RP:A More Appropriate Face

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

This is a Healer's Guild RP.

Summary: Lionel and Sabrina, after three previous encounters, finally meet under relatively normal circumstances. Although tension remains, the two break the ice through business. Neither of them is quite what the other may have expected. Eirik is chosen as Warrior's Guild liaison.

Frostmaw: The Frosty Herb and Armor

Sabrina continued to pack the large order neatly in the bag she brought with her. The ruck is tested for weight several times as the order is counted and aligned perfectly for the sake of space management. She looks up at Eleenin and smiles. “I think that is all, this round.” Her elvish is refined, undiluted by years of mainland slang and simplifying combinations of mainland lingo. The old Shaman thinks awhile and responds in kind. “I set orders up for chickens in banquet.” His learning was not coming along as expected. She giggles quite girlishly in his presence. Her common, in turn, is far more rusty than his. “Close enough.” She hefts a secondary bag on the counter with a grunt, one identical to that which she currently packed with Frostmaw supplies, in return Frostmaw was gifted items from the routes the Guild had traveled. “I threw in some of the Farthing from Lower Milous.” This news sparked some interest as the Shaman reaches into the bag, procures an item, and sets it in his pocket. She is wearing her full uniform; a captains style coat with tails and high Mongolian collar, tailored cotton pants tucked into militaristic boots. She carries no weapon. Her hair is pulled back in formal elvish style braids that allow the length to be taken away from her face but still hang freely about her hips.

Lionel isn’t much for rough-vernacular shamanistic rambling, but Eleenin’s never cared. Eleenin is a proud and stalwart shaman, and from the moment he met the Catalian, he’s been reiterating his veritable verbal pamphlet’s worth of metaphysical mumbo jumbo. Destiny this. Birthright that. Lionel has asked around town, and sure enough, Eleenin’s given this pitch to a select few others, too. But it’s always the same folks -- Hildegarde, Josleen, Leone, Emrith. Never before has a pattern seemed so blatant to the man; the shopkeep has chosen the higher-ranking, the council members. Those who are the most likely to feed into the discourse. Lionel will not be a victim today. It’s cold outside, although he’d barely know it what with Halycanos regulating his body temperature. Dressed in his black silks for maximum comfort and agility, and with his Knight-Commander’s silvery vambrace wrapped about his left forearm, the Hero of Hellfire waltzes into the tent with purpose in his every step. “Nope,” he declares, as if it is some great word, some blazing ember of defiance against the howling night. But Eleenin does not reply. Curious, Lionel lifts a brow and turns. There, he’ll find Sabrina, and he’ll blink. “Oh. You already had a customer. That’s why you didn’t do your usual thing.” Eleenin nods, rubbing his considerable cheekbone with a stray finger. “That is why I not do the thing.” Lionel gives him a thumbs-up in return, grabbing a few rogues’ cloaks from a corner shelf. “Good. Don’t do the thing.” Sabrina is offered a kind, if clipped bow as the man carries about his business.

Eirik , without any word of warning steps in behind Lionel. His movements not announcing his arrival. The Berserker is armed to the teeth; dressed in his usual attire. Brann Forbruker, that sword he never seemed to be rid of, swaying to and fro as he marches into the shop. Silver eyes nearly ablaze, scanning each shelf in wonder. Just because he had been in Frostmaw for some time, doesn't mean he had explored the entire breadth of the kingdom. Some things were still new to the unpledged foreigner. Eventually, those orbs fall to the two who seem to be talking; Lionel and Sabrina. What an odd meeting. Two different guilds now represented before him. Eirik wastes no time and purchases a few items for himself and gives Sabrina and Lionel a nod each. As if to say, what are you both doing here? "Sabrina. Lionel." The items are collected, but Eirik sticks around to see what might happen. The Northman does not so much as blink while in the presence of Lionel. It was always business around him, despite the mans rather whimsical nature. At least that is what Eirik believed of the Catalian. Powerful he may be, but on the lacking focus side. Whereas Eirik is completely opposite.

Sabrina turned upon Lionel’s entry. Not only did she recognize him but a Warrior helped to but a name to that face. She was somewhat dreading the moment she would meet him again with this newfound information, but alas, the offer had already been extended. She watched him for a time, the mismatched gaze of one keen minted eye and one obviously blinded one following the Hero as he plucks various items from the shelves. Eleenin had said something, she wasn’t listening. “Hm?” She turns back to the Shaman who points to Lionel, that he wasn’t speaking to her, as he chuckles and mumbles something about a ‘Little Witch.’ She grins, it was a pet name given to her what Satoshi were still about after a rather grim quest turned Devilish along a well-traveled path. Sabrina was neither focused nor whimsical in this moment, though a semi-familiar face meant she was slightly more at ease. The bag she is stuffing is leaned on as she observes the way Eirik moseys about. “It is not that big of a front.” Her accent is thick, as Common was not her first language, likely not even her third or fourth. It’s got a powerful Sylvan draw and if one could pick up that origin they would argue it had a pirate twang. The comment may have been directed to both of them, but they were mulling and it was awkward.

Lionel senses Eirik’s presence, not through some Hellfire spell but rather, keen intuition. It’s a handy skill, knowing when the air has shifted subtly to announce the arrival of another living creature. He tilts his angle just slightly, virtually imperceptibly, and yet somehow he’s facing the lycan almost perfectly now. “Eirik,” he repeats the greet-by-nomenclature, smirking. It’s true. Lionel is quite powerful but seemingly lacks focus. There is, naturally, more to him than meets the eye. He’s calculating complexities every waking instant, but his flamboyant manner has cost him certain relatively obvious aspects on more than a few occasions. Sabrina’s words catch him off-guard; Lionel takes a breath, releasing it slowly. “Aye,” he answers, as if the response makes any sort of sense. Before he can speak further, however, a Frostmawian enters the tent. He’s garbed in the familiar colors and symbols of the country’s military, and his stance is rigid. He wields a fine-tipped spear, which rests vertically upon his back, and he lowers his gaze to address the Knight-Commander yet does so with a respect which would suggest their statures are reversed. “Ser,” he starts, and Lionel scratches the nape of his neck. “Yeah?” The guard clears his throat, looking around awkwardly. “Oh, get on with it, we’re all friendlies here. Eirik seems to know the lady, and that’s good enough for me. What’s up?” Nodding slowly, the guard continues. “We’ve caught another of the enemy operatives near the northwest border. Questioning has revealed they have ties to the drug ring you and Miss…” “Alvina,” Lionel fills in the blank. “Yes. Um, we believe they’re linked.” Lionel hands the guard the rogues’ cloaks, patting him on the back. “Nice. Bucking for a promotion, eh, Howitz? Take these to Emrith’s folks and keep the change for your family.” Howitz beams. A Frost Giant’s smile has never seemed so warm. He charges out the tent, humming to himself, and Lionel hands Eleenin ample coin -- thrice too much, in fact.

Eirik || Oh the Northman does indeed wander and meander; clearly unaware of what this shop is. All of this evidenced by his wondering eyes, his quest for knowledge unknown. If only the Berserker had been born a mage. That curious nature of his actually might have buried itself in several books simultaneously. The Northman absent-mindedly grins having filled his mind with enough of this place. Attention shifts from Sabrina and her comment to the guard who waltz in and his demeanor or hesitation to speak before him. Not there is any issue with Lionels stated words; Eirik does indeed know Sabrina, having helped her with a couple of issues rather recently. What they were exactly are not stated. That damn drug ring. They were still kicking around? Eirik wanted to interject but instead, eyes the guard as he leaves. "Still flushing them out?" Eirik remembered the one who had lost an arm. Was a good day.

Sabrina is quiet while Lionel conducts his business, uncomfortably so. She was doing her best not to pay attention but it was obvious how that went. From his words, she gathered that he did not know who she was. This caused a sort of flurry of calculations to go buzzing about in her head. Would knowing her have made any difference? “Little Witch.” She looks way up again and shakes her head. He had said it several times, only now gaining her attention. “Oh, Right.” She takes out a pre-counted purse and places it on the counter. She turns to face opposite the packing station to run her arms through the straps of the bag and eventually hoist it up. Once settled she is forcing glances of pleasantries at the three men, and an apologetic one at Eleenin as what she gave him might be illegal in this region. Lionel and the others were discussing a very sensitive topic for the healer, since she didn’t always agree on what constituted a justifiable method of treatment. Legally. She goes to pass through the gentleman since there is little room to go around. Eirik, on the left would have earned a nervous yet polite smile. Lionel and company on the right would have been privy only to the Mark of Asclepius on her right shoulder, a mark becoming quite known throughout the realm since it was advertised on the Healer’s flags during the war. She’d only partly turn to the Frostmawian gents, avoiding eye contact and forcing a few layers of hair to move forward and block the embarrassment that was her face. “Good evening.” It was quiet, almost begging to be ignored if not for the propriety of her upbringing.

Lionel sneers. “Yep,” he confirms to Eirik’s inquiry, “although, remember that one-armed fellow?” It is as if the Catalian has read Eirik’s author’s mind. What talent. “Well. One-armed -eventually,- anyway. We uh, blew him up.” He nods sagely. “He’s dust. So that’s good, at least. Rat bastard tried to destroy a solid fifth of Frostmaw, can you believe it? Cheeky and altogether uncalled-for. Khitti’s bow ended up saving the day. And Alvina, for having just then fresh-forged it. It was a close call.” He whistles in recollection, and that whistle carries his tune whilst the woman moves past. Thoughts rise up; he knows he’s saved her, but frankly that doesn’t exactly narrow the list. She’d been present during the throne room battle against Corruption. She’d tried rescuing some folks, and she’d paid for it. That’s when it dawns on him anew -- she might be in the Healer’s Guild. Such curious timing, then, that he’d see the Mark of Asclepius only now. “Hey, uh. Good evening to you, too. Say, if you’re in the Healer’s Guild by chance, could you pass along a message for me? Tell Sabrina Galadriel Linnéa Skaði,” he speaks the name effortlessly, “we’ll be happy to find a liaison. In fact, I have one in mind even now.” He winks to Eirik. “This fellow, if he’s willing. I know he’s able. Just let her know, please. Much obliged.”

Eirik can't help but burst out into laughter over this whole conversation. As per usual, it's a near deafening, belly filled, obnoxious chuckle, far too loud to be considered appropriate. A few huffs of breath finally calm the berserker enough to explain. "Lionel, sir. This is Sabrina." No further explanation would be given. He didn't need to, and obviously, Eirik was more than willing to fulfill whatever role is needed from him. Generally, the Lycan was a good doggy and did what was asked; so longs as his superiors remained stronger then he. Such was the ruling of his chaotic mind. Attention moves to the healer, "Sabrina, this is Lionel." Eirik had no clue if she would recognize the man who had suddenly become their common ground. "And I'm quite willing. If it's of service to the guild, I'm all for it. If it helps others, well count me in twice." Eirik would shift on foot and let the conversation continue normally from there.

Sabrina kind of cringes when he states her whole name. It had been some time since she heard it out loud, let alone had it pronounced so fluidly in the first go. A short but polite bow is awkwardly performed. She looks at Eirik with so many questions, though she looks relieved when he speaks up for her. He knew better than most that talking was not her strongpoint. She puts in the hours, just not the political socialization. She showed up for events, but remained in the background; it was only proper to appear when summoned by any region and she had to appear diplomatic in not making the mistake of choosing one event over another. Still, people made her nervous. “Krice told me, after the River.” She clarifies. “His name, I mean.” She turns to Lionel, shying the scared portion of her face from his direct view. “I am sorry, I didn’t realize until after the letter was sent as to who you were.” Normally she was a fair bit more confident in her dealings with people, but it was hard to forget people when they seem to see you a certain way. “If I had known I would have sent a… more appropriate face.” By that she’d meant Emilia. Awkward as she was, Emi was better with people and generally well liked.

Lionel would probably stare incredulously at Eirik’s theatrical humorous outburst, if he weren’t so awed to have discovered this woman’s identity. A wave of surprise passes over him, tidally, and he swallows hard but maintains composure. “Oh.” The word is given a light, airy tone. “Well met, then, Sabrina.” An easy, perhaps dismissive approach. There is nothing to this Catalian’s behaviorisms which would suggest he remains fazed by that fateful morning she’d touched him, nor will he bother mentioning that he’d first laid eyes upon her in the heat of tumultuous conflict. “I don’t understand, Lady Sabrina.” Titles always sound a bit strange when Lionel speaks them; his tone is lilting, but his demeanor is so casual. Still, he’s trying -- remnants of his late aide-de-camp Briar Ku Risu, who had given her life against Macon’s forces in the Battle for the Bridge. She’d done all she could to teach the man to speak a touch more properly, and even his brief role as prince of a far-off, ill-fated land did not instill such compulsion half as much as she did. He continues. “Are we sending faces? Mine’s not so easily shippable, either.” He smiles an easy smile. It’s the sort of expression that’s downright contagious to some; his stance is so relaxed, his countenance so exuberant. “But hey, no problemo. I’m glad we ran into each other. Consider Eirik here the Warrior’s Guild’s official liaison. Effective, oh, I dunno. Immediately.” The smile does not fade.

Eirik does nothing more than bow his head slightly to Lionel. That Catalian being exactly what Eirik had come to know. Rather easy going and approachable. Eirik himself dons a grin worthy of the Northman himself; shifting that scar little by little until rows of ivory are revealed. "I'll be sure to send reports often," his words meant for the duo before him. He says nothing more and allows the two to finish their conversation. Left hand reflexively comes to rest on the hilt of his sword, a regular non-aggressive shift in weight really. Silver eyes watch them until it was time for them to split ways, Eirik already having said everything he needed too. Eirik was suddenly glad for the help earlier. The berserkers mind is no longer clouded by the assault of magic. This is all apparent by his steady posture.

Sabrina arches a thin dark brow. Well met? Maybe it wasn’t going as badly as she thought. “Eh… its just Sabrina.” She would never get used to the title. “Or Healer…. A lot of people just call me Healer.” Eleenin is quick to point out. “And Little Witch.” With one finger raised that he not be forgotten in this circle of conversations. Her eyes close and she whispers “I am not a witch.” The giant steps forth. “But that is the fun in it, yes?” A large hand rises, and thumps the ruck at her back, forcing her to take an emergency step forward. Instead of bracing a potential collision with her hands like a normal person she shoulders the direction of her misstep and scrunches up as if it would make the already smallish woman any smaller. A near miss as she recovers and reclaims her place. Her good eye had gone stark white as she intentionally shuts the conveyance they both had felt before, off. “I appreciate acceptance of my proposal. I hope this works out for both parties.” She is feeling somewhat claustrophobic, and quite suddenly too. She did not make it a habit of being near this many people with so little guard to personal space. There were reasons. Her voice was almost shaky.

Lionel doesn’t need his warrior’s instinct to determine that Sabrina is growing uncomfortable; this much is as plain to see as her eyes are white. Maintaining his easygoing rep, having smirked at all the right parts as she’s delivered her dialogue, he makes his way for the exit. “Just Sabrina, then.” As he repeats her name, his voice seems mystical. He’s committing it to memory. “I’m a hundred percent confident this arrangement will be aces for us both. If you need anything, let me know. You can find me at Fort Frostmaw, covered in paperwork and awkwardly flinching whenever anyone salutes me. I reckon you might know what I mean, Just Sabrina. I’m Just Lionel, myself -- titles breed titles, but I sure as heck don’t have to like it.” A final smirk, a sparkle in those azure eyes, and the Hero of Hellfire is gone.