RP:Aramoth Sends Off The Troops

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: In Frostmaw's colosseum, Aramoth's High Priestess Leone leads a ceremony of ice and blood to annoint Frostmaw's warriors before they head off to war. Non-warriors spectate from the stands, and among some of them whispers abound about the nature of the relationship between Leone and Hildegarde. The ritual is briefly interrupted by a dread knight with eyes for the High Priestess. Varn, a frost giant monk of Aramoth, kung fu's a mammoth to death.

Hidden Mountaintop Colosseum

Hildegarde had dressed accordingly for the ceremony that would take place today: no gloves, the snow lion pelt draped upon her shoulders, the leather chest wrap and sleeve wrap, the cotton trousers and the mountain boots. All in all, not very fashionable, but it wasn’t solid plate armour. It wasn’t chainmail or anything particularly protective, it was donned all for ceremony and ritual; she was dressed much like many giants and humanoids who made their way into the mountaintop colosseum. Wolf fur, mammoth skins, leather, that was the fashion of Frostmaw. With a heavy sigh, the woman raised her hands and looked at the runes that had been carved into the back of her hands – still faintly glowing silver, even after all this time – and reflected on the trials she had faced. They had killed the impossible, that deadly trio. And she had lost the most important man in her life. With a little shake of the head, the knight gently dusts down the fur of the snow lion pelt and carefully adjusts her outfit with evident discomfort. Armour was what she was most comfortable in, after all. Everyone knew why they were gathered here, this was a big send off. This was the final calling upon Aramoth.

Josleen arrives dressed in the colorful winter wear that has made her a recognizable figure in the city of war: plum peacoat, thick black tights, insensibly heeled boots, floral dress, cream gloves, and a dash of make-up. But her lengthy visit has enured her to cold a little, one scarf suffices these days, as do fewer layers. She isn’t a warrior or war strategist. She’s a volunteer nurse. Aramoth’s blessing won’t follow her into battle. But she arrives at the colosseum today because it is important, she feels, for those who stay behind to support the troops, to show them that her mind too is on the war; and that she will do her best to watch over the fort in their absence, and provide a warm hearth and soft pillow for those who return. She hopes that the elf she met at the war council (Emrith was his name? What is it with her an E names, Ezekiel, Eliason, Emrith...), she hopes he won’t be here. It’s too embarrassing after their last encounter, but all the same she wishes he can save her friend, the reason she came to Frostmaw at all: Skylei. She takes a seat in the stands with a group of nurses and healers, pantomiming air kisses and hugs with those she recognizes from the ward, introducing herself to newer volunteers. When Hildegarde looks in her direction, she waves a hand high over her head and beams in support of the knight.

Hudson is not the only one with the idea of showing up to the ceremony, but of course he leaves a little later than prudent, and is accordingly stuck in some "traffic" caused by an overturned ox-drawn cart that had been carrying apples. He is on horseback, so the nature of his "traffic" is that his horse wants to stop and snack. And his horse is not the only one. In any event, he arrives much later than he would like, ties his horse up in the appointed equine parking lot for such purposes, and shoves off to the colosseum, which is already fairly crowded. Moreover, displaying, as one might expect, racial clustering of the usual sort. Huds naturally has no desire to sit near all the giants. But the benches filled with human men seem to be mostly occupied, and rather than squeeze in - he finds himself heading toward the first opening he sees, which incidentally is basically a hen's nest filled with lady nurses. Could be worse... And so, in pursuit of a decent view of the ceremony/ Hildegarde, he finds himself settling in next to Josleen, to whom he nods in a wilted manner, as if excusing himself for puncturing the all-females enclave she and her associates were in. He politely offers her his flask of whiskey, his personal method of keeping unfrozen.

Varn cuts quite the figure as he strides purposefully into the large stadium, a frost giant of some seventeen feet in height and sporting a body like an enormous beer-barrel. A pure white robe made from the skins of several snow wolves billows around him as he moves, cinched at his thick waist with a belt of studded leather. He wears boots of some thick-looking animal hide on his feet, and a peculiar instrument over his shoulders atop the cloak. A chain of thick blue links spreads across his broad back, and a stout staff drapes down from either side, twitching back and forth with every deliberate footstep; it is the frost-giant monk's equivalent of a set of nunchaku, but worn so casually that a single glance might not immediately give its purpose away. Varn does not expect to need it, but he has taken to carrying it about on the off chance that trouble should erupt; Frostmaw is, after all, at war. He makes for Hildegarde, who he not-so-recently carried to the fort after an unlucky escapade in a tournament bout, and gives her a formal nod without speaking. The giant's silky hair ripples in the wind like the mane of a much wilder creature, and his blue eyes are at once merry and deep as they scan the crowd. His expression and demeanour give away nothing but silent resolve.

Leone only enters once all of the stragglers and spectators are seated. The bantam blacksmith's gait is slow and methodical, as if it were bidden onward by some otherworldly cadence: the beating of drums that sounded only in her head. Dressed in similar fashion to the rest of the Frostmaw fighters, the farrier is robed in mammoth pelts. The shaggy hair that typically coats the massive beasts hang from her shoulders like frizzy pauldrons. The hair is dyed in an ombre of shades ranging from white at her feet to black at her neck. Sooty streaks coat the woman's otherwise creamy visage, her entire neck and jaw line blackened to a coal hue. Wispy, jet-hued tendrils rise from the swathe of swarthiness, curling like black smoke up her cheeks to contour around the metallurgist's nose and eyes before finally trailing off into the inky bow-and-peak of her hairline. Unshod, and most likely bare beneath the ceremonial robes, the only other equipment visible upon the High Priestess is a chain. Gleaming blue links twine once around the petite female's right limb before trailing off behind her, and away into the darkness of the tunnel. Every so often, the slack in the chain tightens, a moment's tension brought to the cold-forged iron before it once again patters like frozen rain to the arena floor. As the cleric makes her way toward the center of the arena, where a massive block of ice stands, an elderly, scarred mammoth slowly emerges from the gate, tethered to the diminutive woman by the chain around her wrist. A pair of neonate paladin flank the grizzled old proboscidean, providing a measure of insurance against the beast rampaging.

Hildegarde could only offer nods and little waves to those who greeted her, feeling as though speaking or being too jovial might spoil the atmosphere the ritual had imposed upon the colosseum. As the priestess and mammoth emerge from the gate towards the block of ice, the knight can feel a sense of relief in seeing that the mammoth is not Bully – fabled beast champion of Frostmaw’s arena – and is a different mammoth entirely. Bully was famous in Frostmaw, after all. No one would dare harm a celebrity. The Silver watched the ceremony in silence. The realm of religion and the rites that went with it, was not an area of her expertise.

Josleen has to move her big purse off the bench for Hudson to claim a seat. Yes, she did take up an entire space with her bag; some people are just irrefutably the worst. But she does give up the spot and smiles a greeting back to Hudson. Reflexively she denies the flask from the unknown man. It’s rule #1 in the how-to guide for solo lady travelers. Given the setting, she doesn’t assume he means anything sinister by it. Were this an empty street, she’d be blowing a whistle and screaming ‘Fire!’ Also practical tips from her how-to guide. A nursing friend pulls out of her overgrown purse (one per woman, naturally) a bottom-rack bottle of pale sparkling wine and a bottle of orange juice, both fine luxuries in this tundra. “To send off the warriors with high spirits,” the friend announces to the giggles and shining eyes of her companions. Josleen accepts a mimosa, then offers one to Hudson as if it were the polite thing to do. Something in her theatrically-trained speech suggests he really shouldn’t dip in the ladies’ stock of mimosas. Varn earns Josleen’s attention for a moment, but Leone commands it totally. The spectacle, the mammoth, the drama, it’s everything a bard could ever hope for. Her gaze only drifts away from the performance a few times to see if there is any chemistry or unspoken communication between Leone and Hildegarde, a pair whom Josleen still suspects are a clandestine couple. Unlike Hildegarde, Josleen has no idea what is to come, for she is a sweet summer child.

Hudson looks at his flask as Josleen declines it. Then, with a shrug of his shoulder, he drinks from it. Perhaps he wouldn't accept a drink from a strange guy, either. Until things get started, he watches with interest as Josleen and friends pour mimosas. He says nothing to them, but raises his flask in a half-way toast out of solidarity. Once the ceremony begins to putter along, his attention turns to Varn's and Leone's entrance into the arena. His gaze reflects surprise at seeing Leone take on this role, but he's got nobody to express that to. So he silently observes, making all the right crowd noises when appropriate. Josleen beside him seems captivated by both Leone and Hildegarde, and he is careful to not lean her way - for that would confirm whatever earlier suspicions she had hatched - but rather address her in an appropriately discreet tone, "What's going to happen with those two? Am I missing something?"

Varn watches Leone and the mammoth approach, and mentally steels himself. Being a monk of Aramoth, Varn is perhaps less familiar with the intricacies of ritual than is Leone, but he has at least some idea of what to expect here. Turning his head this way and that, gauging the crowd and seeing nothing that particularly catches his eye, Varn folds his hands across his massive chest; around each finger is a steel band set with small spikes, and they clink rather audibly when the frost giant's hands clasp at his breastbone. He speaks now, and though his words are few, his voice is like rolling thunder. No one in the immediate vicinity save the profoundly deaf will miss a word. "This is war!" he booms. "Aramoth, the god and the father, is patron of war. We're here to seek aid from him in our cause. Be reverent. Be true. Be brave! Let your hearts fill with the fire of Aramoth!" This has served more as introductory speech than anything else, and he nods his huge head down toward Leone once his little speech is finished.

Leone, after her slow march across the colosseum's floor, finally comes to stand beside the towering block of ice. It is massive, looming like a blue-and-white streaked monolith over the assembled and ascending perhaps thirty feet into the air. The bantam blacksmith, already short for a human, appears little more than a gnome next to the heightful slab. The stalwart fingers of the smith knit together, the twinned appendages then hanging at her stomach like the rocking boughs of an ancient tree. Once the din of the crowd has subsided to a dull roar, the farrier pins her nearly phosphorescent, green gaze upon sections of the stands. Each landing of the firefly like sights lasts for but a moment before it flitters away to alight upon the next. "This ritual is a silent one," the High Priestess begins, her voice sonorous, carrying above the lingering cocophony of the spectators, "So before we begin, I will explain for those of you who have never experienced one." The cleric turns with calculated precision, and presses one palm against the side of the block of ice. The gesture elicits a flare of azure and white to leap from the depths of the frozen menhir, shafts of light seeping forth from it in stark lines of etched runes and sigils. "We pay homage to brotherhood and our Kingdom. We bathe with one another in the land's blood first, sharing of ourselves and that which we are sworn to protect, to uphold, and to serve," the raven-haired woman expounds. As she speaks, the shards of luminescence from the slab begin to illuminate more runes upon the arena floor. Soon enough, it is evident that a square of magical symbols surrounds the icy megalith. The farrier's arms open wide, as if she were preparing to give an unseen entity a hug, before they are pulled in toward her in a gesture of invitation, bidding the Frostmaw fighters to enter the magically constructed bath. Already, the block of ice is melting, coating the floor with frigid water along the interior of the invisible barrier.

Hildegarde had nothing to say in regards to the ritual or about Aramoth, that was for Varn and Leone to speak on. After all, she was no monk nor priestess; her faith was once solely vested in her own arms and legs; her own might and skill with a blade until that fateful day when she came across her own brother on the field. It was then she had turned to the gods for strength and since then she had been devout in her prayers. The explanation Leone provides is a useful one, not just for her but for the unusual guests who are here out of their ties to Frostmaw and their work within the realm. Yet as the icy bath is drawn, the knight does not hesitate to lead the way and enter the magically constructed bath. After all, what kind of leader would she be if she did not lead the way? If it weren’t for the fact that this was a silent ritual, she’d probably try and make a joke about the temperature of the water. She didn’t find it so chilly. But her soldiers would.

Josleen takes Hudson’s question as proof that her suspicions are valid. Clearly Hudson sees it too, and thus, quod erat demonstrandum, Leone and Hildegarde are now officially, in the eyes of Busybodies, a couple. Mazel Tov! “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” She grins and leans in towards Hudson conspiratorially, as far as is acceptable for strangers in stadium seating. “Look, look, look,” she coos against the lip of her mimosa. “Did you see that? Look at Hildegarde. The eyes.” She nods slowly to Hudson, lips pursed smugly as they see what no one else can see. She applauds Varn’s speech without taking her eyes off Hudson. Nuggets of gossip > the ceremony. Her voice drops to a whisper. Still applauding, she says, “It isn’t my place, but… I think that’s been going on for a looooong time.” Her left brow jerks upwards along with this new intrigue. The applause stops. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.” Another sip. Another pause. You would think the conversation is over, but you don’t know Josleen. With her audience captive, she starts up again, “It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Hildegarde, Aramoth’s Daughter; Leone, Aramoth’s High Priestess. I saw it coming a miiiiile away. I’m Josleen, by the way.” She holds out a gloved hand. It’s lonely up in Frostmaw, and without Skylei, she has only her reflection to gossip with — save the occasional boring medical ward drama. In her nosey excitement, she missed Leone’s explanation of blood (and request for silence), and when her attention finally returns to the stadium, all she sees is melting ice. “Oh isn’t that nice,” she says.

Hudson doesn't know what's obvious, but he doesn't want to admit that to Josleen, total stranger, especially as she's now determined that he is no longer a threat. And so he nods in agreement, drinking from his flask, his gaze focused on the ceremony taking place. Josleen's words are slow to gain traction because he's paying attention to what's happening. Leone looked as if she was performing something like alchemy there. Well, maybe a distant cousin. Not everything was like alchemy. He'd have to ask her about it... Record scratching sound. Lesbians? He looks at Josleen, eyebrows raised. "Wait, you mean Hildegarde and Leone...?" He mouths the word, wincing with uncertainty, "Lesbians?" He looks at the pair again before reverting his attention to Josleen. "Hudson," he says, taking her hand in his and giving it a firm shake. He gestures minutely with his forefinger toward the arena. "Wait but are they really? Honestly I didn't have that impression at all. I had a drink with Leone once and she didn't give off the gay vibes. But then Hildegarde showed up midway..." His gaze flickers to meet Josleen's, his eyebrows coming up as a realization begins to percolate. He looks back to the ceremony, interested on a new level. "Well that's sweet, they work together in a sense."

Varn seems content to follow Leone's lead. He does not speak any further words as the magical pool is created from the huge block of ice. Once it is of sufficient depth, he simply walks to its edge, steps in and crouches down, caring nothing at all for his boots or his cloak, both of which suffer a serious wetting. He would not mind being naked in the cold water, but suspects that doing so would be rather inappropriate given the circumstances. Thus, the frost giant contents himself with this more ritualistic soaking. He makes no sound, but a prayer to Aramoth forms in his mind; rather than a litany of words, it is a voiceless but thunderous plea for help. The giant is no telepath, but there is definitely something forceful enough to this mental shout that those nearby might actually feel some form of echo or reverberation in their own heads. The monk's brow is knitted in concentration, and he pays no mind to the spectators or to the others around him...not for the moment, at least. For now, there is only this frigid water, which bothers him hardly at all, and the plea for aid toward his patron god.

Grailan was neither here for Aramoth or ceremony; there was a single purpose upon the single-minded drive of the Dread Knight as, clad in black armor topped with aesthetics of intricately carved skulls and bones, the hooded male cut a swathe through the crowd by sheer width of his platemail-covered frame. His dull, dead eyes were locked on Leone, and he moved as if without quarter; those in his way were forced aside by the presence of his body if not willingly moving from the sight of the pale, breathless being. Leone was what they were affixed to, and he moved with every intent of approach, regardless of Giants and ceremony.

Leone stands steady as the waters rise around her. The addition to multiple giants to the gargantuan pool causes the water level to surge, pushing the rippling swells up to the bantam woman's waist. The plover's jaw chatters as the water rises arond her, the petite human not accustomed to being submerged in the icy grip. The farrier's attention passes to Hildegarde, where lime green oculars linger against the amazonian female and her red hair. As more warriors join the bath, several begin dousing themselves with handfuls of water, washing away the salt of skin and sweat to mix together in swirling eddies of speckled white. The liquid froths, and all the foam seems to stray in the direction of Varn. Whether it is a natural construct or one perpetrated by the blacksmith is not revealed. Pressing strides wend the metallurgist to the giant's side, and she smiles up to the praying behemoth of a man. "Ah," the priestess declares, looking over the monk for a brief moment, "You shall be the one to slay the mammoth and anoint yourself first in its blood." The diminutive female's chain-bound arm sweeps in a wide gesture - one that is meant to indicate the ancient beast but instead finds the priestess's hand slamming into Grailan's armored chest. She immediately recoils, the blue iron chan clattering against his dark metal fortifications in retreat, while an accusatory glare is shot toward the undead. Realization settles in, and anger melts into shock at the sight of the Venturil guard in the ritual bath. Already, a bruise is blooming against the back of the ivory-skinned hand that collided with Grailan.

Hildegarde is too distracted by the ceremony at hand to pay heed to the rainbow rumours that abound the colosseum, thanks to Josleen and Hudson. Of course, the knight has no idea people perceive her in such a way! As warriors begin to splash the water up themselves, she too does the same; scrubbing the salt and sweat from her skin as she waits for the next stage of the ritual to commence.

Josleen isn’t dissuaded by Hudson’s cluelessness. Perhaps, because he is male, he didn’t have the cunning necessary to put his gut intuition to words. The rumor stays strong. ‘Yes, lesbians,’ she mouths back, not wanting to be overheard by anyone who would think their whispering was critical of gay relationships. A little louder, so that their neighbors could hear, but still whispering out of respect for the ceremony, she says, “Yes, it is sweet. It’s sad that they feel they need to hide it because of small-minded bigots.” The ceremony is just starting to get good, and a welcome distraction from a conversation that was just taking a turn towards awkward. She returns to her mimosa and leaves the acquaintance to his lesbian fantasies. She notices a parting in the standing-room crowd and although she and Hudson are on the opposite side of the stadium as Grailan, she can’t help but shrink back in fear. The same women’s intuition that sniffed out a totally-true romance, knows that whatever is going to happen now is bad news. Again. she misses talk of blood and sacrifice, distracted by something in the audience, but this time it’s less light-hearted. “We should go,” she whispers. “I have a bad feeling.”

Hudson is listening to Josleen with one ear but in his mind's eye cruising through all his memories of Hildegarde and Leone, revisiting these experiences now under the suspicion that he was in the presence of SECRET LESBIANS. There had been another visit to the bar too... and again, Hildegarde had showed up! Had she and Leone left together? He can't recall, his memories are barnacled by his drunkenness at the time, and there's no scraping them clean. At the time, he'd of course assumed Leone was straight. Perhaps that assumption had been a little self-important, developed like a negative in a bath of booze. ...Hildegarde he could believe, although there was that incident the one time with the centaur... It takes him a moment to get back to Josleen, as his mind is doing a rough job of juggling Lesbians and the ceremony. "Yeah I agree, lesbians are hardly offensive..." he says, at first conclusively, although the statement withers at the tail end as his gaze follows Josleen's to settle on Grailan. "What's that guy about? Doesn't seem part of the--" Cue Grailan's advance on Leone. Hudson notes the expressions of those around them - people's faces seem to lag behind the moment, for their expressions are clenched in something like splintered surprise. Not quite registering this interruption. Hudson licks his lips, just as Leone and Grailan make contact. While he personally puts some stock in the defensive abilities of those here, he cedes to Josleen's request. "I'll walk you out," he offers.

Varn is up and out of the pool in far less time than might have been expected of one possessed of such great girth. Water droplets spray everywhere as the frost giant walks toward the mammoth. It looks calm enough, and formidable, but Varn knows that when enraged, these creatures are more than capable of felling even a grounded dragon with their fearsome bulk, hideous tusks and sheer tenacity. As he moves, he sees other warriors making as if to follow him, but he does not slow his pace. "Unchain it," he commands, his voice a basso burst of sound. "When it gets lively, it's going to throw Leone like a rag-doll if she's attached to it by the wrist." The musical singing of heavy chains suggests to Varn that someone or other has done as bidden. He closes on the beast, moving confidently but not hurrying. In a much lower voice, he murmurs, "You'll die a hero of your kind today. No show and no sport. Fight me with body and mind. Give me everything you have." The mammoth may not understand exactly what the frost giant is saying, but some sort of rudimentary intelligence gleams in its small eyes, and Varn fancies that the gist of the message, if not its every detail, has been communicated. He hears feet behind him as several of Frostmaw's fighters close into a semicircle, ready to step in should things not go well. Varn goes from a purposeful stride into a heavy front snapkick almost without changing posture or speed, big booted foot pistoning out toward the mammoth's right front foreleg. There is a snap as the huge bone cracks, and the enormous beast raises its head and trumpets its fear and anger before lowering it again. When it swings its thick neck, meaning to carve the frost giant standing before it with its tusks, Varn is prepared; having studied how these beasts fight in the wild, particularly when confronted with prey too large to simply trample, he knows what is coming and consequently understands what must be done. Shifting his weight back on his other foot, the monk pivots ponderously to his left and shoots both hands outward; one is clenched into a bowling-ball-sized fist, the other palm-out like a blunted blade. The fist hammers the mammoth's tusks from above as they slice open the front of the monk's robe without drawing blood, breaking one off cleanly and cracking the other with a sound like stones being broken. The monk's chop is aimed for the mammoth's throat, and it connects with ropy muscle and the vein atop it. The strike is so savage and speedy that the vein bursts beneath the mammoth's hide, swelling ominously outward and threatening to rupture its skin. Varn knows that the mammoth has at least one good headbutt left in him, and is still more than capable of a haphazard charge, even with a broken leg; in their later extremities of pain and outrage, these colossal monsters simply ignore pain, it seems, in favour of felling whatever dared hurt them. As such, Varn knows his time is limited. Bellowing, he lowers his hands, continues his spin and then breaks into a shambling run, passing down the creature's side until he reaches the middle of its back. It is turning, trying to track him and swing its mutilated tusks again when Varn leaves his feet and slams both hands down on the mammoth's back. In a feat of both strength and agility which puts the awesome weight and size of the giant into awesome perspective, Varn hand-springs onto the mammoth's back, torques to his left, cartwheels for momentum, then brings first his left and then his right foot down in two heavy axe-kicks upon the mammoth's neck. This is one outrage too many, and the beast crashes to the ground, throat rupturing and neck broken. It is dead before the tremors from its fall have ceased, and Varn's trajectory spill him over the mammoth's head and onto the ground in a heap, where mammoth blood immediately drenches him in a hot torrent. He stands, dripping red, and roars. Other roars answer him as warriors appear at his sides, anointing themselves in the dead beast's arterial flow. Normally, Varn would not kill so brutally nor so selfishly, but as Leone had told him to be the one to make the kill, he has done so with brutal efficiency.

Grailan , meanwhile, reached out with a single gauntlet in order to grasp hold of that recoiled hand of the High Priestess and pull the woman toward him and those dull, dead, and gray eyes. Blood of the mammoth splattered him, people were starting to notice that he had walked right into the ceremony and to the bantam blacksmith without care for the god's pious ritual. His stare was unblinking, affixed to the petite plover in that mournful, eternally damned expression. Trapped in that ever-sorrowful state, the Dread Knight reached for the other hand of the High Priestess with his free gauntlet.

Leone is intent on watching the slaying of the mammoth, at least until Grailan grabs her wrist. As the chain is released from the mammoth's neck, the blacksmith's arm grows heavy, now laden with the full weight of the interlocking links of blue iron. She stares, pointedly, at Grailan for several moments before her lips purse and dark brows knit together, creating a furrow just above the bridge of her nose. The expression is less in anger, and more one of confusion. "Let go," the plover's diametric notes of sand and silk command the dread knight, "I have to finish the ritual." Ignoring Grailan's efforts to grab her other arm, the petite plover strains to join the warriors in the anointing, though there's no way that she's going to move the armor-clad undead along with her. When the male's opposite, gauntleted hand finds her second wrist, he earns the High Priestess's full attention. "I am not going to get hurt," she insists to the death knight.

Hildegarde waits until the mammoth has been slain and most men have been anointed before she too rises to her feet to approach the pool of blood. Yet as she nears Leone and Grailan, the knight slows to a halt and stares at the death knight like he might stare at Leone. “Let her go,” she reiterated; her voice calm. “No harm will come to the lady here,” ‘not while I’m around’ she nearly added but elected not to. Her hand had gently settled on Leone’s arm, “You have my word, I would rather die than let the lady here come to harm,” she promised the death knight and removed her own hand from Leone’s arm before kneeling into the pool of blood and smearing the gore on her fingers to then wipe it on the tip of her nose and up, a vertical strike until the gore was up in her hair.

Josleen can’t remember the last time a respectable man treated her with chivalry. But as much as she’d like to accept Hudson’s offer immediately, there’s a code amongst women in dangerous situations. She can’t leave her fellow nurses without first ensuring that the gaggle will take flight with her. The language of uncertain glances and brows lofted on fear stalls their exit, while in the arena, a frost giant was kung fu fighting. Does no one in the ring see the undead dread knight? The mammoth falls in broken, swollen pieces. Its blood spews everywhere. The warriors writhe in the hot, sticky blood like Delisha’s bacchanalian worshippers. The gore, the thirst for violence, the bloodlust, it’s all too much for Josleen’s squeamish morals and paling constitution. She turns away from the slaughter and drums her flat palm on Hudson’s back, urging him to “Go, go, go, go, go!” with each girlish smack. Like Lot’s wife leaving the city of Sodom, she can’t help but look back, and stiffens like a pillar of salt when she sees Grailan approach Leone with tender intentions. Has he bewitched her? Consensual romance exists beyond the limits of her imagination. But what can she do for Leone. No skill, no authority, she is of no use. Hildegarde steps in to defend her lady love. Josleen remains transfixed in the unfolding drama, but the nurse behind her urges her forward, and she speeds her escape until she is back on Hudson’s heels. She’ll follow him all the way out of the colosseum, beyond the crowd, to the safety of the fort.

Hudson does not notice any of the coded female behavior occurring around him. He is aware of Josleen's alarm, as it practically crackles in the air like static electricity, but if he's being honest, he is a little drunk and complacent. But... happy to walk her out. Incidentally he also plans on breaking the seal, and now seemed as good a time as any to do so. He finds Josleen and her entourage rushing him out, and he scoots past others who crowd the benches, trying to avoid stepping on toes and/or tripping on oversized bags. He likewise does a bit of rubbernecking on his way out, of course, the whole sordid situation getting to a fever pitch. He does a double take when Hilde gently touches Leone's arm. That seemed intimate. Staring a bit too intently, Huds inadvertently flat-tires the woman in front of him and receives a nasty look for his troubles. "Sorry!" he exclaims, and that's the last thing he says before they quit the premises of the colosseum. Outside, he walks Josleen and Friends (TM) to their point of departure, whereupon he remarks that he's going to hit the men's room - which he suspects is likely to be revolting, as public restrooms tend to be - and then head home. He says the appropriate a number of platitudes about how it was pleasant meeting all of them, and then he waves, watching them take their leave before going in search of the nearest perhaps literal pot to piss in.

Varn straightens up to his full height, gore-streaked and grinning. His eyes are an even brighter shade of blue than previously as he sweeps the area with his gaze. He settles on Grailan, Hildegarde and Leone and, after a brief moment of alarm, ascertains that there is no immediate threat here. He has already broken the silence of the ritual with a bellow, and figures a few more words will not go too badly amiss. "In the name of Aramoth!" he shouts. "May he empower us to help us bring death to our enemies and safety to our lands!"

Grailan kept his dull and dead gaze upon Leone as he held her hands in his grasp, even while Hildegarde spoke. The dread knight spoke, finally, after the Stewart's offering with a distinct and haunting voice, "Your word is binding." It was the confirmation of his acceptance of that oath, and although he did so he yet hasn't released the high priestess. Instead he pulled the woman just a step closer. A brief moment of pause, some sort of unspoken worry, or genuine affection and hesitation. Then, finally, those gauntlets released his captured female.

Leone looks over the crux of her shoulder at Hildegarde, the Steward's voice invading her thoughts, and her intense focus upon Grailan. The plover's jaw steels, flexing at the hinge until her angular lines almost square out. She stares, unwaveringly, at Grailan after Hildegarde has left to join the culmination of the ritual. "You want to talk," the petite plover replies, both ebon brows ascending the tract of her cream-hued forehead with understanding. Or at least the blacksmith thinks she understands. She stumbles forward, a single stride in addition to the one Grailan drags her toward him, before the smith catches her balance and again stands steadfast on her feet. "As soon as I finish this, we will," the farrier promises the death knight once he has released her. Instinctively, the Priestess wrings each of her wrists with the opposite hands, smoothing down the rise of red on either limb where metal met cold flesh. Turning to the crowd, the cleric just manages to catch the end of Josleen and Friends(TM) exit in the company of Husdon, though she is unsure what the to-do is about. Instead, the High Priestess gives Varn a wide smile, along with a nod of approval. "The mammoth shall be portioned out to the most needy of those among us first. Appeals for gold, to treat hides and hairs, may be made to the temple. We will serve those who seek us out," the sable-haired woman decrees to the crows at large. As far as she is concerned, the ritual is complete.

Hildegarde rises to her feet with the ritual complete and moves over towards Leone, “I need a word with you,” she said quietly, before turning her gaze to Varn, “come with me, we must talk,” she told the giant. She would wait for them to signal they were ready to walk with her or attend her, immediately reaffirming Leone’s words: “Mikael and Beorn of the Queensguard will assist those who require meat and accept donations for the temple, seek them out if you wish,” she said before walking towards the stands and climbing them with practiced ease. Off she goes, towards the royal box where she had stood guard so many times before yet so long ago. Funny that it was now her who would sit here rather than stand guard. “Thank you to you both for your work there,” she said gratefully, yet her voice is terse and icy; as if someone were pulling the words from her like pulling teeth. “But I need you both to stay here in Frostmaw. I will hear no argument on this. Frostmaw will need you both in the days to come. I will take a good portion of our strength to Sage and, yes, some of us will not return. But Frostmaw will not have a ruler if I leave. I need you both to maintain the balance and protect my land. Something… There is a report of something out west,” she said a little more quietly, “an undead beast was found and this unsettles me. Something is afoot, but I am to march south not west.”

Leone presents the dread knight with an apologetic glance, her head bowing forward before a nod is shaken out to Hildegarde. Following the Steward some distance away, the farrier is only too agreeable to staying in the city. "I intended to stay, though I knew nothing about an undead beast," the plover replies to the Silver, her gaze once more shifting to Grailan in wonder, and then quick dismissal. "I will investigate this, lead a team, and keep you appraised of the situation," the farrier is quick to pick up in the Stewards' imminent stead. A glance is cast toward the silent Varn, and her lips purse in consternation. Perhaps the giant would be the best choice to accompany her in this matter.