his current way of life. A reality he could no sooner escape than his fate. A reality that, in many ways, seemed to manifest into different versions of the same torment. The most recent being his encounter with a potent shard of the Evanuris known as Falon'Din. One that had nearly ended his life if not for the mercy of his emancipator. 

It was as he lay dying, his chest swelling and receding slowly, that he was reminded of the past that he tried so hard to forget. The Last Torment of Falon'Din, he would call it. A compounded vision of relentless guile, charming speeches, and sleight of hand. A reminder of what he'd left behind by way of fear, a spotlight illuminating his former capabilities. It was a moment he continued to suffer any time he allowed himself to relax, the ability to ignore eroding at a rapid pace. And now here he was, a crossroads. Another trial. Temptation wreathed in timeless honor and glory.  Was Arlathan worth becoming someone he feared? 

From where he sat contemplatively, chin propped against the heel of his hand, he watched the crowd before him while a silent war raged within. He'd battled against Evil before and lost and this was his punishment. 

His eyes closed, attempting to conceal a pain far too poignant to be easily hidden. The further he fantasized running from his truths, the closer he came, however ironically to acceptance of his true purpose. That purpose being the flourish of Thedas, of elf-kind, of Varahel, of Arlthan. His eyes snapped open and with them a renewed resolve, a spirit he'd since forgotten how much he missed the feel of against his ravaged soul.

Carasson stood, his mere stance altered to reflect an all too familiar persona. This was this aspect of his personality that Falon'Din had fed from. He began with easy words, spirited soap box speeches, pointed glances at his rapt audience. Charm dripping off his tongue as shadows crept unseen, parting coin from owner. 

Raucous laughter over a game of Wicked Grace, Orlesian wine flowing freely as he worked through the practiced ease of his coercion. He fell back into it with an ease that haunted him. Flick of the wrist, fair is fair, better luck next time. Laugh it off. Nothing ventured nothing game. 

Same old song and dance. 

He didn't count the coins that now weighed in his pocket unbeknownst to their former bearers. 

TLDR;

• After some back and forth in his head meats, he decides to revert back to his old ways as a handsy scamp
  
• Uses his inherent skill as a Troubadour, speaking pretty to coerce coins
  
• Card games wherein coins somehow find their way into the ante (booze helped)
  
• Cheap hat tricks (now you see it, now you don't) 
  
• All nugs pulled from hats were put safely back where they belong
  
• Congrats, you awoke a very charming beast