RP:A Rough Start for Frostmaw's Knights
Summary:
The three new knights take their oaths before Hildegarde, but the revival of the Order of the Black Ice gets off to a slippery start when Ayras and Lyros begin arguing over how the order should be lead.
Riselet hastily strides in, looking over her shoulder to see that Lyros is following. She made her way to the fort as soon as the letters arrived, eager to meet Hildegarde — who, hopefully, is in much better health than before. Wrapped in the first things she picked up off the floor, the halfling is a sight to see: all mismatched clothes, some bloodstained, others good as new. The thick cloak that she wrapped around her ensemble hides most of it, but she can’t help but feel as though she stands out. Upon entering the throne room, her eyes immediately lock upon the Silver’s form on the throne. Riselet has to take pause — she fits so perfectly there, decked in her armor, as though she belongs. The steward is regal as ever with all this, and she has to wonder if Hilde hasn’t even thought of aspiring for queenship. Queen… dom. Whatever the word is! Taking a last glance behind her, Riselet tentatively steps up to the throne and peers into Hildegarde’s silver eye. “Um, Hilde, you called us…?”
Lyros' arrival is shortly preceded by Riselet's appearance in the throne room - the drow stalks in her footsteps like a solid shadow, absently dusting stray snowflakes off his shoulders and trailing more behind him off the tattered ends of his cloak. His mood is markedly solemn with a barbed edge to his movements that seems made to ward off others, but whether that is simply due to nerves and the presence of guards, or something deeper, is a fact Lyros will keep to himself. He is dressed all in dark metal and leather and makes for an intimidating sight, helped along by racial prejudice of course; several guards pause to eye the mage in his passing, their grip upon their weapons tightening. Lyros keeps his head raised high and proud, barely paying attention to them — the fact they are not worth a glance shows he does not consider them a threat — as he follows Riselet, boots clicking smartly on the paved floor. Fierce golden eyes quickly scan the room before locking on the frozen throne and its resident Silver. Slowing to a halt, he steps slightly to one side of the half-drow but, unlike his companion, does not approach Hildegarde, instead preferring to appraise her from afar. "You look good there," he comments after a pause.
Ayras was certainly the latecomer, a full minute passing by before the elf managed to pass through the thick doors that granted access to the throne room. It had been ages since he had stepped foot there. He had forgotten the impressive nature of the tapestries that lined the walls. The one behind the throne, the one that displayed Satoshi's victory over the great grey dragon, held his attention for a moment before silver eyes dropped to the Steward as she sat on the throne. He had missed Lyros' approval of the sight, perhaps wouldn't have even said anything if he had, but in his ignorance he whistled and began to clap. "Now that is an impressive sight," he said as he stepped to join the other two Knights, as he came to a halt to the side of Lyros. "Surely a regal image if ever I've seen one. Is this why you've called us, Hildegarde? Planning to officially seek the throne?"
Lyros lifts his brows at the banter shared between Ayras and the Silver, but his attentions are soon diverted when he notices Riselet glancing in his direction, uncertainty in her expression. To that he responds with the ghost of a smile, an attempt to reassure her despite the way his chest aches, before his gaze travels behind the throne when the back wall slides away at the pull of a hidden lever, revealing a staircase beyond. A quick glance is offered to the man by his side before the mage steps away in silence, moving swiftly to follow his excitable friend and Hildegarde down into the depths beneath the fortress. The stairs are conquered with little trouble; Lyros navigates the slippery surface with ease, and while he vocally shares none of Riselet's awe, those gold eyes do widen a touch when they emerge into the vast room that echoes with traces of familiarity, though he has never set foot here before. A pang of nostalgia grips Lyros' heart and he can't help a sigh of quiet longing at the sight of it. The Underdark is the home of so many things he despises, including his accursed House, but it is still his first home. Lyros would never admit to having missed it, but by the look on his face, he is relieved to be back in such cavernous, yet enclosed, confines.
Ayras laughed at Hildegarde's hypothetical situation. A dark sense of humor, indeed. Few would laugh at the prospect of an execution. He wore his trademark smirk as the dragon continued on, mentioning the true reason behind their summons. Lyros stepped away before Ayras finally moved, trailing behind the lot down those stairs in short order. Whereas Lyros and Riselet were looking upon the place for the first time, Ayras had seen this place before, years ago when Satoshi had first inducted him into the Order. The vampire couldn't help but look about the place, though, reacquainting himself with the war room. Silver eyes watched Riselet wander around awestruck. It was a sight that put the faintest of smiles on Ayras' face, a true smile instead of the usual expressions that he wore that mocked such kind gestures. She was an adorable one, that half-elf. His eyes shifted to Lyros, and that was where the smile faltered. He wondered about the drow. He wondered if he was feeling homesick. He wondered... A shake of his head sent that thought flying away before it could complete, and the elf settled his attention on the Silver with an upraised, ruby eyebrow.
Hildegarde smiled at the excitement from Riselet, at least someone was over the moon to be in a secret room. The woman made for the far from ordinary map, glancing once again at the chess pieces upon it to see if anyone had tampered with the current state of play but apparently no one had. The Silver dragon sat alone at the fort, the black sword, the white fox and the red pointed hat were all removed from the map. The dragon was alone. Not so long ago, she held the pieces in her hand and thought to herself how she could not continue alone but… that was then and this is now. Perhaps in due time, these three before her would become pieces on the board. “Lyros, Riselet and Ayras… Knights of the Black Ice. I have gathered you here because we must discuss matters pertaining to the Order and your status within it.”
Riselet has to look over her shoulder at the two — they’re awfully quiet, and she finds her mind wandering further to the subject of their relationship. When did they meet, and what exactly happened? Ayras has a distaste for drow for obvious reasons, but why would Lyros be so callous in return? Perhaps it’s a part of his personality she’s yet to see, or maybe there’s bad blood that she’s unaware of. The latter seems more likely. Her thoughts drift from the duo to the map before them, a sight that has Riselet once again completely transfixed. Whoever — or whatever — made such a board must have possessed the hands of a deity. Hildegarde’s voice, however, is enough to get her on track, even as her navy blue eyes drift to it, curious. “Of course, Hilde!” Riselet’s tone is soft, poorly hiding how eager she is. “Is it gonna be like a formal initiation?” Hopefully hazing isn’t involved.
Lyros misses the look Ayras throws his way, given the drow is a few steps ahead of the vampire and much more focused on his surroundings than anything behind him. The span of the room is truly massive and even he can see no end to it, and finds himself unable to stop his mind wandering to the darkened sides of the chamber, curious as to what might lurk off in the dark. In Trist'oth's caverns and passages, many horrific beasts lay in wait to ambush the unwary, and Lyros seems to be having trouble shaking that concern off. Soon enough, though, his eyes are drawn back to the centrepiece of the room - that glorious map, arcane energy spiralling off it in lazy whispers that urge the mage forward to investigate it more closely. On his way, he passes Riselet and places a hand on her shoulder, the contact itself brief; the words he murmurs to her in the same moment, even more so. He moves on smoothly as though he never paused at all, fingertips trailing along the crest of a phantom mountaintop. Looking to Hildegarde, the drow tilts his head somewhat and keeps to his silence, as Riselet voices his questions like she knows the same words linger on the tip of his tongue.
Lyros whispered something to Riselet.
Ayras didn't move forward until Hildegarde spoke. He stayed silent, for the time, instead opting to circle about the map like everyone else was. His fingers trailed around the map, only a mere few finger-widths between his palm and the ghostly image. He had figured the meeting would be of some officious nature when he had received the message calling for the three of them to meet with the Silver. But Riselet...oh, sweet, little Riselet. She seemed to be able to turn the serious affair into such a light-hearted thing with the way she asked things. He grinned, but he managed to stifle the laugh that wanted to burst out of him.
Hildegarde smiled at Riselet as she asked if there would be a formal initiation. “Yes, there’ll be a formal initiation of sorts,” she answered, “but it’s nothing too frightening, I think.” So it wouldn’t be in front of the masses or some weird hazing of some kind. “But more importantly there is the issue of structure and what you lot think you are best suited to. I need to know your strengths, your weaknesses… What you are willing to do and what you are not willing to do. I would know this before I have your oaths.”
Riselet mulls over Hildegarde’s words in her head, thankful that she cleared her worries ahead of time, yet wondering how exactly to phrase what she wants from her. It takes her a while, going over how to present it in her head. She doesn’t want to tip off her former career, so to say, as that wouldn’t look too pretty in the eyes of her fellow Knights. But how can she phrase it without including such? Riselet sighs before going with it, imagining she’s talking to a potential employer. “Starting with me? As far as strengths, I’m good at tracking people, I’d say? I’m on the road to mastering reconnaissance… ” A beat. “People like to call it ‘assassination.’ Like I’m hired muscle. I prefer the phrase ‘diplomacy,’ at least in this context. I like to think I can bring people in the right direction.” She gives a crooked smile, abashed and guilty. “I’m versatile, I can adapt well to most anything. Very quick, also. Cenril parkour translates well to the wilderness. Great with daggers and small swords — the throw-y kind and the stab-y kind — but I’ve used crossbows, too. My biggest weakness?” Another beat. She wonders if she’s said too much. “Well, I’m not very strong, aaaand… I’m terrible in groups. Put me into the frontline of a battle, I’ll get ripped to shreds.” It really does sound like she’s talking to a client instead of her future superior, but Riselet shrugs and moves onto the latter part of Hildegarde’s question, easing into it. “I’ll do whatever you give me, no matter how dirty.” When she says that, she means it. Riselet steps back a bit after her introduction, averting Hilde’s gaze.
Lyros inclines his head in silent acknowledgement of Hildegarde's words but remains quiet throughout Riselet's introduction, listening intently to her every word and all the underlying layers he imagines can be found within them. Simultaneously, his mind works to form his own speech of a sort - this is not the kind of situation can be wholly comfortable in and it shows in the way he shifts agitatedly from foot to foot, for Lyros finds more faults than strengths in himself. It is unlike a drow to give away his weaknesses, however atypical he may be. "I am not sure we were all ever formally introduced, as a note. I am Lyros Levasca, a maleficar," he begins when Riselet steps back, the drow moving forward in the same motion to come alongside her. "Aside from the obvious, I'm a general mage; I know spells from most magical schools but given my...specialty, I can't make use of magic for long periods of time. Aside from that, I have some medicinal and surgical knowledge, and I mix my own poisons and restoratives. I wouldn't put much faith in my ability to tend to wounds, though - I'm no expert. Similarly to Riselet, I'm more suited to reconnaissance, tracking, and subterfuge than front-line battle." He pauses to glance sidelong at his companion, before returning his golden gaze to the Silver. "But for better or worse, I am a drow. There are as many benefits in that fact as disadvantages, I'm sure." There's a lump in his throat as he goes to speak of his blood magic, but he stubbornly swallows it, head held high. This magic, while dangerous and terrifying, is all he can rely on and all he has to offer. "You saw what I did with the blood from your injury, Hildegarde. Imagine what I could do on a battlefield drenched with it. Send me in to turn the tides in our favour - I will make your enemies fear getting into a bloody fight with Frostmaw." Maleficar are not made to make the first strike but to accompany it, following in the wake of a drawn blade like a monstrous beast to tear limb from limb and flood a battlefield with red. Lyros' gaze lowers to study the lines and curves of the map as he continues, quieter, "I am not built for strength but for speed and dexterity. I need space to move, and I don't get along well with others, naturally. Bright lights can easily blind me. My magic is a plague upon myself as much as my enemies - I normally can't use it for long..." He trails off and, apparently finished, steps back out of the map's glow.
Ayras listened as the first two made their speeches. Their skills were locked away in his head, knowledge that would surely be needed in the future. The fact that both of them were not frontline fighters did not surprise him; with their builds and their skills, they were certainly not warriors sent in to fight against battle-hardened warriors head-on. Soon enough it was his turn to step into the limelight, so to speak, as Lyros stepped out of the glow of the map before them. Ayras had no need to step into it; he had never backed away from the thing. "On the line of a formal introduction, I am Ayras Drathir, former Knight-Captain of this very Order, and once sword trainer to the Queen Satoshi." Arms crossed over his breastplate as he continued to frame what he needed to say in his head. As usual, he decided to just wing it. "I am a warrior-mage. I was trained during the beginning of my life in the ways of the mage. When I was taken by the drow, I was thrown into the gladiator's pit with my magic suppressed by their spells, and had to learn the ways of the warrior. My skill has gone down the path of dual-swords and electromancy. I can fight on the front lines, or behind the ranks in a supporting role with my lightning. My time with the drow has given me limited knowledge of stealth; mostly in the form of being able to hide." But they were to give their weaknesses, as well. He had as much issue with that as any true-blooded drow. The dark elves had done their work well with the vampire. "I am not, however, a spy of any sort. If a mission requires more stealth than combat, I will be at a loss. My magic is limited to offensive attacks, for the most part. Anything short of that, and I have nothing more than cantrips and party tricks. But show me a battle, and I will fight. Show me a target that needs extracting from a hot location, and I can extract them. Task me with coordinating troops, and I can." He felt almost inadequate next to the other two more stealthy members of the Order. They could sneak about, could infiltrate without being seen. Next to them, he was the proverbial bull in the china shop.
Hildegarde turned her head and body to whomsoever was speaking, to signal that they had their full attention. Riselet was stealthy and just about willing to do anything. Lyros was stealthy, with a rare magic in his possession. Ayras was the offensive, with a history of command and leadership. “All of these are good traits, but this difficulty with working with others will need to be improved upon. The Knights of the Black Ice are not expected to work together constantly, but there is a need to work together; to rely upon one another and to coordinate when needs must. There must be trust between you three and there must be trust in me,” she said softly. “In being a Knight, you serve Frostmaw. You serve me. Your loyalty is mine. If I bid you kill someone, you are free to question why, but you must fulfil the order. If I bid you to betray me in public so as to befriend our enemy, you must do this. A Knight of the Black Ice is not bound by the codes of honour and nobility such as I am. You are a force unto yourselves; a force to be reckoned with!” The Silver paused for a moment to allow her words to sink in. “Riselet, you like to move around, but you need to be protected. I think we need armour for you: boiled leather in two layers with perhaps a weave of mithril chainmail between these layers. It will be light, no one will know you have mithril but most importantly, it will protect you. What say you?” she asked of the Cenril native. Turning to Lyros, she looked the maleficar over before speaking, “I think much the same would suit you. But I would include the addition of fluorite and goggles? If you fear going into a light area, these goggles might help your vision perhaps. As for the fluorite… Satoshi swore by it for its magical efficiency and empowerment. Having this upon your armour might assist you in the channelling and use of your magic.” Now she turned to Ayras. “You already have your armour, but it’d be best to get it looked over and adjusted or repaired as is necessary. Or if there any adjustments you would wish to make, let me know.” Her recommendations made, the knight inhaled deeply before raising her voice just slightly; adopting the voice of a regal ruler and not one woman speaking to friends, “If you have a weapon, you should draw it now. Pledge your weapon and your service to me, if you wish this life of service and office in Frostmaw.” She takes a deep breath again, her eye shutting briefly before opening once more to gaze upon her assembled knights as she recalled the words her own liege lord had said once unto her, “I vow that you will always have a place in my house, at my table, and by my side. I will ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour...and I promise not to toss you thoughtlessly toward your End. I swear it, by all the world beneath our feet. That… That I swear if you enter my service.” Was it just the weight of her armour bearing down on her injured shoulder or the ghostly hand of a liege lord she loved too much to let go? Her hand briefly reached up to her wounded shoulder, lingering there for a moment before dropping down shyly.
Riselet is silenced when the Silver begins to appraise the three, both anxious to begin the ceremony and apprehensive, wondering if she’s doing the right thing in this moment. Her words manage to calm her, steady and attentive as Hildegarde evaluates the relative strengths and weaknesses of the trio. Riselet is fine with working alongside her fellow Knights, but Lyros — she’s careful not to lay her eyes on him again, firmly cast on the floor, studying the small dents in ice. A shiver of excitement runs through her at the phrase ‘not bound by the codes of honor,’ immediately feeling the pangs of hypocrisy. Someone who wishes to be a knight, but is all too willing to use unscrupulous means! It’s laughable. Even here, she is nothing like her fairy tales, and she knows it. But she keeps her lips shut, only opening them as Hildegarde gives the halfling her judgement on her armour. She brightens almost immediately, nodding in agreement. “Yes, that’s perfect,” she replies, voice almost breathless. When the topic of conversation is moved to the vow, Riselet fumbles inelegantly for a weapon under her cloak. She takes out the one thing on her possession — a smooth, simple knife, steel, the first weapon she ever used to take a life. Sharpened and resharpened again, still good as new even years later. A good luck charm and a bringer of fortune… even through dubious means. She wields this with the utmost care, gloved hands gingerly pledging it in front of her as the Silver recalled her vows. Beautiful words, well-spoken, like they’ve been passed from successor to successor. What pledge could measure up to that? Not her’s, of course, but she tries nonetheless to reply to such vows, to make a proper promise in return. She thinks back on the oaths in her novels, the romanticism of it all, and emulates it. “From here on out, I, Riselet Eirvelhys, so solemnly swear my fealty to you, Hildegarde the Silver, and the Knights of the Black Ice. I will be the shadow to your light, if you so allow it; the whispers on your winds, if you accept my call. As the moon follows the sun, so shall I follow you, now for the rest of my days.” She finishes, blinking, almost surprised at what she managed to say. A small smile curls at the edges of her mouth, pleased.
Lyros had levelled a hard stare on Ayras while he spoke of his time with the drow, but it does not take long for Hildegarde to recapture his gaze with her words and weighted presence - she is a glimmer of glittering armour in this otherwise dimly-lit chamber, almost too bright to lay eyes upon, yet as she speaks Lyros finds himself unable to look away. "That would be perfect," he answers, unintentionally mimicking Riselet's reply. "I haven't had the chance to work with fluorite yet." After that he falls silent again and lingers by the half-drow, at least until the conversation moves onto the vow and Hildegarde utters those words— words she has carried for years and voices as if they are the most important thing she'll ever say, words that actually mean something; a rare sound in the drow's ears. Still, he seems reluctant to respond, as if having second thoughts, plagued with worry and apprehension. It is not like him to promise himself to another, at least genuinely, and almost on instinct the mage's hand reaches to find Riselet's, fingertips catching hers in the lightest grip for only a moment before he pulls away. Once more Lyros steps forward while drawing one of those gauntleted claws over the palm of his other hand, the razor-sharp tips easily splitting both glove and flesh - in the same moment he drops fluidly to one knee, lifting that injured hand to display the open wound oozing scarlet fluid. Blood forms into the rough shape of a ball in his hands that appears to beat softly, like some macabre simulacrum of a heart, as Lyros speaks to its rhythm. "My body is my weapon - my blood and my life are yours. I, Lyros Levasca, pledge myself to you, Hildegarde the Silver, to Frostmaw and the Knights of the Black Ice. Use me as you will, and I will make sure your enemies know the meaning of fear." When he raises his head, his golden eyes are unnaturally bright with the power of that twisted magic.
Ayras was, unlike the other two, already fitted with gear bestowed upon him from his previous tenure in the Order. He looked down at the armor that was both so very similar but different from the stuff he wore on normal occasions. Repair...perhaps some of it could use repair. The thought of some upgrades, as well, pleased the elf. But he spoke nothing of it, instead fell silent as the two drow-kin spoke their oaths. Riselet's was a beautiful thing, Lyros' dark. What could he possibly say to follow those two up? He was a warrior, not a public speaker. "I will not say that I will serve you as I served Satoshi," he started after Lyros had made his blood-oath. His new sword, the jasper blade nearly as red as his hair, was drawn from its scabbard. Like Lyros, the vampire fell to a knee, his sword rested tip-down onto the ground before him. "To say such would be a disservice to you." It was true. He had hardly been a good Knight-Captain under her reign. The things he had done...but he shook those thoughts from his mind and pressed on. "This land holds my heart, and so, too, do I give my life to you and this Order. My sword is yours to command, to set me to whatever battles need fought. My magic is yours to will, to illuminate our allies to victory, and to sunder our foes to ash. Where you trod, I will follow, a sentinel to protect both your life and Frostmaw. My blade and my life are yours, until the day death comes to reclaim what has been stolen."
Hildegarde listened to each and every oath of service in silence. How could she interrupt? To each she mouthed a soft ‘thank you’ as they spoke their vow, affirming some kind of feeling in her; some kind of strength and resolution she didn’t know she had been lacking. It would be good to not be quite so alone in Frostmaw any longer, to have a solid network of allies and, in time, friends. Riselet’s steel knife, Lyros’ orb of pulsating blood and the jasper blade Ayras had claimed. A dagger, a sword and magic. A rogue, a brute and a wizard. An exceptional team. “You knelt only as men and women, but now you arise as knights to serve a calling higher than yourselves,” she spoke solemnly, drawing her own blade from its sheathe. Oathkeeper sang as it was drawn free from its wood and leather confines, glinting in the light. An unusually shaped blade in that it sloped somewhat to better parry attacks, whilst at the very bottom of the blade there seemed to be rents in the metal or gouges to allow the knight to skilfully catch the blade of a foe and wrest it from their grasp. But the most noticeable feature of the blade was the lion head pommel cast in pure gold. The knight was not one to bedeck herself in jewels or riches, but this ornamentation of her blade was a piece of finery better suited to a princess. The Silver held the blade up for a brief moment before laying it flat and touching it gently to the shoulder of Riselet. Tap, “I dub thee Ser Eirvelhys, Knight of the Black Ice, knight of the realm and defender of Frostmaw,” tap. The knight shuffled slightly to the side to touch her blade gently against the shoulder of Lyros. Tap, “I dub thee Ser Levasca, Knight of the Black Ice, knight of the realm and defender of Frostmaw,” tap. Again, she shuffled slightly to the side as to better face Ayras and touch her blade against his shoulder. Tap, “I dub thee Ser Drathir, Knight of the Black Ice, knight of the realm and defender of Frostmaw,” tap. With all three knighted, the Silver pointed her blade downwards and raised her voice, “Arise, Knights of Frostmaw!”
Riselet barely breathes as the oaths are continued, eyes fixed upon the dragon until she turns to meet Lyros, then Ayras. The former’s vows are laced with an animus she can’t help but appreciate, watching with interest as a macabre, ersatz heart is formed in the palm of his hand. The latter’s words are heartfelt, sincere, and carry a longing with them — a desire to make amendments for the past. Both, she fears, are much more eloquent than her own, and as she watches Hildegarde from her position, knee bent, she wonders if she can completely measure up to the other two. Her mind refocuses on the present, this liminality, as the Silver unsheathes a sword unlike any other — something fit for royalty in its craft, gold-leafed and shimmering. When the hilt of her sword meets her shoulder, Riselet inadvertently cracks a smile, unable to contain her sheer excitement at her new station. A change. Such a change. As the other two are also knighted, she wonders what the future will have in store for them. They’re a team, now, after all; Frostmaw is what brought them together, and Frostmaw will be what they die for. She rises immediately at Hildegarde’s word like a shadow twisted by the light. Her hands shake slightly, clammy and slick as they grasp her dagger. There’s an excitement, a euphoria that courses through her veins when she meets eye-to-eye with the Silver once again, height difference notwithstanding. Riselet isn’t entirely sure what to do now that she’s standing; she watches Lyros and Ayras rise, planning to copy them less they stay still just as her.
Lyros watches Hildegarde draw her royal blade, his gaze appraising the sword which is obviously of fine make. The aesthetic beauty is somewhat lost on him but he can appreciate the design, all its jagged edges and curves, each with their own specific, deadly purpose. Stubbornly, the drow resists the instinctive urge to move, to shift into a more defensive posture - it is rare that a blade is brandished against him without lethal intentions. His heart (the one in his chest) is filled with trepidation for what she plans to do next, for what they plan to do— this new team, bound by blood and by oath, awkward and unknowing with so many kinks still to wring out between them. Can he support them? Can he wield his magic as much for a beneficial cause as destruction? For longer than he should, his eyes linger on Oathkeeper as if he thinks he might find the answers in his reflection on the blade, before he dutifully drops his head, knowing he has left himself open to attack but putting his trust with Hildegarde to see him through unscathed. And guide him she does, delivering only a light tap to the shoulder. The meaning of the Silver's words echoes in his head as Lyros rises, the monster under the bed, and with a flick of his hand reabsorbs the sphere of blood back into his palm. Delving into a pouch at his side, Lyros dredges up a roll of bandage from the depths and begins to nonchalantly wrap it over the wound. He meets Hildegarde's eyes with a serious, almost solemn expression, quietly hoping the decision to put her trust in a drow does not come back around to haunt her...he has his enemies, and they are as tenacious as they come.
Ayras, too, looked at the impressive blade as it was drawn, watched as it fell and rose, fell and rose again before it got to him. When they are all three named Knights of the realm, there was a joy in his heart. He felt like he was back where he belonged. Riselet was the first to rise, but Ayras was not far behind her. The jasper weapon was returned to its sheath before arms crossed over plated chest, though he hardly seemed to be in a more relaxed posture. Something about the vampire still screamed business. "Now that we are all knighted, who's the leader of this merry band of misfits?" The look in Ayras' silver eyes easily stated that he had a vested interest in that question. He was, after all, the former Knight-Captain. Perhaps he was hoping to have that title restored, as well.
Hildegarde smiled at the trio, glad to have knighted them and welcomed them into her realm. Yet she could not help but feel that one was less excited than the other; one was more afraid of his service than the other. So without hesitation, the knight sheathed her blade and took a step forward to plant her hand gently upon the shoulder of Lyros where her blade had tapped not so long ago. “Lyros. I gave you a vow in exchange for yours. I will be true to my word. Whatever shadow lurks over your heart, I mean to help you with it,” she promised before giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze and removing her hand. “Leadership. A mighty good question,” she concluded, glancing about the trio.
Riselet sighs with relief, feeling somewhat more relaxed now that they’re all standing. Nothing’s changed, but she feels different — full of hope, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. Not since she met Lyros. who, as Hildegarde points out, seems more hesitant than the other two. With a smile, Riselet grasps his hand lightly, fingertips barely touching fingertips. Blood stains the freshly-wrapped bandage of his, and she supposes that could be a metaphor for something. How he’s exposing himself, letting his emotions seep through. At the vampire’s comment, her gaze turns towards him, snorts at his comment. “Me, a misfit? I’d be kinda offended, if it wasn’t true.” Loud laughter follows, echoing through the spacious hall — immediately eliciting a cupped hand over her mouth, embarrassed by the sheer volume of it.
Lyros is not expecting Hildegarde's show of reassurance, nor is he particularly sure how to respond to it. Riselet's hand within his is a comfort he has grown accustomed to, a warmth to soothe his frayed nerves and settle him with soft touches and gentle words, and he tightens his grip on her fingers and swallows the lump in his throat. His skin feels over-sensitive, lacerated. "I hope those are not words you come to regret.." he murmurs to the Silver, eyes downcast. Quickly his gaze flicks up again at Ayras' comment and Lyros levels a hard stare on the vampire. Though his initial remark — and frankly it's best left unheard — ends up partially drowned out by Riselet's raucous laughter, the drow's voice holds stronger, more confident tones as he continues, "I was of the mind that we are all equal in rank." He has already promised his service to one already today; he has no desire to bend the knee to yet another. "Such a position is unnecessary. No, I would suggest a reform - a new Order, a new system of leadership." Those sharp eyes turn towards Hildegarde as he finishes.
Ayras grinned at Riselet when she made her comment. She reminded him of someone long lost to him, a girl that had once been his sister before his time in the Underdark. He may have joined in her laughter, had it not been for Lyros' staunch opposition to the prospect of a leadership hierarchy within the Order. "I imagine you would," he replied as his grin turned to a frown. "Why would such a noble drow ever call an elf his leader, after all?" He snorted in that moment and rolled his eyes. "I fail to see issue with someone holding a command position. A single person to attend to the matters of state, when needed, who can then dispense knowledge to the others, and organize where they will be best suited within missions."
Hildegarde lifted her hand as Ayras made mention of a drow not being happy with an elf playing the part of leader. She said no words, only held her hand aloft and gazed at Ayras as if to warn him not to tread down that path. Finally, the knight voiced her thoughts on the matter. “I think Lyros makes an interesting proposition. What would happen if whoever played the part of leader was captured or killed? We would have a company of men and women who know not how to lead or organise. If you were to have a leader, who would it be?”
Riselet has to agree with Lyros’ point — the Knights bow to Hildegarde, but work together as equals. Though guidance on Ayras’ end would be helpful, she wonders if having a leader would be potentially detrimental to the revival of the order. She casts a wary gaze at Ayras as he counters Lyros’ point, feeling the sting of his derision when he comments upon the mage’s heritage. The half-drow is uncomfortable, putting a tighter grip on Lyros’ hand, but says nothing; she’s thankful when Hildegarde cuts in, confident enough to follow suit. “I think Hilde’ll make the best leader, ‘cause she is our leader. We bow to her. With the Knights, it’d be best if we had balance — I’m with Lyros in this one.” Her gang has little structure apart from a single leader, but it flourished nonetheless, only falling apart when said leader got her knife shoved up his ribcage. (Of course, Hilde won’t meet that fate.) While Cenrilian pseudo-politics aren’t easy to apply to something like this, Riselet still thinks it’s a better option than squabbling over ranks.
Lyros snaps back, "I have less problem with elves than you seem to have with drow." The vampire's derisive tone is clearly unappreciated by the mage as anger flares visibly in his eyes— they still hold traces of uncanny brightness, the eyes of a wolf. Lyros may be a strange, outcast member of his kind but he carries the same sense of pride, hypocritical and perhaps false as it may be, and there are few he will take such words from. His glare only lessens in its intensity when Hildegarde and Riselet intervene, their calmer words attempting to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. Lyros glances between the two, lingering a touch on the latter. Her grip on him was noticed and he realises with a jolt that Ayras' comment likely offended her, too - if anything that only fuels his ire. "We'd be better off working and figuring out things together, with some direction from Hildegarde if need be, than putting all our power in the hands of one of our own." Laughable, considering their current squabble. The mage does not appear to consider that, or maybe he simply does not care. "We have a leader," he finishes with a gesture to the Silver. "I suggest we not make things more complicated."
There was much Ayras wanted to say that he didn't. There were many rebuttals that Ayras had on the tip of his tongue to Lyros' words of him having an issue with drow. Of course he had a problem with the drow; he wore the myriad scars upon his body that had been inflicted while he was a slave to those like Lyros, nobles of Trist'Oth. But he had seen the look from Hildegarde, and while anger had his silver eyes glowing like an angry moon in the light of the map, he said nothing on the matter. Instead he focused on the matter at hand that he, himself, had broached. "Yes, Hildegarde is in command of our Order, just as she is in command of everyone else that has any official capacity within Frostmaw. Do you believe that those others do not have their own hierarchies? Do you believe that the Queensguard doesn't?" He looked to the dragon, then, as he leveraged his own thoughts. "I agree that the death or imprisonment of a leader would be detrimental. But I would also hope that this organization would have enough forethought to figure out how to continue. In any other organization, if the leader falls for any reason, another takes their place. There is a chain of command. I do not see why that would fail here."
Hildegarde could not have a successful order with these two squabbling. They needed to find some kind of common ground and they needed to find it soon. “There was a chain of command within the Knights of the Black Ice before, but the Order died quickly and it died quietly. It will do us no harm to attempt a kind of…a kind of diplomatic arrangement, a democratic process of voting and discussion rather than a simple chain of command. Like ancient orders from tall tales, you must be gallant knights who come together to do what is needed of you. Attempt this different style. If it does not work, we will go about implementing a leader,” she said. The Silver paused for a moment before shaking her head. “If any of you have any issues with your co-knights, best speak up now. I can’t have you working together and… and well, snapping at each other later on and perhaps endangering yourselves.”
Riselet sinks into Lyros’ grip, assured but still on edge. These two really enjoy to swap insults, giving her doubts as to whether this was a good thing to jump headfirst into — if she had known Lyros and Ayras had some kind of… history, she would have been much more hesitant about joining, if only to deter Lyros a bit. Could their jobs be completed if they constantly bickered? “I think Hilde’s idea is nice,” she adds, projecting her voice in a vain attempt to establish dominance among the three. “It’ll do us good, since we’re all equal in skill and talent. Having a leader’ll just make the rest of us jealous. ‘Specially if that leader’s me,” she puts a proud hand to her chest, amused by her own comment. “As for issues… Lyros keeps losing my socks, and Ayras won’t stop talking ‘bout the giant incident.” She guffaws before glancing at the two of them, hoping to ease the tension of the room a little bit.
Lyros, admittedly, might have reconsidered taking on this job had he known he would be cast headlong into this mess, just moments after swearing his oath. He scoffs at Ayras' words, his reply an acerbic, "Stick to ordering soldiers around." Absently he rubs his thumb in slow, gentle circles over Rise's skin, as assured by her as she is with him, their hands trapped between their bodies and mostly concealed from view. She gets a smile for her quips in an attempt to lighten the mood, and the mage is almost sorry to ruin it by speaking frankly, turning to Hildegarde to give his honest opinion, as she asked for. "The only issue I have is that he has a stick up his ass. It seems Ayras was previously given the title of Knight-Commander and is desperate to reclaim what he lost, whether he still deserves it or not. The racism I can deal with, it's nothing new. I'll work alongside him if I must, but I won't work under him." He lifts his head, free hand clenched into a fist and fresh blood dripping from the bandage, already saturated.
Ayras could have melted Lyros' face in that moment. He probably would have, if he were the man he was when Satoshi sat the throne. Instead, he just clenched his mithril fist. "I have the stick up my ass?" he nearly snarled as he turned on Lyros. "You have been nothing but derisive since I first laid eyes on you. I have tried being nice to you. I tried being civil when that failed. So dispense with your self-righteousness." Despite the fact that he had not at all addressed Hildegarde in his little speech, what he said likely sufficed as explaining his issue with his companion. Go figure that he had nothing negative to say about Riselet. A pity that Lyros had ruined the humor for him of what she had said before he had even gotten a chance to laugh.
Hildegarde, sadly, did not laugh either. On any other occasion, she might have done but with two newly dubbed knights already at one another’s throats like this? Perhaps it was a mistake to have revived the Order. With a shake of her head, the knight steps forward and assumes the authoritative voice of a battle commander: “Enough!” The Silver paused for a moment, looking over the trio as a plume of frost escaped her nostrils. A sign of annoyance, to be sure. “Wipe the slate clean. As of today, you arise as brothers in arms. I do not want to have to worry about the state of my city, my people or their lives being in the balance because of your bickering. So it stops today. If I don’t see some genuine effort to come together and at least be amicable towards one another, I will throw you both in the same cell, Aramoth so help me, and I will keep you there until it is resolved! Do I make myself clear?”
Riselet finds herself growing more irate the longer the two fight — she can feel her temper flaring as they go at each other's’ throats, brushing her off. She lets go of Lyros’ grip abruptly and balls both of her hands into fists, knuckles white, brows furrowed in annoyance. Infighting was what lead her old cabal to ruin — it’s her responsibility to prevent that from happening to the Order, a new opportunity for her and for so many. She’s not letting them ruin it. At Hildegarde’s speech she begins to clap, nodding with ardor. The knight’s commands don’t pacify her, but further encourage her irritation. “It’s clear to me, Hilde,” she snorts, casting her gaze over the two, “but these two don’t seem to get it.” She pauses, expression darkening, before continuing. “If you idiots don’t shut your mouths, Gods help me, I will sew them both closed!” she barks, voice loud as it resonates through the expanse of the room. Riselet shoves the two apart roughly, giving herself room to accent her monologue with sweeping gestures. “Hilde shouldn’t have to be bothered with this. You’re grown men!” Her eyes are a pitch black under this light, pupils swallowed up by the dusk of her iris. “So obnoxious! If you want to solve this, kill each other for all I care! That’s what you did in Cenril when you had a problem, and they’re more orderly than you twits are. I didn’t join the Knights to mediate schoolgirl catfights!” She’s nearly yelling at this point, face flushed in anger.
"'Nice?' The first thing you did was buy food I was refused just to tease me, and you look at me with suspicion like all the rest - you see only my race, you're so blinded by your prejudice." That is all Lyros manages to snarl before the combined intervention of Hildegarde and Riselet has him flinching to a pause, the rest of his tirade trapped in his throat, locked down. His friend pulls away and makes him blink in response to the sudden relinquishing of her hand, the mage faltering as if she caused him to lose his footing, as if she dragged the ground out from beneath him in the same moment. His own words echo back to him through the tones of their raised voices and Lyros scowls, very much aware he has allowed his anger to take control...how foolish; they don't have the time for these squabbles and he knows it, but it is difficult to just brush off these stabs at his pride. He quickly quietens down, however, all hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, though he does throw Ayras a final sour look. Struggling to bury his rage, the drow remains silent while Riselet shouts, even when she pushes him back, his posture meek and compliant. This is a familiar avenue, at least. "Fine, I get it," he mutters lowly after a long pause, all his prideful looks abandoned in favour of dropping his gaze to the floor. It's not amicable, but...
Ayras said nothing. His silver eyes were dead as Lyros started to speak, and they remained so throughout the rebuke from both Hildegarde and Riselet. No matter that they both had fair points, his eyes were still set on Lyros as he went about his obiecence. It was clearly not a good start to the rebirth of the Order. "Understood," was all that he could say, all he would brave for fear of what else would come out.
Hildegarde took a little step forward to settle her hand gently upon Riselet’s shoulder as if in some show of sympathy for the crumbling of her previous group of associates. She offers a little squeeze and a gentle smile, but no words just yet apart from a mouthed ‘I know’. She could sympathise. As all fell quiet in the war room, the knight took a little step back from Riselet and turned her back upon the trio to find something in the room. She is not turned for long. “This has not been the best start for the Order,” she noted aloud, “and there will be trying times ahead for you all.” The Silver approached Riselet again and held in her hands an amulet of black, glowing ice. Carefully, she would loop it over her head and let the amulet come to rest naturally. “This amulet,” she began, “is a symbol of brotherhood. Sisterhood. Of family,” she told them all gently, as she went by each one and bestowed upon them an amulet. “And yes, you may hate each other. But you are family now. You are my family now, as I am yours and as you are each others. Frostmaw will need you in the future. A family need not like one another, but they must love and support one another. It takes time to overcome our differences, that is true. But we have time aplenty. It’s something to work on, agreed?”
Riselet feels an immediate pang of regret for her outburst, yet does nothing but stare blankly at the two. Her face is now red out of embarrassment rather than anger. She isn’t exactly setting the best example. Hildegarde’s act of sympathy does not go unnoticed, giving the dragon a look of hesitation — ‘was that a good idea?’ — before sighing, keeping her gaze fixed on their superior. She can feel herself slipping back into the recess of her mind until her eyes catch the amulets the Silver holds in her palm. It’s hard to look away; she’s never seen something of such craftsmanship before. As Hilde steps forward, there’s a small moment of dread that quickly dissolves into gratitude. Forgiveness. She feels tiny tears bubbling at the corners of her eyes, mouth pulled into a lopsided half-smile as the amulet is carefully placed around her neck. Riselet holds back her crying, swallowing down her feelings. Slender fingers tenderly reach for the amulet and go down the chain of it. “Hilde...” Her voice is cracked, face red, eyes watery — childlike, a complete 180 from her actions just a few moments earlier. She glances to her brothers-in-arms on either side, brows furrowed in juvenile anxiety. “Y-yeah. I agree. I, um…” her words are caught in her throat momentarily. She coughs, nervous. “I’m sorry for yelling at you two…” Riselet hates apologizing — loathes it. It makes her feel humble and weak, so unlike the facade she presents, but it’s so hard not to with these three. They deserve better than a halfling with a bad temper. “I’m just… real nervous… ‘cause this is the first time something like this has happened to me and I, uh, don’t... wanna... mess it up.”
Lyros, who is very much aware of Ayras' eyes on him, makes a point of looking everywhere but the vampire. He seems preoccupied with the floor more than anything, studying it with disinterest; at least until Hildegarde's voice rings out within the chamber once again and he looks up, just in time to find the Silver looping a chain around his neck. The reaction is instantaneous, the barest flinch backwards prompting a sharply hitched breath in the back of his throat, but he quickly calms down when the realisation settles over him, warily, that she is not attempting to strangle him. Not right now, at least. A gauntleted hand cups the amulet and he holds it flat in his palm for a moment, looking over the intricate design, the pulse of magic contained within the enchanted ice reverberating softly against the metal of his claw-tipped fingers. Wordlessly he nods to Hildegarde, while the tearful, apologetic Riselet earns herself a lingering look that, though mostly unreadable, holds traces of concern— Ayras gets a frosty glance and silence, but that may be his pale attempt at amicability, half-hearted as the feeling in his chest, a ghost of his earlier exuberance. He reaches to clasp Riselet on the shoulder, grip tight with something unspoken and meaningful. And then without so much as a word, the drow is moving to leave, a brisk stride carrying away from the map and the centre of the room to the tune of echoing footsteps, back up to the narrow staircase that led them here. He wants to be alone to nurse his wounded pride — what's left of it — and to think.
Ayras found it quite a strange feeling, not having to kneel down to allow the Steward to put the pendant around his neck. It was strange enough that it distracted him, for the moment, from the tension between himself and Lyros. His eyes dropped to the thing as Riselet spoke, as she went about apologizing. Only after Lyros' move to depart did he look up to watch the man leave, a sigh escaping him. Those armored feet of his took him to where Hildegarde and Riselet stood, but he did not place a hand atop the half-elf's shoulder as the dragon had. No, he fell into a bow, his face toward the floor. "You've no need to apologize, Little Grey. There is no fault on your shoulders." There was a strange look on the vampire's face when he straightened, something that wouldn't let him meet the gaze of either woman. Without another word, he, too, departed.
Hildegarde watched as Lyros and Ayras departed. Two sides of the same coin. The Silver heaved a sigh and looked to Riselet, offering her a little weary smile, “You will not disappoint me, Riselet. You are magnificent. You will be magnificent. Do not worry about disappointing… only worry about trying your best.” The Silver gave her shoulder another squeeze. “I think, however, that I need to get back to my bed and rest for a time, if you don’t mind.”
Riselet whips around as the two depart without a word, anger flaring once again until Hilde’s voice echoes, accompanied by a smile. The blush stays, the halfling swallowing hard. “O-of course, Hilde. Thanks for everything.” She nods at her comment, taking slow steps as she turns to leave. “Good night. Sleep well! Y’need it!” She waves with a grin before running hurriedly out of the icy chamber. “Wait, Lyros, Ayras! Don’t just run off without meeee—” a deep breath. “Lyrooos! I’m still your bodyguard, y’know!”