RP:Defrauded in Fire
Part of the A Few Fox Tales Arc
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
Summary
Lanlan and Ina disguise themselves as pilgrims to Loda, and convince a forge spirit to leave its stuffy home in Craughmoyle and come to live with them in the Mage’s Tower. Unfortunately, things take a dangerous turn in the negotiation and a dwarf priestess might have brain damage, and there are apparently two dead bodies in the aftermath. Which might lead some to assume that the great smith Nikola is now dead. But Lanlan and Ina have never been to Craughmoyle and have never met Nikola, and that forge spirit has actually lived at the Mage’s Guild for years and its your fault for never noticing it.
Temple of Loda, Craughmoyle
Lanlan takes refuge in the emptiest room this side of the continent, the Drow embassy. After magicking a tall mirror wide enough for two to stand looking in, framed by expensive looking ornately carved wood, beset in each corner and midpoint by a different colored gem. Brief need is no excuse for utilitarianism. As he prepares, his fingers become aglow with glittering particles, as he commands the dust and the wind to change its appearance.
Starting at the top, he addresses every inch of himself. As his fingers run through his hair, his bouncy silver curls yield to the illusion and change to appear black, short, and practical. He massages the magic into his face and he appears to undergo a dramatic metamorphosis. His graceful elven features and dark complexion fade and change into the weathered complexion of a hard working human man. Lines crease over his brow and a rugged stubble spreads across his suddenly square jawline. Lanlan was no expert on humans, but he thought he might appear to look like he reached his forties about 6 years earlier than the average gentleman.
He spares one last look for his mystical coat. For day to day activities he sometimes elected to wear the first side of it he ever encountered. An impossible purple. Darker even than black, shadows seemed only to brighten it. The inside was the abyss. Then he pulls it off, turning it inside out as he does, and putting it back on as a blacksmith's apron over a loose and formerly white shirt. It's dirty and worn and the fabric bears the stains of countless smudges, new layered upon old, covering every inch until the original color is impossible to know. He brushes his fine tailored pants, brushing away all their goodness and replacing them with a thick linen, frayed at the knees and scarred with scattered scorch marks evidently caused by errant sparks.
His charmed shoes balloon into sturdy boots, designed to be comfortable over long hours of standing over potentially uneven and hazard-paved surfaces. He slides both his scorch striped Xalious staff and his billionth glass wand out of each different sleeve, and taps them against each other to enchant them both. Staff becomes hammer, wand becomes tongs. Finally he adds the finishing touch to this stranger, calling up the siphoned aura of an unsuspecting miner spotted in the caves only moments ago. Essence of endurance, dusted beads (of sweat), motes of something else that Lanlan couldn't quite name that happened to be quiet dignity. They created an enchantment that should convince almost anyone that he was something he wasn't: a hard worker.
The human appraises his reflection, turning this way and that to see every angle. He speaks to Ina and Lanlan's voice comes out, "Hmmm." He wears the face of someone who only sees blemishes in shoddy craftsmanship, yet his voice is less certain. "What do you think? I'm not sure I like it I might have to start over." He looks at her to measure her progress. "Do you need help?" Maybe she could inspire Lanlan.
Actually, Lanlan doesn't seem to be anywhere at all! No instead there is a human named 'Ardent Forgeheart'. He's here with his friend and ally who's name definitely isn't Ina. Nor for that matter is it Trish or are Aya. He doesn't know who she is yet, though they've certainly been friends for years.
Ina might have been slightly delayed in her own preparations, if only because she was trying to get a better gauge of what Lanlan’s newfound identity was going to be. She also may have briefly gotten distracted when he removed the coat, provided a cheeky wolf whistle in an effort to see if it would muddle his carefully crafted self-image. Still, there’s only so long she can procrastinate, and the overall state of his guise does mean she has an adequate starting point to work on. Just as Lan did, her own transformation starts with her hair, her normal tangle of red shifting instead to a shorter silver-y gray- dignified in a way the fox never really was. The eyes are next, gleaming emerald giving way to a piercing, almost translucent blue- framed in a humourless darkskinned face. That said, the real art to this endeavour is the row of blue scales that emerge as her fingers trace over her cheeks- a trio which converge then continue down along her shoulders, their descent finally culminating in patches which form over the back of her hands. There is an almost ornamental nature to how evenly they’ve formed, which is only further accentuated by the manner in which her normally fluffy tail ripples and bulges, a sinous draconian appendage taking it’s place, it’s scales a mirror of the rest, though slightly discoloured, as though they’ve yet to shed in a while.
Like Lan, she takes a few moments to appraise her image- but it’s not in honor of an image crafted from her imagination, but rather one drawn from memory- as she continues to tweak elements of her height, the tiredness of her face, and even how lithe her body ought to be, all so she can properly don the guise of her once employer, Nikola. “I’d say how do I look, but I can guarantee I’ve lost charm points, Boss.”
She spins on a heel, her clothes clashing with the assumed identity- a bric-a-brac of leathers and dented metal plates, more suited for some weary squire, then an esteemed smith. “Could ja do somethin’ fer fashions’ sake here. I figure a smith n’ a miner rubbin’ shoulders ain’t too weird.”
Lanlan returns her whistle with a stern scowl, but that’s how he always looks now. The weight of work and fervent concentration have chiseled his face into a stone grimace. Severe rbf. Unfortunately, her assumption is correct. As he looks down at her newly fleshed out form, his neutral frown seems to curve deeper and darker, but only slightly. “Scales are always strange when appearing on a person,” he instructs professorially, bestowing to her the wisdom of an archmage. He returns to his own image. Blinking a few times, he changes his eyes from cherry to charcoal and continues. “But overall… good. It looks authentic.” Little did he know, it is.
Somehow, she mistakes him for a lowly miner. Under this disguise, he’s become immune to looking offended, becoming almost purely stoic. In other words, if he thinks anything of her mistake, he doesn’t show it. “We’re both smiths,” and he shows her his staff-become-hammer, and his wand-become-tongs. “Ah! I see what you mean. We should be clerics. We’re on a pilgrimage after all. A pilgrimage to pray for more poverty so we can be damned our whole live-long lives to work and work and work.” In a hideous move, his lips twist up against his indomitable frown, and he laughs. Then he polishes his shoulders with his sleeves until they buff into a pair of metallic pauldrons, shaded and mottled by soot. He touches his hammer to his chest, and color bleeds into the apron in the form of Loda’s hammer. One much like his own, but engulfed in star-studded flames. It gradually fades and weathers until the top threads are turned mystery-colored again. Even so, it's so large its unmistakeable. “You can be a paladin, my escort.” She was already mostly there, she just needed the symbols. He licks his thumb and daubs something onto one of her shoulders, and another onto her chestplate. “Sh,” he whispers preemptively. And the globs melt into embossed emblems of Loda similar to his own, dented appropriately.
“You should have a weapon too,” he reminds her, and then clears his throat. “I mean-” He coughs, as his voice grows husky. “You should-” He coughs again, and demonstrating his commitment, he spits out a mess onto the floor on the side of him. His voice of honey and silver is gone, and replaced by one much more husky. “Where’s your weapon, Guardian Nikola?” Now, believing their disguises complete, he cracks open the door out into the public. No trace of a person for the moment, but it would be strange to see a human and a draconian leaving a drow political office. As they pass through the doorway, they pierce an invisible film that clings to them with a quickly fading shimmer. “Alright I’ve enchanted us. Anyone we see in the streets will think of us as a distant relative they don’t particularly like, so if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.”
A few minutes of walking, descending stone steps, ignoring people (at least on Lanlan’s part), and they arrive outside the mark. A huge building carved out of the mountain and accentuated with massive gleaming slabs of mithril. A luxurious, nearly wanton amount. Each of them hewn with the utmost precision to gleam marvelously in the smallest twinkles of light to shine with a scene of the great forgemaster herself, Loda. In some depictions, she’s hammering the very mithril she’s forged on. In another, she’s raising an item in exultation that seems to be obscured by a divine light emanating from it, rather than being reflected on the surface. Lanlan stands and scans the building. Already he can hear the hammer ringing against their celestial anvil. It’s clear and smooth and reverberates in the ethereal. He wants to degrade it, but he can’t. It’s beautiful. From one of the rooms on what should be the second floor, a flap opens abruptly and spews a black cloud of undulating black smoke, flecked with golden glitter. “One sec,” he instructs in his deep and handsome voice. And he concentrates on the billowing cloud of smoke, the banging hammer. “Just take a pinch of the sights, the smells, the sounds that they’re familiar with,” he narrates to her as he commands these intangible things to change form. “Shrink the hammer fells into rain on still water. Brighten the smoke with chalk and mollify the soot with Spring until it's as calm and cool as a morning fog. Blend it all into the other side of the breeze.”
She would be able to see the mist slithering back into the room like it was being drawn in through a vacuum. With his help, she could hear the insistent drop of water, repeating on interval between the hammer. Demanding attention. Asserting its place in the realm of the fire. “You’re up,” he practically bellows. “Remember. I’m Ardent Forgeheart, Divine Smith of the Sacred Flame. We’re here on pilgrimage and we want access to the holy forge.” Ina may have puffed out her chest at her ‘beknighting’, trying her best to look a bit more officious now that she was a paladin. A sort of literal ‘holier-than-thou’ expression, which she tries to accentuate with a subtle vocal tweak. Rather then completely alter her voice, she instead adds a curious reverbration, a faint after-echo to provide a sort of majesty to her speech. Which runs in contrast to the rather lackadaisical, “Aye Aye. One armament comin’ up.” Out comes a pouch from her sleeve, from which she produces a sheathed blade. One that Lanlan may recognize from the delicately crafted thorns which adorn it’s basket hilt- though it now bears an additional layer to it’s construction. But then, she needn’t worry about that- the foxkin had little in the way of anxiety to plague her.
And it’s in this manner that she follows after him, occasionally needing to fight the urge to make stupid faces at passerbys to test the limits of what does and doesn’t count as ‘bothering people’.That said, when they arrive at their destination- she’s similarily caught by a sense of awe, though less at the overall construction, and more at the potential value of the mithril if it was something plucked free of it’s moorings. Just how much mischief could be funded with that colossal amount of resources, all of which had been committed to boring portraits of a celestial nerd. …Or jock? Loda looked pretty buff in her depiction here, really. Lanlan, however, interrupts her inner monologue, his voice adopting a familiar sense of authority. All at once, she perks up, her expression shifting to become surprisingly studious, a patient alertness that seems at odds with her normally carefree self. But then, she didn’t take being Lanlan’s apprentice lightly, even when she wasn’t adopting the persona of Aya.
For a few more moments, she observes the lingering enchantment, as those observable elements of the environment are not masked, but borrowed and then subverted- their meaning contorted into their anthesis. “..Hrm.” It’s an inspired bit of trickery, and one that has her double-checking her own guise for any flaws to touch up on. And there is one, ultimately. While Ina has done a marvelous job of adopting a physical guise, there’s still something lacking. When she moves, it’s with an unintentional grace, that seems to defy her accoutrement. While it may clatter during her movements, her steps lack a certain weight to them- that authority that seemed to accompany Paladins movements as they chased her out of churches. Having acknowledged this flaw, she opts to make use of what she’d just seen- albeit on a vastly simpler level. Specifically, when Lanlan starts to move, she syncs the sound of her own footfalls to him, at first walking in tandem to get the feeling of it right, before she allows herself to gain a growing independence- so that she can find her own rhythm. And it’s just like this that they step into the temple itself.
She regrets it immediately. Less the matter of her disguise, and more the simple act of stepping inside, because it’s accompanied by a blast of dry air, the interior feeling more like a furnace, then a place of worship. Where the outside was gaudy, the interior is far more utilitarian, paved in stone tiles seemingly chosen for their ability to safely soak in heat, without running this risk of cooking those who frequent the temple. Not like the air needed any help. She could already feel the metal in her outfit warming, and a few beads of sweat form uncomfortably, even as that same moisture faded away. Which made the fact that a Dwarf in full smithing gear seemed to be sitting at a dias at the back of the room of the room, looking weirdly serene, despite the grating behind them- through which a stream of molten metal flowed through. There’s a moment where Ina’s tempted to ask for directions, but she stops short upon noticing a symbol on the dwarfs apron, one that matches the one that Lanlan had splotched onto them both. That would be the priest(ess)? They both had beards, right? This one did, at least, a sort of dirty brown that might have been natural, or may have been the result of too much debris. The finer details of their features were lost though, the glow of the room painting their face in red, a sheen that only seem magnified on the sweat of their brow. Gross. “Would you have time for two weary wanderers?” Ina pauses for a moment, her tongue running against the roof of her mouth, as she figures out how best to nail the introduction home, “Pastor Forgeheart has been travelling the road for many a long month, paying tribute to the myriad gods- and felt it fittin’ “Oops.”that our journey ends with a tribute to our matron, Loda. Would we have your blessing in this matter?” That sounded pious enough. Which was good, because her brain was blanking.
“We’ve seen more you surface types of late,” the dwarf said in a gravelly, hoarse voice, that did nothing to dispel the mystery of their sex. The dwarf seemed to be in the midst of deciding whether or not it was a good thing that more non-dwarves were showing favor to their favored god. Ultimately, it wasn’t this particular dwarf’s decision to make, and they gestured with pouted lips at a passageway to their right. “Make your way up there and start your labors. When your personal offering’s complete, you may make your way back down here to join me at the grand forge.” There’s a hint of a grin there, and a scornful chuckle. “If she finds you worthy, that is.”
Lanlan is just about to move on when he notices the expectant look on the dwarf start to shift toward something like suspicion. It occurs to him like an epiphany. “May Loda’s fire guide your hands,” Lanlan offers to the dwarf cleric.
“And may your creations stand strong and shine brightly in her light.” Then the dwarf turns away and mumbles something about the manners of travelers.
Lanlan makes his way up the stairs until they reach a rather small room that’s nearly enshrouded in a familiar mist. It couldn’t possibly fit more than a few people, but at least they know its properly ventilated. The white-gray-blue fog swirls and shifts through the room as they enter, dimming the forge in the center of the room where the fire elemental is. Already it’s seething and crackling with anger, radiating so much heat into the room that it would be intolerable for most people after just a few minutes. Luckily he has his salamander-skin gloves to absorb the heat and regulate his temperature. There’s another priestess of Loda here in this room who is utterly undetectable in the mist. Except for their voice. She whispers soothing prayers and gentle incantations to the monster in the center, until it seems to lash out with a fiery tendril of complaint. The priestess seems to deflect it harmlessly. “Alright, alright! Tis just a bit o’ steam ya big baby! Probably another clog in the vent or…” The glow in the center of the room seemed to crackle and roar at this platitude, growing more like a sun behind a cloud than a fire elemental in a forge, and Lanlan is forced to shield his eyes until he can slide a pair of shades from his sleeve.
The mist was getting to be a bit of an issue for him as well, and with nary a sign of effort, he causes it to shrink in its opacity and settle around their waists. It would seem as though it was escaping out of the door way they just came through. They can see the priestess now, sweat nearly pouring from every inch of her face. It drops to the ground and evaporates quickly, existing as a shimmer on her face that is otherwise affected by shifting shadows and bright orange glows. She too is dressed similarly to Lanlan, but with the addition of some specialized gauntlets, and a badge pinned to her smithing apron that bears much the same mark of Loda that he has, but the fire is accentuated with orange gems, marking her as a firetamer.
The elemental itself seems to be a pure blaze wearing some kind of celestial bronze chassis with a slotted opening at the base. That’s where it could be fed. As its rage ignites in protest of its horrid conditions, it seems to test the limit of the chassis, and flames burst out of three exhaust holes meant to displace smoke and heat. Now the exhausts unleash torrents of fire. In some ways, it looks like a humanoid wearing a metal vest.
Lanlan asks if there’s a problem, as if he might want to help matters. The priestess replies that it isn’t a problem quite yet, that the fire elemental is still adequately restrained and just needs to be calmed down. “As long as its enchanted shackle remains locked and secure, there’s no danger in it escaping and running amok.” Unfortunately, that is exactly the thing that Lanlan hopes would happen. “There, there, my little cinder-kin, see? The steam is dissipating,” coos the priestess, “just like I said it would!” Then Lanlan introduces them and explains their purpose here, that they aim to pay tribute to Loda by using this very forge. “Name’s Hilda. Flamebinder. Unfortunately, although I understand you’ve traveled long to get here, you won’t be able to use the forge. Not now at least. I swear by the heavenly hammer I’ve never seen ‘em act like this before!”
Ina is substantially less grumbly as they start their trek up the stairs, appreciative of Lanlan’s sagacious knowledge of the local customs. Taking a moment to cough, and ensure that the acoustics wouldn’t send her voice echoing in all directions, she can’t help but inquire, “How long ya- did you spend brushin’ up on that?” That’s the only question she allows herself- a sheepish awareness that if she allowed herself, she’d happily talk well until they reached the next floor.
A floor that has her stepping almost immediately in the wake of that wall of heat. With a huff, she slides her hand into one sleeve, and removes her salamander leather cloak in a private display of seamless sleight of hand. Akin to Lan’s gloves, the cloak shields her from the waves of heat billowing from the room. Hence prepared, she steps back into the the chamber- and continues to regret it. While she was no longer -baking-, what she’d failed to take into account was the humidity, and the way that it hung heavy in her lungs.
She coughs, trying to ignore the manner in which it fails to improve her breathing in the slightest. Something which leaves her to instead focus on the other details in the room, as Lanlan begins to tweak the finer points. For instance- what were they supposed to be doing? Some act of sabotage to do.. Something. A complicated hoodwink that was probably meant to ingratiate the locals with them. That sounded right, but this was the grossest, clammiest environment imaginable, and the only thing that was currently coming to mind- was bashing the priestesses head in with a frying pan, and letting the gods sort out the plan afterwards.
Which is a lot of words to say, she awkwardly smiles, and leaves the talking to Lanlan, her focus instead falling on the pipes. Hadn’t the word clog been said? That seemed like a perfectly good reason to begin peering over the various lines, to trace out where they might connect, or where there might be some valves she can haphazardly tweak whenever the dwarfs distracted- whether it be by the boss, or the tantrumming elemental. “Mmmhmm” She offers up authoratitively, one scaled hand running over her chin whenever her scutinizing would in turn fall prey to attention. “I get it.” She does not, really, but she’s already got a good handful of words that she can toss out in a thoughtful manner, like ‘Redundancies’, and ‘efficient design’. ‘Practical application’ was always a crowd favourite, if needed to buy a moment. The problem was- this was more than a momentary problem. The superhot lock was a nightmare to even -think- about picking. Most substances would evaporate, or ignite. Which meant, despite everything-.
“Actually . . . Flamebinder Hilda? I was wondering if the weld over here might be the cause. It seems off.” It is’t, but between the overall disorienting nature of the room until a few moments ago, and the seemingly arbitrary spot now being blocked by her body- it’s likely long enough to enact her masterful plan.
K L O N K. It’s really surprising just how quickly the foxkin can produce a frying pan from out of her bag of holding. Then again, it’s not like there isn’t 12 of them in there. Really, the main problem is the fact that dwarf skulls are sort of thick- which is why Ina doesn’t really leave things to chance- procuring a second one so she can ‘K L O N K’, double up and pancake Hilda’s face between the two.
They had disguises. And a quick patdown of the body also meant they now had a key. All according to plan.
“No finesse,” Lanlan mutter in disappointment. “Absolutely no finesse at all.” Truthfully, he’d have been much more upset if this didn’t drastically simplify things. All they had to do now was unlock the binding keeping the forge spirit trapped to this place and then contain it in something transportable. But just for insurance’s sake, Lanlan knelt down beside the sleeping dwarf and makes sure she’s just asleep. He slides his gloved thumb under her neck and holds it there for a moment, and then drags his hand to the back of her head and closes his eyes. There were no dreams in there yet, but there was likely brain damage. He ignites a little spark of consciousness for the priestess’s own benefit, encouraging her to build upon an astral incarnation of the place she was supposed to be working in. While she was merely unconscious, soon she would be truly asleep, dreaming of plausible events that might’ve happened before she was knocked out. Hopefully at least. Dreams tend to take on a life of their own without guidance.
Unfortunately, this development did nothing to calm down the forge spirit, who despite being bound in chains, had bonded with Hilda. The work she was doing to lull the spirit back into peace wasn’t merely guesswork, it was a link the two beings shared forged in faith and trust. The flames of the spirit exploded just when Ina smacked Hilda, and continued to roar. The fire grew hotter and brighter and the room seemed to almost shrink with the size of the roaring elemental. Lanlan recoiled and drew his arm up before his eyes at the sudden nova, and stepped backwards toward the stairs. The oxygen might be depleted at this rate. “Well done,” he calls out above the blaze. “What do you propose next?” At this point, the only thing keeping the spirit from scorching them to dust was the very lock that they thought they wanted unlatched.
They’d have to calm it down somehow. Elementals, he knew, were always ruled by their emotions. Fire in particular, burned brightest in the throes of passion and fury, and unfortunately, this inferno had both. Suddenly he points his finger sharply at the elemental. “Look what you’ve done!” The flames stutter for a moment. “All she was trying to do was get you to calm down and be happy again…Look! Now she’s hurt. And all because you couldn’t control your temper.” Perhaps more than most, Lanlan knew how shame and guilt could debilitate a person if they let it. The fire began to shrink, ever so slightly. “Now she’s hurt, and who knows how badly? It’s not our fault we panicked! You made us panic with all your fire and heat, and for what? For a dripping noise? She was going to fix it! Just as soon as you gave her a chance, which you never did, she was going to fix it. And now who knows if she’ll ever be able to fix anything ever again?” Occasionally, amid the torrents of flame, something like eyes could be seen in the orange flickers amid the bright yellow, and they seemed to fall on Hilda the Flamebinder. “And what do you think will happen to you, then? A renegade forge spirit who tries to kill their own keeper? Their own friend?” A little self pity thrown into the mix couldn’t hurt either. The roaring blaze has shrunk down by almost half now. “They’d have to douse you,” Lanlan concludes, and for a moment the flames seem to almost peter out. Then they roar back with even greater intensity than before, if it was possible. “But not if you let us protect you, no. Because we would never let that happen.” He gestures to Ina. “Wouldn’t we?”
Ina can’t help the sense of relief that flows through her, if only because of some prior experience with how thick a dwarves skull can be. A brief pulse of dizziness courses through her, as the heart and adrenal aftermath conspire to rob her of her footing. She only just manages to keep her footing, the key rotated between her gloved fingers- even as Lanlan does his due diligence to ensure this was simply assault, rather then a matter of manslaughter.
That is, if the elementals tantrum doesn’t finish the job- because there is something to be said for the sheer intensity of heat enveloping the room, as though it were trying to emulate some forgotten corner of Perdera. It wasn’t just that the air was thinning, either- a smoke was beginning to accrue, an acrid soot that clung to their clothes, even with Ina pressing herself to the wall and inching away. That said, where Lanlan had favoured the stairs, the Foxkin travelers further into the room, specifically, towards an object she’d seen earlier. A lengthy rod metal which ended in a U shaped prong. One which when hefted- alongside a bit of memory, and an equal amount of luck, serves as the perfect tool to manually open one of the flaps they’d seen from the outside. Something which serves to clear out the smog well enough- if only due to the heated blast which ripples through the air, a trail of flames which forks free for a few moments, before dissipating.
She’s only dimly aware of the noises beyond the roar, Lanlan’s dire admonishments only really coming into clarity once it’s size has been substantially reduced. With all due haste, she props the rod into a slot meant for just such a purpose, so that she can slink towards her boss, key in hand. Except, her journey stops almost as soon as it started- halted by the perilous lack of space afforded by the fresh burst of flame. “Stop it! you’re going to cook her alive!” And then they’d be held accountable.She gives Lanlan a sidelong look, searching for some sort of prompt- but all she can see is a focused look, all she can hear is the echoes of the last words he’d said. “I know! This looks bad. Terrible, even- but if you come with us, we can keep you safe! Keep her safe! We can get her help, without them worrying about you! Explain it’s a misunderstanding’ !” She can’t even help the fact that she’s talking with her hands now,d espite the fact that every desperate gesticulation brings her hands close to the living inferno in front of her. “Just give us a chance ta’ fix this- and you’ll be able to sit in a fireplace, happily munchin ‘ on some coal, with her safe and sound, ch’yeah?” Cyela smile on her- or this thing was going to flippin’ turn her into fried foxkin.
Lanlan could see that the spirit of the forge was in turmoil, which was just where he wanted it to be. It also made it all the more volatile and prone to fiery outbursts. As Ina vents the room, the sudden rush of air startles the elemental. It roars back to its familiar fury, but as Ina offers it solutions, it reigns itself back in. It’s visage of flames faces the Flamebinder again, with what must be concern. Lanlan then produces a strange little piece of crystal or glass. A prism of some kind, but one of hidden value and power. It seems as if it would be crystal clear, and most of the time it is. But if one were to look deep into it, they’d see so much more. They might see the indigo of the midnight sky, glinting with the lights and colors of stars and nebulae, as if it contained an entire galaxy within. In a moment, Lanlan changes it. It now looks like a chunk of high quality coal, so dense and of such high quality that its nearly a piece of obsidian. Get ready to free it he says psychically, his voice a whisper in Ina’s ear. Lanlan slowly, cautiously approaches the great fire spirit, and holds the chunk of coal in his hand like an offering. “We’re sorry for this, of course we didn’t want your friend to become hurt. And we’re going to make her better, see? Just like my friend here says. No one needs to get in any trouble, and we can protect you. It’s true.” And he flicks his free hand toward the Flamebinder, and clouds blossom up under her. Rather than the broken heap she was a moment ago, she seems to be in nothing more than a blissful rest atop a cloud.
Ina is still trying to navigate her own feelings in the moment, to try and figure out just how safe she actually is- when she hears Lanlans voice at her ear. She jolts in place, one hand almost instinctively moving to brush away in the perceived direction- until the realization dawns on her. Her gloved hands shift, reasserting their hold upon the key even as her feet begin to creep over towards the elemental. All she has to do, is keep calm. To ignore the roaring that intensified as she drew closer, the way it echoed all around her- as though it had already swallowed her whole. She takes one more breath, dry as it is, and holds onto the idea that in that moment Lan needs her- before she slides the key into the lock, and twists it open.
As Ina turns the key and opens the lock, Lanlan gives the elemental its coal. For a moment, it seems not to notice that this is not coal at all. Seems not to notice that it’s not consuming, it’s being consumed. The fire elemental roars again, this time with all the desperation and hatred of one who knows its been betrayed, and it burns hotter and brighter than they’ve ever seen and throws its fury out at Lanlan and Ina both. But even as it grows in size and fury, its being drained; funneled into the prism-trap. Still, its enough heat that Lanlan has to dash to Ina’s side, practically slapping her in the chest as he motions her backwards toward the wall, and especially, behind him. His other hand is in between him and the fire elemental casting some defensive magic. Repurposed transmutation magic, in fact. As grasping claws of white hot flame come near to contact his own defensive palm, the fire and heat are transformed immediately into a swarm of harmless pearlescent bubbles. The disguise apparently imparted some degree of valiance in him, surely. In a moment, it’s all over. The creature is siphoned completely into the sizzling, steaming prism. The sudden silence is almost jarring, and Lanlan takes a breath and turns to check on Ina. “Are you–” a bubble pops in a startling way, and he’s overcome with relief that quickly becomes laughter. Assuming she is in fact, okay.
“Hmm,” he says, casually picking up the prism and sliding it into his sleeve. Then he delicately plucks at various scraps of debris cast about during the fiery tantrum, looking for something in particular. “I think that…” he begins, flipping over a bent piece of metal, “...you did really well today and…” he twirls his fingers and flicks them up, and the various layers of dust and soot and ash begin coagulating in the air. “Ah! Here it is. Can’t believe I missed it.” A smithing hammer made of gleaming celestial bronze, embossed with Loda’s symbolism, lies tilted and shiny against the foot of the anvil. He bends down to pick it up and, before showing it to her, does a tricky little something to wrap the hammer up in illusions and enchantments. “Here,” he says, when he’s finished. And he hands her a small, seamless, apparently wooden box. Only its colored like gift wrapping paper. There is a bow on it, but its purely for effect…or is it? “A little bit of homework, but once you figure out how to open it I think you’ll–I hope you’ll like it.” Then he passes his gaze over the very clean room to survey the mess they’ve made. “Now it’s up to you. Clean getaway or should we be greedy and walk out the front door?”
Ina’s eyes briefly go wide at the sheer ferocity of the flame- emerald overwritten by waves of shimmering heat that are ready to pour over her in a single cleansing moment. And then she’s stumbling back, her back hitting against the solidity of the wall, grounded in living beyond a single moment. Lanlan’s back is to her, but she can see the intensity of what clashes against him, until it simply- isn’t. Until a lull is established, the sound of their tired breathes taking precedence. Until he tries to ask his question, fails- and they’re both left gasping at how ridiculous it’s all become. “How’s- uh- tha’ priestess?”
It’s a weird afterthought, really, but it’s what finally serves to ground her, even as Lanlan begins to pillage the remnants of the disaster. Still, even that doesn’t last for long, because her boss is, as ever, very good at distracting her - with both a prize, and a neat little puzzle. Even with how dangerous the situation had gotten, some semblance of normalcy and comfort was already starting to assert itself, and she couldn’t help but perk up, her appreciative grin seemingly at ends with the dourness she’d priorly donned as ‘Nikola’. “From you? I’m sure I will.” The sheer care in which she takes to receive the box, in which it’s clutched against her chest, only serves to reinforce the point. That said, before he can turn away, she does reach out- taking care to clutch at the edge of his sleeve in order to keep him from turning away, “Ja hands alright?” It’s only after that question would her hand sheepishly withdraw, curling back up and clutching at her side as he poses the last final question. “Pends. Got anyone ya hate ya wanna frame? Otherwise- we got a skylight, we can hustle.”
Lanlan doesn’t want to know if the priestess is anything other than okay, and he doesn’t try to hurt himself by checking. “She’s fine,” he says. “Just sleeping it off.” Similarly, he can neither confirm nor deny that his hands still have flesh on them. The illusionary disguise that covered them seemed infallible, and he had some faith that Lump would’ve been able to withstand the heat, and therefore so could his kin (and the gloves that were made from them). He wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a psychosomatic reaction. There were examples of illusions convincing people they weren’t hurt, though they were much rarer. He could do himself a lot of pain by discovering the truth. Though what is somewhat suggestive is the way part of his jacket seems to come away in curled flakes as Ina tugs on its sleeve. “They are,” he confirms for his own sake more than anything, and quickly moves on from the thought. A mote of concern might lie buried deep, but as long as he can keep from thinking about it…
The question of who he might frame is given a small amount of thought, but as casually as they were now, there was still an urgency that they should take. “I think I feel well enough to show a little mercy this time,” he says. And then he addresses the giant floating ball of soot and ash in the room. “I’m thinking the window, for expediency.” And then through some delicate manipulation of matter and magic, he wills the soot and ash into a pair of convincing illusions. “Stand still for a second?” He stands appraising her as rivulets of darkened dust stream intelligently into the stacked and compressed shape of a skeleton of approximately Nikola’s size and shape, and then he does the same for himself. “Oh! I might as well clue you in. Some spells,” he says, opting this time to gesticulate the magics of their ash and bone twins, “care much more about the attitude of the gesture than they do anything else.” To emphasize, his hand movements and eye is constantly measuring the quality, callously discarding pieces he doesn’t need, sculpting the magicked dust at a distance with subtle hand movements. The skeletons born of illusion and compressed dust stand tall. “Now die,” he tells them with a sweeping gesture of his hand, and they both collapse believably as if they really had just died. Then he crawls out the window, presumably with Ina close behind, and activates his old drow insignia. It’s no longer powered by his decimated house, but he’s made it work since then. And he rises to his feet, standing completely horizontal against the sheer face of the building. “They’ll come and find our skeletons, and as soon as they try to inspect them, they’ll just crumble right into dust. That’s how hot it was when the elemental burned us,” he says. Not for one second does he consider the implication that the great smith Nikola perishing could be a big deal.
Soon they would be back home again, the act of escaping from this point being no more difficult than a mild camouflage spell if they wished, and then a stroll.