RP:Alignment

Part of the Vakmatharas' Jar Arc

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: Formally meeting for the first time, Brennia and Lionel find that they share common cause.

Cenril: Frostmaw Tavern

In the pit beneath the fireplace, the young wyrm Aodhan can be heard roaring for scraps. A handful of elderly Frost Giants wave at their grandchildren to set aside their junior alehorns and drop raw meat through the iron grates. Some dwarves in a far corner have taken to a game of arrows; the rules are simple: toss an arrow into various cracks in the stone walls and earn points which can be exchanged to force their friends into paying for the next round. It’s a quiet night at Frostmaw Tavern. Most of the visiting dignitaries are holed up at the fort late into the evening, only a few soldiers have popped in to take a load off, and Drargon has told the pipe players not to bother coming in for a crowd this dismal. It all suits Lionel rather well. He’s taken a seat at a southeasterly table and began reading three separate books before setting them all aside and returning to the difficult task of penning a eulogy for his fallen retainers at Síocháin. With his crimson silk button-up’s collar popped and his leather boots sprawled across the opposite chair, he’s one shot of whiskey away from looking patently ridiculous, but Hellfire’s prismatic scabbard leans up against the table to show he’ll do what needs doing if trouble arises. Agents of Kahran were in this very tavern one night past -- which may well have something to do with the slow business today. A half-elf named Niix was here, too, and Lionel’s companion Esche seems on-edge about the whole ordeal. Lionel could be doing half a hundred other things, but tonight he’s decided to drink up and see if all that trouble happens to return.

Brennia’s flying coach doesn’t do well in cold climates and neither does she for that matter; flying and snow just doesn’t mix. The contraption works well enough for a regular carriage though, once it landed in Frostmaw and once it pulls up to the tavern a tall human seeming gentleman dressed in an all black suit steps out looks around and gives a nod to someone inside the carriage(or what seems like a regular carriage). A slightly taller avian man steps out, comments on the cold and curves his wings about him like a cloak and hurries to the door of the tavern. Dearmon, Brennia’s bodyguard, holds out a gloved hand to help her down the steps of the carriage and it seems she is dressed similarly to the gentlemen before her - a tailor made suit made of what we would consider to be kevlar woven into fabric. Large onyx wings curve around the avian bard and she walks in after Daermon, but before Corvo who was holding the door open for them. Liberty blue eyes scan the tavern herself just as Daermon was doing the same, but he was looking out for potential threats while she was looking for any familiar faces… It was a long shot hoping Hildegarde was there too. Once inside from the chill assault of the outside Brennia lets her wings relax and fold closely to her curvaceous form rather than cover herself like a cloak. This reveals she was carrying a crate filled with a variation of teas to help with the horrible head cold going around and the human seeming Daermon offers to carry it for her. Oh, how nice! Thanks! They exchange the aid she brought for Frostmaw and the gentleman sitting southeasterly by himself with the crimson silk shirt caught her eye… She has seen him before, a couple of times, actually and most recently at the Schezerade summit next to Hildegarde, but also that boat where the terrible things happened. That was not a good night. Corvo makes his way over to the bar to get something to warm his blood… Still complaining about the cold? Pansy. Another glance to Lionel and she would give him that awkward sort of weird half smirk you give a coworker or fellow student that you kind of know, but not too well if he looked her way too.

Various patrons wipe their runny noses on handkerchiefs and perk up at the sight of the contents of that crate. Inquiries will be made as to their purchase, and grumblings about Drargon’s own lack of tea. Drargon will of course ignore such folly; better not to engage the fools who think he can get enough of such things for the whole tavern in such lean times. Fewer merchants have made the trip to Frostmaw since the attack on Cenril, and fewer still as the northern autumn has done what it does best and imitated an early winter. Lionel fixes Brennia -- and Daermon -- with a similar glance as the woman’s own; through Hildegarde he has vague knowledge of her person, and through others he’s been made loosely aware of her bodyguard. Seeing them together is new; he’d had his eyes firmly affixed on his wine glass in Cenril, then on Kahran and on vengeance and fear. “Ser,” a short-cropped blonde woman in full plate armor says from behind Lionel. Her name is Thrace, and she’s been here since he arrived. “Yeah?” Lionel peers up at her. “My full report on the incident at the Temple of Judgment. As requested, I left cliff notes at the end of the parchment.” She curves her lips into a frown when she says that. Lionel seems glad for it, however, and takes the parchment for study. “Good work. Did you make sure to emphasize the part with Blut slashing his eyes? Because that really needs emphasis.” Sarcasm drips from the Catalian. Before Thrace can reply, he’s standing up and approaching Brennia. She races to keep up with him. “Hey. Thanks for the tea. How were the roads on the way up?” Evidently, he’s unaware of her skyward trip. “Let me know if there’s anything Frostmaw can get for you.”

Brennia is offered coin for her contribution, although she doesn’t take it with a kind decline. She also pulls out a rather narrow case from the hidden space between her wings and opens it atop the countertop for all to take; within the gift box are specially made kerchiefs that are softer and infused with lotion to soothe a roughed up nose. Daermon watches Lionel in that casual way secret service does while Brennia meets the stranger’s gaze evenly seeing as they are close in height… She’s a bit taller though, but as avians go she is normal height for a woman. Sultry alto timbre raises to answer the gentleman’s question about the travel to Frostmaw, “we flew on the way up until the cold took hold of the pegasus that brought us here.” As the patrons rifle through the kerchiefs she does halfway smile at this for she was happy to help, but mostly she felt responsible as she mentioned in the summit. Eventually she looks back to Lionel while slipping a tattooed hand out from her glove and extending it to him, “merry meet, my name is Brennia Smyth. I have seen you before, but we never formally met,” if he was an observant fellow he would notice a scar of what was a boil upon the back of her hand and a rather masculine looking ring ill fitted upon her middle finger… Seems to be an heirloom of sort, but whose? Liberty blue eyes quickly taking in his attire with that warm smile unwavering as she was not arrogant or judgemental as most avians are, “you are?” She inquired with a genuine interest, but that was her talent; to make everyone around her feel important and truly listened to. On the other hand, she knows not a thing about Lionel as that night was so hectic that she was quickly ushered away by her bodyguard and Corvo after her attempt at rescuing a third person from the boat. Of course Brennia argued to stay and help, but Corvo was right, Lithrydel didn’t need to chance losing three candidates that night. His offer of getting help from Frostmaw was met with a slightly less optimistic look and a softening of her tone, “no… It is I that must help others at this time,” and not just Frostmaw. Daermon and Brennia share a glance as if they are having their own conversation.

“The name’s Lionel.” He shakes Brennia’s hand accordingly, and he does indeed notice the ring and boil. “Well met.” Retracting his hand, he takes a seat, signaling Drargon to get a flagon of his favorite spiced cider ready. In his perfect world, nobody would regard Lionel as important and he could fade into history’s background reading books and petting cats and never again needing to rise up against the sadists who would see this whole realm scorched if they could be kings of the ashes. He doesn’t get to live in that perfect world, and in all likelihood he never will, but he does appreciate the woman’s warm tone. Friendliness is in short supply these days, and Lionel has heard Hildegarde mention Brennia’s name and likeness enough times at meetings to know she’s probably trustworthy. Drargon arrives with the cider, which Lionel pours into three goblets. “This will clear some of Frostmaw’s unruly chill for you folks.” Lionel himself doesn’t experience that chill in any dire way, but mentioning the Ishaarite fire spirit which regulates his body temperature would make for awkward dialogue with two near-strangers. He motions for Brennia and Daermon to enjoy the drinks, catching wind of their shared glance, and then he gulps eagerly from his own goblet. “Well, I’ll be sure to let the Queen know what you’ve done for us if you don’t catch her yourselves.” Thrace clears her throat. “Steward.” Lionel flinches. “How many times have I asked you not to call me that? It’s just such an awkward word. Reminds me of, like, stewed tomatoes or something. I hate tomatoes.” Thrace huffs, but Lionel turns back to Brennia and Daermon. “Do you two like tomatoes? I don’t understand how anybody can. Anyway, while I’m here, is there any business on your minds in need of handling? I’m sure I can make it happen.”

Brennia would probably melt away in flattery if she knew Hildegarde mentioned her in any capacity for Brennia probably looks up to her in an unhealthy way, but she does well enough to hide it… Mostly. Her smile remains comfortably upon plump lips as she given a drink and her company sips from it too which Brennia hums satisfyingly, but Daermon takes one sip before setting it down to stay vigilant while Corvo is politicking with giants… Brennia spots this as she hears the charming male avian asking them if they’ve ever happened to find themselves in Schezerade and seen a battle in the Glorious Arena. Brennia’s gaze drifts back over to Lionel when he mentions hating tomatoes, “it’s the skins… Getting stuck to the roof of your mouth… The nerve.” She chuckled softly and shortly before mentioning, “is it a fruit - is it a vegetable? They should just be used for tossing as sports games if you ask me,” which she’s done before, “it’s a blitzball Schezerade Cardinals thing.” If he inquires about blitzball she would surely answer, but be warned this may go off on a tangent for she loves her some blitzball. Meanwhile Daermon Remains standing off to the side as a silent watcher… Protector. “I think the title Steward reminds me of skewered. You’ve been stuck in a line-up of seasoned meats… Kabob Lionel.” She embarrassingly sips her drink some more to shut herself up because he barely knows her and she’s making these awful and poorly formed jokes… Maybe an awkward pause is needed here while her wings seem to try and close even closer to herself, trying to make herself smaller and shorter in a way, but that’s inevitable. “I was looking for Queen Hildegarde to see about placing a bard here in attempts to cure Lithrydel… And to talk of Schezerade and Frostmaw’s future.” She still cannot stop thinking about that night since seeing Lionel here tonight, “although, now I cannot get my mind off of this new threat. I’ve warned my- the citizens of Schezerade about what happened. I want to help.” She wasn’t even sure if he was the right person to go to for offering help because she had to be pulled away so quickly.

Lionel laughs between sips of cider. Puns are the surest path to his good graces. If Brennia were an enemy, or some cronie of Kahran’s, then the realm is doomed, for they’ve learned his real weakness. “I’ll want to forward any decisions over to the Queen before formalizing them, of course, but I can draft just about anything.” A dwarf shouts cheers when he lands a dart perfectly between the stone cracks in the wall, prompting hearty despair from his mates who will all be buying his rounds for the remainder of the evening. “I don’t see why Frostmaw wouldn’t benefit from the placement of a bard. Let me know if there’s anything we need to do on our end -- you know, whatever sort of accommodations they might need, and if there’s anyone or anything we can send your way in return.” He’s talked enough to mask a growing glower at the mention of that new threat, but he can’t stop his voice from taking a darker, more serious air now. “As for… Kahran. I’m glad you’ve warned Schezerade. Would that you did not have to. Have you studied Lithrydelian history, particularly a decade and more back? Or… perhaps you were here for it, or you’ve spoken with those who survived.” He emphasizes the word. “Kahran is a remnant of those times. His former masters were sealed away by powerful magics in ages long past because if they were unleashed, well. The phrase ‘hell on earth’ is apt. And that is precisely what occurred when they were awakened. They were destroyed, but these remnants remained. I knew it. I feared it. And the massacre at Cenril is but a taste of it. We must work together to defy this.”

Brennia understands Lionel’s position, but has a feeling that if Frostmaw will be realigning with Schezerade again then Hildegarde would want to meet directly so she will reserve that particular topic for the Queen. She adds to the subject of placing a bard or two, “bards have many uses when done right. Within our guild we have what we call therapists that will help calm and soothe the sickened. Some can even-“ she stops herself before getting too carried away. Music is a big deal to Brennia, but she has to remember not to bore others with the details. “So, I was thinking they could help in the clinic to keep a calm if anything,” she finalized lamely. His offer of help from Frostmaw was something she never thought of, “I do plan on purchasing more long sleeved or hooded outfits, thin gloves and long brimmed hats as citizens of Schezerade are still damaged by the sun.” Their conversation becomes heavier and Brennia sympathizes with the subject of dark magic coming to raise hell or inconveniences, “so… It has a name, Kahran.” One nod given at this in a confidence of saying such a name because there is a power in it, but not something she fears or something anyone should fear. As if to think out loud and finish this thought she says out loud, “some people are still afraid to say Flewminati without sounding like some crazy conspiracy theorist.” To which a patron overheard and looked at the avian sideways as if to prove her point and this wasn’t noticed by Brennia, but it if it was she wouldn’t react to it either. A subtle shrug at Lithrydel’s past and a slight downturn to her lips when she comments in an almost defeated manner, “I am afraid I am not knowledgeable in the history of Lithrydel as I am from an island on the other side of the world.” She gives a confident smile to Lionel in his last statement, “you are taking the words right from my own thoughts, I agree, we must stand together. I know we just met, but do count me as an ally and let me know if there is a way I could help.” It seems not every avian is arrogant and aloof, but something goes awry as her attention is drawn to Daermon who has a handkerchief over his mouth - pretending to have a cough. Someone had gotten a cut and the smell of blood was in the air which is okay for some, but for a vampire he needs to get out of here. Panic shifting under the calm waters of both Brennia and Daermon she continues to smile kindly to Lionel, “I do apologize, but I am running against the clock until the sun comes up once more. We must be going. It was a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, St-“ she corrects herself and would totally call him ‘kabob Lionel’, but it doesn’t feel appropriate just yet so she just leaves it as, “Lionel.” She leaves the conversation open for any last words, requests, or goodbyes before she places her own forearm over her chest and a slight bow in her farewell, “merry part until we merry meet again.” Corvo sees the pair making their way out and chugs his drink before joining them outside in the simple seeming carriage.

Lionel has little else to add, although it’s not for lack of cooperation. Everything Brennia has replied with seems amicable to the man, and he’s looking forward to the potential for greater alliance between the two nations. His own boyhood best friend was an avian -- and that self-same avian forged Hellfire from the Ishaarite shard -- so he’s been rather well-shielded against the racisms and miscommunications between avians and other races through the years. Brennia comes across as a particularly polite member of a frequently misunderstood species whose arrogance can be found in almost any other. Lionel stands up and bows as best he can; it’s nowhere near as impressive as some of his companions, but he’s gotten better at it. Among the many other hundreds of things his late assistant Briar did for him before Macon’s forces slew her in battle, improving his stately posture had to be in the upper echelon. “Well met, Brennia. We will speak again; I’m sure of it.” He watches her and her company depart, and once they’re gone, Thrace clears her throat. “Ser, that bit about the Flewminati… are they… um… really… real, then?” Lionel blinks and turns around. “What? Oh. Yeah. They are.” She cants her head quizzically and replies, “how do you know?” He laughs, although there’s no lightness to it any longer. “Because, Thrace, I’ve long since learned to accept that if something sounds too bad to be true, it’s safer to assume otherwise.”