RP:A Not-So-Humble Request

From HollowWiki

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc


Summary: Begrudgingly, Larewen seeks out Lionel to request his aid in an endeavor that will undoubtedly come to pass; simultaneously, she speaks her intent for Emrith's crime.

The Fort

Lionel snickers as scout captain Henderson embellishes the last bit of her tale, punctuating it with a more fanciful interpretation of the regiment’s latest expansion effort than was strictly necessary. “I rather doubt the Gorlig tribesmen brought merfolk to fight as allies in a festering swamp,” Lionel gently rebukes, but Henderson waves away the accusation as several of the soldiers chuckle. “Whatever, ser, you weren’t there,” she chides him between the final sips of her ale tankard. “As it happens, merfolk are quite fine with the mud so long as you promise them baths afterward.” The chuckling soldiers are now keeling over in good cheer, and Lionel snorts whilst nodding as if in on the joke. “Very well then, siren-soother, carry on. I want a full report on the viabilities of the treehouse project by end-of-day, preferably on Khitti’s desk, not mine. I can’t be bothered to read your handwriting.” Henderson guffaws, the soldiers laugh some more, and Lionel and his elven ally Esche excuse themselves from the chatter. As they walk down Fort Frostmaw’s dimly-lit stone halls toward the main entryway, Esche lofts a brow. “I know that look,” Lionel says. “I have not given you a look,” Esche protests. “Just the same, I know it. You’re going to ask me something philosophical about… something. Esche, there’s a time and a place for fine discourse, and you must know by now, it’s rarely apt o’clock with me.” The elf purses his lips as they pass numerous bowing soldiers en route to the great oak map-engraved table that has been Queen Hildegarde’s quick glance into her realm for years. “Very well, Lionel. I will shelve it for now. But even so, why are we scouting so close to the Gualonese borders? Do you not worry we will agitate the inhabitants? Are these gems worth such cost?” Lionel shakes his head. “It’s not about the gems, Esche. Not really. It’s about establishing an able-bodied watch over not just Frostmaw, but all of Lithrydel. So long as we’re respectful and don’t delve into anyone’s territory, we’re fine.”

Larewen does not immediately manifest; the energy required to do so is greater than she would like to expend so soon. No, the banshee’s goal is to find who she seeks first, then bother with the problem of appearing to him. Some, most notably those that are most aware of the dead, won’t be entirely oblivious to the malevolent spirit’s presence. No, they’re used to the ones that wander the ruins. The ancestors that House Dragana and the Necromancer’s Guild were enlisted to protect. Not creatures whose very aura warns of their fell presence, even when they are not visible. It’s unsettling, to some. Fortunately, the necromancer’s search is pleasant short, for as she enters the fort the warrior she seeks and an elf that she can only assume to be an advisor. “I can tell you precisely where you might want to put a few able-bodied soldiers,” the necromancer’s disembodied voice cuts in on their conversation. And then, she summons the strength to truly appear before the pair, in all the gruesome splendor of a shade caught in its final throes of death. Myriad cuts cover the banshee’s arms and face, the worst of which - and likely the one that led to her current state - is a gouge in the left side of her neck, where it meets with her shoulder. Ectoplasm and black ichor leak from the woman’s wounds.

Esche, through the Ishaarite spirit Levant whose presence he has long concealed from Lionel, Khitti, Brand, and all the rest of them, instantly senses a distortion in the fabric of his environs. Like a faint ripple that grows into a passing wave, the elf feels it but does not resist its gentle pull. It is, to him, like a slight fade in reality that twists into a tear. As the tear reverberates, Esche subtly shifts his stance into one of increased alertness. Lionel, too transfixed by the pewter-and-brass pieces on the realm’s map board, does not register Esche’s change. They’re too close, Lionel and Esche, and in too safe a building. Hence, as Larewen emerges before them in raw deathly display, it is not just the dozen-odd soldiers and scouts and scribes who rush to attention and would-be defense, but Lionel himself as well. Members of the priesthood and the local citizenry recoil in shock and slide into nooks and crannies, hiding themselves from this sudden darkness. But those men and women who have sworn their lives to the cause are not so easily spooked. “Hold,” Lionel breathes a command, and they do indeed. “Return to your posts,” he continues after a moment rich with pause. All but Esche scatter to their previous spots, albeit slowly and in hushed whispers. “You don’t look well,” the Catalian masters the art of understatement.

If the apparition is startled by the sudden movement of those within the fort, the sudden attention with which those men and women are brought to, it fails to show on her translucent features. In fact, the only sign that she’s even noticed them is a glimmer of amusement in those dual-colored, madness-tinted eyes. Larewen curls her lip into a sneer at Lionel’s observation and perhaps, under different circumstances, she might have laughed. “No, I don’t imagine I do,” she responds, coolly. The necromancer’s distaste for Frostmaw isn’t exactly a secret; she prefers the darkness of the city she’s in the process of laying claim to. Though, that process has presently been stalled. “Was Khitja able to deliver my message?”

Lionel crosses his arms. The move could be interpreted as defensive, but his voice is at-odds with his body language. “Yeah. The latest in a long line of violent incidents involving a creature that should have been put to the sword years ago. This time, a dear friend of mine nearly died for it. Rather an eerie reflection of… well, all the other times, really.” Esche narrows his emerald eyes at the apparition, a hint of anger marring smooth elven cheekbones. “I am forced to take Lionel’s position on this matter, Lady… Larewen, I presume.” He tilts his head in a slight display of respect; an odd picture, given the woman’s grisly form and the elf’s curt, scholarly countenance. “My position is irrelevant, Esche. What matters is what happens next. To Corruption, and to Emrith. If you have any suggestions, I’m all ears.” Ever-casual yet straight to business, this new Steward of Frostmaw.

Larewen’s features soften in a rare display of… compassion? Is Lady Dragana even capable of feeling that? Perhaps, but only for very few and Khitti is one of those. After all, the dark ranger -is- part of her House. Her lips press into a thin line. “We’ve all lost people, Lionel. That is part of the cycle of life and death,” she replies, to both past and present. Larewen’s tolerance for the warrior stems from those words: he ended Immanuel, who had ended Lyra, and the latter of those was, in life (unlife?) a dear friend of the necromancer’s. “The Guild is presently working to build a more permanent prison for the entity. We are capable of that much. My concern is more with the latter, and my body.” The way the last two words are pronounced is quieter than the rest. After all, the necromancer is in an extremely precarious position. “Emrith is a traitor to House Dragana, and to Vailkrin - as is Pilar. I have no desire to grant him the same mercy as I did her, though. His head, I want.” Here, she’d normally pause for a breath and a cigarette, but both are pointless. Instead she wrinkles her nose. “When it comes time to reclaim my body and imprison Corruption once more, help may be needed to keep it at bay. You know all too well the plight that Vailkrin has suffered.” It’s not small secret that the City of the Dead has yet to reach its former glory, either. It’s but another one of the necromancer’s ambitions.

If Esche can sense ripples in the arcane atmosphere, Lionel is as adept at detecting words twisted to suit a certain purpose. More than once, Larewen’s verbiage cuts like cool steel. Whereas the implications of Lionel’s familiarities don’t dawn upon the elf, the Catalian bears the brunt of it. “Tell me true: is there no permanent death for that fiend? Corruption doesn’t deserve the chances imprisonment offers. Even among the greatest dungeons this continent has ever known, only Arrecation’s became permanent fixture. It’s as well we crack open a book, because the old cliche rings true: villains are put in chains ‘til next their authors deem them free.” He sighs. “For what it’s worth, I’d trust your version of a jail cell over those of the Ancients. If this is how things must be, then so long as I can see the sealing, I’ll force some stray satisfaction of it.” Lionel does know Vailkrin’s plight; next to what he and Khasad brought down upon it with their armies locked, Corruption is but a wisp, an echo. But it is a hurtful echo, and it must be silenced. “I will have words with Emrith before the beheading. Something terrible happened to that man, driving him toward murder. I fought beside him too many times, entrusted my life to him too many times, not to hear those words before he is slain.” It is not a defense, not really; Emrith’s actions have moved Lionel wayward of defenses. His own verbiage is cool steel, now, illustrating that he is by no means unmotivated by the man’s deeds. No, he is also angry. People die, as is the cycle of life and death, but Khitti cannot be one of them. What Lionel seems to seek is understanding.

Larewen tenses her jaw at the mention of Arrecation. Some beings have simply been here for too long, locked away or no. “If there is, then I do not yet know it. Brute force clearly doesn’t do the trick, as we’ve learned first-hand,” the banshee answers, though whether or not she speaks the truth… “I would rather you be present for that as well. And Shishi, too. Kasyr remains unaccounted for in these dark times.” The necromancer is genuinely surprised at Lionel’s request to speak with Emrith prior to the meting of punishment. She expected more than that, perhaps even some attempt at defending the spell blade. “Very well,” the necromancer says. “I would like to be there for that questioning myself, preferably in my body one more - if only to see if he tells it differently from the truth.” There’s pain in the banshee’s voice, a lamenting note that betrays more than simply anger at the betrayal of the spell blade. Something changes in the woman’s demeanor, a weakening perhaps of her resolve. In this state, separated from her body, the curse that binds her is weaker. Gentler, even. In some ways, she resembles the woman she’d been, in the days of Khasad and Elazul. Of Kaizer and Solaris. When she and Shishi first wed and happiness and kindness were something she knew.

Lionel doesn’t visibly register Larewen’s change in visage. Stoicism isn’t the man’s forte; there’s always a ghost of a grimace or a smirk cresting the edge of his face. Right now, it’s the grimace, but given the dire dialogue, what else could it be? A lithe elven scribe approaches the gathering on gingerly footsteps. “Begging pardon, sers, and ah, lady,” he stumbles at Larewen’s grim depiction, “word from the frontier at Milous. Urgent request.” The scribe passes the parchment to Lionel, who does not break the dragon’s seal of wax imprinted upon it. “When this goes down, send word. I’ll be in attendance.” Lionel does not clarify whether he means the matter of Corruption or of Emrith. It is rather likely he means both. “Was there anything else?”

Larewen responds with a simple shake of her head. There’s no verbal reply - her emotions are too out of control with the frustration that comes with unexpected limitations. Instead, Lionel’s query is left hanging in the air as the necromancer vanishes - briefly. She realizes as an afterthought that the male might be more comfortable if he physically sees the specter depart, and so she walks out of the fort as is considered normal, and then disappears to return home.