RP:A Tragic Betrayal
Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc
Summary: Hildegarde meets with Trajek, an old friend, at the war camp in Xalious. They catch up on recent events and discuss why the Silver feels that Balgruuf is a tyrant. An allegiance is declared, but all is not what it seems.
The Rolling Hills
Hildegarde had found a little refuge in the picnic area of the park. It was perhaps one of the few stretches of parkland that hadn’t been dominated by the sprawling camp or the many tents that had been set up by the giants and elves alike, it was peaceful in that it hadn’t been touched by war yet. Here the knight sat: a cotton shirt on and iron greaves and knightly boots, she sits here contemplating the world with her halberd in hand. There is much to do in these coming days, in these coming weeks. War is nipping at her heels and she can ill afford to give Balgruuf and the giants much more time to secure Frostmaw. But then she cannot go charging ahead when she is not yet quite prepared. With a heavy sigh, the knight rubs her chin briefly and glances skyward. “Aramoth give me strength,” she quietly pleads to the God of War. She would need every ounce of strength to face Frostmaw.
Trajek had heard the rumors from elves, humans, giants. He had heard the stories in taverns, and it only took a strong wind blowing eastward for the rumors to be substantiated. There was a camp calling men and women whose wages came from the strength of their arms and wills, and what better place for a man like himself than that? He made no attempts to hide he was a newcomer; he spoke to those who glared and smiled and those who glared. The idle banter always came to one end, "have you seen Hildegarde?" "Where is the Steward?" "I'm a friend even though she nearly broke my arm once." Looks upon looks, strands upon strands of information, and a few thrown hands towards the picnic area finally led the middle-aged man to the quite place. "Trajek, here," He announced himself. His chainmail armor rustled as he threw up a hand in some form of salute. "Reporting for duty if you'll take a tired old man."
Hildegarde turned in her seat to spy the middle aged warrior. She remembered him fondly, what with having nearly broken his arm before. “Trajek!” she smiled at him fondly, giving him a friendly wave as she rose from her spot and made to approach him. “Hah! Always room for a tired old man. You can tell tales to the youngsters, impart your wisdom,” she said with a cheeky grin. “I haven’t seen you for… well, it’s been a long time let’s put it that way! Have you been in Frostmaw all this time?” she asks, frowning ever so slightly. Was it concern? Was it suspicion? Trajek moved towards Hildegarde with his right hand held out for greeting. But as the distance closed, he raised his left hand instead. "Right one still smarts a bit after what you did," His jab was wrapped in a smile and a warm, if not tired, look. "Frostmaw? Is that the cold place filled with ornery giants and dead stewards?" His humor simmered down; his grin dimmed to a frown. "I had heard you departed this earthly plane. I knew there would be restlessness without your stewardship. I walked south to some coast, found some cove of unscrupulous sailors, and I worked my way back to the civilized."
Hildegarde was ready to grasp his forearm in the traditional warrior’s shake until he raised his left hand and joked about his right arm still being quite painful. She laughed, but it was somewhat abashed, at the comment and offered him a broad smile, “Well! You wanted to fight. What can I say, I didn’t expect to be fighting an old-timer,” a playful jab, of course. As Trajek explains how he had been around pirates, the Silver’s curiosity near enough doubles but she feels as though she must explain the news of her departure from the mortal plane. “Ah… Not a rumour, sadly. I did depart the mortal realm. But with thanks to the High Priestess of Aramoth, I am returned to this realm. Just as well, too. It seems Frostmaw is in the grip of a tyrant. I intend to liberate it.”
Trajek took Hildegarde's arm in the traditional manner, though he did not try to play at grips with a dragoness! "Ah," was all the older man could say when she spoke truth to the rumor. It is one thing to hear of a death; it is quite another to have it verified. "Praise be to the High Priestess, then!" His praise, his jubilation, was muted. His brows were still furrowed, and his frown still present. "A tyrant? Yes, I have heard this. I have wondered what makes a tyrant that. Will you humor me, Steward?" His arms settled over his armored chest. "What has this person done to be called a tyrant? Speak slow; I am not a young man anymore."
Hildegarde retracted her hand back into her own personal space once Trajek released her from his grasp. She smiled at his mentions of no longer being a young man, “You have years yet, I’m sure,” she retorted before getting to the heart of the matter. “Balgruuf has taken the throne whilst in the knowledge that I am the rightful Steward. He allows his son, his brute of a son, and cohorts to batter and assault the citizens of Frostmaw. The elves who have taken refuge there, the Kuronii who have long since been a part of Frostmaw, the Quelodian tribes… anyone who is not a giant is subject to their tantrums and rage. It is not safe to be there if you are not a giant.” The Silver pauses, as if to allow this to sink in. “The man forces these people to work in the mines. All giants must be part of his militia. If that isn’t being a tyrant… if that isn’t being cruel, I do not know what is.”
Trajek listens to each word the Steward says. He nods along with each point she makes, and each travesty brings a low hum from him. "All father see what they want their sons to be and not what they are." He scoffs audibly when she mentions citizens assaulted, of refugee elves abused, and the history of land that Balgruuf is seeming to undo. "Well, can he be blamed for using giants? When I walked through the camp, I saw heavy foot, and I think I saw a horse or two. He uses what soldiers he has, as do you...especially this old man." Objective. There was no accusation in his words nor any undertone of feelings either way. "His methods are cruel, yes, but he does what he thinks is best for Frostmaw. I was beaten quite regularly on one ship, but without that beating the holes wouldn't've been corked and the ship would've sunk."
Hildegarde shook her head, “No, he cannot be blamed for using what soldiers are available… but to force them? That is wrong, they should not be forced, nor should the people be abused for the mere fact they are not giants,” she reasoned. “Would you truly let your ship sink just because you weren’t beaten?” The knight struggles to believe that. “I only accept volunteers in my camp, I won’t force anyone to fight alongside me. But Balgruuf does. He and his son are said to keep slaves and murder liberally. That’s wrong!”
Trajek hums a low hum again, though his objectivity does crack a bit when she asks about the ship. "I didn't cork it correctly, or not to their liking. I suppose that's why most of the beatings happened." He replied with a smile. "Slaves. Murder. All of those things are wrong." Much like his gaze, his hands fell from his chest to his sides. "Tyrants come. Stewards fall. What remains in the wake of those two catastrophes is the land," His right hand rose, much like his mood. "I will serve Frostmaw, if it will have me."
Hildegarde frowned ever so slightly, “You would serve Balgruuf?” she is perturbed. The man had been funny and likeable, but now he would gladly serve an abusive tyrant? Where was the sense in that? “Well. You go ahead and serve him if you so wish, m’lord,” she said after a long moment. “But know I will come for Frostmaw soon.”
Trajek laughed at her assertion of what he meant. "Am I holding out my hand to this Balgruuf?" Despite the slight to his honor, he remained as friendly as always. "The end to his battle is what I want, and that end has my arm if only it will take it." He wiggled his fingers for good measure.
Hildegarde waited for a moment before reaching out to grasp Trajek’s extended hand. No need to be impolite, really. “I thought you meant you were going off to serve Balgruuf,” she murmured. “You spoke so… well, you reasoned for him, it seemed so odd.”
Trajek took Hildegarde's hand in a tight grip. "I seek to understand only. I am sure this Balgruuf clasps arms and whispers the same evils against you. I would ask him to explain his point just the same, and I would ask the same questions." He would give her hand a mighty shake, and much like many others, would attempt to seal the deal with a soldierly hug...and oh what fun would be had if Hildegarde was allowed to be pulled shoulder to shoulder!
Hildegarde smiled with some sheepish relief. “I’m sorry, my friend,” she said as they shook hands, “I suppose one can understand that the burden of war weighs heavily on the mind!” she says with a little laugh, allowing herself to be tugged forward for that soldierly hug as if it were a way of apologising for her rather swift assumption.
Trajek holds her close for the briefest of moments, if only so he could pass along her shoulder his lowly whispered words. "You will end this battle. but peace...?" His land hand, his good hand, jerked, and from within his sleeve fell steel. The stiletto caught what little light there was as it moved, its reflection leaving a visual sign of its arc as it rose. Its damning flash would end if his strike was true and its length was plunged up between Hildegarde's ribs.
Hildegarde had already begun to pull away at those whispered words, that little frown on her face as if to say she was confused. But the glint of light certainly didn’t confuse her: she knew that glint all too well. Her body jerks back, but she was never going to be quick enough to avoid the blade. Fortunately, however, her movement prevents the shanking from being fatal. It’s painful and she bleeds plenty, the dagger having sank into her flesh and sticking there but not quite a fatal blow just yet. The Silver cannot afford to rip the dagger free, though. Not right now. With a groan-come-growl, the Silver launches herself at Trajek: fingers reaching the neck his chainmail as she tugs him forward to smash her thick skull against his with a furious battlecry.
Trajek sighed loudly when Hildegarde jerked and the dagger did not find whatever sort of heart she had now; he knew it was going to be a long, painful night. His prophecy was all but fulfilled when those fingers reached his neck and threw him forward. Whole universes burned into existence in his view when her forehead broke against his own. His momentum had him falling back, and he let loose his own loud growl. He grabbed onto what he could of Hildegarde, attempting to pull her down as he fell. His knees would end his momentum, hopefully throwing Hildegarde off of him.
Hildegarde refused to let this awful assassin get the best of her! As her forehead mightily cracked against his, she released her grasp upon his chainmail and stepped forward to throw her fist in a vicious uppercut towards his chin; roaring furiously all the while. He was grabbing onto her, though, and what with her stepping forward she went with him. As he stumbles backwards, she falls along with him; though his knees end his momentum, she topples onto him with a groan. The fall unsettled the stiletto, causing a great deal of pain and discomfort for the dragon. But she wanted him dead now or subdued. “Surrender or die!” she hissed, her hand reaching for his throat.
Leone runs in at break-neck speed. The petite plover is moving quickly, her feet throwing up a spattering of dew from the grass with each running stride taken as she barrels in from the west. The bantam blacksmith is already alight, tendrils of azure and white twining upward, out of her sleeves to criss-cross both palms and twirl around each finger. A moment's assessment is made of the jumble of bodies that are the collapsed Trajek and Hildegarde, and the charging cleric hits her knees. Momentum carries her across the slicked grass, sliding on wet leather until she's within arm's reach of the previously roaring redhead, hands seeking to grip onto whatever limb of the Queen's she can first find to pump blessed energies forth.
Trajek had a pissed off dragon on top of him, her hand reaching for his throat, and no telling who all would come at that loud battle cry. Little could be done about the hand reaching for his throat; his right hand came up, his fist aiming for whatever part of her forearm that would stall the inevitable crushing of his throat. His other hand, though, it struggled beneath the weight. It pulled itself free of the tussle, and it reached for the unsettled stiletto. Escape was all that was on his mind, especially since the first of what would be many came to the Steward's aid. The knife was grasped to push it deeper, to twist it, to open the wound even further with a ripping swirl, all in hopes of disabling the dragon enough to make...well...his attempt at escape.
Hildegarde had maybe been hoping to snap Trajek’s treacherous neck, but the sudden twisting of the stiletto has her howling in pain and twisting away from the warrior and towards Leone’s holy grasp. Though she may be a dragon, she is still subject to pain and to injury. She herself doesn’t quite know the limitations of the artificial heart that Leone made for her. Of course, this late at night, the majority of the camp will be either in the mess tent or bedding down for the night, with only a skeleton crew guarding the camp. An easy escape for Trajek.
Krice advanced toward the scene just a metre behind Leone, his katana still dormant against his back. Though Hildegarde had cried into the skies and alerted the entire camp, only these two had been close enough to immediately respond. He halted just a few metres back as the glowing beacon of Leone slid forward to assist the dragon with her would-be assassin, his left hand flexing around the hilt of his back-mounted weapon. He did not intervene yet, perhaps deeming the two women capable of handling one assassin, though he was near enough to assist if the need arose; he shifted around them at intervals, watching the scene from subtly varying angles to look for space between the women for an attack. Simultaneously, he kept his acute senses tuned outward to the advance of more enemies who might have been lurking in the shadowed flanks. Once Hildegarde broke away from Trajek, Krice would step in to pursue, his speed comparable to that of a vampire on the hunt.
Leone grabs the twisting Hildegarde at the first opportunity, the rays of wriggling cerulean departing her hands and devling deep into the Silver's flesh. The efforts are two-fold, first easing pain while simultaneously searching out injury, assessing the Steward turned queen from head to foot. The farrier is more than willing to bear the brunt of the dragon's weight, though she does scurry backward to avoid getting a leg crushed beneath her scarred charge. The smith frowns, her lips torqing downward as she begins to quickly and fervently scan the dragon in human form for any visible bloodflow.
Trajek took whatever advantage was given to him, and when Hildegarde turned him lose he scrambled to his boots. There were a priest and warrior to his left, a war camp behind them, and a fall as his only means of escape. His chances of living and odds of escaping lined up in that one brief moment before he turned. He ran towards the cliff, up to its edge, and, with a wheezing curse, put his life in the hands of fate as he plummeted.