RP:An Official Report

Part of the The White Hunt Arc

Synopsis: Hildegarde, now free from the business of fighting a war, may turn her attention to matters of state and the problems at home. Orikahn, the Prime Hunter of Frostmaw, encounters Hildegarde in the tavern and delivers his report to her. It is revealed that undead creatures - such as the auroch calf - have been found in the western reaches of Frostmaw and that their initial investigation provided many interesting clues.

Frostmaw Tavern

Orikahn sits at a table near the fire, drumming his clawed fingertips on the grafitti-etched tabletop. The fingers of his other hand are wrapped snugly around the handle of a half-full flagon of house ale. Having recently acquired an armor stand, he has hung his man-shaped shell of battered metal plates to dry by the merrily roaring hearth. His expression is placid. Kahn's jade green eyes are locked fast upon the dancing embers. Deeper and deeper, the hunter's gaze descends into the glowing heart of the blaze, captivated. The flames have him and consume him as one swallowed by the abyss, calling him to ponderous meditation. Death, the divine, the arcane, the temporary nature of the body, the permanent nature of the soul--Orikahn reflects upon himself and the deeper mysteries of life.

Hildegarde had spent long enough resting in Frostmaw’s hidden mountaintop colosseum, confined to her truest of forms while scale, hide and flesh alike healed and mended after her battle against Gevurah of House D’Artes. The knight walked to the tavern with purpose, with hungry purpose, and strode inside without a guard or any sort of company. Her clothing was light by her standards: boiled leather, mithril greaves and boots and vambraces. The Silver spied the meditative hunter and sought not to interrupt him rudely, but to join him politely and unobtrusively. She had given this man position and power in Frostmaw, but she felt as though she ought to know him better and befriend him some. By learning his ways, learning his rituals, she might do this. So she joined him at his table quietly. Waiting for him to address her.

Orikahn finds himself interrupted, though not rudely so, from his visions. His ear twitches when Hildegarde draws near, and he turns to face her, drawn up out from the abyss by his steward's approach. "Hildegarde," he quietly greets her and downs a mouthfull of ale as she seats herself. "I was wondering when our paths would cross." His eyes slide back to the heart of the embers, but finding that his reveries have departed, he swings his gaze back to meet hers dead on, should she allow it. "No doubt, you know the state of matters in the west."

Hildegarde had sat down with a muted grunt. Though she was a dragon, her body had suffered terribly and needed to heal just like any mortal might do. The only issue was that the knight was never one for resting for too long. “I have heard, but as you undoubtedly know I have been preoccupied with the war,” her tone is not rude nor abrasive, nor is it an attempt to excuse her less than active role in the matters pertaining to the west. It is more of a factual statement. Her sole eye met his and was unabashed; unflinching in this dead on contact. “The war appears to be won,” Aramoth be praised is said deep within her mind, “so now I must turn my eye to the west.”

Orikahn listens intently, and his vertical pupils narrow rapidly, an answer to her unwavering eye. The war is won? Kahn nods through another sip, and he takes a satisfied breath, savoring the bitter refreshment. "I had heard, despite my best attempts to ignore it." Thoughtlessly, neurotically, he worries a fresh groove in the table's surface with the claw of his index finger. "Perhaps now, with the petty distraction of war, I will be able to focus my thoughts more intently on higher purposes. I do mean, of course," he tilts his head to the side and tilts his beer to match, watching the amber fluid's edge dance precariously at the lip of the glass, "the hunt. I have been wholly preoccupied with the wolves. They are cunning and capable, and it has taken the whole of my abilities to dent their numbers. Though I do not have the mind of a wolf," cruel pride alights in his narrowing gaze, "I still suspect I am becoming an object of superstition among them. Oh," his brow suddenly furrows, and his face falls in uncertainty, "have the others spoken with you, about our findings? The wolves and spirits and such?" His eyes click to hers again. "I don't know how much you know."

Hildegarde’s eye in unwavering but her stare is not forced or uncomfortable. In fact, the woman seems quite happy to blink here and there but always find her eye resuming contact with Orikahn’s. “I have had word that the wolves have been most hostile; that their numbers have increased given the focus on the war rather than tending to their numbers.” The Silver would concede that, she knew that was her fault there; she had taken the men away so they could join her on the field of battle, so that they could help her to smash the foe. “No,” she answered, before making a tiny gesture of her hand to Drargon as if to summon food and drink for herself, “they have not. Assume I know nothing since our last chat, that way I will know all that has happened and might refresh mine own memory.”

Orikahn rights his beer and takes another sip, watching the edge of his glass. "Hmm." The cat nods agreeably, and he sets the flagon down to reach between a fold of his cloak and pluck out a scull to set it on the table. Something about the scull seems to shift and gently scintillate, as though it can't quite decide whether it is wholly committed to existing in the material world. "The scull of a wraithen rider, a trophy taken at the western edge of Frostmaw's woods. These," his eyes crinkle in something between wonder and disgust, "undead are still a mystery to me. We found him barring our exit from the woods. The party was pursued by wolves at the time, and the rider seemed intent on letting the packs, there were a great number of packs, dispatch us." He takes scull and rests his hand upon it, draping his fingers over the eye sockets and curling his claws into them. "This was before even spotting the ruins."

Hildegarde shifted her gaze from hunter to skull, not yet reaching out to see it. After all, this was Orikahn’s trophy. It would be a poor show to reach for it, to grasp it without some sort of consent to do so. The Silver assessed the skull with her eye, the term used to explain it catching her attention. “A wraithen rider,” she repeated carefully. “Rider implies he had a mount of sorts,” she said, waiting for a little elaboration on that yet not pushing for it. Orikahn would explain in due time. She trusted him.

Orikahn gives the scull a visible squeeze, then, seeing the steward's interest, he releases it and slides it a couple inches toward Hildegarde. "Riding a frostmare. The mount was frightened but obedient. The rider was wretched," Kahn veritably spits the last word, apparently amused by the wraith's unenviable condition, "rotten and weird. He had magics," the feline imitates with upraised hand, palm outward, fingers curled, arm outstretched, "with which to assault us, though Krice and Leone were able to dispatch him." The hunter lowers his arm and chuckles at himself. "They wouldn't have needed my help doing it, either. My arrows only slew the mount. Those two are allies of yours? Very formidable. Very formidable." This is not a boisterous recounting as was given following the death of the auroch; Kahn plainly is not uplifted by the whole affair. "After the rider and the woods were done with, we crossed the bridge toward the ruins and had a rotten fight with some squatters. I had understood, and understood correctly, that they were exiles and traitors to Frostmaw, so my next natural conclusion was that they were fair game." His ears briefly flatten, and he looks regretfully, not remorsefully, to Hildegarde. "The others stopped me, and the fight was spoiled. My interest in the whole endeavor was diminished after having seen their lack of commitment."

Hildegarde nodded slightly at that description as her hand made to grasp the skull. The frostmare sounded alive by that description, unlike the rider sounded. Lifting the skull, she held it close to her face and inspected it with unhidden interest. “What did this magic seem like? Cold, hot, vile?” she asked the hunter, knowing full well he and her were alike in that they had no use of magic. But as he asks if they are her allies, she offered a brief smile – for she was proud of her friends – and answered him, “Leone is the High Priestess of Aramoth. Krice is a friend of Frostmaw,” he was no title-holder or official, but he was undeniably a friend of the land. However, the news of exiles causes her to lower the skull and look at Orikahn attentively. “They are exiles, yes. They have betrayed the land and earned their punishment and they were beaten back when they tried to rise against the might of Frostmaw. But they retreated; they were to be left alone unless they were growing a bit bold… although I suppose by attacking one, you have reminded them of the power of Frostmaw.” It was not approval, but it was neither disapproval.

Orikahn thinks back on the encounter. "It seemed bad," he frankly recounts, "and cold. If I remember, it shot balls of blue fire like sculls with burning tails, but perhaps," the cat grins and drops his gaze once more, "this is an embellishment of my imagination. All this juju is foreign to me." Waving away the memory, Orikahn presses on with the report. "We fought an Ice Devil and won." He raises his brows, impressed. "Leone sustained injuries and Krice broke his sword. I had the advantage of distance and emerged unscathed. He was in the ruins, of course, and right after that Leone got in contact with the spirits. She led us to," a deep frown bends his lips, "a spot ripe with frightful spirits, and they all spoke of a 'mage of death' and made riddles about where he might be."

Hildegarde listened to the hunter carefully, paying him with respect he deserved from his encounters and adventures out in west. “An Ice Devil,” she said in a clearly impressed yet not surprised manner. She knew that Orikahn and his companions were a capable lot, but it was no easy feat to kill an Ice Devil. The knight had killed her fair share, but it was never an easy job. They were a frightful bunch. “Riddles. Never straightforward these things, are they?”

Orikahn nods. "Something about," he stretches his thumb and forefinger across his eyes, scrunching them shut, "the spot where the queen left. And silver. Where the queen flew? You'd think I would remember this more clearly." Orikahn sneaks a guilty glance at Hildegarde. "Maybe you can compare notes with Leone and Krice. Leone was unconscious, by the way." Kahn wipes his hand down his muzzle, looking a little concerned, but not overly so. "When we got away. We fled with spirits pursuing us, and we all got away on a wyvern. It was my first time flying," his fanged mouth widens in a grin, "and I didn't mind it. Krice led a diversion. The whole trip he'd placed himself at the front of every conflict, so I wasn't the least bit surprised when he skipped the transport and led all the ghosts off to the woods. I do wonder if he's alright. I'm sure Leone's fine, otherwise people would be talking about it. She's well liked, after all."

Hildegarde paused as he tried to recall the words of the riddle, “Hm. Yes, I think comparing notes with Leone will be wise,” she agreed. The knight is also not concerned about the unconscious state of the plover, she had heard that the woman was fine and up and moving as of late; so she knew the priestess was quite alright. As he grinned at the talk of flying, the knight mirrored his grin, “Oh, is that so? Flying is the truest freedom, they say. But yes, Krice is fine too. I saw him a few days ago.”

Orikahn is pleased and unsurprised. "Naturally." His brow furrows, and his whole face turns back to the fire. "I've done a terrible job telling the story of all that. You caught me in a thoughtful moment, and I hadn't properly prepared anything. If I was allowed to dictate it all, some other time of course, maybe it would be better. An official report? I am an official," he reminds himself, stroking his chin, brushing his knuckles against the smooth anterior edge of his saber fangs. Abruptly, the hunter shakes his head, as though to clear it.

Hildegarde shook her head as he claimed to be terrible in the delivery of his report, “No, no. You were succinct and to the point, which is my preference when I am quite so weary. You will have to retell the report in your usual fashion at another time,” she said. “Perhaps when there is a roaring fire, meat and mead and men to listen to your words; rapt with awe. You are a fine storyteller.”

Orikahn contents himself by downing the last of his drink. "These lands are hard; they delight me with cruelty and adversity, but if I am not careful, this civilization will make me soft. I will be happier when the west has calmed and I can finish building my lodge." He taps his glass on the table's edge and looks up to catch a barmaid's eye. "Here I'm succumbing to luxury and vice."

Hildegarde’s eyebrow moved ever so slightly as he spoke of building a lodge. Orikahn seemed the type to live outside of the confines of a building; to live purely in the wilderness and find shelter with what was available. “If you require any helping hands or materials for my lodge, let me know. It is your right, after all, as an official to do so. But I’m having a feast on Sunday… I’d like it if you could join, but I understand if you cannot. We must celebrate our victory with meat and mead, song and banter. Then, refreshed, we will turn our sights to the west.”

Orikahn overpays for his beer, much to the barmaid's visible delight, and she rewards Kahn by giving him a scratch behind the ears. The hunter squints one eye shut and makes an unconvincing display of pretending not to like it. The moment she has departed, Kahn takes a heady sip of the fresh flagon, foam running down his fangs. "Ahh. I will, if I am able. I am not there and it is time to begin, don't delay on my account." Reaching down, the saber cat rubs the hem of his hide cloak between his first two fingers, feeling the woolly hair. "As far as the lodge, I'll have to insist on building it myself. It would be wrong of me to accept help, no matter how available or willing. My sense of savagery forbids it." Jade eyes snap back to the scull on the table, and he takes it, setting down his beer to tie it back onto the garland with the others. "And without my savagery, I would be lost."

Hildegarde understood the desire to do things by yourself. Even now as she led this kingdom, she found it difficult to hand matters off to other people but it was often the more practical solution; to hand a matter off to another individual and see to it that it was completed. “I understand,” she said and she meant it. “But I would like to break bread under your roof when it is completed,” she said with a friendly smile. “For now, however, I had best depart. I have matters to attend to in regards to tying up these loose ends since our victory against the drow,” she explained as she rose from her seat. “Thank you, Kahn, for your report.”

Orikahn stands with Hildegarde. Softened by civilization indeed! What's gotten into the hunter? "Of course." He offers her a handshake in departure. "When you see me next, I'll be covered in blood."

Hildegarde shook Orikahn's hand with a grin, "Hopefully not your own," she said in reply before departing from the tavern.