RP:A Friend In Frostmaw
Part of the Home Sweet Home Arc
Summary: Rikailin, whose wanderings have taken her to the Frostmaw Tavern, is met by a man named Dyraxdiin. As the two of them speak, it is revealed that Dyraxdiin is in fact a gray dragon, perhaps the last of his kind. Rikailin shares her worries about Sage Forest with him, and Dyraxdiin commits to help if he can.
Frostmaw Tavern
Slightly chilled, the tavern is still a far warmer location than the outdoors of Frostmaw. If the cold is too much for a visitor, they can take a seat near the tavern's center, a place dominated by a large firepit dug neatly into the earth. A fire is always burning within, fed by large logs and, strangely, scraps of leftovers flung in by passing patrons--to those in the know, this is to feed Aodhan, the fire wyrmling occupant of the pit and keeper of the flames. Aside from the stone and earth of the firepit, the rest of the flooring is of a dark wood, clearly a sturdy material to routinely bears the weight of many Frost Giants, their armor, and their frequent brawls. A similar wood, lighter in color, makes up the raftered ceiling with its steeped roof. Tightly packed stones create the lower half of the walls, the upper planks of wood built close together to keep out the cold. Booths, tables, armchairs, and stools of various sizes can be found throughout the tavern in no particular arrangement. Frost Giant lasses move skillfully among the crowds to serve ale and warm meals, occasionally stopping to regale a newcomer with the stories behind the many trophies hung upon the walls: sabercat fangs, mounted mammoth heads, aged weapons, dented shields, war banners, and a dragon skull hanging central from the ceiling, horns and jaws wrapped in blue chains. A rather bulky and well toned frost giant stands behind the bar. Upon his blinded left eye, a scar travels down and along his jaw. The large bartender, Drargon, simply watches the patrons, awaiting orders... or trouble, considering the massive war-axe resting beside him.
Rikailin has taken too much wandering of late. Her mind, dwelling as much in the past as upon the future, often seems to desert her on these lonely treks, letting her feet and senses guide her almost at random. So it is that she arrives at the tavern in Frostmaw, cold but uncaring, with a young sparrow perched alertly on her right shoulder. Its shrill, merry song rings out through the tavern as the blind battle-druid pushes open the door, and the wave of warm air serves to bring her fully back to herself. Wood-smoke, ale, warm stone, giant-sweat, and half a hundred other scents permeate the air, and Rikailin strides through the yawning doorway without a second thought. She can hear the crackle of the fire, but more importantly, the vampiric elf is maintaining a gentle link with the little bird, whose eyes flick furtively back and forth in the large room. Using the bird's eyesight is a trick with which she is well-accustomed, and Rikailin soon picks out a squashy-looking armchair to sit in. She sprawls into it with a little sigh, then stretches out her bare legs so her feet are pointed in the rough direction of the fire. They are caked with dirt, snow and needles, those feet, but hart tough-looking, as if the druid is used to going about barefoot. The vines which garb Rikailin's body to preserve modesty, wrapping her from shoulders to hips, rustle as if in agitation, and the little sparrow soon flutters to the arm of the chair, a less twitchy perch. The druid's birchbark-woven skirt rustles as she draws the backs of her calves against the front edge of the chair, placing her feet flat on the floor as a serving-woman arrives. "Nothing, for now," she says, her voice gentle. "Just this warmth will do."
Dyraxdiin takes another pull from the amber liquid. At this point, the alcohol was warming up, despite the frigidity of the climate this tavern resides in. The sound of the door opening is enough to draw the attention of Diin, to look upon the oddity that is this she-elf. It is clear, the elf knows well the music of the earth, and the cry of its children in the din of battle. But what would a Druid be doing up here, far beyond the once-welcoming Sage Forest? An oddity, indeed. At this juncture, the dragon-turned-human finishes his drink and moves in closer for an introduction. Even though he is no Green Dragon, it was wise to pay the Druids homage. The bird is offered a momentary glance before Diin extends a bowing gesture to Rikailin. "It is an honor to see one of your kind, especially in a place so devoid of earth's bounty." His tone is deep, cadence sure. Blue eyes look up to meet those of Rikailin.
Rikailin begins to tense as the creature approaches. The sparrow's tiny eyes tell her its size and shape, but the battle-druid is sitting in an armchair built for a frost giant, and well worn-out in the bargain; she has nowhere to flee if violence is imminent. When the creature bows and addresses her, however, the vampiric elf feels a brief stirring of shame, which does not show in her face or bearing. So often has she been harried, challenged and set upon in her life that her first reaction was suspicion rather than neutral curiosity. Rikailin's blue eyes, not her own and quite useless except for keeping up appearances, rove restlessly back and forth, not meeting the creature's gaze, for Rikailin does not even know his stare is trained upon her; the sparrow's grasp of detail is simply not oriented that way. "Even beneath snow, bounty can be found," she answers evasively. Her voice is a murmuring alto, relatively soft and unaccented by her mother tongue. "I wander where needs must. Knowledge, after all, is often found in peculiar places. I would move the heavens themselves to find what I seek." The battle-druid snaps her mouth shut almost violently at this point, worried that she has said too much. Schooling her face back to neutrality once more, she makes an effort to still her roving eyes, and adds, "I thank you for your respect. Rare is it that I am known for what I am, and given any but derision as such."
Dyraxdiin knows well the torture of time, this woman a testament of such, despite her relatively short life in comparison to his. He felt humbled by it, somehow. Those with shorter lives often experience so much more. Her attitude towards his arrival is noted as nothing more than caution, taking no offense or finding fault in her apprehension. "An interesting philosophy," He begins, "I find it quite true, for beneath that trained, cool facade I see warmth. And pain." He smiles, even though it will have little effect, "You are in good company, I assure you." Diin makes his way to an accompanying chair, heavy cloak to be removed and draped upon the large armrest. Beneath, one would find the trade of a mage worn proudly upon the frame of his guise; ribbons criss-crossing beneath a few select armaments, half robes of gray to drape down to sturdy greaves. "What is the knowledge you seek?"
Rikailin surprises herself - and perhaps the mage as well - with a burst of laughter. A rusty thing, the spate of mirth still sounds genuine enough. "I am in good company?" When she smiles, her pearly-white teeth show clearly. "Not often do I hear someone bold enough to proclaim this of themselves." Another little chuckle, and the elf shakes her head, black hair fanning around her shoulders. "I jest, sir, but you must forgive me if the quality of your company is something I will judge for myself. I have no reservations as yet though." The druid folds her hands over her cocked left knee and leans forward, her sightless blue eyes trained on the mage in his chair. "What I seek? Well, tell me, since you appear to be a man of means, and speak to match your looks. How would you cure an entire forest being acted upon by a slow, malignant curse laid upon it by dark magic? That, sir, is what I seek." The woman's voice is no longer gentle; it has grown quieter still than before, but now possesses a hard edge. That sylvan face, flawless and pale, is set in something close to a scowl; clearly, the issue about what she speaks is something that deeply troubles her heart, and Rikailin responds to this sort of stress in the only way she knows.
Dyraxdiin smiles again at seeing the reaction of the Druidess. It is a good laugh and one he will not forget. Understandably, he did not expect his words to ease her much, but felt that the expression was appropriate in some way. "I can only think more of you for being wise enough to judge for yourself." She had a good head, and the dragon felt compelled to assist her in the least. At the end of her explanation about the knowledge she seeks, Diin takes his turn to lean as well - into the ridiculously oversized embrace of the armrest. A hand rises, finger to gently touch his lip in quiet contemplation. "I would seek the support of the Mages Guild." His finger, and hand, drop back down to his lap. "But, I would wager they are not an option in this trial." A low hum ensues, as the dragon-turned-human trains his mind upon his working knowledge of magic. "In truth, I would start one tree, or blade of grass at a time. The forest has a remarkable sense of self-preservation. Its own immune system is generally powerful enough to halt any assailants. If it is a dark magic, the caster would have to have been powerful indeed. Be that as it may, anything can be undone."
Rikailin nods her head contemplatively, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind a tapered ear. "Powerful, yes." She sighs then, a sad little sound, and quite unnecessary given that vampires need not breathe. "I am not as closely attuned as once I was to the rhythms of the forest. Until recently, I was lost in exile far to the west, where the land is arid. And this..." She pauses, baring her teeth. "This makes things difficult. I was waylaid, cursed, and rendered further away from what I know. Now, when I take, I must wrench. When I listen, I must strain. When I seek, I must dig. And it does not come without pain. But what I do know is that the forest at large is...it is dying slowly. The taint is a whisper in every tree, a creeping weakness in every stalk, a dragging wilt in every flower. Even the scent of Sage is different. Flattened, somehow, as if the forest is trying its best to remember to be a forest." Another head-shake. "I speak as druids speak to one another, and as such I cry your pardon if confusion results."
Dyraxdiin felt the darkened presence, looming as a foreboding shadow over Sage. It was thick and heavy, deafening. It was one of the first things he noticed upon awakening from his slumber. Magic of its like was wrought in his youth as well. The Day of Darkness. It was a distant memory at this point, but one that follows him like a ghost of torment. With his suspicion confirmed, the forest in question being that of Sage itself, he makes his decision to aid her. "You will know the sound of the forest once again." He sits up straight, "I am trained in the art of magic, though archaic it is, I am certain I can find a way to help the forest... and you." It pained him to hear of her trials. He too was torn from his home and cast in exile - a deep slumber that would ultimately prove to be the undoing of his brood. This would no longer be her burden alone.
Rikailin raises a shoulder and shrugs it noncommittally, then flaps a hand at the relatively empty tavern. "In my exile, I learned a thing or two, without realizing that I was learning. Mostly, that the things you love most dearly, the things which mean most to you, are usually taken from you, unless you are extremely lucky or extremely tenacious. I was the latter, and not the former, and so I have returned. This place is cold. My homeland is dying day by day. Most of the friends I once knew are dead. I must subsist on blood. Most days, I feel more shell than woman. I will accept help, from virtually any quarter, to see Sage heal. Help, even if it means the sacrifice of my own existence. I know not what this will entail, but I have little and will give all. I...thank you though. Great burdens are better not borne alone, I think." Rikailin raises a hand to a frost-giant woman, whose heavy passage across the wooden floor she can easily hear. "Have you any wine?" she asks. "I care little of the vintage, but wine is best." The woman nods, the sparrow passing along the information via the psychic bond between bird and battle-druid. "Would you care for anything? I have a little coin, and it seems only fitting to offer you something. A name, too. I am Rikailin."
Dyraxdiin knows well the pang of her sorrow. His people are not what they once were, his homeland a forgotten history to most of the creatures in Lithrydel. The mage smooths out his robes, an idle habit performed while thinking, and licks his lips. "You may feel empty in this moment, a wasted away bulk of life-lost. But like all things, time - and fine company - will see you through." Dyraxdiin knows she was once so much more... and even still, beneath all the pain and past, she still has such strength of character. "I must decline your offer of drink, Druid Rikailin..." He tests her name upon his tongue, "I fear that I might lose control of what little tact I have." A small smile, however, touches his lips, "I am called Dyraxdiin. I am honored to make your acquaintence."
Rikailin | Another nod of the head, and a moment of silence while Rikailin awaits her wine. When it comes, she takes a dainty sip, wrinkling her nose. The wine is rough, unrefined, unpleasant and almost mealy; still, it does mask, for awhile at least, the bitter-almond taste in the back of her throat which tells her that bloodlust is imminent. "Dyraxdiin," she repeats, testing the name, pronouncing it with an accent somewhat different from her normal one. "Hardly a human name, unless your forebears had a cruel sense of the ironic." It is something of a bluff on Rikailin's part, since she knows the name is peculiar but has no concept of what it means or where it originates. "I have been told, by one friend who does still cling to life, that aloneness is a state of mind more than of being. Perhaps she is even right." Rikailin's lips curve into a wistful smile. "Many are her faults, but Eilyo sometimes does speak wisdom. If only this old heart could follow it sometimes." This time, her chuckle is so soft that it is really no more than a few little huffs of air from between slightly parted lips, the druid clearly amused with herself rather than the situation at large.
Dyraxdiin watches as she takes a drink of her wine; it is often said that a person can be measured by the manner in which they consume alcohol. Upon seeing Rikailin wrinkle her nose, Diin is reminded of the locale they find themselves in. A place such as this would never have a decent drink. Even the whiskey was awful. Upon hearing his name spoken in kind, his attention is brought back to her eyes, though sightless they may be, and he affords a chuckle in response - low and easy. "I suppose a name like mine would raise question. Even at the time of my birth, it was an oddity." He brushes the few stray strands of his hair, now dry, out of his face. "Since you were honest with me, I will be honest with you. To my knowledge, I am the last living gray dragon." He never planned on revealing that to any one person, but alas, when in fine company... "Eilyo. She sounds wise indeed."
Rikailin tenses anew at this latest revelation, nearly inhaling the mouthful of wine she had just taken. Setting her glass carefully aside on a convenient table, Rikailin replies, "A gray, are you? I did not know that gray dragons existed in anything save myths. I confess that I am curious to learn more. Knowledge is a precious commodity, after all." She winces, then knuckles her forehead above her left eye, where the faintest headache has begun to spawn. "I'm sorry, Dyraxdiin. It is not that I see you, or knowledge of you, as a resource. If I speak out of turn, please take it as a sign that I am out of practice, rather than as an indication of intentional rudeness. Elves, myself among them, are many things, but deliberately offensive isn't one of them." The battle-druid reaches unerringly for her wine-glass and takes a long swallow. Another grimace follows, but although she lowers the wine from her mouth, she keeps hold of the vessel this time. She has clearly begun to relax.
Dyraxdiin | Gray dragons, a myth? How curious. Dyraxdiin had been slumbering for some time, of course he knew, but that long? His brows furrow down in concern, afraid that so much more has been lost to the world than just the simple memory of his brood. "Do not bother yourself with worry. I appreciate honesty over manners." He smiles anew then, remembering a scolding he had once been on the receiving end of for voicing such an opinion. "What questions might you have for me?" Perhaps her questions might shed some light on the state of Lithrydel. The dragon readjusts himself upon the lousy excuse for a chair, as if readying himself for a barrage of ridiculous, larger-than-life, questions - a droll smile to splay cross his features.
Rikailin inclines her head slightly as she hears the man shifting in his seat. Having been given license to ask as she will, Rikailin quickly takes advantage of the offer. "Well," she says, warming to the notion, "I know that most dragons possess some elemental affinity, or particular arcane gifts. Do grays, too, fall within this spectrum? In myth, gray dragons were perhaps among the most neutral and aloof of the saurians, though I freely admit that information might have become warped over time, or downright falsified. I know much of the more common types of dragon which still exist -- silver and gold, red and blue, black and white, brown and green - yet I know that there are many things I do not understand." Now that she is not verbally fencing in slow motion, Rikailin's speech has quickened somewhat, causing her previously formal demeanour to mostly disappear. She raises her glass to her lips and takes another long drink; that almond taste is getting stronger.
Dyraxdiin is surprised by the elfs knowledge of saurian kind. Perhaps all is not lost. "Sound," He replies, in a gentle tone, "Vibration, or friction. Resonance? I suppose you could call it any of those. We can wield sonic force as sharp and deadly as a blade, as heavy and overwhelming as a tidal wave.... or as minute as a needle. My kind is capable of manipulating many elements through that voice alone, though we cannot create the element on whim." Dyraxdiin smiles, reminiscing on when he was a whelpling, learning to harness that ability. "As for our natural alignment, we frequently held positions as arbitrators; our neutrality an assured quality." It assures him that Rikailin, despite the obvious fact that she is a well-learned elf, knows at least that much of him and his brood. It would be the death of him, were his kind remembered as anything but.
Rikailin cups one hand to the side of her face, deep in thought. "Sound," she repeats. "I suppose I can understand that, to some extent at least. Given the combattive nature of whites, the pride of golds and greed of reds, I am surprised that they tend to flourish while your kind, the self-styled mediators, are all but gone?" Suddenly, a thought occurs to the vampire, and her eyes cloud with it, as if it troubles her. "If you are the last of your kind, then...I spoke rather foolishly before, of being alone and without much hope. You, it would seem, are the end of your race. Unless some hidden cache of eggs could be found, or a female with whom you are compatible..." She trails off, not wanting to state it so openly. The idea that Dyraxdiin might be the last of his species, might have to bear that terrible knowledge on his own, is something Rikailin's own relatively short-lived mind shrinks reflexively from. To take her mind off such long thoughts, the battle-druid raises her wine-cup, only to find it empty, swimming with a faint mist of droplets on its curved inner surface. She sets it aside with a slightly louder-than-necessary bang of glass on wood.
Dyraxdiin shrugs his shoulders in resigned fashion, "I attribute it to the fact that when a nation is in turmoil, it is the peacekeepers that are slain first." While he did not bear witness to the slaughter of his kindred, nor does he harbor the knowledge of the perpetrators, he holds no ill will towards his kind. For in life, all things must come to an end. It matters little to him that it must be so - what is important, is that he creates a new legacy to leave behind. He plans to carve his name into the bedrock of Lithrydel and leave no trace of doubt that the gray dragons were here. "You have not been foolish in your words, or your feelings. I cannot possibly know your pain in quite the same manner that you could know mine. We are both individuals with our own set of emotions and experiences. Who is to say my position is any worse than your own? We are fortunate enough to be unfortunate in our experiences. The hotter the fires of the forge, the stronger the metal. And who knows, the gray brood could be on a remote island, biding their time." He hopes it is true, that he is not the last. That burden... it is something he never thought he would have to bear. Diin makes to put on his heavy cloak, "I am afraid I have kept you overlong." The hour was growing late and the dragon did not want to keep this druid from her own path.
Rikailin | As the man moves to fetch his cloak, Rikailin rises to her nearly six feet of height - quite tall, for an elf at least - and bows formally. "It was good to make your acquaintance, Dyraxdiin. I hope that we shall meet again soon, and that we both, each in their time, can find what we seek. May you have long days upon the earth." The elf pads on bare feet toward the mage, but stops several feet shy of him; backlit by flickering flames this way, there is something elegant and elementally beautiful about the archdruid, with her tangled midnight locks, gaunt face, vine-shrouded curves and long, coltish legs. Skin and blood. Flesh and bone. For a moment, she looks like precisely what she is: a remnant of something once greater.
Dyraxdiin rises to his feet in turn, battle regalia sheathed in half robes of an easy gray to give the slightest 'clink' as they adjust to his new posture. Alike Rikailin, he too is tall in this form, though that means very little, as he can don the form of even a hobbit at will, should the need arise. His eyes do not miss the subtle change in her demeanor, or the quality of her character against the flickering firelight. She is indeed a beautiful creature, one not lacking in her fair share of experience - something that lends even further reinforcement to her charm. "You have honored me with your company and I wish you to know that if you ever require anything, you have but to ask it of me." He bows his head, shoulder-length brown hair to flow with the motion, "I will see you soon, I am certain." His voice deep and humble, a quality his broodfather was known for too. With that, the cloak is readjusted upon his shoulders, and the mage makes to depart the establishment.