RP:Babies, It's Cold Outside

From HollowWiki

Summary: Alvina, after meeting Pilar the night before, is wandering the wilderness to clear her head. During these wanderings, she runs into Lionel, Knight-Commander of Frostmaw for the very first time. They enjoy a light hearted chat while Lionel is haunted by his wife who passed so long ago.

Outskirts of The Eyrie Fort

Alvina arrived to the Eyrie Fort some time in the early morning hours. After leading her mount to the stables, and finding an unoccupied room to rest in, sleep evaded her. Every position lacked comforted, the slightest noise down the corridor stirred her from the wispy in between. Be it the snoring of the occupant in the room next to hers or the sharp howls of a startled dog in the room by the intersection...the fort was nothing compared to a little house blanketed in the seclusion of the Kelay - Sage forest. Morning arrived a few short hours after Alvina. Rays of sun leaked into her room to fall on tired emerald eyes. Her stomach ached, the twins thrashed uselessly beneath her skin. With a heartbroken sigh, she pulls herself upright and reapplies her cloaks and gown to start wandering the surrounding grounds. The guards waved her through the gates, a weary smile cutting through the warm, dawn light. The bard drifted through a few sparse tree clusters to the edge of a stunted cliff. The view acted as a balm to her weary soul. If she waited too long here, she may very well find herself asleep beneath the tree she's snuggled underneath.


Lionel is scarcely a mile away, but for all that races through a tired mind, he's as good as half a world from Alvina. It's been three nights since his return to post from the recent mage rescue operation, and two since he gave funeral rites to the comrade who fell in that brief but bloody conflict. Just this past evening, the Catalian had sought to comfort the wounded Pilar, who gave her all in the struggle and lost a limb for that courage. What troubles Lionel, however, is a certain deadly word on the tip of his tongue: 'routine.' Lionel was born under a bad sign; his own kingdom was besieged by despots long before he could don his royal crown. Adolescence was spent here in Lithrydel, where the Catalian grew in repute challenging old names like Immanuel, and Xaden, and Lyra, and Movdon. Khasad and Elazul, quite possibly Hollow's fiercest foes, then followed. This was the legend behind the man, but the man has never been the legend. No, Lionel's a fragile and wounded soul. Despite his lavish and newfound Frostmawian position, the hero is still fallen -- he's still haunted, every dream, by the cries of those he has failed. Back then, Lionel helped save the realm... but he failed so many. He failed Shogo, he failed Renai, he failed Demont Roussai and Griff Morivan and probably Caedan Navarre. Old names, too. Forgotten names. He failed Catal, his birthright an inferno when Elazul's last commanders had their vengeance. Most of all, he failed his late wife. Alexia Isis, perished eleven years past, here in this land at the hands of the first vampire himself. So much failure. Here is a man haunted by the ghosts of witnessed pasts. Consoling Pilar? Speaking eulogy to a dwarven funeral? It's all old hat. It's all 'routine.' Lionel loathes that death has become routine. He dresses in his simplest black silks and takes horse and exits the castle at the crack of dawn. He rides, ostensibly to scout the roads less traveled in a rare occasion to march solo. He leaves his battalion behind, the right of any champion knight-commander but one which Lionel seldom exercises, and he directs the horse to a steady gallop cross-country. Deep winter snows have made for poor tracks, but this one's a mare of the finest caliber, and good time is made as the land warms with the rising sun. Through a patch of oaks and elms, and the Catalian will dismount, tying the horse to a suitable bark and approaching the edge of a cliff. A figure in the distance -- a woman's figure? -- startles him. "Not meaning to interrupt," he calls out, although this view is precisely what ne needs in order to best assess the Queen's Peace in this corner of the realm.


Alvina had started to nod off when a male voice calls to her. From a distance, her startled frame twitches, dislodging snow that had settled on her navy hood and the shoulders of her cloak. Being pregnant, it was more trouble than it was worth to try standing to greet the stranger, if he was indeed friendly. Being this close to the fort, she couldn’t imagine any other sort roaming the woods surrounding. “…Hello?” She called, in reply, twisting her torso as far as her stomach would allow her to try and catch sight of this newcomer, clad in black silks and old sorrows. She waits for him to approach her, under the assumption that even the stranger might be wary of her in these times of endless war, before speaking further. If he should hesitate, she will call to encourage his company. “Hardly an interruption, I welcome friendly company.” Once the man is beside her, she will offer him a smile and her fleshed right hand, sheathed in a matching navy glove. Was it not customary for men to assist pregnant women from their chairs or the base of tree trunks blanketed in snow? She will wobble, momentarily, shifting her feet to stead her center of gravity before offering a weary smile. The lack of sleep shows in her otherwise pale features; bags of inky black beneath her eyes, lids struggling to open completely. She must have been half asleep when he called to her, even in the snow. It’s for the best he’d come along, otherwise who knows how long she might have slept in the freezing cold. The view itself was spectacular. A range of mountains, speckled with enough heavy snow to differentiate the bases of leafless trees from the blur of ground and sky. Still, sturdy pines and evergreens are visible, shrouded in white adornments, glistening like gold in the new sun rise. Alvina, for her part, studies Lionel’s face. Had she ever seen this man before? Perhaps in passing, though she made such rare trips to the fort these days. Her life had become a tempestuous test of her patience and love. The mind and heart could only retain so much in times of strife. Still…a friendly face, if this man is to be called such, relieves the burden momentarily. Something in his eyes reminded her of Pilar, sitting the night before in her chambers, howling at the guards for protection from some unseen threat. Her brow furrowed in thought, the corner of her smile wilting with concern. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing this morning?” Sadness still fringed her expression. “Are you friend or foe?” This jest curled up the corners of her smile once more. “I must warn you, if you are foe, I am still a hearty sprinter. Don’t think I’m helpless just because I can’t stand on my own, now.”


Lionel is duly warned, although there’s no cause for concern. Then again, who could say, when a man this young bears enough sorrow in his azure eyes as all this? Before he can answer, though -- before Alvina has even posited the question -- he has indeed accepted the woman’s bid of welcome and approached at a controlled speed. For Lionel, moving swiftly is a way of life, but although he is indeed still young, he’s not so young as he was back then, and he’s dressed in formal enough regalia that the sightly combination of a grown man with the brooch of Frostmawian authority half-galloping across the countryside would be enough to send shivers of worry. So it is that the man has learned that most impatient of arts -- the art of the normal step. He crosses the snow-tipped grass and take the stranger’s hand in his, thereby setting her upright as is her given right to seek, all things considered. “Glad tidings, then,” he agrees, then looses his soft grip on the woman’s fingers, tilting his neck to survey the landscape beyond. It is indeed quite marvelous, but more to Lionel’s immediate point, it seems presently devoid of trouble. All quiet on the southeastern frontier, then. Lionel’s face, as it is studied, is that of an ashen blond fellow with a somewhat pointed nose of trademark Catalian descent. His eyes are, as has been said, quite attuned to whatever emotional state he exhibits, but just now they’re gleaming nicely to mask some of that considerable remorse. His lips are full and his tone is a bit of a paler white. It’s all rather symmetrical, suggesting a probable arrangement of careful and deliberate breeding, but the way he strolls seems more like a commoner even despite the attire. There is something about this woman, he gauges. Something very tired. She is clearly with child, so it is no real surprise, but the tiredness on display here seems to transcend mere circumstances. Still, her words seem cheerful despite her countenance -- a mismatch Lionel himself has been accused of on oh so many occasions. “The name’s Lionel,” he greets, “Lionel O’Connor. Knight-Commander of Frostmaw, Champion of the Warrior’s Guild… and a terrible card player who lost five hundred silver just last night.” He leans in just a tad, there to present a mock-conspiratorial tone. “I’m too lax with the troops, I fear. They should be somewhat more reserved about emptying their leader’s coffers, don’t you think?”


Alvina waits through his stride with a patient smile, grateful that chivalry was not yet dead even in this cold place. Frostmaw was not high on her list of preferable locations, especially when napping was involved. Lionel’s hand comes then goes from her own gloved fingers and she leans impolitely against the tree that previously supported her on the ground. She’d ask his forgiveness for not standing straighter, but truth be told she was tired of asking forgiveness for all manner of things. He did not appear discouraged by her informal speech or attitude. While the bard was not well traveled, she did recognize a strangeness in Lionel’s facial features. The angled cut of his nose and jaw were unusually handsome. The woman couldn’t quite put her finger on the reasoning, something subconscious perhaps. He looked to be about her age but it was easy to misjudge those things so she said nothing about it. Alvina herself was far older than she appeared, though numbers hardly mattered now. “And I am Alvina. It is a pleasure to meet you, though if I am honest, I did not expect to meet many people when I came this way. I’m not dressed to impress or entertain.” Mayhaps the Knight Commander of Frostmaw had heard of her. She circulated within the Eyrie as it’s Engineer, designing many a mechanical device, involved in projects such as (but not limited to) the new heart of the Frostmawian Queen and Eyrie Commander, Hildegarde the Silver. Her list of titles was long, and boring, so she chooses only her name to offer. Let fate’s design tug whatever other information was important from them to share in due time. To his disclosure of debt over cards, she chuckles heartily. “I’m no better at cards myself but even I might fold a good hand or two if playing against –my- Knight-Commander.” The rosy color of her cheeks deepens as a sharp gust of wind passes through, scattering powdered snow like sawdust. “Perhaps they just need a thorough defeat! An impossible hand! Can you imagine their faces if you lose the night before, but come back to scoop all cooper, silver, and bless my soul gold from the pot!” It’s an absurd suggestion; just be better at cards! But it was all in jest and good spirit. She had heard his name, was it Pilar who had mentioned him? Already her eyelids are dropping, causing her to blink furiously. She had to apologize for this, at least. “Forgive me, the twins don’t allow me much sleep these days…” A pause, while she considers divulging more information about her circumstances. Surely a Knight could be trusted, yes? “…and I met that poor girl who has lost her leg to some mad creature that kidnapped her…It resonates with me for I too have lost limb and been captured, many years ago. She looks too young to fret so. I should go visit her before I leave, I think. I would say to the same to you but…I’m sure being a commander of anything brings its own troubles and heartache. I cannot pretend to know your story just from standing beside you for a few moments time.” She laughs at this, for while it’s true, it’s also so strange that she felt such a quick link to him. Inwardly, she scolds herself, assuming it is only because he is young and fit. It made herself conscious about her swollen appearance. What a way to meet someone! “Forgive me, I do tend to prattle on uselessly. What brings you to my little frozen corner of the world?”


Lionel laughs lightly as Alvina mentions the odds of bumping into someone out here on the frontier. His eyes cast a warm glow to their blue tint; they almost seem to speak for him at times. Nor does it take him long to recognize her name -- indeed, it's a name he's overhead in-passing at several castle council meetings. As Alvina continues her speech, the Catalian eases his posture and his smile grows with each passing remark she makes; there's plenty else he'd say to wit, but the things she says begin to bear stronger meaning, such as the twins and a woman without two legs. Instantly, he knows who she means, and his emotionally reflective eyes sparkle with surprise the rest of his face attempts to conceal. Not out of any deceit, mind you, but because he's practicing the difficult art of stoicism despite a lifetime led through daring heroics and impulsive decisions. "I imagine twins might never allow you much sleep again," Lionel says with a grin, "and I'd be glad to assist you in any way you might need while we're out here at the edge of nowhere, such as it is." He waves around them to a landscape devoid of noise but for the gentle chirping of birds, the snowy earth muting any far-off sound of the wilderness. It's a beautiful day, but conversation is much welcome when silence blankets the realm. "You've got no need to ask forgiveness, Alvina," Lionel tells her, mouthing her name for the first time. Dulcet notes of his Catalian ancestry give it a slightly more lilting cadence than intended. "But the woman you speak of -- Pilar, isn't it? She's an acquaintance of mine. We recently returned from a rigorous mission. I visited her the once, but needed to depart on business just the next morning." His voice can't hide a hint of sorrow. Why is he talking so much to a woman he has only just met? Lionel has changed. "If you're in the mood for company, perhaps we could check up on her together."


Alvina relaxes in the comforting warmth of Lionel’s presence. His eyes were expressive, thoughtful. It sparked a jolt in her heart. Thank the gods for the chilled wind that’s already painted blush on her cheeks. He might never know her momentary embarrassment. “Such is the life of a mother…” The edges of her tone are gentle but cautious. She had lost one child before…until they were in her arms, she could not allow herself to bloom with the radiant love she felt for them. “Assistance in standing and not falling are the most in demand at the moment. Company is a close third on the list.” Her posture is still lax, but now her mannerisms have become more fluid. If she had been on her guard before, it’s melted away with the sunrise or the charm of the Knight Commander’s laughter. When Lionel says Pilar’s name, the bard leans forward to acknowledge he was correct. “Yes,” her own smile wilts, thinking of the woman in tears the night before. One gloved hand lifts to Alvina’s cloak clasp, where it grasps at the fabric. The thought of Pilar’s pain brought physical discomfort into the bard’s chest, and like a yellowed bruise, sometimes the only way to ease the pressure is to press against it. “I’m to make her a new leg,” She offered, searching through her mind for previous designs, would they need improvements? The height of the last one would have to be adjusted…And for a split second, Lionel disappears and there is nothing around her but imagined schematics and detailed sketches of internal components. Simple joints and plating, reflective even in her mind’s eye. The male’s voice pulls her from her ever-twirling mind with his offer to join her. A renewed smile creased her lips with gentle joy. “I would be delighted if we could make it so. I’m sure Pilar would also appreciate visitors, I hope she’s slept a bit in the night…unlike some of us.” The hand previously clutching her cloak glided down to rest on her swollen stomach. Still, are they real? Yes they would have to be. One shining star in the darkest nights. It make her think of Hudson and then…she no longer wanted to think about him. His memory was laced with razor blades, tearing her hands to shreds each time she thought to pick it up. Without realizing it, she’s let her expression darken while his name fills her mind. Once it is tossed aside, she can only feign a less than convincing replacement. “I do mean this politely but, there’s no way I’m going to get on that horse…” And then she erupts in laughter, as if this is the single funniest thing she’s ever said. “Mind if we walk instead?” If Lionel is patient enough to walk along side her, they will arrive in good time to the fort’s entrance, with snow still drifting from the lazy sky.


Lionel, too, finds relaxation here at the edge of the frontier, with the woman Alvina and her voice he enjoys. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind a painful thought flickers like a stubborn flame. He pushes aside with practiced poise, hopeful it won't return. That brief haunt is enough to evoke an image clear as day: Alexia Isis, the man's long-gone late wife. As always, it erupts via familiarity. How long has it been since the last time the Catalian has met a woman expecting twins? To his shock, he cannot recall anyone but Alexia. Those children of theirs were destined never to laugh, never to cry, never to... breathe. It's a sharp pain, now, but Lionel's expressive mastery is something to behold. His soft gaze continues to shimmer with each passing motion, but there is no tension in his joints, no unease in his tone, nothing to showcase remorse. It's a heck of a hat trick. And it passes. Like a cursed ship wading through a sunny sea, it blackens his perception only in the passing. The irony, perhaps, is that all this darkness comes and goes as Alvina's own mind wanders to her science, so that for that single stitch in time, neither of them are present in the eyes of the other. "I hope so, too," he says with a smile. But then the engineer's countenance seems a hundred leagues away, and the fallen hero is left to wonder. Perhaps he has failed in his efforts to mask his feelings? 'There's no way I'm getting on that horse.' The volcanic laughter rushing free from this pretty lass is more than enough to reassure him. "Of course we can walk!" He exclaims it with his own agreeable chuckle. "In fact, there's no time like the present, I say. Well, I say that when I'm feeling motivated, anyway." A gingerly wink. With slow-falling snowflakes cresting their attire, the two will journey, and on occasion Lionel will point something out. "There's another forward encampment up that ridge," he at one point notes. "Goblins up by that cave, so please, be very careful if you find yourself near that pass." Then, as they near the fort, he asks her a rather simple question: "do you happen to have names yet? For the twins, I mean." He sounds glad and merry, but somewhere back inside that deep, deep mental recess, old names, old possibilities, of children he almost fathered echo through his aching heart.


Alvina senses nothing wrong before their journey begins, as she keeps pace with the Knight. More truthfully, it is probably her setting the pace, and him striding within it to match her. Each land mark is regarded carefully. Could she remember it all? Goblin camp there, yes. Stay away from the pass, of course. She nods and smiles, tossing coins into the wishing well of her mind in the form of unspoken compliments for her companion. He knew his way around this place, but he was also the Commander of the Knights here. So shouldn't it be expected for him to have this knowledge? Still, she finds herself impressed the entire walk, nodding with small acknowledgments of sounds. “Yes, of course, my..” To show she was paying attention. His question about the twins stumps her, only for a breath of time while she reaches into her memory to draw out their names. “I'm so use to calling them other things...rascals for keeping me up, my children, daughters...” A wistful hand falls on her stomach then while a smile creeps into her expression. Something soft, and glowing. “Ava and Harper.” She sighs, still grinning. Like saying their names aloud to another person somehow made them more real. If Lionel knew their names, and of course since they'd been granted names, nothing terrible could happen to them. It's a spell, cast over their small figures, encased in the boundless love of their mother through skin and tears. It's such a full feeling, in spite of the ever looming fear, to know someone as cursed as she might give the blessing of life to not one, but two children. It would be too much to pray they did not appear like their father. That they showed no signs of Lycanthropy upon birth. Now was not a time that welcomed witches or werewolves into the world. She feared the prejudice their heritage would bring them. Without speaking another world, Alvina stops in the snow, Lionel beside her. Her gloved hand gingerly reaches for his and without his approval or warning, places his palm against the cloth that separates her stomach's skin from the climate. The movement is slight, pulsing like a heartbeat just on the surface and then...it's more present. A kick! A push! Was it rude to have a stranger's hand pressed to her stomach? She hoped he didn't think she was too odd in doing this. It swelled her heart with love and fear. Did he have children? Did he understand the indescribable feeling that was set to burst from her breast at any moment? Could he read it in the helpless way she looked at him, with strands of unruly crimson clinging to her cheeks?


Lionel strides with effortless grace, legs long-honed for lengthy treks in harsher environs. Still, there is a degree of surprise that this woman so fully with child can chart this course herself. Was Alexia like this? He cannot recall. Too many years have passed. Oh gods… he cannot recall. He begins to feel it in his cheeks -- muscular motions to simulate a smile. In his eyes, a strain; they’re lighting up polite and kind because he wills it so. It’s all very convincing. It’s all very perfunctory. Yet for all that theatre, he finds he is enjoying Alvina’s company. For all these sinking thoughts of a bygone era, still there is joy within the heart. And it is for this reason precisely that Lionel successfully maintains his cheer. He grins when Alvina claims her unborn children rascals. He smiles when she calls them daughters. He even feels that so-called spell of beautiful identity when the woman cites their names. By now, the pair are closer to the fort than that spot of land on which they met; they’re at the very edge of town, and the scent of freshly-baking bread assails the senses. Bi-weekly merchants in their traveling carts, speeding through the main thoroughfare en route to those few in Frostmaw who can currently afford their wares, can be distantly overheard shouting spices and glass work and handcrafted gems from the far corners of Lithrydel. This is their backdrop when the pair, standing in the snow, abruptly stop to the tune of Alvina pressing his hand against that cloth. The fragile balance of careful smiles and forced happy eyes is shattered and scattered into the winds of time as the Catalian is taken back to the time of his youth, to a time of great upheaval for the realm, for the people, for the haunted man himself. At once, a memory of roses and their thorns returns the Knight-Commander to the days he was called only ‘hero.’ By his friends, who were his family. By the citizens he protected. By the villains, mockingly. And… by her. Alexia Isis. Born twenty-two years before the fall, she was thus five years his elder when they met and fell in love. He was smaller then, and his clothes fit awkwardly. His hair was as unruly as his dialogue. He fought and fought and fought, on and on through the day, through the night, for a cause that he created. He called it peace and liberty in Lithrydel, and against all odds, he succeeded. It was, in truth and retrospect, his own unique form of denial; his homeland Catal was conquered and crushed and the young would-be prince threw himself and his fabled sword into the flames and war and the arms of a savvy vampire. Alexia was something like a senator in the free republic of disorganized city-states that once channeled through this continent. She believed in the inherent good. She believed that evil only spread when good people fell to grief. She was a visionary. She took in a frightened overly courageous lad and gave him a home and saw the real him when everyone else saw the warrior. She wed him and they almost had their happily-ever-after. Heavily pregnant with twins of her own, the Dark Immortal Elazul, father to all Lithrydelian vampires and centuries-long terror, ended that dream and broke the man. Everything ended before it could begin. All these images flash like pincers as he touches Alvina so. All these pincers lance into his soul. Yet there is a miracle here, one he’s far from certain he will ever have occasion to share with her. Something so elegant in its simplicity, healing in its unspoken ways. Lionel does not crack. The twins -- her twins, not his, for they’re lost to those surging winds of time -- kick and push and move within the love of this lovely engineer. It saves him. Against all odds, all rules of post-traumatic sorrow, it saves him. An eternity flickers through Lionel’s heart in the span of mere seconds and a new memory is born, something he will surely never forget. When he looks to Alvina, her cheeks streaked red, he smiles. And it is the most genuine and complete smile he has felt since a woman named Alexia still smiled back at him. “They’re absolutely lovely.”