RP:Crackers & Brandy

This is a Rogue's Guild RP.

Location: Xalious Mountain Path/East Frostmaw

Summary: After a brief regrouping, Lorevelle’s health is in jeopardy - the only true human among the six. Leoxander shifts into a hybrid lycan form in order to have her latched to his back, while desperation is answered by Krice’s suggestion of a certain healer stationed in the Sage Forest. The three head south while ‘Lav’, Gorehilt and Lita remain behind.

[ Part 4/5 ]

Descending the Mountain

Hopefully the ride down was smooth enough. She's aware enough to understand now that she's on Leo's back and he's moving, despite being tied to his back it might be wise to hold on tight. Her hands, thankfully in gloves to help ward off some of the cold, try to grab for handfuls of his fur to hold on, and hopefully not tug by mistake. Perhaps Lita is getting the same treatment from one of those other wolves, she thinks, and that thought is a reassuring one. She'll get out of Frostmaw safely too, and then they can all hopefully have a laugh at this entire situation and swear off chilly climates for a while. At least until whenever the next Titans of Winter tournament rolls around. ...That might be a while she realizes with a frown, given the state of the city they're leaving. Lora doesn't dwell on it, instead trying her best to not to impede Leo's movement as he raced out of the city and down the mountain. Keeping still isn't entirely feasible with her shivering, but she's got her face planted in his fur to keep the wind out of it and that helps her feel a little bit warmer. There isn't much else she can do, not that she wanted for much but getting warm again in that moment. Hopefully wherever she's being taken, there's a fire going.

Leo was unable to say how grateful he was for the silver-haired warrior running alongside. Not only because of his garbled, poor ability to enunciate words from that long-jawed muzzle, not only because of the pirate’s pride and rumored reputation, but because he probably couldn’t do justice to how relieved and appreciative he was. Shelves of snow and stone were disrupted by his pace scaling to lower ground, taking the shortest (and not safest) route to the dirt path that led south - not always a smooth ride for his weary passenger. One reassurance the wolf noticed was the way her hands gripped into his fur, tugged at or not. He was numb to anything but the thought of getting Loravelle somewhere warm to make certain she was alright. And while her grip was a positive reaction, he hadn’t missed her wheezed laughter, coughing, and words that didn’t quite make sense to the usually quiet Mouse. No way that enough of that schnapps remained in her system to be the cause. Leo was exhausted by the time they reached the base, but adrenaline and concern fueled and forged him on, the beasts’ jaws open to pant as he kept changing gears from a canter to a jog, lungs burning in his ribcage as he inwardly craved that sea level oxygen. He couldn’t see the woman on his back, which is why he kept checking glances toward Krice as he in turn kept tabs on Lora’s state. It wouldn’t be too much longer at that set pace that they would have to come to a decision between Gualon and Sage. One was familiar with its sentimental lavender healing pools and the clinic he’d recovered in a time or four, the other was with the man, who he still didn’t know the name of, but names weren’t all that important. His face and that of his brothers (more or less the same face) would be one that he would never forget.

Krice stayed within eyeshot of Leoxander and Loravelle where possible, but at times the damaged terrain of war-torn Frostmaw forced him to deviate - flashes of silver, jagged in shadow. Past leaning trees and protruding rocks he ran, keeping up with the wolf for the span of the journey where they both knew the destination - out of Frostmaw. It was the same direction, southeast and down. At times where the mountain sucked in sharply to a cliff face, he simply dropped to the level below, landing without incident to continue their retreat. At one of the points when he glanced at Loravelle, the warrior noticed Leoxander’s concerned gaze and dipped his head, hoping to convey that she seemed okay; a little spacy, but not in dire straits. Given that Leoxander was the incentive for haste, Krice would follow whatever pace the wolf wished to set, slowing when he did, accelerating likewise. Down on more level ground through the pass, the enigma seemed a little insular, for just a second withdrawing from conscious awareness of the world around him. He slowed, three steps of hesitation met by a return to realisation and a quickening of his pace. He knew that Leoxander was aware of the Sage Forest’s location–he had to pass it to come up this way on foot–but he said, “ We’ll turn north a few paces east of the mountain foot. Talyara’s in the forest there.” A moment later, he glanced over at Leoxander to add, “ If you scent someone closer, run ahead.” Though his own elf mate was perfectly capable of helping and close enough to do so, getting Loravelle care as quickly as possible took priority.

Loravelle thinks the air around her and Leo is getting warmer now. Were they down the mountain already? She lifts her head a little to take a look, but ultimately lowers it right back down moments later. Moving around too much didn't feel so good, so she'll just hold on as tight as she can to the wolf's fur and hope those ropes holding her in place didn't get loose enough for her to slide off of Leo's back. She does manage to see that that silver wolf is with them too, but has no idea where they're going. All she can think of again is that hopefully wherever they end up, there's a fire she can be put in front of. Maybe a blanket or two. Her nose scrunches together in some effort to hold in a sneeze, but she fails. Although she knows Leo can't respond to her, she mumbles her question into his fur anyway. “Where are we going...?”

Leoxander’s mind was likely racing faster than his body. He was torn as Krice called out those directions, picked up on by lynx-like tipped ears, one of which remained aimed toward the warrior while the wind whipping by started to die down. He’d be trusting Loravelle’s health to a stranger taking that northeastern turn. Then again… Krice was more or less a stranger until that day, who was right there running at his side. The healer he might have relied on at the Gualon Clinic had other work to do, not that he could fault her; she was on her way of becoming another politician in the rogue’s circle. Even in that frantic state he recalled words from Loravelle just a bell or two prior regarding her father as a healer, and knew well enough the man was magic with his potions and remedies, but how could he face her family? A promise to keep her safe ruined by an impulsive decision to drag his lover along into dangerous territory. He couldn’t ask the thousands of questions in his mind, inheriting his beloved’s quirk and unable to express it, though the circumstances were more serious than curiosity could account for. Would Krice’s healer be there? Would Lora be safe? Would Sage send arrows at the beast once they’d rescued the poor woman off his back? No, he had to trust the Enigma to not lead him astray, and turned that path sharply toward Sage as the book keeper spoke, putting what energy he had left to speed up his run now that she was more awake.

Krice would be right there to swoop in and catch Loravelle if she looked like she was going to fall from Leoxander’s back, but the ropes were secure; the wolf himself would feel as much. When her voice broke through the hum of wind at his ears, the warrior - mistakenly or otherwise - presumed she was asking him. “ To a healer. She’s very friendly and good at helping people.” As they turned north into the Sage, Leoxander might sense that he was being watched, but with Krice at his side, any elf on patrol knew that the wolf must be trustworthy enough to be left alone - at least while the enigma accompanied him. Glancing over at Loravelle, the warrior added, “ If you feel well enough to travel further to someone you know, let your mate know.” Assuming Leoxander would know where to go from there, Krice wouldn’t - and thus, the silver-haired man as escort would fall away.

Loravelle was all for riding on horses and going really fast, but not like this. He's faster than any horse she's ridden, and to add to her chill and disorientation, her stomach feels like it's doing back flips. She won't get sick, but her face just might be turning green, or at least a sickly pale. The desire to repeat her question again despite not receiving an answer is strong, but something tells Lora if she opens her mouth again she just might retch. But Krice responded to her, and that answer only leads to more confusion. Why a healer? Wait. Did that dang horse really badly hurt Lita? Her movement is abrupt but she tries lifting her head a little too quickly to try searching for her from Leo's back, and immediately regrets it when the wind, now nowhere near as cold as Frostmaw's winds, feels like an unpleasant smack to her face, and she accidentally pulled on the rope restraining her in such a way that if her skin were exposed, she might have some rope burn. Instead it merely pinches a little with those winter layers protecting her, but it still didn't feel great. Her pained groan is hushed as she lowers herself back down, resigning herself to whatever decisions Leo and presumably Lita, Krice, Lav and Gorehilt if she knew he was around since she wasn't aware the group is separated, all had in mind. She just wants to go home once it's all over.

Meanwhile, back in Frostmaw…

Gorehilt hugs the cask tight under one arm and cranes his neck to see a little farther up the path. Thick deposits of frost have grown on the half-orc’s stubble, giving him a white beard and mustache. “Hey. Hey!” He squints one eye and then the other, trying to get a decent look at the source of the smoke and light. At the sound of a whinny and the sight of Cinderback’s mane, he grins brightly. “Hah!” Bounding through the debris with renewed vigor, Gorehilt hurries up to meet whoever’s left. “Look, you devil horse!” Shaking a clenched fist, the half-orc does his best to look upset, but it’s not very convincing. Rushing up to his mount, Gorehilt uncorks his cask and splashes a little brandy on the downed thatch, which Cinderback greedily gobbles. Lifting the cask to his own lips, the knight steals a swig for himself, and only then seems to notice Lav and Lita. His eyes flash at the latter. He gulps down his mouthful, squeaks the cork back in place, and points at her. “Horse thief.” It’s a solemn accusation! That’s a hangin’ offense in some parts.

Lita is in not a great a hurry to get down the mountain after watching Leo and Krice disappear into the distance with Lora. Not that she isn't worried about the girl, but she's in the best hands to get her to help and safety. And maybe Lita had made enough decisions for one night. A little distance for the time being might not be such a bad thing to let cooler heads prevail. With Leo's pack and bow over her shoulder, she'll glance up at the raven haired twin, grateful for his assistance yet again. He'd a particular skill for helping to clean up her messes, it would seem. She'd reach for his arm tentatively, turning his wrist gently to look over the burn he'd gotten. There's an apology lingering in her features but any words for it she might have offered are interrupted by Gorehilt's appearance. Right. She lifts a hand to him in greeting and apology. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean for-" She waves a hand to encompass their surroundings and the direction in which Leo and Krice had disappeared. She hadn't meant for any of this. Though she was pretty sure the apology was gonna be a fixed statement for the next few days. "Is he alright?" Meaning the horse. She hadn't meant to spook him, either.

Lav turned once he felt Lita close, crimson eyes shifting over his shoulder from his burned forearm to the woman's face. As she took hold, he turned his wrist and lifted his arm to let her inspect the wound, blistering and raw. He afforded her a small, tense smile in an attempt to reassure her that he was okay, that he didn't blame her. Gorehilt soon arrived and the raven-haired twin glanced over a shoulder at the green-skinned male, looking a hint concerned when he called Lita a 'horse thief'. Was that inaccurate? Technically no. Red eyes shifted to the woman, his expression softening. Turning again, he looked toward the horse in question, and if Lita had released his wrist, he would pull his arm in front of him and support it on the other hand.

Gorehilt doesn’t seem in any particular hurry to accept Lita’s apology. Gauntleted fingers tap anxiously against the belly of his breastplate. A trained combatant would probably be able to read Gorehilt’s posture; he’s considering drawing a weapon. It doesn’t take much consideration to decide against it. The woman’s, well, a woman, and probably crazy. And there’s a stranger here. Lav might feel Gore’s sly appraisal sweep over him before the half orc returns his attention to Lita. “You’re a basket case or something?” The greenskin regards her with mingled resentment. Cinderback is happily gobbling flammable debris from ruined buildings and seems, truth be told, more okay than anyone else here. “Is the *horse* okay?” Gorehilt’s frost-rimmed eyes go wide, and he just about swoons with disbelief. “Vak strike me dead, that’s a fresh one. She’s baskets for sure,” he mutters and uncorks the cask again. “Lady, to my health, and to your head. We both need it.” Gore tips back a hearty swig, then offers her the brandy in a pushy ‘you don’t get to refuse’ sort of gesture. Once he comes up for breath, he looks over to Lav. “You’re next. Get over here. Don’t you know, brandy’s good for you.”

Lita is not in any way a trained combatant but that doesn't stop her from recognizing pensive aggression and a plausible threat. Not that she'd a right to judge Gorehilt for it, she had stolen his mount, regardless of her intentions behind it. All the same, she'd have no qualms about dropping Leo's things and reaching for the dagger sheathed at her thigh if he chose to make a move. His question about whether or not she's a basket case though lends her a moment's pause before drawing a grin across her features. Because, probably, anymore. Wouldn't be the first time she'd been pretty sure she'd let her mind slip from her control. She passes a glance to Lav and then back at Gorehilt before stepping closer to him to take the offered brandy, taking a swig. Her nose wrinkles for the taste and she hands it back to him. "Does this mean you're not gonna push to have me strung up then?" She asks, perhaps just needing to be sure on the matter.

Lav lowered his arms to his side, assuming a casual stance but one that told of readiness; given his physique, readily apparent even through his attire–certainly by the muscle not burned but revealed when fire ate away his sleeve–he must have had some sort of experience in physical work, be it trade or combat. The even stare that he levelled on the green-skinned man was one of watchfulness, lending to the prospect of his experience as a fighter. Completely unbeknownst to him, Gorehilt’s less-than-stellar observations of Lita’s state of mind had set a darker shadow in the raven-haired twin’s eyes, hooded under low brows. His hand fisted at his side, fingers tingling uncomfortably. It took a moment to snap himself free of that mode, aided by Lita stepping forward to accept the offered brandy. When the same courtesy was extended to him, Lav simply bowed his head and said, “No, thank you. I do not need it.”

Gorehilt shakes his head at Lita’s question. “You’d get off as crackers, then they’d hang *me* as a vigilante.” The greenskin taps his temple and shakes his head. “Tsk tsk. It’s no good. I’m just gonna have to let you get away with it this time.” Lav’s cool refusal earns a look of surprised disdain. “Your loss, bud.” He takes the cask back with a possessive air. For a moment, he meets that watchful stare with a growing sense of challenge, but before it can escalate to a breaking point, Gorehilt breaks his gaze away. He looks at Lita. He looks at his boots. Either the brandy’s gone to his cheeks or he’s suddenly bashful. Or he’s finally getting frostbite. “You’re the one from the Jolly Roger, anyway. I bet you thought it was blacked out, huh?” On that note, he takes another drink. “Well, maybe we’re a little more even now. Something like that. I don’t know. I’m rambling. It’s damn cold.” This curse gets a few orcish appendices. “Let’s get out of this weather. Cinderback!” The horse pretends to ignore him. “Can’t believe I’ve been out *walking* in this. What happened to others, they freeze to death or something?”

Lita is not at all sure what to make of Gorehilt. She mumbles something under her breath about not even liking crackers, but okay. Yes, she remembers him vaguely from the Jolly Roger but more than that, as the person who'd tripped a hole into one of Meri’s paintings. Which was just rude. "They headed to a healer, warmer climate. Mouse is squishy." As if this was an entire explanation he needed. Made sense in her head. "You can probably catch up to 'em at some point? Sage, I'm assuming. Personally, I'm gonna take my time gettin' back down the mountain." Maybe 'til tomorrow, even. She could swing by and drop off Leo's things and then head towards the tournament without having to do the whole apology thing yet, maybe. Not that she'd want to take any of the anger at herself out on Mahri but well, she'd always been better at expressing her emotions with her hands.

Lav had absolutely no idea what Gorehilt was talking about, so as he conversed with Lita, the raven-haired man glanced between them with only the movement of his eyes, looking a little clueless. With the woman and the greenskin seemingly happy to interact, Lav turned to step away from the stoned path in favour of more snow, this time finding a shelf of terrain at waist-level to press his forearm into. He stood roughly four metres away from the pair, facing away, but glanced occasionally over one shoulder to observe the vampire in thoughtful silence. If he caught her eye, he’d dip his head in acknowledgment, which doubled as hopefully furtherance of his earlier reassurance that he did not blame her for his injury.

Gorehilt manages to get a handle on Cinderback’s bridle, and with some effort, he’s soon up and mounted. “Heck, they’ve got the right idea.” He spurs the nightmare forward a few paces, walking the beast in a circle. It’s like he has to get used to riding all over again after having a stranger in the saddle. Or maybe it’s the brandy. Or maybe it’s the cold. “Alright, so much for doing anyone a favor.” He looks between Lita and Lav. “Neither of you need a ride back south? No?”

Lita shakes her head at Gorehilt's offer. She'd had her fill of demonic hellhorses for one day.

Lav's eyes drifted from Lita to Gorehilt at the offer of a ride down the mountain. Having suffered a burn by Cinderback's main, he was not eager to get too close to heat. "I do not," answered the raven-haired twin, his expression pleasantly neutral; there was no ill feeling toward Gorehilt on his part, despite a couple of moments of intense staring. Gorehilt doesn't plan to ask twice. "Hyah." The knight digs the frigid metal heels of his sabatons into Cinderback's sides, and the startled horse takes off like a missile. The next time Frostmaw blows up, they can handle it themselves, or, at the very least, without GOREHILT.

[ Part 3/5: Send her Back, Cinderback ] [ Part 5/5: Do you like muffins? ]