Before you get to anything else, you need to know the motivation behind cryptically bringing you out into the middle of the woods. Granted, you know the area like your own backyard (because it is), but this is a weird custom even for nobility.
"Your pertinence shan't cease to amaze me. I've brought you here because I require your aid, and fear I might not survive without it. To think, one with my powers who must be so reliant upon others, there simply is no greater shame…"
Hold on a moment; 'powers?' You aren't quite sure about members of the upper class, but down here you don't describe your remarkable sewing abilities or wood-chopping skills as powers. Your puzzlement at his terminology prompts a demonstration, the display of which you will never forget.
A chant of words in a language you don't know, sounds you didn't know a human could make, dance out of Silvanus's lips with the greatest of ease. An elvish minstrel would be envious of that soft, melodic tone. He places his hands together as if in prayer, eyes shut tightly as a chill around you gathers. Shivers run down your spine as you notice the world around you start to fade. The colors of the forest go from greens and browns to hues of gray.
Your eyes return to Silvanus's ghostly figure, which looks both the same and completely different than he did before. You see yourself inside his eyes; with vivid clarity beyond any mirror, you see a girl staring back at you. There's no expression on her face. In fact…there's no mouth at all! You instinctively try to open your lips only to find them sealed tight, groaning and gasping for air that isn't there. The figure inside Silvanus's eyes grins menacingly, a mouthless smirk as its eyes roll backward and pupils turn inwards.
The world turns upside down as your vision follows, and realizing that your body is not your own to control—you panic! Flailing like a madwoman, begging for it all just to end—and it does.
"You'll have to forgive me, I did not intend to put that much force behind the illusion. Consider yourself lucky, weaker-minded men have died from less." Dazed would be putting your present condition mildly. You take the magician's outstretched hand instinctively, only realizing afterwards that he was the reason you were flat on the ground in the first place.
A polite smile emerges from Silvanus's pale face, his following words those of one who has just found himself happily impressed. It's unfortunate that they make entirely no sense to you. "Magic is a rarity on this plane; only a handful of elves centuries old hold any sort of mastery over it. After the Magi Wars 300 years ago nearly ripped the world apart, the Church of Fates was created to enforce complete ignorance of this innate power. Needless to say, they've succeeded quite profoundly."
Silvanus sighs from his own history lesson, but your head is still bursting at the seams with questions. It is completely in character for the Church to strongly discourage anything fun, but they never even mentioned the existence of magic being real! How does he know about this?
Noticing your skepticism, he casually comments upon the source of this knowledge. "My father would speak of it in length—he was the apprentice to the Necrolord, after all. Why, I recall, rather humorously, this one time when he…what's wrong? Ronald Dunhall?"
Your suspension of disbelief has just passed its limit. The Necrolord—who goes by the Shadowmaker, the Destroyer of Dawn, and the Gatekeeper of Death—is a scary and nearly comically evil character from children's stories. You're supposed to believe that he's real and that Silvanus's dad trained under him? No way.
"Hahaha!" Silvanus breaks into a laugh, one of those polite ones noblefolk do. "Y-you'll have to forgive my outburst. It's true that his exploits have been twisted into far more imaginative tales, but the Necrolord was really just a studious professor of dark magic. He was a recluse with odd habits, to be sure, but little more than that." Laughter ensues for a time afterwards; at least someone's spirits are high.
Your mind sits a bit more at ease then. If the root of all evil in the modern era was actually an awkward nerd pent up in his solitary wizard's tower, then things can't be all that bad, right? Let's change focus, though. The timeline just doesn't add up! The Necrolord was destroyed well over 250 years ago, but Silvanus looks like a teenager. What gives?
"Oh, right. My father's a lich, his life force magically prolonged through use of phylacteries. I have had one such phylactery inside my body since birth. Does that provide a sufficient clarification?"
Right, silly you. His father is a member of the undead; I mean, why wouldn't he be? So that means his son is a half-zombie? Silvanus's mother must have had a thing for (very) older men, but you won't begrudge her for that. There's certainly no accounting for taste! Oh, and there's a piece of his soul residing within his son's body…if that's not a close-knit family, you don't know what is!
Hahaha…ha…
The situation is ludicrous and surreal, just as it was a moment ago when you were under that illusion spell. What isn't an illusion is Silvanus's delicate, emotionless face, now inches away from yours.
"The phylactery inside of me is all that remains of my father, and I've spent the last year on the run. A religious sect of demon slayers will stop at nothing to see me skewed in half and burnt to ashes. I need to hide for awhile, but I have no money and nowhere to go. I need…you, Ronald Dunhall."
Those dark brown eyes, so talented for being empty pools, are now alive and several shades brighter. You really don't think Silvanus is lying about this one. It all starts to make sense: he needs to lay low but couldn't exactly afford a room at an inn for an extended stay. You feel like you're about to harbor a villain from a story, but since when do villains have such cute, rosy lips?