RP:A Sage Elf in Frostmaw

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Rhosorien travels up to Frostmaw and comes across Hildegarde in her full dragon form and in battle with another of her kin. Whilst the two butt heads on a number of matters, they discuss the recent events between elves and drow and the behaviour of the elves in the City of War. Rhosorien requests that, should he attempt to negotiate with the drow, Hildegarde will stand witness. She agrees.

Cliff Edge

Hildegarde, while not ashamed of her heritage, is very rarely seen in her most truest of forms. Yet when duty calls, the knight would never hesitate to shed this human skin and skim the clouds in an array of dazzling silver scales. But all of Frostmaw could hear the furious roars and screeches between the two dragons, their battle having reached its climax as Hildegarde – in her scaled and enormous form – has pinned a red dragon down and has her teeth about its throat; seemingly preventing it from spewing more flames towards the icy city. The Silver snarled lowly, serpentine eye affixed upon the Red beneath her before her great fangs delved deeper and ended the life of the rogue dragon. After a few moments – and a few death twitches from the Red – the knight reared her head back, only to dip her blood covered maw in the snow.

Rhosorien is drawn to the sounds of danger like a moth to a flame. An hour or so he has been in Frostmaw, and already he has seen much to peak his interest in the events transpiring here in the northern snows. He is cloaked in heavy furs over his usual rangers garb, relying on his quiver to hold a wolf's pelt around his shoulders – the strap upon the quiver is much tighter than usual over the thick pelt that seems to expand his frame somewhat. His bow is in one hand, and an arrow in the other, and the two are knocked together as he rounds a corner in the road, only for them to go limp at his side at the spectacle he is faced with. Dragons in conflict! Rhosorien manages to keep his jaw from dropping, though awe and alarm are clear in the wide-eyes of forest-green. The red is clearly unwelcome, the silver a guard of his... her... its tundra home. Whatever hope he may have had of assisting the Frostmaw people and perhaps earn some small upturn of opinion towards the elven-kind is dashed. Truly this is the City of War, the ranger is beyond his depth, and there is no promise of action in the frame and face of the man whom stands fixed with fear and wonder in tandem.

Hildegarde's great and serpentine head has raised at the sound of crunching snow, single eye gazing out at Rhosorien. If his memory is good, he might even recognise that eye a little bit, even though it now looks much like a serpent’s eye and not quite so human. The dragon offers a rumble of greeting, but it doesn’t seem to be threatening. The dip in the snow has wiped the majority of blood away from her maw and it is quickly absorbing the blood that drips from what wounds she now bears from the fight with the Red. “The Sage elf,” the dragon speaks, her voice mimicked by an exact copy of her own but a few moments behind, creating an unusual and yet powerful flanging effect. The voice is distinctly familiar, strong but not lacking total femininity. It is clearly female. “I see you have made it to Frostmaw.”

Rhosorien 's alarm increases. Sometimes words can mean more than the sum of their parts, and in his heightened state of awareness, this simple phrase seems to have a vast multitude of potential meanings. “The Sage Elf.” Take him? Slay him? Throw him from the mountainside? Rhosorien's head darts left to right to see if any hitherto unseen giants are advancing to fulfil any of these imagined commands. Then a following statement reaches his ears, the points of which tremble to receive the layered sound, and a snap of recognition brings the ranger to view this saurian in a new light. “Lady Steward?!” the ranger gapes in surprise, then hurriedly slings his bow over his shoulder and thrusts the arrow back into its quiver. “I had never expected... Or never thought... What a place this is!” Unbidden, before he can consciously calm himself, the more automatic parts of his brain release whatever chemical it is that brings relief, in such quantities that Rhosorien throws back his head in jubilant laughter. He bends back, then abruptly forwards to lower his head and join his arms at his back – that familiar bow of greeting. “I dwelt long upon your invitation before I resolved and prepared to journey up here,” he says upon rising, a silly, relieved smile upon his lips, “perhaps I ought not to have tarried. It seems my fellows have been conducting themselves in stupid fashion.”

Hildegarde had seen such relief before in the humanoids who had seen her truest form for the first time. It always seemed to frighten them and she could understand why, particularly more so when she has just finished off slaying another dragon. With what sounded like a chortling noise, the dragon bobbed her head before replying, “Thought that dragons roamed Frostmaw? That the Steward was one? Many surprises await all who come to Frostmaw,” she said, her tone attempting to be light and as friendly as a dragon can manage. A hard feat to achieve, given the razor sharp talons and spear like teeth and sheer size alone. “Indeed, it would appear so. The Queen is not one to put up with such behaviour and she has put up a notice in the tavern for all to read,” she imagined he already knew that, but there was no harm in repeating the fact, “and I have not yet had the time to see how the Sylvan folk have reacted. My men tell me that some are content to stay here and abide our laws, whereas others… others will want to leave, but go where?” a thoughtful grumble is offered here.

Rhosorien might have a sharper retort for another who might pose him the same question; of course there are dragons in Frostmaw. If there are dragons hidden deep and lost in the woods of Sage, and dragons who make their dens in the deepest caverns of the Underdark, and dragons who roam the sandy plateaus of northern Rynvale, then there must be dragons in Frostmaw. He'd even heard of them – great Silver and White beings, their breath as terribly cold as a Red's is terribly hot. “That YOU were a dragon, my lady. Though it seems to make great sense to me now – few humans would qualify as leaders among giants. I, too, have set to visit the Sylvans, and now I am not certain that it is my desire. I have seen the newspapers, and I was disgusted. Tactlessness is what earned us our state of exile, and I am saddened to see that so few have learned this lesson. I had hoped that without 'heroes' like the so-called Archdruid and the bearer of Ilithuel to inspire others to hate us, the Sylvans would keep their heads down. As for where they will go... Many, I expect, go to their deaths. There is no free home for many, many miles. I doubt they will survive another exodus. I might be able to instil a few in Sage... Skilled rangers, alert and deadly. But mothers, elders, younglings? Not a chance.”

Hildegarde offered another chortling like sound, “You would be surprised. In Frostmaw, it is only the strongest who rule, and they needn’t be the most physically strong,” she informed him. Considering that Satoshi’s prowess lay in magic and not in physical strength, that attested to the way things worked in the City of War. “I am saddened that the elves had been so disrespectful in their new home,” she said with a genuine sense of sadness, “though I am happy to know that some will stay with us, for I have made some strong bonds with these elves. But to return to Sage, even as a ranger and try to remain hidden, is no life. It is only asking to be killed or to seek out trouble. Hardly sends the right message to the younger generation either,” she said as softly as a dragon could. “If your brethren have any sense, they might seek Frostmaw’s forgiveness – but I imagine that is something that will be hard fought for – or they will seek the embrace of Cenril. Sage is no place for them. It is dangerous.”

Rhosorien has lost his smile now, and his face has settled into its usual brooding apathy. “I was born in the shade of the Eternal Tree,” he says, “I remember it vividly. Oh yes, my own birth. One tiny moment, the very beginning. The rest is lost of course, resurfacing as my memory began to develop in not-unlike-human fashion, a few years later. But I remember, I remember being pulled from darkness and slime into a world of brilliant greens and earthen browns. And I remember most vividly of all that great Tree, its branches seeming to stretch for miles and miles above my head... And the voice. Wordless, it spoke. Soundless, it blessed and reassured. I am what and who I am because of the life and allegiance I owe to the Eternal Tree, and the Sage Forest that spreads from it. Outside of Sage... I am not alive. -WE- are not alive. How are we wood elves if we have not a wood? I do not care what the danger, how omniscient and terrible the foe. As long as the Eternal Tree stands, Sage is my home. I am certain everyone of my kin feels this as deeply as I. But outside of the forest, this attitude divides us. “Storm the woods, kill the drow, the forest is ours!” some will say. Others will advise caution, patience and tact. I am... Somewhere in the middle. But it is only the most radical, I expect, whom will have been foolish enough to publicly condemn the predilections of She who offers us our lives, meaningless as they may seem to us. I, at least, am grateful on their behalf.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Cenril has no arms with which to embrace us – it is a battle ground. Once we offered the sanctuary of Rynvale's Fog Forest, but... It has no great tree for us to worship, to bind us again in camaraderie. Perhaps it is simply the end of our time... Perhaps I ought to try and forget that which I remember most vividly.”While he does not in the least expect to convert Hildegarde into championing elf solidarity, he does hope to make her understand the frustrations of his kind.

Hildegarde does not lack sympathy for the Sylvan folk, nor does she misunderstand their frustrations. She can imagine what it’d be like to be rousted from her home and forced to live elsewhere, all the while knowing that the supposed enemy has laid claim to that previous home. A terrible situation to be in to be sure, but not one she can promote war over. She had seen too much war and bloodshed. “I do not and cannot condone your actions,” she said as gently as this form would permit, “being in Sage as you are is dangerous and it may well prove to set a poor example. If your people truly want change, perhaps they ought to show they are ready to discuss matters, rather than to spit in the face of those who would shelter them or to only be war-mongers. One woman sought me out for the very same, asking if Frostmaw would give strength to the Sylvan cause,” she had told him that before. “I say to you the same I said to her: everything I do is in Frostmaw’s interest. My only counsel for you is to put down the bow and raise your voices,” she nodded just slightly. “Your bow is not your only weapon, the voice can be just as powerful and people tend to forget that. A voice can make peace or it can make war. Do not run into the fray over pride or the sense of home. Do what is best for the people and for your land, you understand? If I were your enemy and I held the forest, knowing it is what you want back, I would use this as leverage against you. But speak with and reason with me, then there’d be no need for war. Understand?” The knight so dearly wished no more blood would be shed.

Rhosorien brows knit, and he decides he's had enough of this conversation. “It is lucky that my actions do not require your condoning, my lady,” refute though he must, he does not wish to show her any form of disrespect, “Frostmaw, you say, respects strength. The drow worship it, and in their minds, combine it with malice. I also, and please know that it is only for my pride that I say this and would so dearly lament for conflict to result from speaking it, feel that you have insulted me. I do not desire any satisfaction, for I have every doubt that it was intentional. I have spoken of my gratitude to Frostmaw, and am reprimanded for my willingness to 'spit in the face'. I had thought, as well, that we were merely discussing current events, but you seem to think me a beggar and a charlatan, and assume I will not be satisfied until I have your swords at my beck and call. I do, however, have a proposal for you to consider.” He knocks the heels of his boots together, and loosens his hands from behind him to let them fall at his side. “You champion negotiation; I protest that there is no negotiating with my foe. I am willing, however, if only to prove my point, to try and come to an agreement whereby we are allowed to live in sage, and NOT as slaves, playthings or captives of the drow – for us to live in Sage as it would be worth for us to live in Sage, do you understand my meaning? But. I know that if I go to negotiate with Trist'oth, I will be wholly unable to make such a settlement. I come back, I tell you, “there was no negotiating with them,” and you say, “you did not try hard enough, you crave war.” So my proposal is this: I will, with all honest intention, attempt to negotiate with the Drow -if- you will stand as witness to it. You shall see firsthand that these people are without mercy, and wish upon us only the highest miseries they can concoct – or I shall be corrected, and filled with remorse. Would you accept?”

Hildegarde would never dream of causing offense, but it is evident she had insulted this man. The dragon offers a low rumbling in the back of her throat as her foreleg bends until her body appears to be semi-kneeling, a mark of apology and respect amongst dragons and a symbol rarely offered by her kind to any. It is a sign of her intention; that she had no intention of insulting, offending or even upsetting him. Hildegarde was, at times, rather lame and poor with her wording of important matters. The knight would not interrupt him, for she would not wish to cause further insult, and she would wait for him to finish, before nodding her great saurian head: “I will stand witness to this.”

Rhosorien claps his hands firmly together, a small smile worming its way back onto his lips. “Marvellous!” he says, then puts his hands once more behind his back, and bends into a forward bow. “I am very glad for this chance meeting, my lady. I think I will stay here for a few days, and explore this wonderful city. Then I shall make inquiries as to whom it would be best to approach on the matter of negotiating. I wish you a most excellent day.” Another bow, and then Rhosorien is proceeding back towards town, hoping to find affordable lodging – far too cold to sleep in a treetop, as is his custom.