RP:A Time To Rend, A Time To Sew

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: Although recent events have been tumultuous, and there is no clear sky of it in sight, unlikely people lay down their burdens for a night on the town. Tonight, a man of Frostmaw and an ardent Larketian choose to dance amid tension so sharp it could be cut with a knife in the dark. Joining Lionel and Valen is the able songstress Raphaline -- and a brief arrival from Krice. Even young Rorin's urgent mission report can't stop the Catalian from enjoying his evening, nor will Valen let lines in the sand prevent his fancy.

Frostmaw: Tavern

Lionel has allowed too many papers to stack too many places. Turning from his azure gaze upon the fireplace within his private quarters, Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander is suddenly and desperately aware: there are papers -everywhere.- Where has Briar Ku Risu been keeping herself these past two days? She’s been so good to him otherwise; it was never even her duty to handle the literary angles of his work life. Perhaps she has finally had enough of him? As his lips curl into a grimace, Lionel can’t hide from himself the unfortunate truth that he wouldn’t blame her if so. Idly, he steps to the first piece of parchment atop the nearest stack. He peers over it, exhaustion compelling him to speak the words as he reads them. ‘To the honorable Knight-Commander,’ it begins. That’s never a good sign. Such formality from the merchant class means an inappropriate request is often pending. ‘With glowing kindness, my humble shop might ask for a forty-five percent decrease in tariff over the next thirty business days.’ Glowing kindness. Lionel can’t suppress a sneer; people who talk like that are full of hot air. He can picture the plump merchant in his mind’s eye even now. The rest of the letter is a novel exercise in obscuring intent by way of deftly-instilled arithmetic. Lionel grabs a nearby quill; paints a red ‘x’ over it and then shoves it into the fire, watching it burn. How easy would it be if all the realm’s troubles could merely melt away. An awkward glance is cast upon his fabled blade, Hellfire. He chuckles, mirthlessly. That kind of thinking is precisely the reason people like him can never lay down the sword. He leaves his quarters behind and walks briskly through the halls, nodding to guards who bow respectfully back at him. He’s dressed in thin black silks and keeps his badge of office, silver with the dragon’s sigil, at his right chest pocket. When Lionel O’Connor exits his queen’s fort and moves toward the northern gate, his only expression is tiredness.

Valen was certainly a ways from Larket as he trudged through the snow covered path, up to that familiar gate that he had seen maybe once or twice in all his years. How long had he been this way, ho wlong had he been in this land now? The last question he would ask himself was why it had taken him so long to finally just...settle down. The sorrow he had felt over hearing news that possible students of the Academy had been killed, regardless of the news that they had attacked the warrior first who so rightly defended, still weighed upon him as if a string of bold lead weights was trying to pull him into the very bowls of the ground...and some days, he welcomed that feeling because it meant he was still himself and not some vampire that had traded themselves for power. So it was here, that the Vampiric Elf against the side of the gate, would pull seemingly from the shadows a very sleek and well varnished Violin with the name "Maldor" engraved upon one of the sides, and begin to draw the bow across the strings. The skill with which he played was unlike any other, unearthly, heavenly but almost as if the music came from the darkest pits of the void itself. It spoke to him, that sombre tone, telling the player that all would be fine, that all would be well in time, as that simple worry was not the only thing he had to be concerned about. It also spoke of lost love, lost family, a lost home...as he himself still felt as an outcast.

Raphaline absolutely loves the icy lands of Frostmaw; a second home of sorts. A sense of joy exudes from her as the sound of snow and ice crunching under her feet reminds her that the further she treks inward, the closer she gets to the all too familiar and much loved. As the sight of tavern and fort come into view, her emerald eyes light up with such a spirit jovialness and her feet take on a quicker pace. She has never been able to track time very well, so she isn’t completely sure how long her last absence has been but right now, nothing else matters. Her feet press down on the snow, her feet sinking deeper as she closes in on the fort, hopeful that just maybe someone she missed will be there. As she crosses the threshold to the northern gate, her joy becomes her weakness and she takes too deep a step and tumbles with a loud, squeaking yelp into the snowbank. Not one to be so easily swayed from her good moods, she finds a solid place to put both her gloved hands and sits up and allows her silver-belled laughter to carry on the wind.

Lionel | His descent down the steps of the fort’s great gaping entryway is a short one. Despite the many stairs, Lionel is lithe and spry and hops almost flamboyantly two or three at a time. In the yard, many soldiers fence. Rorin is seen barking orders through his trademark mask -- Lionel told the squire the previous evening to ease off the leash even further and it would seem the words were heeded. “If Frostmaw prepares for war, my lord,” he recalls Rorin having told him in confidence, “then I will prepare your men and women for armageddon.” Lionel twitches as he drudges up that conversation; Rorin certainly has a confidently sharp edge about him underneath all that armor. Soldiers tense visibly and throw too much weight into their exercises at the sight of their highest-ranking superior officer. Lionel, now closer to gate than fort, doesn’t slow down but does remind them to stop doing that. “It won’t do to throw your backs out if and when Macon’s best archers take aim.” That seems like a reasonable use of fear, Lionel wages. He will never enjoy throwing fear at good people, but nor will he let Lithrydel rest unprepared. Someone is playing inordinately strong music rather closeby, indeed. The Catalian perks a brow and waves aside the dual Frost Giants standing vigil; he’s drawn to the tune in a way he’s not often wont to experience. It’s a somber moment filled with wonder as a red-haired musician enters his line of sight -- but then a vaguely familiar woman collapses dead ahead of him and he blinks, distracted. Lionel motions to intercept her and ask if she requires help; instead, she laughs in such a fashion as to somehow match chord with the stranger’s violin. “The heck?” he asks bluntly, standing there in the snowy space between the pair. Then a quick follow-up: “Are you alright?” Remembrance strikes him hard. “Ah, I believe we’ve met. You played for one of my squadrons out by Lake Frysta, didn’t you?”

Valen, at the sight of the woman in the distance who seemed to have lost her footing upon the ice and snow, could not help but feel a slight smirk tug at the edges of his lips, though for now he remains silent. How someone could remain so intrinsically enraptured in joy at such a tumble, even though catching themself, was lost to him. More than likely had he been playing his instrument during such a misstep he would have unceremoniously ad-libbed his music with a few expletives, but that laughter that would ring out tugged at his log dead heart in such a way that it caused his chest to feel tight. Unsure as to just what this emotion was, his music would hit a few choice notes of discord before he puts it back into the shadows with a sigh. Well...that was that. It was only then that he noticed the blonde-haired man, and shrugs at his very short question of his own confusion. It is clear this Red Head either has never met the woman in question, or perhaps merely does not remember. Valen would follow the blonde, at a distance as he goes with him to inspect the curiosity that was the woman with a blink. Hadn't she been there when he had first met the warrior Krice? Funny things about memories, they were such a fickle thing. "Are you alright Miss?" would be politely offered. "A step like that could have twisted your ankle, not to assume you have delicate ankles mind you...just a caution."

Raphaline cannot help the cheeky grin that crosses her lips as she sits back, gazing up at both men. If it were anyone other than the bold bard, well, they’d have a better choice of words than her next. “Goodness, two handsome gentlemen helping me out? I am the envy of every single lass.” Another brief, silver-belled laugh. Her emerald focus in on Lionel, and as she dusts her hood back, she nods in response. “Yes. I remember dancing with you Sir Lion.” Another brief grin as she turns to Valen, narrowing her eyes before relaxing and shaking her head, “I don’t recall your name, and that is saying something for me.” Realizing that if she doesn’t get up now, she is going to end up with snow all in her clothes, she carefully stands herself up and begins to dust the snow off her pants and jacket. “Where are you two gentlemen headed on this snowy day?” She notes the tiredness hanging over Lionel but turns her next words to Valen. “I heard you playing in the distance, how about we,” her gaze dances to Lionel with a grin crossing her lips, “play some music and cheer up Sir Lion at his abode?” She raises a brow in question, trying not to be too hasty and inviting herself in.

Lionel notes the accompaniment of the red-haired violinist by way of a tilt of the head -- but nigh-imperceptible is the very slight tensing of muscles on the off-chance he should happen to be foe. Yet Raphaline in her perch is fancy-quick to regale them both with compliment, instantly easing Lionel despite himself. He peers around awkwardly, as if the songstress could have meant anyone but them. A horse-and-carriage gilded in rich silvers and ebonies trots past the trio with a bold man and his whip to guide it, but elsewise they are alone save for the grizzled and looming guards behind them. “We did at that,” he’ll confirm Raphaline’s mention of their frolic. His voice is warm and well. “I can’t speak for this man, Raphaline,” he recalls her name and casually sprinkles it in, “but I’d half a mind for a drink at the tavern.” It occurs to him that there is much talk of too many secrets at the fort just now. Frostmaw mobilizes for open war. Already, too many unknown factors cavort within those hallowed halls, even as Kreekitaka, Uyeer King, must surely have entertained the notion of spies being left in the wake of his departure. To say nothing of Macon. “I am quite confident the barkeep would appreciate your lyrics,” he tells Raphaline as if to smooth over any misunderstanding. After the tense senatorial month he’s had, a silver tongue seems to have been added to his arsenal.

Valen, at such fair words from an even fairer femme, would give off a soft tinge on the side of his cheeks, barely noticeable but still there all the same. "Hardly the envy because of us, but your cheery disposition." would be returned with politeness. At the mention of names after the Blonde and Woman exchange pleasantries, Valen would take a step back, hands behind him, and with a flourishing bow complete with a hand being moved to the front to turn in wheels as he bent over he would announce "Valen, my lady and sir. Valen Veldair." Upon righting himself up, and at hearing her suggestion that they go together to cheer this fine gentleman, that charming smirk would tug at his face as he tried to continue to be polite. Not that he was naturally rude, no. He just at times had the mind of a young man stuck in his twenties. "I should think that to be a splendid idea, though i have oft found that at times...it is apropriate to also have a libation, or three. As it so happens, I have bottles of it, enough for us all." At the mention of booze from the gentleman, Valen would motion a thumb towards him while looking to Raphaline "Can he read minds?" Turning to now address Lionel properly, he would casually say "If the young lady does not mind, or even if she does, I would most certainly accompany you to the tavern. Perhaps the two of us can combine our talents, no? Maybe then that would bring a charming smile to such a fair visage..." Let it not -not- be said that at times, Valen could end up being polite but in the most awkward of ways.

Raphaline is not easily offended and rolls with things. “A tavern is even more fun. Drinking, music and possible brawls? What doesn’t it have to draw those in need of reprise from their daily duties?” Chuckling, she moves to step between both the males and link arms with them. Brave, brash and without shame, she nods towards the tavern. “So who is going to buy me my first drink?” She asks with that lulling tone full of subtle charm. “And the music,” she turns her gaze to Valen and lightly nudges him, “what kind of tavern nonsense do you know? I find it best to introduce with a bit of silliness before diving headlong into something a bit more interwoven with serious feelings and melody construction.” What song to choose? The one about a sailor and his brief affair with a bar maid, or a jaunty pirate tune about wishing that there were fountains of endless rum? Either way, she was happy to be in good-spirited company willing to allow her her silly fancies and what not.

Lionel scratches at the side of his neck absentmindedly at Valen’s vast flourish. He’s never been one for these displays, which is all kinds of ironic given his propensity to twirl around like a circus acrobat on the field of battle. Although… the man -is- offering to pay for drinks. He gives him a contemplative grin, then turns to regard Raphaline’s responses. They’ll start their trek toward the tavern at a good clip and in good cheer, although the Catalian seems less prone to discourse than either of his newfound companions. There is also the nagging issue of every third passerby bowing to him with esteem. “I’ll never, ever get used to that,” he humbles idly. Only now does it occur to him he’s yet to offer his real identity to the one called Valen. “The name’s Lionel,” he adds. “It wouldn’t do for you to think me a literal lion at the lady’s remark.” He smirks to her expediently as they happen upon the bar’s front door. “As for the song, I’ve learned to trust you in those matters.”

Valen would think for a moment just to see -what- he knew in the way of -tavern- nonsense, but really all he knew was his own regular nonsense. He was glad though for her company, and enthusiastically hooked his arm in hers to play along. "I may not know many tavern songs, by that type of nature, but I do know a few sea shanties. One about a drunken sailor and the captain's daughter, One about a mermaid and an ogre, and then finally although not a sea shantie but one of my favorites, there is the one about An Avian and an Elf, although that one seems to draw on for a bit..hrm.." he said as he would go back to pondering, but really his list of less compositional material seems to be rather short at the moment. Grateful now though, that his offhanded, possibly flirtatious comment towards Lionel seemed to have slipped by unnoticed, the Vampire would offer them a riddle to pass the time. It was the elast he could do. "As I said, I may not be used to thinking of bar songs but I am quite gifted with humerous riddles. What is a honemoon salad?" He would be patient to see if they figured it out, it had been after all something he had just picked up from a very dear friend. At lionel's remark, Valen would simply look away sadly "I thought I never would get used to it, but in the end I never had to." There was a hint of that sorrow that had escaped from his violin, but this seemed more deep-rooted. It was gone quickly, and he was back to his happy self soon enough. "Merry Meet Lionel, I hope this evening brings you some enjoyment at the very least."

Raphaline turns first to Lionel and feigns a look of innocence before sending such a notion on its merry way a top a grin. Instead she considers the songs that are offered, her brows knitting together as she recalls her own repertoire and sorts through her years of music knowledge; a few of the aforementioned do tug at her memory. “The one about the captain’s daughter is quite a funny one. Silly pirate, should know better than to frisk the captain of his goods.” She shakes her head, causing fiery curls to dance across her features as she turns to regard Valen and his riddle. “I can rightfully say I have no idea.” In attempt to draw both of them from more somber moods, she gently squeezes either of their arms, “And you wondered about my earlier compliment. I still stand by it.” She perks up, her body practically buzzing with joy as they finally arrive at the abode. Releasing both of the boyos, she makes for the door, props it open and gestures for them to enter. “Before we all freeze off too important appendages, aye?” Once they are both in, she will follow after and make her way to the bar counter, kindly asking for three of the largest Frostmaw ales that can be had!

Lionel was, until quite recently, wholesale-oblivious to most forms of flirtation for a little over a decade and counting. Affairs of state -- figurative, mind you, not literal -- have fast honed him back toward the ability to court when faux-courting is useful at the negotiation table. Here in the afternoon cold, however, Valen’s line does indeed fly quite highly over the proverbial head. “I suppose it couldn’t be made with cantaloupe, given the lucky couple has already been wed,” Lionel replies to the riddle’s request, taking Raphaline’s cue to enter into a much congenial atmosphere. There was, after all, an old Catalian joke about cantaloupes being the one fruit standing in the way of wedlock. The tavern’s packed to the bursting tonight as men and dwarves and giants and elves alike toast mugs openly to the praise of so many things. Crops begin to grow again at last in the northeast reaches -- a cheer. The queen’s rumored resilience against the Uyeer monarch the previous night -- a cheer. Her supposed flight toward Larket in a showing of strength -- three cheers and an awkward hug between a gnome and a tall barrel-chested native. Lionel’s own successful Operation Sauriangate with the Warrior’s Guild by his side earns nearly as much applause. And perhaps most impressively of all, a full house salute and handshakes galore in recognition of the first Frostmawian child born in the new year. Lionel stands at the epicenter, some of his off-duty troops waving him over, but he’ll decline with a polite nod.

Valen softly gives off his own light melodious laugh at Raphaline's comment about the silly pirate, but it would seem as if he is holding something back in the way he does it, almost as if trying to hide something though anyone's guess was as good as the next. Had it been night, with the moon out, Valen's skin would have been glistening with an almost luminous glow, looking to be as smooth as the finest satin. The effect would vanish, however once inside. The squeeze to his arm most certainly seemed to cheer him up, and all he needed was to wait for the dashing Lionel's answer on the riddle, knowing fully well that he most likely would never guess. Oh how he loved to make other's laugh, to him the joy came in a very close second to his first two loves...music, and teaching. Then the unexpected happened. It had been the wrong answer but it still caused his lips to burst wide in perhaps his toothiest grin of the evening. "I may have to tell my friend, Irenic, that one, it was quite good! But no, my lovelies, the answer that was given to me was 'Lettuce alone, with no dressing." He would let that one sink in for a moment. At the cheers that would errupt on the various occasions mentioned, one would catch Valen by complete and total surprise...almost stopping him dead in his tracks. The Frostmaw Monarch...did what to Larket? Were he needing to take breath, it would be shallow in rapid out of fear for his students though his eyes did little to hide the worry. "I...I need to sit down." And doing so he would, not wanting to draw attention to himself from the rest of the tavern, but would find the closest open table and just have this god-awful horror on his face. He had thought that the only war was between Kreekitaka and Larket and now he finds out it may be a three front war?? What was he doing here...This may have just suddenly gotten quite dangerous for the Vampire.

Raphaline is at the bar currently, so she has no idea about said reactions. So when she returns to whatever table her companions have taken up, she sets down three rather large mugs with froth and exclaims, “Best in the house.” It is only when she sits down that she notices the look on Valen’s visage and changes her tone of voice. “My dear, what has struck you?” Out of healer instinct, she reaches out and braces a gentle touch against his shoulder to offer a silent strength to him. She catches the whispers of others around her, but chooses not to acknowledge the going ons quite yet. “I think we all deserve a drink.” She shoots a look in Lionel’s direction, indicating she remembers him being quite the nose to the grindstone kind of guy. “As for you,” glancing back to Valen she offers him this advice, “Things are unsteady right now, but, if we were to keep our nerves so taunt and filled with worry all the time, it would do us no good.” She pushes one of the mugs in his direction, “And don’t feel obligated to play tonight, I am happy to sing without accompaniment.” She tacks on a soft smile that reveals the depth of compassion behind her usual carefree attitude. “So, a song. I am open to requests.” She downs a long swig of her drink while she waits. It burns its way down to her stomach, but it brings warmth to her face as she mulls over a few of her favorite tunes.

Lionel disguises initial giggles with a well-time fit of laughter to follow, such that only the most attentive of ears would note the man’s two seconds of utterly lost composure. Valen’s joke is better than he’d expected by far. He’s about to speak further, even, indicating that perhaps the Catalian is ready to keep pace of dialogue his two chatty new companions, when something unseen but clearly overheard strikes Valen with the force of a hammer. Watching the man sit, Lionel relaxes his left knee and folds his arms, glancing about. The next time one of his men waves him over, they’re not content merely to wave. “Knight-Commander Lionel,” the fellow bellows hoarsely. “They took Stroud, but you took three in exchange! You and that pretty-haired gent -- what was his name?” Lionel closes his eyes, eminently aware of the precise moment the red-haired vampiric elf fell to his seat in clear and present despair. “Carbuncle?” A barmaid answers the big man’s question, dressed in a pleasant gown and sweeping where the shells of peanuts have been left astray. “No, no, it was Kricebuncle,” another woman, this one barely clothed and thick of muscle, shoots back. “Kriceroni?” A small elf cries out. The whole entire bar seems to have stopped in their tracks to ponder. Raphaline’s already returned; she’s made her suggestion, but the establishment is nearly quiet as a mouse. Only a few shady-looking investors up near the rafters whisper in ignorance now. “Krice,” Lionel’s voice trails in barely an utterance, but everyone hears him just the same. “It was Krice.” His eyes open and he scans Valen with a gaze that blends in guilt and pride. “And I’ll have that drink, Raphaline. I think we really do need it now.” He seats himself across from Valen, muscles taut but his right hand accepting the beverage. “As for a song, I recommend The Rains of Dawn. It’s about hope found in dark places.” He sighs, silently praying the tension will end. But the gods are not so lenient today. “Krice, yeah,” that big man from before finally answers. “Yeah, that was he. I heard you and Krice tore clear through three of Macon’s Kingsguard. What was it you used? A counter-riposte? Boy, I’d love to get me hands on Hellfire someday, begging your pardons, my lord. Slice through a few Larketians wicked quick, that’d do.” Lionel’s heart begins to race.

Valen 's eyes would seem to be lost in his own thoughts and worries, before he is roused from them at her question. That tone she used, he had heard it before in another and it reminded him of somewhat happier times. "N-Nothing, simply got dizzy is all, and a bit frightened but all will be well. Thank you my sweet." If he wa sgoing to keep all of that to himself, he was going to need at least three more of these and some time dancing. He would also take her next words to heart, and give a noticeable effort, perhaps even succeeding, in trying to put those cheers out of his mind as well as the implications. Thing s were good, and he was in good company from two very kind people it seemed. "Obligated? Me?" he would say as a playful scoff, the mood returning more naturally. "Perish the thought! I may ask though that you just give me a bit, make sure my legs work. You understand?" Taking a rather large, but very graceful gulp...the effeminate looking Vampire may indeed get some strange looks as no doubt some may have taken him for a woman upon first glance...their own drinks not helping their vision, though by the time he was done half the mug would be emptied. Though it seemed the fates indeed would not be kind, and once more he was having to fight the urge to get up in tears, though they had not started in his eyes yet, and quickly seek out his newly adopted son just to make sur ehe and the rest of the Academy students were safe. Then Krice's name came up, and it was as if even in his absence simply the name would cause a look of admiration replace all the doubt. "I know Krice." he would say finally. "He...helped me when I was placed under guard by Kreekitaka." Bad move, he couldnt say how he had helped, as that would mean giving up that he was part of the Academy. "A bit brisk, somewhat baggy clothes, wields a katana....He..." He would look down into his glass, wishing it would fill the empty half back up immediately. "He's a very good and decent man. A bit aloof, but I trust him with my life." This, wa snot so hard as it seemed but now he had another problem. He could feel the palpitations coming from Lionel, that heart of his beating against his chest. He wa snot concerned with losing control, but rather something else. Deciding to be the bigger man for once, as feminine as he is, he would conclude "Rains of Dawn it is. Though...I have to ask, I have never heard of it. Can you dance to it...?" Looking to Lionel, he knew that this may seem odd to him but he had to have a distraction. "If so...would...would you dance with me...please?"

Raphaline doesn’t need a whole lot of prompting to get up, and when Valen offers to distract Lionel, she throws an appreciative look in Valen’s direction. If it weren’t him doing it, she would have done as much. She leaves the subject of Krice alone, that was or better yet is a long history she did not feel the desire to tap into at the moment. Another long draw of her drink until the mug is empty and she turns to the table of men trying to distract their commander, stands up so her full form can be seen and calls out, “The next gentleman to buy me a drink gets a dance with me.” And with that, the bard takes to the floor before those offering cheers for her to begin. With a grin, she brushes off the compliments as she centers herself to find the first note of the song. Her favorite songs are the ones about the light in the dark, because they possess the strong remedy of hope that so many need to hear and feel, and seem to find in the most distraught of times. As silent finds its way across the tavern, she gives them one last smile before she allows the first note to echo from her throat. It is strong, blazing with the strength of centuries come and gone. Her voice rises and falls, caroling the lyrics of a time when those who were a part of such desperate times did find their way. She sweeps and moves, her feet agile and graceful as her fiery curls dance around her in a fanfare of beauty. The sound of other voices joining in and adding to hers only fuels her on, causing her to reach into the depth of her magic and carefully projecting the sense of comradery and hope upon all those in the room.

Lionel is prepared for mortal combat if it should come to blows, although he’ll refrain from harming the elf if at all possible. He doesn’t know this man’s position; he may even be clueless citizen. Quietly, he ruminates, sipping his drink and examining the scene. Fisticuffs would be best -- with luck, he could take Valen in the jaw, swiftly concussing the man and then seeing to it he’s taken in by a medic posthaste. It’s a confined space; there are too many people present blocking too many pathways. Flip the table, swing the shoulder, arc the elbow. A kind of dance, really, now that he thinks of it. A dance… why does this sound familiar? Lionel glances upward, seeing Raphaline’s offer to the many patrons present. Ah, that’s why. She’s just recently used that word, herself. And then she’s off, and she’s moving, and her feet are like fire and her voice the ice that binds them, and denizens are clapping and cheering and joining and it feels like barroom war is brisked away in an instant. And Lionel is relieved, and sips the rest of his drink, but something feels off-kilter even now. And it occurs to him at this time that Valen is hovering over him awaiting reply. And the world seems to spin around Catal’s last prince as he finally realizes the question he has been asked. He stands upright and sniffles, then scratches at his ashen hair and coughs. No fights, tonight, perhaps, but this seems to scare him more. Raphaline’s still singing -- positively enchanting -- and men and women are digging into instruments they’d only secretively had on their person. “What?” he asks, dumbly, and then he stares and coughs again. “I, I know the moves, yes…” His feet begin to tap in harmony to the songstress’ dulcet tones, as if to prove himself in a duelist’s challenge. Tough luck, Catalian, this singer’s so good she’s contagious. Before long, he’s dancing at a perfect pitch, every bit the courtroom splendor he’d briefly been trained to be. And against his every waking thought, it just might do that Valen the vampiric elf may be dancing along, too.

Valen would give Raphaline a nod in return, a slight blush on his cheeks that he was even doing this, but it was something he desperately needed, almost as much as another drink of ale. He had a feeling, that at her offer of a dance, every gentleman and prhaps some strapping ladies would most certainly jump at the chance...and she may even end up with twenty mugs or more. The image that the thought carried was almost too much, and it then dawned on him that this knight...had laughed at his joke. That alone made the blush deeper still, or perhaps it was the drink catching up to him, but he painted a picture of adorableness when he was blushing...those glistening eyes, happy thoughts, made him almost look positively sparkling. Idly, he had wished he had brought that dress he had purchased a couple of days ago...It might have made Lionel a bit more comfortable to consider his request. It would then seem that perhaps an answer had not been verbally given, though with that toothy grin of his, gracefully would he move from his seat, and study the commander's moves for a few moments befoe trying his best to simply do as he goes. He is a bit clumsy at first, though for once the panic in his eyes are gone as he actually lets out a soft giggle of amusement, before he is moving so gracefully it would seem almost as if he was floating though his feet were indeed planted firmly on the ground. Eyes would continue to watch the commander, a bite to his own lower lip as he shuffles in time closer towards him, but not to where it would disturb either one's rhythm. This feeling, mixed with Raphaline's most perfect voice, made his very spirit soar it seemed. As that feeling comes over him, his heart aglow, something would happen that had not happened for this one in an age, or so it seemed. He felt, truly happy in an unbridled sense, he felt free. What would happen, was that his skin would start to faintly glow a soft aura, shining in fact. Not enough to distract those enthralled by Raphaline, but just enough that he seemed to be positively radiant.

Krice returned to Frostmaw after a few days away post-dinosaur-skirmish in the Northern Sage forest further south--a bit backward and topsy-turvy that one, but that's how it went. Anyway, he turned for the tavern dressed in his usual black garb with just one black katana strapped to his back this time, the other 'newer' one seen of late but not visible tonight. Despite his every intention to get in, grab food, and get out, the commotion within had him stopped at the door and staring. At first glance were the crowds of people turned inward to watch the scene, all in spirits too high for this stoic warrior to find any solace in. And then his gilded gaze drifted inward too, and he spotted a familiar dancer whose voice only filtered into his sensitive ears once he sighted her. Raphaline. There was familiarity in his eyes telling of his acquaintanceship with the bard, and a distant shadow reflecting nostalgic thoughtfulness. It had been a long time since he had seen the bard, since -anyone- in this region had, and he watched unabashed as she moved across the floor and serenaded the crowds. Krice made sure to take a few steps away from the door, clearing the way for tavern-goers leaving or arriving, and he just managed to keep a keen eye on the party at the center of the room, through the throngs of bar patrons. As Valen and Lionel joined the dance, the silver-haired enigma didn't much notice them for the radiance of the bard herself, but every so often, their movements took them across his line of sight and, with time, he became infected by the feel-good atmosphere lifting everyone's spirits. He even managed a soft smile, touching the corner of his mouth and hinting at a dimple in his left cheek. If any of the three people looked his way, of course that expression would disappear like a saurian escaping certain katanas and fire-blades, though softness would remain for the bard.

Raphaline is filled with the kind of joy that can only be found by a performer who is fulfilling her role in a tavern room. The smile that crosses her lips is true and brilliant, filled with the relief of someone who held hope deep within her heart no matter the odds. Her voice rises and falls, beckoning to those sitting to join in the revelry rather than sit and drink, because hope is created by the spirits of those who believe. She continues her singing, encouraging the crowds around her to fill in for her at certain points in the song as she dances over to her companions and first sweeps into the personal space of the blond. Given their prior meeting, she beckons Lionel with an outstretched hand and curls her fingers as if to silently call him to her. Her voice at no point falters, even when her gaze dances over the room and lands upon familiar visages (Krice) and offers a soft look of acknowledgement. For now, she is a denizen of the tavern, and her current occupation is to create an atmosphere with which the people here, mostly of Frostmaw residency, are able to hope even if for only a brief moment. Deep down, her purest reason for singing is to create a bridge between the people and the feelings with which they need.

Lionel is hard-pressed not to notice the radiance overtaking Valen’s very essence. He’s seen a lot of strange things in this world, but rarely have they been so sincerely becalming. In most events within the man’s life, discernible reactions in skin pigmentation have led to violence. Yet tonight he dances beside a Larketian despite a close call far to the contrary. He spots Krice near the doorway and a blush of ironies patterns itself upon his cheeks. Although it’s a curious thing; he could have sworn there were the ghost of a richly happy manner about the enigma, but it’s gone so swiftly, the Catalian’s convinced his buzzed mind is playing tricks on him. In the distance, a handful of patrons, mostly soldiers, call out to Krice in recognition and uproarious laughter. The poor swordsman, mercifully elsewhere when half the bar was guessing his name, won’t have reason to understand that laughter’s cause. Raphaline beckons; Lionel abides. He keeps step with Valen but shuffles over to the gleaming singer, taking position between them and holding step with her movement. An inescapable smile happens upon his lips in the moving. The song is reaching its crescendo now and Lionel softly chimes, distant memories pouring over him like a flood. The whole crowd’s in it now and even the ill-suited instruments amateur musicians have tapped seem to somehow only enhance the mood. “Those shores were blackened through the night, but everything was ever-light; the angel in her quiet bright, the only world I know. They burned and churned and broiled rope, but they could not blaze through our hope; the demons knew not of our scope, nor what the angels’ gift bestow’d.” Step by step. Beat by beat. Memories of the Second Immortal War. That last desperate battle for all mankind some ten years back and yonder. “Though cities blackened in the dusk and night fell harshly upon us; we held our lances -- we had guts -- and the rain began to pour. Despite their armies and their lust, despite their need to skewer us --” -- raucous laughter from inebriated patrons at this one -- “we kept the peace upon those shores, we kept the peace upon those shores,” the crowd begins to swell some more, “we kept -our- peace upon those shores forevermore.”

Valen, on any other given day, would have most likely minded if a dance partner had been taken from him but today was not such a day. Raphaline was truly a wonder, a master at her craft, and her song that she sang filled him indeed with hope and even a bit of excitement as he was truly in good spirits, though it showed he might be perhaps just the tiniest bit saddened at his being occupied, but no matter because upon seeing Krice, he would eye him before slipping into the crowd and into a back room...out of sight, giving a charming grin as he did. The vampire it seemed, had gotten himself into a rather silly mood, but at the same time was tense at the risk that was about to be taken. The shine gone from his figure now, back to his usual pale self, he would focus on the dress he had bought...and as his own shadow in that room began to swirl around him, his normal clothes would be replaced by perhaps the most stunning red dress you could find. Pink had not suited him, and he was not about to spend so much on those higher end ones yet, but the simple red dress which accentuated his features fit him quite nicely. Valen also knew, that Krice would sooner raise an eyebrow and just ask 'why' in that brisk tone, but Raphaline had encouraged him to at least try to have fun, and perhaps have hope that for once, he could simply have fun with someone he viewed as a friend. That was the bridge that Raphaline brought to him, one for acceptance, and just one night of pure and unbridled happiness as well as silliness. He owed it to himself, and besides...he was out a dance partner. He would swiftly walk out now, and walk past Lionel and Raphaline with a wink to them both in his new attire...before looking to Krice with a blush at the question he had asked Lionel. "...Will you dance with me?" Regardless of what the answer was, he would resume his dancing, in time that glow replacing his pale skin once more, shining perhaps even that much brighter now that he had his dress he had been thinking about. He wished he could always be like this, and he did not let the gaze of Lionel go unnoticed. He moved now, almost as fluid as water, hips moving when and where they should, feet nimble and graceful, and a smile that could last for days.

Krice caught a glimpse of Raphaline's soft acknowledgment, but as she beckoned Lionel to join her dance, he turned away to find his gaze filled by Valen - in a dress. The warrior didn't look obnoxiously shocked at this--perhaps he had seen something similar before, a man in woman's clothing--but he did arch a brow. Per Valen's expectation. As the vampire neared, the warrior's shoulders stiffened so slightly (omg 4-word alliteration) that it might have gone unnoticed, his guardedness already trying to return. The handful of soldiers who recognized the warrior drew his eye, and though he didn't begrudge them their laughter, the fact that -he- was the source and he didn't know -why- served to disgruntle him. Unfortunately, for Valen, Krice's answer to the dancing invite was a casual, " I don't dance," but at least he managed a small smile; the vampire's continued happiness, and bashfulness, charmed him to some degree. He turned, once more charting a course for the bar to the beat of Lionel's lyric where, from Drargon, he'd order a leg of wild boar - something he could carry with him the hell outta this place.

Raphaline in no way is surprised by Krice’s desire to skedaddle; it took a special occasion to get him to consider dancing let alone actually participate in the actual activity of it. Her focus though is on Lionel as he joins in with the singing. She will fully admit she had not expected the knight to have any sort of gift of song, but as his timbre (much different than hers) joins in, she finds the combination of her lilting tones and what she expects is of the lower register, mingles together, it draws a certain je ne sais quoi to it that makes the song sound more full. As the song begins to dip downward, finishing out the final lines, the lines that wrap up the long fight with the final bit of hope as those who walk forward from the debris and carnage. Her own voice begins to fade into the final notes as she steadies her gaze on Lionel as the lightest of smiles lights her face. “You know that song quite well.” She doesn’t press for information, but her tone indicates that she noticed the looks that crossed his face when he did sing. Gently, she touches his shoulder with the tips of her fingers before asking, “Shall we get another drink?”

Lionel catches Krice’s brisk walk and well-dressed Valen-handling with a certain spark of enjoyment. Just days ago, the two of them had teamed up at the negotiation table against an impatient monarch. Just afterward they’d been encircled by a veritable fleet of saurians with little hope for survival. Now they’re here and Lionel is watching the man decline another man’s hand. It’s almost too much -- but then, this is Hollow. All this zips on by in the peripheral, however, because he’s otherwise predisposed by happenstance-duet. Catalian vocal chords are oft uplifting of their own accord; Lionel never had much chance to practice, but his tone is more baritone than bass. It’s a softer complement to Raphaline than she might suspect, but then, Lionel himself is a slender and sharp-featured sort of man, not big and roughcast like so many of his subordinates and peers. As the music fades and the voices carry that last lingering anticipative note, he breathes deeply in thrill and reminiscence. ‘You know that song quite well.’ Raphaline’s words spoken in plainer arrangement snap the lad back to the forefront. “Firsthand,” he’ll reply, and he’ll leave it at that. Her fingers cause him to blink, but only subtly; skilled now in decent-hearted deceptions, Lionel quickly recovers with a smirk. “It would be a shock not to.” They head for the bar, Lionel doing his best to maintain that tipsiness at the tip of his conscience. Another drink would do, indeed, lest he otherwise begin to wonder what it is exactly he is doing here tonight.

Valen wasnt sure what more he had expected, and while it did not deter his overall mood...now he was out of a dance partner. The fact that he had earned a smile though from the warrior served to have him return it, though his glow would lessen somewhat as he looked over at Raphaline and Lionel, before heading on over to finish out dancing to the rest of the song with them. Lionel's lyrics would strike him as he listened though, and could not help but remember that his home could not keep the peace upon their own shores, falling prey to the vampires that had ended up turning him...and murdering his parents. Returning his thoughts back to Krice, nne of these days he would get that warrior to dance, but not this one and that was more than okay. For some unknown reason he kept finding his gaze looking over at the commander, only to look away if he caught it...before looking back to steal more. Something about this man...surely he knew that he was a Larketian, yet he made no notion of even acting upon that. Why? Was it because he simply let his opponent make the first move...? That thought alone got his thoughts racing on unrelated topics to try and distract him but all that ended up doing was make him look somewhat uneasy now that Raphaline's song had ended. At her asking if they should get another drink, he would all too gladdly accept that, even though it may not have been offered to him that time, and caught up with them while handing her coin enough for the three of them...before saying to her "Just buy a round for everyone from me...I'm..." He would look to Lionel, a frown on his face though not out of regret, not out of sadness, but of shame. "I'm sorry.." is all that would be offered before he idly wondered if he should just leave now. There was a more dangerous game being played, and he did not want to play it, he could not allow himself to play it. Things had started to go right for him but something kept pressing him. "...You sang beautifully, the both of you."

Krice received his wrapped leg of wild boar, paid for it with money owed and money tipped, and pivoted away from the bar as Raphaline and Lionel arrived for drinks. On his way to the door, he passed Valen near enough that the vampire would hear his normally-spoken invitation; perhaps the warrior himself was privy to Valen's want to leave. " If you're leavin', I'll walk you out." His tone said what he did not: 'I'm going that way, anyway'. Leg of wild boar in his left hand, Krice would approach the door and lift his right one to push it open, holding it so for Valen to exit first. Though the vampire was male, the warrior couldn't help this act of chivalry.

Raphaline chooses to remain humble and merely nods and offers a small grin in response to all the compliments being thrown her way. A woman of secrets herself, she doesn’t press either male for any more information than they are willing to divulge, instead she orders up another round of those large mugs full of ale. While she waits, she turns, leaning her back against the counter and tips her curious gaze once more up to those standing close to her. “You should indulge in a bit of singing more often Sir Lion. Music tends to soothe the soul even in the roughest of times.” She chuckles and adds on, “You have a rather nice voice too.” At the sound of mugs settling on the counter, she turns around once more and deposits the coinage in exchange before turning back to company, offering one. “Shall we return to the table or linger a bit around here?” Whichever choice, she is happy to share table or counter.

Lionel is made aware of the predicament he has unwittingly helped to conspire. There is a sorrow in Valen’s voice and in his mannerisms, and it does not appear entirely linked to the fact that Lionel himself is high-ranking Frostmawian representation. In fact, it seems to have shifted over at least partly into the mundane, into the relational, into things with which Lionel O’Connor is only just recently rediscovering. “There is nothing to apologize over,” he tells the Larketian, having decided that here and now, as they stand like a microcosm of their own surrounded by a loud crowd not likely to overhear, is the ideal time and place to break one portion of that ice. “I didn’t know you were of that city, but to me, tonight, it does not matter, Valen. Yes, I may lead soldiers against soldiers of your own province. Yes, if it should happen it will not be pretty. No, I do not wish Larket’s citizens any ill will, nor would Frostmaw ever seek to harm them.” He pauses, twisting his lips. “But it’s a complicated subject and you need only know that your heritage doesn’t faze me. It was not so long ago I fought beside Larket, myself.” Krice is holding the door. Lionel clears his throat and speaks no further of it. “Whatever you thought to say sorry about, there is no need. And thank you.” He tilts now to Raphaline, her own kind words in his ear. “As do you, Lady Raphaline, though I do tend to state the obvious.” A quick glance back to Krice; it will convey uncertainty over the present scenario. But regardless, Lionel will lead Raphaline -- and Valen, if applicable -- to a table, with a nod.

Valen would look over his shoulder, a glistening in the corners of his eyes for a brief second before whatever was there was gone with the wipe of his hand...that all encompassing glow that he had possessed while in complete bliss gone as well. "I will be right there Krice...Just, give me five more seconds." He was genuinly touched at just how a simple dress could really get a man like that to open up. This night had been fun, but it was also all too much. As he listened to Lionel's words, a huge weight came off of his chest. "I...would hope it not matter -any- night, though I understand Sir Lionel all too well. But thank you so much for putting my mind at ease I...I was so worried about my students with Kreekitaka but...Its just all so much now." Biting his lower lip, he would give Raphaline a hug, before doing the same to Lionel with reckless abandon for whether he might think it is a pre-emptive strike, or a good natured gesture. Though he would whisper something in his ear, which might make up for the awkwardness if there was any, before a kiss to his cheek...soft, gentle like velvet. "That...was for the dance, and for you putting my mind at ease." A lasting gaze would be given as he walked backwards out the door that Krice held. "Thanks..." Though if the Commander needed to catch him, it would certainly be all too easy given how nimble he seemed.

Valen whispered to Lionel, "...I may have information on Macon that you might need to hear...before this war goes any further."

Krice caught Lionel's eye and arched a brow, but he seemed to understand the unspoken message shared between gazes. With his boar-leg-holding hand, he swept his arm in a small gesture of invitation, hoping to compel the Knight-Commander to join Raphaline without fear of repercussion; whatever his hesitation, the bard was kind, and gentle, and Lionel would find himself in good company. If he hadn't, already. At Valen's behest, the warrior shrugged a shoulder and waited, though he closed the door while doing so; chances are he'd have received judgmental scowls from the patrons on the receiving end of the resultant ice breeze if he hadn't. When Valen embraced Raphaline and Lionel, the warrior arched a brow again, this time in intrigue. It was the movement of the vampire's head, telling of a kiss to Lionel's cheek, that inspired a smirk across the warrior's face. Had Krice caught a glimpse of the Knight-Commander's look his way as he held open the door for Valen? Was this a tit-for-tat? Whatever the case, as the vampire drew near once more, the silver-haired enigma pulled open the door and invited him to exit first, following in his wake shortly after. As he went, his gilded eyes passed over the soft-skinned face of the bard in Lionel's company, a lingering contemplation giving way to his usual stoic facade on his way out.

Raphaline allows the two men to share words between them without interruption. While they are speaking, her emerald eyes seek out the stoic warrior by the door, and a gentle smile crosses her lips as she dips her head just slightly in acknowledgement. It is then she finds herself encompassed in a rather warm hug, so she returns it and waves off her companion with much joy in his future. Once the two depart she turns once more to Lionel, but at the aforementioned title, she scrunches up her nose. “Oh no, please Sir Lion, I think we are passed the need for formal addresses unless,” she raises a brow, “you prefer such greetings.” Shaking her head, she chuckles, “No offense. I am no lady. Just a wandering bard.” She follows him back to the table and finds their table may be a bit littered in mugs of more ale—welp her offer was fulfilled. “Guess we have a few more drinks to do through.” And with that thought, she slips back into one of the chairs, one leg drawn up while the other sways slowly to and fro under the table. “So, I am curious. Is the offer of a place to stay still open?” Straight to the point, and quite transparent about her thoughts, she finishes off her question with a quick draw of her drink before adding, “I really want to meet these dwarves you kept telling me about.”

Lionel is blankly glad for Valen’s response; the unfastening of his too-taut muscles is proof enough. Then he’s hugged and kissed and those muscles compress all over again but he maintains a cordial and appreciable expression to conceal the unfortunate alarm he’ll tend to suffer in most any instance of unexpected touch. The whisper is compelling -- an understatement, really. Lionel maintains an adept smile, but a quick flicker of his azure eyes should notify Valen the message was heard loud and clear. That gaze draws to a comically wide gawk of mild but effectual panic toward Krice in the distance, though, amidst that tender kiss. Raphaline’s pursuant question is met with a quick shake of the head. “I’m definitely not one for the red tape of procedure. Although, you keep calling me ‘Ser Lionel’ and folks are inclined to think I’m a real one.” He lets his soft laughter help carry them back from whence they’d came; at sight of the drinks poured, he seats himself and squints slightly to her further discourse. “Of course.” He lifts his nearest mug and sips. “And the dwarves, well, I’ve told them about you and they do love themselves a good song-and-dance.” A maid steps rapidly past them in a hurry to clean a nearby spill. Beyond her, two Frost Giants challenge one-another to a contest of swallows. Beer pours down bearded necks in a race to finish first. Lionel leans in on the table, faux-clandestine. “My only worry is for your safety. Things have escalated since last we met. Cold war could go hot any day now. Some would argue -- loudly -- it already has.” He waves about to the many soldiers and their friends. “They celebrate a victory for the Warrior’s Guild, but handled by me, Knight-Commander of their country. They celebrate Queen Hildegarde’s decisive response to Macon’s injustices. They chant and remember the name of a man Krice and I watched die by Macon’s Kingsguard not four days past.” He sighs, sips. “I’m sorry to trouble you with these things. But you need to understand, this is a dangerous time.”

Krice caught the gaze of Raphaline as Valen and Lionel shared quieted words, and her smile inspired a softness in his expression that had been there during her dance and song. Neither of the two other men would see it, but she would recognize a distant fondness that spoke to their history, however brief or long-standing, and in a moment that expression faded as her attention turned to the Knight-Commander - and Valen returned to -him-. On his way out with the vampire, Krice heard talk of Lionel's concern for Raphaline's safety, the explanation as to why, and closed the door before he could hear more. The tavern once more returned to its cacophony of warmed, intoxicated soldiers and citizens surrounding a Knight-Commander and his beautiful company.

Raphaline makes a brushing off gesture with her free hand, “I call you such with such an intonation of fondness, I’d think no one would take it so seriously.” She chuckles, lion is a good creature to be associated with, especially if the times are turning towards possible wide spread bloodshed. At his mention of the war and her safety, she sits quietly and listens to his warnings, taking them to heart but not being turned towards frightened thoughts—this is not her first Frostmawian war. “I will be happy to visit your home. You just let me know when I am being intrusive, especially since I am sure you have a lady who may come by at times. Don’t need to be giving her the wrong ideas.” Another chuckle as she presses the lip of the mug to her own lips and downs the rest of it before reaching for one of the many still sitting atop their table. The mention of the soldiers and the words of war, give the bard reason to set her mug down once more and her features to square up into a more serious set up. “It is no trouble at all. I appreciate being told of what to expect, but, I am familiar with war, especially with war in this land.” She crosses her arms across her chest as her emerald eyes peer out the nearby window and look towards the healer’s hut. “Once upon a time I healed many of the now Queen’s wounds. And her men. Many of the seasoned soldiers still around know me, know my magic.” In this tavern, she is not afraid to speak of her secret gift—her bardic magic. “I may not be a lady, but I may know a trick or two to throw off someone who might assume wrongly about me.” Not here, but maybe, somewhere in the future she might show him. “I do want to help, will you allow me to do so? Or will I be banned to the sidelines once more?” She allows silence to fall between them by lifting her mug to her lips once more and letting her emerald eyes to fall to the table.

/bristles, only vaguely, at mention of another woman. For now, he keeps silent, seemingly preferential toward handling whatever Raphaline may say in one fell swoop of response. That or he’s enjoying his ale -- and her company. He’ll fix her with a grin for now. As she speaks of her role in the previous war, real surprise paints his features. He didn’t know. Before he can gather his thoughts into a mosaic, silence has befallen them both. Lionel lowers his mug. “The women in my life are platonic,” he says with a titter, keeping things upbeat. Keeping his mind off the reason he has not chased romance since he was eighteen years old. At twenty-nine now, it’s safe to say it’s been a while. Not since -she- passed. Not since Elazul, Lithrydel’s First Vampire, slew her. He’ll evade it all -- like he does. “But even if they weren’t, my manse, estate, Síocháin, rarely sees guests. In truth, it rarely sees me. I retire at the fort nearly every evening.” Which brings him smoothly into the rest of his reply. “The queen’s contest against her ememies ended in successful liberation of Frostmaw. I’d only just returned from an eight-year sojourn, but I fought in that conflict, too. My duties took me abroad, however, to old allies from wars long past. Wars I’d fought.” He pauses. “Wars I’d led.” A hint of memory takes his eyes… but then it’s gone. He looks to her now, completely. “I didn’t realize this wouldn’t be your first rodeo.” An odd word. Catalian, maybe? “I’m sorry I… seem to have assumed otherwise. I’d say you didn’t strike me as the type, but I learned long ago, there is no ‘type.’ Only good people compelled to do what’s right.”

Raphaline raises an eyebrow to the word platonic—she didn’t believe that there weren’t women swooning secretly over him. She chooses not to speak such openly but instead reaches for the topic of past histories in war, and something crosses her features, almost declaring that she has seen her fair share of wars as well. It seems war, no matter where can affect many different people. “War is not fickle about who it takes and who it chooses to drag into its folds. War is chaos, and all who stand between the armies will be affected. I learned that a long time ago.” Her free hand reaches up to tuck a few strands behind her slightly pointed ear—mixed heritage. “But you would be right to assume, many don’t think a,” she turns towards a more upbeat tune, “a lady of such caliber ever delves into such things as war. Not all bards are creatures of velvet cushions and silken chairs. Well, at least, I’ve never had a fondness for the finer things in life.” Another swig is taken of her mug before she continues speaking. “How about we agree to work together instead,” she offers her left hand, calloused by her years of playing,” and agree to try and make sure we both get through this in one piece? You do the sword and shield thing, I’ll fling the magic and heal you when need be, alright Lionel?” Though her features are calm, her choice in name rather nickname announces the seriousness with which she offers such a notion to the warrior. “Maybe, once everything is settled for whatever short time, you’ll let me help you look more towards the future rather than to linger in the past.”

Rorin entered frostmaws tavern with his usual sure and quiet step. A simple motion to the barkeep identified the soldier as a regular and he moved about with a look of comfort in the place. He spotted someone- by the turn of his helmet- and he began to head towards his knight. He seemed to be large and outfitted for a battle yet to come eith a fully closed soldiers helm masking his face and an armored tucked into grieves and boots with weapons strapped to his waist. Still something seemed off about him to those who knew, perhaps something about how he carried himself tonight. He would stand at the table and nod to the lady present before a slight bow to hid commander. "Ser, I come baring news," came a tin and gravel voice from behind his helm. Perhaps it seemed as a matter of urgency or perhaps not.

Lionel absorbs each of Raphaline’s lines, his endless smile tonight favoring further and further purity as the alcohol favors his angular cheeks to a minor blush. He listens intently, just as before, and when the woman offers her left hand, he’ll offer his, too. Interesting -- are they both left-handed? His is calloused from all those years with a weapon. “I can agree to that,” he says with a shake for it all. “I admit, the future sounds the more promising place overall.” A man of fewer words? Someone introspective? Maybe he just likes hearing Raphaline speak. He leans in a tad further, now, and his countenance suggests a deep, resonant sentence is en route. His mouth opens to speak, but his squire, Rorin, arrives to their right. He blinks, closes his eyes for a scant two seconds, and inhales. It’s peaceful, but it proposes that the Catalian has been interrupted from a crucial statement. By the time his eyes reopen, however, he’s cordial and commanding toward his subordinate. The moment is gone… perhaps forever. C’est la vie. “Take a seat. Drink. Talk, Rorin. She’s an ally. She can listen.”

Raphaline offers a similar shake of her hand in agreement to their terms. When the sound of armor catches her attention, she finds herself almost saddened by the missed moment but offers the same sort of respect to Rorin. She gestures to one of the free seats between the two of them and offers at the most her name. Whatever is important, she didn’t want to hinder the two men’s communication, especially because war is without patience or understand. Instead, she settles her green eyes upon the newcomer and pushes one of the mugs of ale on the table top towards him in a gesture of friendship, before she gestures for him to speak—she could wait.

Rorin shuffled awkwardly for a moment as Lionel seemed to speak. And then, with the moment gone- his leader wss quite obvioisly drunk. Rorin sat nonetheless and gave the lady his name before pulling a few maps out of his bag and setting it on the table. "I've begun to formulate a battle plan inside of larket. Now, there are three possible entrances. One of us can land by dragon, inside the cemetery, much as lady Hildegarde has already done. The second can enter through the underdark and take ghe fermins passage. The third option is to attempt the bridge. We could go under it with enough stealth, and perhaps into the sewers as the second team could, attempt to storm over it, which puts us in a rather tight spot." He spoke quickly but formally, his mind on the move. He tool off his helmet to reveal a face of a boy unmarked by war or time. In an instant he became so much smaller, his voice just as young and clear. He gave a thanks, and recieved the mug of ale, taking a curiously impressive swig before setting it down ro avoid the maps.

Lionel would note Raphaline’s seemingly easygoing sense of understanding. A quick glance should tell her it’s much appreciated. Then when his squire speaks of battle plans, the man’s face lights up -- but only somewhat. It’s been a long night. A good one, but a long one. This is Lionel’s fate, though, most likely; there is no escaping the sovereign duties. No way out from the life he chose as a young teen and never even thought to leave. It’s just as well. All those stacks of papers in his office will only be taller by the time of his return. Rorin removes his helmet; it’s a simple thing to forget how young he really is. Not so much older than Lionel was, really. “All good things,” he starts. ‘Must come to an end.’ A little voice in the back of his mind fills in the rest. “You’ve done well, Rorin. And I spotted you riding hard with the troops on my way out the fort, at that. You even have a few admirers, if the smirks I saw on your way in are anything to go by. I would ask that you speak with my aide, Briar, at first light. Relay these thoughts to her and I will bring them to the queen. If you’re around, I’ll ask you to join me for a report I’ll ensure she knows is thanks to your due diligence.” He fails to stifle a yawn. “It is late, however, and Raphaline and I must surely both be tired. And don’t give me that look, Rorin -- I know you’re tired, too.” He blinks and realizes his transgression. “Ah, allow me to introduce you two. Raphaline, this is my squire, Rorin. And Rorin -- this is Raphaline.”

Raphaline would not disagree with the blond, her own body was beginning to cave after the long trek here and then all the revelry of course. "It seems we must part and pay our roles their due diligence." Grinning, she turns her gaze to fully focus on Rorin and offers the young boy a hand in greeting, "Don't you add lady or miss to that. It's just plain Raphaline. I have a feeling we'll get to know each other in times to come, hopefully not too well. I like healing, but I much prefer you two staying in one piece please." Another silvery laugh as she turns to Lionel, "I feel we shall meet again in the near future. Don't overwork yourself, and try to keep me in the loop. I did mean what I said earlier." Smiling, she rises from her seat and with a nod to them both she pulls her hood up over her head. "Get some rest. I see the next weeks being short of that."

Rorin first tried to interrupt, then stuttered, then surrendered as Lionel ushered the rather short conversation to a close. He had a small smile and perhaps a bit of blush as Lionel mentioned any 'admirers'. The pilgrim would greet Raphaline in kind as he shook her hand. He wanted to speak about landing a dragon, wading through drow and fermin forces, or even using Kreekitakas forces to storm the bridge. Instead, he gave a simple "all right," with a bit of a sad smile while he drank the almost full mug of ale in a moment gone. He would stay here, perhaps for a time, planning logistics until hr would return to tje guild for some rest. There was aleays eorl to be done.

Lionel nods to them both. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Raphaline. I’ll see you shortly, I’m sure of it. Rorin, thank you for the report. Let’s all agree to rest while resting’s still an option.” Rising from his seat at last, he not-so-inconspicuously slides the remainder of his ale in front of his squire. “I said drink,” he chides, and then he’ll bow to the songstress in kind. And then he’ll depart. The Catalian will find sleep the moment he finds his bed.