RP:And The Foam On The Shore, Granite

Part of the Hour of Wolves Arc

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

Summary Lionel and Alvina run into each other at the medical ward in Fort Frostmaw while he receives further treatment for the red dust consumed during the recent terrorist attack near the Eastern Gates.

Healing Clinic, Fort Frostmaw

Alvina’s wounds were healing nicely. She’d originally believed she could handle leaving the clinic and resuming her normal schedule; daily trips from Frostmaw Towers and back with her daughters but nothing proved that simple. The first day she’d tried to go back to work, both of her knees had split open again causing her to nearly drop both her children into the snow. Why had that happened, you ask? Why because Alvina is currently a single mother, whose baby daddy visits sometimes but is also a drug lord so she can’t necessarily ask him to help carry their children to work can she?! Either way, Alvina had been found in the hallway by Beatrice, a healer at the clinic who had originally treated the injury. She saw the Harper and Luna off to babysitter and Alvina back to the clinic for additional healing of her injuries. She’s lying on the cot, hair braided away from her face and wincing as Beatrice pulls off the old, bloodied bandages to start cleaning the wound. The bard grits her teeth against the discomfort and turns away, fearful that she might be sick.

Lionel is in a dense fog, unable to see more than a meter in any direction. The air is thick with the stench of decay. Overhead, a bird with wings like a bat encircles the area, trilling. A child screams somewhere in the northwest, and a woman is dying, slowly, but he cannot pinpoint her location. Without realizing it, Hellfire has been drawn, but the sword will not ignite. Repeat attempts at willing the steel to coat itself with flame have begun to make Lionel sweat, and a vivid humidity overwhelms him. He cannot breathe. Crumbling to one knee, he attempts to place his hands to his forehead, but his arms move sluggishly, as if he is trapped in thickening amber. The woman's screams are silenced with a distant damning swing of a scythe, and the child is not far behind. The bird ceases its trill, and a loud clucking of horse hooves sounds louder still with each passing beat. An image begins to form in the fog, swirling up moisture and sending puffs of vapor in every direction. Cloaked, faceless, and yet somehow snarling. The stench of decay increases. An eerie obsidian substance blankets the environment, and the faceless figure melts into it, and then Lionel melts, too, and he opens his mouth but noise can be heard. In the real world, he is screaming, and a guardsman rushes into his quarters without request, tapping his arm as the medics had ordered. Fiercely, Lionel awakens, his piercing blue eyes set upon the guardsman as if he is some ancient evil. The fellow swallows hard. "Ser..." Lionel pulls the covers off of himself and sighs, reaching for his black silk shirt. "Ser," the guardsman continues, "the maids have taken your clothes. You've not... ah, that is to say... here is something else." Lionel snaps the green button-up tunic, glaring at the embroidered cloth-of-gold adorning its edges. An old Catalian symbol is etched upon the right chest -- the symbol of the hawk, talon extended. In Lionel's perception, the bird's wings are webbed like that insufferable beast from his dream. A few insistent blinks and the hawk is but a hawk, but the memory remains. Is this some kind of joke? Just the other day, Emrith had accused him of clinging to the traditions of his fallen civilization. If he seems Lionel in this, if -anyone- from the guild meeting sees Lionel in this, suspicions will intensify. "Seven hells." He finishes buttoning the tunic, nods curtly to the guardsman, and strides toward the medical ward. Out of the corner of his eye, he espies Alvina, but before he can inquire, a doctor has seated him upon a bed and hoisted a powdery substance into a water cup, urging him to drink. Lionel does as bid, lips curling. "What happened?" He asks her, after a moment. Trepidation mars his features. Concern is evident.

Alvina had been looking away from her wound but now it’s more interesting to try and look back at it. Lionel’s appeared from seemingly nowhere in the clinic and her heart is in her throat, making speech impossible. Beatrice, the kind older healer that’s easing off the bandages with a steady and careful hand answers Lionel’s question for her. “She doesn’t know how to stop working is what happened. I told her, I did, to go home and rest for three days or she’d be back here but did she listen?” Alvina’s face contorts in a sarcastic snarl. “I saw that miss, and if you keep it up, I’ll be giving you something to make you sleep. I don’t have time for your sass today.” The bard huffs, turning her face away, catching Lionel’s azure gaze and then awkwardly trying to find another direction to look in. “What are you in for?” She asked him, in a low tone, before wincing at another tug of her bandages. The blood on the bandages was starting to turn a dull brown on the edges, signifying it wasn’t so fresh anymore.

Lionel shakes his head at both the patient and her nurse. "That doesn't track," he says, pointedly. The healer's brows furrow and she returns to her duties without further commentary. "You look like you've been through more of an ordeal than sleep deprivation. How did those wounds come to pass? Were you attacked? Some sort of retaliation against us?" My, Lionel. Sitting there with the Catalian hawk upon your chest, immediately assuming it's related to you. "Or...? Whatever the case may be, please, tell me. I'll conduct a full-scale investigation immediately." The healer returns as quickly as she'd departed. "You will do no such thing. You know full well by now that the powder takes up to fifteen minutes once it's inside your system. Physical exertion during the procedure will lead to chaos." She grimaces at him, and he's tempted to remind her that chaos is out in full bloom throughout the city and well into its outlying villages. He wants to tell her, too, that painful physical sensation might be a worthy distraction from the emotional entropy buzzing through his brain since the terrorist attack. He wants to tell her that it's been 95 hours since that attack, and he knows how many minutes, too, and if pressed, he could probably count the seconds. But instead, he shrugs his shoulder defiantly and turns his attention back to Alvina. "I took a massive blast of red dust during the recent incident. Without regular treatment, I'll relapse. Hard."

Alvina’s monitoring the interaction between Lionel and his healer more than she’s minding her own. “Miss Liadon!” Beatrice calls, for the third time, only to have the bard stumble over some reply about something. “Yes that’s fine, whatever it is.” Her voice is distracted and distant. She’s eying the unusual tunic like it’s an ancient artifact. She’s never seen anything like it before and it’s a bit cutting to see Lionel in something besides his usual black silks though, maybe she prefers it since Krice also wears similar colors. It wouldn’t do to get the two heroes confused. “Just some kind of beasts….mostly just rocks, it’s really nothing dramatic. Krice made sure I got back safely.” Emerald optics flicker over Beatrice, who is pouring cold water over her knees, left one first and then right. Alvina hold her left eye shut, head cocked sideways in irritation. “I guess I asked for this...Krice told me about the attack. Said a lot of people were hit. I-I’m sorry…” Why did she say she was sorry? She’s not directly responsible for the madness that’s spreading it’s leathery wings over Frostmaw recently. She’s just a woman, with bloody knees. “How long do you have to do this?” She asked of Lionel, trying to fill the silence with chit chat. Who knows when they’ll see each other again.

Lionel nods slowly, as if processing the response and judging that it makes enough sense for him not to press the issue further. Krice's heroics are well-known and much-appreciated in any season. When Alvina apologizes, it prompts him to tilt his head somewhat, but he does not immediately reply. He takes another sip of the water, setting it beside him and closing his eyes. Lionel can somehow feel the mental anguish subsiding. This is the fourth time he's taken the powder, and the fourth time he's experienced the strange sensation. If asked to describe it, the only thing he can envision himself saying is that his mind reaches high tide on the regular, now, and the powder is the only way to return to normalcy. "I have no idea," he whispers, eyes still closed. The healer's grimace increases as she shakes her head at the bard to confirm that she, too, is completely uncertain. "He was struck with enough of the stuff that I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd never recovered at all. Saddened, aye, but surprised? No." The healer fetches him more water.

Alvina shrinks, looking at her knees and feeling like they were a fitting prize. Temporary and only skin deep. Damned Lionel, trying to be a hero and carry all the burdens. Bah. Heroes. Alvina isn’t sure what’s gotten into her, where the bitterness in her thoughts is stemming from. Perhap it was her own withdrawal of sorts. Even if there wasn’t a powder for her to drink, she felt the same way, unknowingly. She lets her gaze fall on the floor, still visible to Lionel and the healer re-applying balm to her clotted knees. His problems were always bigger than she knew how to advise. Normally, her other friends would mourn a broken heart or an injured leg but Lionel went and accidentally snorted way too much dust. An impossible amount, incurable? Unknown. What do you say to that? She started with a low toned, “How’s Beli?”

Lionel doesn't need long. As the moments pass, and a decent amount of water is consumed, he is fit to converse. Glad, even. But too darkened by recent events for that gladness to be especially visible. It's there in short bursts. His eyes might catch a certain light and brighten his features. Then it's gone. Back and forth, to and fro. "She's growing rapidly, and she has much love for all of the dwarves, as well as Esche. She loves everyone. She demands love from everyone. The house is made better by her presence, and I appreciate the gift. I wish I had more time to see her."

Alvina nodded, uneasy by this small talk phase of their existing in the same space. It would pass, surely. But it had to endured until it did. When Lionel mentions wishing he had more time, she makes a sound, in the back of her throat that sounds a bit like a dying laugh. She looks back at the healer still dressing her knees and doesn’t make a remark about it until several seconds have passed. “It’s hard to be away from the one’s we love.” She remarks, dryly, with her eyes on the ceiling. “But I’m sure she knows how busy you are. These aren’t exactly peaceful times and cats are very forgiving, when they want to be. Takes a good heart to raise them that way though, but it sounds like she’s in the right place. Somewhere she can be appreciated and loved. Never feel lonely.” Her tone becomes heavy, with emotion she’d meant to exclude. Alvina clears her throat and tries at something light hearted. “If you were hoping for a hero to save you, I’m afraid Krice had other business elsewhere. He went south, Kelay or Larket I think. You know, if you need...a hero.” Did heroes need heroes? Was that a thing that happened? “That’s a ni-ouch,” A pause, to ride out a small wave of pain. “Nice tunic, odd to see you in green and gold but it’s brighter.” She adds, Beatrice now wrapping fresh bandages on her knees and giving her scolding stares if Alvina tries to shift uncomfortably during the process.

Lionel spends a few seconds recalling the one pet he'd ever owned before the new year, the cat with the peculiar name of Psychedelica. It's a comforting thought. He is, perilously, oblivious to virtually all of Alvina's throat-clearing and dry-toned hints of reference. He does race around to acknowledge her head-on at the brief suggestion that she's in greater pain, but then she's complimenting his tunic, and that sends a minor shockwave of dread which the powder cannot seem to suppress. "Oh, ah. Krice goes where the wind wills... or something. I'm sure I'll run into him again eventually. And, ah, this thing?" He runs a finger across the collar curiously. "I'm glad you like it, although I'm not sure where it came from. Rorin's relic hunts, maybe, or something Briar purchased before her passing? I really couldn't say. Maybe Esche. Heh." He pauses. "Verin," he addresses the healer, and she bows slightly at the naming. "I'll need a double supply for travel." She winces, but before she can continue, he cuts her off firmly. "The mission to the shadow plane." She scoffs at this, but acquiesces, placing it beside him. "Fat lot of good two doses will do you if you wind up marooned in a distant dimension. You'll go crazy within the week." Lionel doesn't need to think very hard to counter that. "I'll be dead within the week either way." A silence passes, the only sounds stemming from the tending of Alvina's knees. "A scouting op," he explains to her after a time. "We're freeing Khitti from Amarrah." He doesn't bother explaining the potential for never returning.

Alvina gives Lionel a cold look. There’s not a trace of a smile on her lips or anywhere in her features. “I know…” Khitti had told her all about it, not that she’d had time to tell Lionel about Khitti or any of their conversation. Probably for the best. “Be careful,” She said, turning away from him while Beatrice finished the wrappings. As soon as the healer turned away, Alvina pushed herself onto her knees, losing balance and stumbling for a second. She was back to her old ways. Pretending she was stone and unbroken. But that’s all she was now; broken. “Bring her back safe, she’s my sister now.” It’s the last thing Alvina can say before Beatrice catches her trying to run off and shouts at her. “Alvina-” the older woman starts, ramping up a lecture a mile wide. The bard holds up her hands, still lacking any amusement from the situation. “I know, healers are the worst patients.” In repeating Krice’s words, she falters, forced into Lionel’s cot before dodging away, lest he try to stop her progress. “I made those respirators,” She called over her shoulder, without looking back. “Don’t break them.”

Lionel watches with difficulty as Alvina vanishes. Even her temporary detour nearer to him comes and goes without the chance for him to formulate an appropriate reaction. Her various sentences are heard, but barely comprehended. Too much is happening from too many angles for Lionel O'Connor to comprehend these matters; they've been a considerable challenge to him from the first, but in the wake of a war with man-eating insectoids, a terrorist strike by assailants with probable ties to a long-haunting cold case, a member of his adoptive family imperiled, the guild in tatters, and Frostmaw's own future growing more questionable by the day... well, it's enough for Lionel to lose focus, with or without the red dust. "I won't," he whispers into the air, perplexed. Suddenly, the air is humid again, not unlike that fog.