RP:Catalian Sonata

From HollowWiki

Summary: Lionel fulfills his promise to Raphaline: a meeting with his dwarven retinue at Síocháin, the Knight-Commander's secluded and infrequently-visited estate. Catalian remembrance is a theme of the eve, although the last prince himself is unable to open himself up much to the woman. No matter; the songstress still brings warmth of heart to a spirited dinner between men and dwarves and guardsman.


Frostmaw: Síocháin

Lionel hasn’t been home in months. That’s not exaggeration. It’s been eight weeks since circumstance has afforded opportunity for the Knight-Commander to return to a house his dwarves had built not three months prior. Oh, he’s seen them -- Tratt and Sundance and Sheridan and Delenn and Jadzia have all visited the fort on numerous occasions. Tratt and Sundance even joined his squadron on the Xalious mission to rescue the missing mages from the nefarious Raiez, alongside dearly departed Shanks, once the sixth member of the little band of Catalian refugees who found and followed their former prince. Like fellow human Briar Ku Risu and that enigmatic elf named Esche, and Stroud before his own sad fall, the remaining dwarves keep tabs on their leader and assist him however possible. WIthout these very devoted types of people, Lionel would not have the brave -- if tired -- face he puts on for the queen and the court and his soldiers and all the rest of them. He cannot imagine a world without them. Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander leads the horse-drawn carriage housing himself, Raphaline, and a silent guardsman up through the treeline and into the verdant icy glades directly surrounding his beloved Síocháin. Old Catalian for ‘peace’, that word. And peace is what he’ll hope to find. But peace is a relative thing when five overprotective dwarves burst out the front door of his mansion, extravagant in its emerald simplicity, masterfully constructed yet utterly homey. Smoke pours from the chimney as the scents of roasting meats assail the arriving trio. Lionel’s stomach turns in hunger, glad to be back even if only briefly. “My apologies for the long ride,” he tells his traveling companion, pulling open the hatch on their carriage and tossing aside the cotton pitch that shielded them from cold. He reaches for her hand, but already, Tratt is mouthing behind him. “And just when were you going to tell me it was a fine young lady you’d thought to bring? Sundance and Jadzia were deep into their cups, I’ll have you know.” In the distance, a female dwarf all but belches a lame denial.


Raphaline might not openly admit that she was a bit excited to see this treasured place and its occupants, but she didn’t try to hide the look of joy that seemed to be etching the smile or causing the sparkle in her emerald eyes. The ride did not bother her, in fact she was more grateful for the moment to be off her feet. As the icy scapes passed and dipped around her, she caught the smell of food and the sight of smoke in the air before the abode came into view. It was quaint with its stone structure, but the dwarves that came barreling out of the front door warmed her heart in a way only a family can. Chuckling, she takes a hold of the offered hand and steps out of the carriage. “You flatter me too much.” She casts a look in Lionel’s direction, a brow raising in question as to what had been said. “Please, just call me Raphaline.” She offers a gloved hand to Tratt in fair greeting. “I hear you all are fans of music and dance am I right? I believe I will be able to find something that might bring a bit of musical love to this place.” Both following and leading, she makes her way towards the front door and once inside, she dusts back her hood and removes the heavy coat from around her shoulders. Her emerald eyes take in each of the details, personal and precise. “This place reminds me of my lodge in the Xalious mountains,” she says as she casts her gaze to the warrior once more, “maybe once things settle you’ll come visit?”


Lionel scratches a nearby llama by the tip of its ear; the creature all but purrs its approval. He’ll trot up to Tratt and Raphaline in good time, ever quick on his feet, and once the door is opened and Catal’s last prince enters, the dwarves all scurry back inside and three of them rush to the kitchen, arguing over which cloves of garlic to add to a steaming broth of chicken falling tantalizingly off the bone. Yet even so, these three dwarves and their peers are all so fast to cheer the affirmative to Raphaline’s questions. “I like fast beats,” Sheridan confers, with a hand to his cheek in whisper as if sharing some state secret. “Delenn does, too, but she feigns at ladyship and acts the romantic,” Jadzia tells Raphaline in passing, sweeping through the hall in time with two small cats who nimbly bat at the broom in skillful ambush. She waves the broom lightly to shoo them away, but they’re relentless. Sundance is cutting up carrots, the biggest and burliest dwarf seen in a colorful apron to offset the imposing image humorously. Tratt, however, is a talker. “Now, you may say, ‘just Raphaline,’ but I look upon with these old eyes a woman of brilliance who -will- bring good cheer to his master’s perilously -unattended-” -- he casts a look to Lionel, who scratches the back of his neck awkwardly -- “estate. Anything you need, be it instrument or band or gypsy acting troupe, can be acquired for a modest sum by a dwarf who knows his papers.” He pauses, dramatically. “And, why it just so happens you are looking at one now.” Lionel shakes his head and laughs. “Well, don’t keep her waiting, Tratt, go on, reveal it’s you,” he chides. Tratt huffs and begins to set table, pinging glass on glass as he checks wine’s vintage with marked enthusiasm. Finally, Lionel himself has a beat to reply. “I’ll have to see it sometime, sure,” he says, soft-spoken and shorter of words than half his compatriots.


Raphaline chuckles, quite a bit full of the cheer that the dwarves are radiating. She makes mental note of the different kinds of requests and begins to flip through the multitude of songs she can play on her violin or sing. As to the talkative Tratt, she leans down to playfully bat at his shoulder. “Again, you flatter me. I think you and I are going to be fast friends for sure.” She caps her response with her infamous grin before she rises, looking to Lionel for a moment before responding in a teasing tone, “I have heard that a plenty from workaholics like you in the past.” Shaking her head, she turns towards the kitchen where there seems to be a lot of hustle and bustle. Not one to stand about while they work, she wanders into the kitchen, observing the choice in cooking before cooly asking, “Is there anything I can help with?” Never having ever lived in the lap of luxury, this is one of very few times that someone else is cooking for her. “Or should I…?” She finds herself right in the middle and right in the way, so she takes a step back out and brushes down her tunic, quite embarrassed. “Well then, maybe you can show me the rest of the place while they finish up?” Her question and emerald gaze once more directed to the owner of the place.


Lionel seems content to watch as Raphaline scurries about in search of ways to assist with culinary mastercraft. Oh, yes, these dwarves are not just architects and scholars, they’re first-class chefs in their own right. Foreign spices are added to the broth as Sundance’s carved red carrots now dance lazily near the top. Tratt’s all manner of pleased with the woman’s remark, puffing his chest proudly as though he has caught some prize game on a hunt for interpersonal satisfaction. The kitchen dwarves all interrupt one-another in offer to give Raphaline a chore, but when it’s obvious they’re each hoping to score assistance to complete a task ahead of schedule, they glare in jest at one-another, mutter something about one of the other two, and return to work without delay. Only Jadzia and her two skirt-chasing cats (an odd term, but apt here in its literal form) seems to be paying half a mind to the pair by now. Everyone else is rushing to please. And what of that lone guardsman who joined? Well, he stands outside, playing with goats. Truly, it’s not his average shift. “I’d be honored,” Lionel tells his guest, leading her through cozy corridors en route to an extraordinary series of bookshelves. Lionel himself is a bit surprised; there were only four meter-long shelf units when last he’d been here, but now there are sixteen; this next room has clearly become a library. Every inch is packed with books. Some on war, some on love, some on hope and some on love lost. Some on music, the arts, culture. Histories of Lithrydel, Lionel’s own name littering numerous pages despite his best efforts to act otherwise. Histories of other realms. Names like Catal and Ishaara and the Demon Archipelago. Strange names like Ahg’drekd’vale. So many books and Lionel can’t help but pop one open posthaste. “I love it here,” he admits.


Raphaline is glad to find herself a distraction, because again, the bard does not know how to just not do anything. So following close behind her guide, she observes the different rooms with quiet interest until they get to the library. It takes only two seconds of politely agreeing that this place is amazing before she becomes distracted. She starts with the book shelf on the left side of the room and carefully runs her fingers over every spine, reading each title with interest before moving on to the next. When she reaches the lower shelves, she is quick to shrink her height and settle herself on the floor. It doesn’t take long before she has a pile of books all around her and one in her hand of which she is flipping through with interest. It takes a few books before she realizes that she has completely disregarded her companion and outright ignored him. Had he said anything while she was mesmerized? “I find myself becoming more and more fond of this place,” she says, turning to him with the lightest of smile, “and you.” She turns back to her book, flipping to a page covered in a bit history about the land and chuckles. “You know they say the best people are those who read fervently. I am keen to agree with whomever said that.” She closes the book in her hand and places it back on the shelf before reaching to pick up another off her piles. With the book in her right hand, she beckons with her left for him to bring his book and join her on the floor.


Lionel himself has been well and truly entranced with the tome he’s plucked; time passes so much faster within the binding of pages that can whisk a man to another world. This one had been yanked off its shelf without much consideration, but it chronicles the hero Alexander in a previous generation of Lithrydelian history. It was written before names like Donovan and Lionel himself were brought to the land; thus, he can enjoy it without ridiculous comparisons made by unfamiliar Xalious scholars. He’s glad for it. But then, at Raphaline’s sentences, it abruptly occurs that he may have inadvertently ignored her. “I’m happy to hear that,” he says with a smile, although it really must be said -- how many layers -are- there to this man and his simpleton replies? Surely, she’s seen him in high enough spirits, with enough emotions bursting, to know that there is more than a congenial monk-like man of office and brave (or foolish) exploits seated here beside her. Deflection seems almost like one of his finest skills in most instances, however, right up there with swordsmanship. “I’ve not heard that line before, even with all these books,” Lionel continues, and then he rises from his perch and politely offers her his hand again -- a motif, this action? What’s the deal? “But I wouldn’t argue the truth of it. Reading is something I’ve only more recently come to enjoy; it used to be, I never stopped moving for long enough to try.” He smirks as he leads her now through another hall and on past a soothing fountain. At its epicenter is a sculpture of a cat -- odd. “But I’m glad I did. Some books bore me, but others enchant. Much like life, I suppose.” Aromas fill their senses. “Methinks it’s time to eat.”


Raphaline has seen the many layers, and finds them quite intriguing. She knows very well the intricacy of a person, she herself is often thought of singularly without much consideration to the depth. While they read, she casually leans her shoulder against him as dives head long back into her book, only stopping when she is spoken to. When inquiry to where she may have heard that line, she takes a moment before saying, “I don’t believe I read it. I think some wise person told it to me a long time ago.” When he begins to rise, she sets aside her own book and slides her calloused but petite hand into his as she too rises from the floor. A silver-belled chuckle leaves her lips, “Something we have in common then. I used to travel so much that I never had time to sit and just enjoy the written word. It wasn’t until in the last few years I’ve come to appreciate their importance. There is so much that can be learned from them.” She gently nudges him as if to silently indicate she may have read a few pages about his past heroic deeds. “I love a good story. It is fun to imagine something grand and hope maybe something so grand might be in your own near future.” She shakes her head, that sounded like such nonsense, why did she say that? The aromas coming from the dining room caused her to reach down and place a hand against her stomach just as it began to rumble a bit. “I would agree. Those smells are so divine I am beginning to think I’ve fallen under an enchantment of some sort.” A playful jest and partially a compliment about her enjoyment so far. “Come on.” Rather than allow him to continue leading, she reaches to take a hold of his hand and pull him behind her and back towards the dining hall.


Lionel masks the tensing of his right side to the lean of Raphaline’s shoulder by arching his back just slightly. Imperceptibly, he’s easing the automatically anxious response. What a mess, this lad, but at least he’s politely hidden about it. He considers telling Raphaline that words spoken are just words not yet written -- a particular favorite of his late friend Griff Morivan’s. But he refrains. Instead, he cants his head and smiles. “I’m still not sure how I afford the chance to read,” he’ll admit, “but I suppose now that my traveling’s more limited I have a bit of a chance to crack open a good book every once in a while.” It doesn’t surprise Lionel that anyone might claim enchantment over the dwarven dishes presently being crafted. “They’re the best cooks I’ve ever had in any kitchen… just don’t tell Mesthak I said that.” Lionel laughs, remembering the bygone days his heroics were handled from a station at that storied inn. He lets her take his hand, standing upright as they return through whence they came. Seeing that hand, affording the chance to predict what will happen when they touch, eases the man such that he does not need feign calmness. “Tell me,” he inquires as they step past Jadzia and a badger kit. (Just how many animals does this guy have?) “In your travels, have you ever been as far east as… Catal?”


Raphaline stops and turns to Lionel at the mention of cooking. “Well, let me just say this is the first time in quite some time that anyone has offered me a place to stay and food to eat without wanting something in return so,” she cants her head to the side, fiery curls slipping across her view and over her shoulder, “thank you. All of you.” She drops his hand and turns to face the beautiful lay out the dwarves have created: wine, food, wares. As for the animals scurrying about, it makes her long for her furry companion who lives here in the tundra. Last she had seen of Ava, she had been setting up her own pack and learning to be wild after so many years of following the bard on her travels. “Catal?” She leans her hip casually against the dining room table as she thinks over the many places she has seen. “Quite possibly. I am a lot older than I look.” She tucks a few curls back, revealing the slight point to them. “Would you describe the place to me? I remember places for their people and culture more so than their names.”


Lionel notes those pointed ears with a knowing affirmation. Raphaline’s inquiry is made as four -- no, wait, five now -- dwarves scurry about carrying bowls and plates and mugs and tankards between three rooms in search of perfect guest accommodation. Such is the way, then, that Tratt and Sundance and Sheridan and Delenn and Jadzia are all too eager to speak for him. Lionel’s timing could not have been worse; there are incredulous boasts and too-soon personal revelations abounding in the delivery. With a baker’s dozen fresh-baked rolls neatly arranged on a pristine platter, Sheridan regards Raphaline mid-stride: “She was the greenest of all the realms, but she had a temper like no other; every hill was emerald as your eyes.” Delenn seems attuned to Sheridan’s patterns of speech; carrying a pitcher of ice water in one hand and a delectable salad in the other, she continues: “The temper was a people’s passion -- men and dwarves, mostly, but all were welcome in republican monarchy, ‘til the bleaker fellows took it for their own.” Jadzia shoots a glance to Lionel, who shoots one back in warning. Alas, the lass just does not seem to mind. “Our royal family slain, all but the boy-prince who was spirited into who-knows-where, in exile. Faithful retainers, we searched and searched and searched, but it had not been ‘til Prince Lionel’s exploits here in Lithrydel became as legend that we knew just where we’d find him.” Her arms carry dressings and napkins and seasonings, all at once. “The prince had chosen Lithrydel, this was plain to see, but he came back to us and saved us, but it wasn’t meant to be.” Sundance’s bass voice only further confirms Lionel’s dread: the dwarves are trying to turn this all into a song and dance. What a farce. Yet even as he shakes his head his foot is tapping into absurdist rhythm. The great big pot of simmering stew Sundance brings to table looks almost too good to be true. Tratt returns at last, wine in hand and a gesture for folks to please be seated. He’s even ushered in that goat-petting guardsman to sup. “Khasad and Elazul -- names Lithrydel knew well but Catal only knew through their briefly-returned monarch.” Tratt gives Lionel a shrewd appraisal. “The war here won, but stragglers remained; several such villains came and set poor Catal to blaze.” Fellows gather and seat themselves now, all the dwarves and the Frostmawian native, but Lionel stands tensely with a sudden sorrow self-evident. “...because your prince was here instead of there,” he finishes, much to dwarven chagrin. Guilt hangs heavy like the crown he never wanted. “Catal burned, Raphaline, because I was not there to save it.” A pause, lingering dread. Catal’s last prince breathes in deeply, clears his throat, and sits. “But I’ll tell you what -- this stew looks fit to feasting. Let’s dig in. I’m starving.” The dwarves all do their best to chatter, easing away the pain.



Raphaline can feel the air within the room begin to tense up, and even though the jests are welcomed, she cannot help but shift her gaze to Lionel. She had been a spirit free of such responsibilities, so she could never know the agony with which he lives with, but pain recognizes pain and her own heart tenses up in empathy for the once prince. Her memory flickers through her long years as she finds herself landing on an image from when she was a young girl traveling with her mother. There had been emerald hills as far as the eye could see, and the capital city had been grand, filled with the beauty of different races living in harmony. She could remember a dwarf or two that she had made friends with when she had tried to impress them with her rudimentary violin skills. Rather than speak while they were standing, she instead takes a gracious seat at the table and divulges what she may know. “My mother took me to a place similar to what you speak of. I was a young girl, probably standing no higher than my hip. I remember the rolling hills and the music. It was lively, and the dwarves there took me under their wing while my mother worked. They taught me songs while the women would braid my unruly hair back. It is one of my most cherished childhood memories.” And there were very few. A few years later her mother would be taken and her father’s family would change her life for the worse. She doesn’t speak more on Catal but instead shifts the conversation to dinner and says, “Everything looks delicious, thank you so much for welcoming me into your home and sharing this meal with me. I will not forget such genuine kindness.” Her once tense features soften, her emerald eyes glossing and her lips forming a soft smile as she looks to all involved. “Now let’s eat.” She concludes before reaching for the nearest dish and finally answering her stomach’s call.


Lionel and the silent guardsman and four of his dwarven retainers listen in raw splendor as Raphaline recounts her tale. Somehow, it doesn’t feel too far a stretch to believe that her childhood recollection is Catal. Uplifting music, good cheer and verdant hillsides for as far as the eye can see. And farther. It almost -must- be. The tale brings quiet warmth to a room which had only shortly gone cold with doubt. A moment of reverence is held, inadvertently, but for the fifth dwarf who will have nothing of it. Jadzia isn’t one to sit on ceremony, so instead she’s digging into rolls and pouring piping stew. Raphaline’s decree, then, is perfect balance, compelling the rest of lot to follow Jadzia’s suit in earnest. And so they do. Plates are filled, bowls are filled, cups are filled, all in abundance. Lionel pours wine for each and every person, save for that seemingly kind guard who waves his hand tastefully and pours himself ice water instead. Joy is in the air and Lionel O’Connor is grateful for it. Jokes are told and riddles presented and Tratt’s overlong and somewhat pompous articulation on the queen’s current trade routes and the seventeen issues he takes with them all pass the evening pleasantly. Lionel cannot help but be swept once more into Raphaline’s contagious exuberance. “Thank you all,” he tells the gathering when the feast is finished and the dwarves are clearing away what’s left of it.

Raphaline joins in on the jokes and riddles, even presenting a few of her own. At that table she laughs her silver-belled laugh more in one night than she has in the last few days stay. Even with the lands sitting on the precipice of war, she cannot help but find the simplest things the most hope inspiring. The wine is rich and the food is so delicious that when all is done and the plates are being cleared away there is a flicker of longing for it all to start again, but such is not to be. Instead, she nurses her wine (third or fourth glass?) and just allows herself to sit for a moment with her thoughts. Her emerald eyes are focusing on the movement of the wine as she rotates the glass a bit to the left and then the right. With her thoughts finally settling, she presses the glass to her lips and finishes off the wine, staining her bottom lip, and sets it down with a declaration, “I think, once everyone is done, I should share my offering of music.” Carefully, she scoots her chair back and goes into the study. She had stashed her violin in here at some point, so while others are talking and cleaning, she begins to fine tune the strings of her instrument. Once they are to her liking, she picks up the bow and stand to her full height and places the instrument just below her chin. As the hustle and bustle begins to die down, she lays her bow across the strings and begins to play the first few notes of a much slower song than originally planned. It takes off like a cool summer breeze, dancing over hills as the sun beams down and wraps those around them in its warmth. It was a song she had learned on her travels long ago, and she hoped it would continue to carry the spirit of good will into the night for those present.


Lionel and his retinue abscond from lingering remorse for a just this fine stitch in time as Raphaline’s music carries blissful impact with each delicate and well-tempered note. Her desired effect hits with stride. Dwarves dance and frolic. The most striking thing about these dwarves is that they are often and loudly the most cliche archetypal dwarves that ever did dwarf. Sheridan with Delenn, until Jadzia pulls him from his partner with a sly grin; Sundance all alone until the poor Frostmawian guardsman is pulled into the fray at the insistence of one very diligent Tratt. As for Tratt, he takes up link with Delenn. Lionel, for his part… is reading. His head nods to the beat and he’s propped up against a wall with one fast-tapping foot but it’s to a book he’s chosen his path. A strange thing, but serenity marks his features. Night passes and Raphaline’s play continues. At last, the guardsman begs pardon and asks, “shall we be staying, my lord? Or shall I make ready the horses for departure?” Lionel peers up from the end of a chapter full of menial people doing base common things put to page. The alien nature of such text is riveting to the man. “We can’t stay, Erich, much as I wish we could.” A glance of empathy toward the songstress. “Too much to do at the fort, I’m afraid. If you’d rather retire, I can have you checked-upon come morning.”



Raphaline will always enjoy the sense of accomplishment that comes with lighting up a room with her music. She joins in the dancing, keeping steady her playing while her feet display the light-of-foot and grace normally prevalent among the elvish born. With the instrument under her chin, she cannot chuckle but inward, she can feel herself laughing, enjoying the dynamics of the dwarves and the personal relationship among them. When her song comes to an end and she carefully stores her instrument away, she answers Lionel with a, “I should retire. Traveling by foot has worn me out a bit more than I had expected.” And the food now settling in her stomach agrees with the idea of actually getting some sleep somewhere that is rather comfortable and safe. “Best to be in top shape, especially for whatever may come in the next few days. I do want to join you at the fort in the morning though, I’m not keen on sitting on the sidelines once more.” She rises from where she had been kneeling, her hands deftly planted on her hips to indicate she shall not be left out of things.


Lionel lets smile slip once more to his face at Raphaline’s insistent request. “And I’ll not have it that you -are- left out,” he confirms her desires. “Erich,” he says, turning to the man who stands at attention, his self-inflicted status as designated driver clear in the speed with which he bows. “Please remain on premises tonight.” Erich frowns, opening his mouth to object, but Lionel moves instead to interject. “I want someone here for all matters of security when even Sundance is too inebriated to keep tabs. Understood, soldier?” Platinum blond and stalwart, Erich nods expediently in the affirmative. “Yes, Knight-Commander. Understood, Knight-Commander.” The dwarves don’t argue it; they’re finishing with the tidying-up and fatigue is obvious. “Raphaline, my gratitude for a lovely evening. Come morning, I will return, and we’ll discuss important matters in our partnership together.” He lets it linger for a moment before kicking off the table and whistling.


Raphaline feels bad for the Erich, especially since it is plain to see that he wants to keep his commander safe. She nods in affirmation to Lionel and graciously says, “Thank you.” She turns to the soldier now in charge of her safety and offers him the same respectful show of graciousness with a simple thank you as well. She turns back to Lionel as he finishes speaking, and as such she raises a brow in jest to the commander’s choice of words. “Yes. Safe travels there and back, and tomorrow we shall decide upon future plans.” Her features, which had tried to form a sort of serious effort, falter into a playful grin as she walks over to the commander and gently touches his shoulder before turning to walk past and see if there is anything she can the dwarves with before settling in for the night.