RP:Frost Giant Fun
Frozen Hunting Grounds
It was just another day on the hunting grounds. Game roamed, hunters stalked, the wind howled. It was almost serene. But serenity never lasts long, or so it seemed. The ground began to quake, great, thunderous thuds sounded. Trees bent, and from those trees burst a herd of mammoths, their wooly fur billowing as they fled from whatever was hunting them. Hoots and hollers could be heard behind them, deep rumbling sounds that they were. Ayras, having arrived at the hunting grounds just in time to see the mammoths burst forth, couldn't help but wonder at the source. They sounded like the giants he drank with every night, but he hadn't heard any of them speak of going hunting this day. Surely it wasn't frost gia-...Ah, here they came. Sure enough, it was, in fact, frost giants. One threw a spear as their game swerved in front of the vampire. A pity for the elf that the giant was a bad throw. The quick draw of a pair of pitted swords was all that saved the elf, damaged mithril knocking the wood and iron projectile aside. The giants began to falter as they saw the smaller man, confused looks on their faces. They were likely exiles, he figured. Electricity began to spark around his left hand.
Riselet listlessly traipses her way through the snow, squinting her eyes to see ahead. Her fingers are near-frozen through her gloves, feet already numb up to the ankles. She stumbles a bit, muttering expletives all the way. Curse Frostmaw, curse the snow, curse that itty bitty voice in her head that said a morning walk would be a -great- idea. Everything around her’s just an hushed boreal, branches dangling precariously under the heavy weight of snowfall, the occasional carcass glistening in the sunlight that moved through the trees. The halfling was almost tempted to snag something for her and Lyros (the drow boy was still fast asleep in their cramped little room) until her train of thought is interrupted by a cacophony of noises, something like a deep rumble of thunder. Moments later, a panicked herd of mammoths race past, leaving snapped trees in their wake. They were running from something. Riselet’s eyes widen. Wait, didn’t exiled frost giants skulk around her? “Sh—” another string of curses is cut short when she notices quite the peculiar thing up ahead, made visible by the flattened trees: an elf in combat with a group of giants. Riselet wasn’t sure whether that’s suicide or madness—in her own mind, such a thing is both—but quickly realizes gawking won’t change the situation. Fighting against the heavy, wet grip of the snow, she hastily (if awkwardly) makes her way towards the the man, fumbling for any sort of weapon to help him. That’s when she discovers the only thing in her possession is an empty bottle of whiskey, a potent weapon when used correctly. A strange sort of conviction in her eyes, the halfling throws the bottle straight at one of the giants. “Oi, ugly! Come and get some!” Riselet yells, followed by a coughing fit from gulping down cold, dry air. The giant turns; the halfling’s much weaker prey than the elf, and lunges towards her in retaliation. Weaving through the felled timber in a vain effort to keep the giant’s attention while -not- dying in the process, Riselet motions towards the stranger: “You have weapons, right?! Get at ‘em! I’ll be fine!” It dawns upon her that provoking the wrath of a frost giant—even if it was in order to distract them from the stranger—was probably the dumbest idea she’s ever gone through with.
Ayras watched that bottle fly out of the woods, watched it crash against the head of one of the giants. What in the name of Aramoth? Ayras cursed fluently when the one giant broke off from the others to persue the voice that called out from the forest. Weapons? Aye, he had weapons. He looked down at those twin blades and cursed more. There were pits all along the blades, and they were warped, bent. They would have to do, though. If nothing else, he had his magic. Snow flew up behind the vampire as he took off from his spot, rushing the remaining group of giants. The laughed at the sight of such a tiny - to them, anyways - figure coming at them. He felt bad about leaving the source of the voice to the machinations of the lone giant, but she would have to wait. A spear flew, struck the ground where Ayras just was, but the elf was no where to be found in that spray of powder. No, Ayras was in the air, feet over head, and his hand was surging with more electricity. Ayras shot his hand out, blasting a surge of electricity at the ground to keep himself airborne, and he flipped again. He came down on the first of those exiles. Those swords of his bent more, but they did their jobs, sank into the thick flesh of the giant. Oh, how he roared and screamed, how he cursed the elf! How he cursed Frostmaw and those that lived there! The others didn't wait for their fellow to extract himself. They came at their opponent with spear and fist, with bloodlust. They no longer cared that one of their number was off chasing a grey elf. For Ayras' part, he was just wondering what the voice was going to do against her pursuer.
Riselet runs haphazardly through the snow, boots digging so deep into the drift that she can feel permafrost. Surprisingly, the Cenril-designed acrobatics she possessed came in handy—bounding over mammoth-trampled wood is little problem for her, narrowly dodging the splints and breaks in the lumber. She weaves through still-erect trees as though they were a part of a bustling crowd and she had just stolen a delicious crumpet. (That scenario made her mouth water, but she’d deal with that later.) Her plan—nice as it sounded in theory—didn’t work the way she had wanted it to; not only were there a lot more giants than she’d anticipated, but only one of them took an interest in her. For a second, she was positively -irate- that they didn’t think she was worth chasing, but it suddenly fades as she watched the elven stranger make his stand against the rest of the giants. Is that magic -and- swords? Two swords? Electricity? This guy has it all; Riselet is positively green with envy. The giant chasing her—somewhat shorter than the others, maybe dumber too—roars, taking her out of her second stupor of the day. She turns to see his beady eyes staring right back at her but her gaze affixes to his bare feet, splintered and sore. She doesn’t know how long giants can run, or how well they can handle pain, but they must get tired eventually, right? And if not… There’s always a plan B. Riselet notices that the forest getting somewhat thicker as they do a circle around the group of giants, fallen branches strewn across the forest floor. Some exceptionally sharp ones are soon bundled in her left hand while the right nimbly grasps onto a thick bough, twisting herself up the trunk of an aged tree. The giant’s left confused, the halfling too fast for his senses, but no less furious. When Riselet’s figure is spotted through the branches, he charges at her—the tree falls, but not her. If not for their brief, exhilarating stint through the woods, she would have been knocked to the ground and trampled upon like a bug; instead, she now had a prime position on the giant’s back, feet narrowing balancing on his shoulders. The branches now in her right hand, she grabs his burly neck with her left. A couple weak kicks to the head sends the creature reeling, but it isn’t quite enough. Riselet, fueled by sheer adrenaline, stabs one branch after the other into the face of the giant, some snapping, others bearing fruit with sickening screams. Blood trickles in small spurts down its face. The last, jammed up through the eye socket, seems to seal the deal. After a few unsuccessful grasps at the halfling, the creature admits defeat and crumples to the floor, sputtering blood and bile from his mouth. Riselet follows, sliding down his back and narrowly avoiding a second head-on collision with the snow.
Riselet stares at the giant (or what’s left of it) for a little, horrified by the brutality she’d just committed. She isn’t sure if the giant’s dead yet—those things are hardy, she imagines—but either way, before he can get up again, she -runs-, utterly breathless. The elf’s figure is close by. From this distance, she can’t tell if he’d gotten rid of the rest or not. “Uh, you alright over there?” Riselet calls out, still breathing heavily after the bloody foray. She learns against the trunk of a tree, wiping away sweat.
While the grey elf was busy stabbing her giant with trees, while she was running about the forest like a right little wood elf, the vampire was busy dodging spear thrusts and avoiding being trampled. His swords didn't flash like the normally would have, dulled by the damage from the frost wyrm, bend from the heat of its body and now the use against the giants, but they lanced this way and that. Each strike made those swords bend more and more, each parry made the metal groan. Ayras was holding his own, but not nearly as well as he normally did. One particularly nasty strike, a leaping stab into one giant's neck, actually snapped one of the swords in half. Oh, the curses that flowed from the elf's lips, elvish in origin...until they flowed deftly into drowish. Ayras began hacking with his remaining sword with an enraged abandon. The sight of the berserk spellblade caused a pair of the giants to flee, wanting nothing to do with prey that took so much effort to kill. Of the three that remained before him, one was a bloody mess on the forest floor, twinging and mewling in its death throes. The last two giants looked at each other and rushed the vampire. It was, perhaps, needless to say that the elf did not answer the half-drow. With the snarl that was plastered on his face, it was likely a miracle if he even understood he as he was then.
Riselet is still shaking from the incident with the giant, adrenaline replaced by overdue caution that keeps her from going into battle again. The halfling ambles her way through the wreckage, freshly-collapsed wood already sprinkled with a small layer of snow. The view ahead is fuzzy, but by the sounds of metal against skin and unearthly roars, she can tell that the stranger is still in combat. She paces amongst the trees for a better view, hesitant to get involved but still lusting for a bit more action. Briefly looking down, she can see that the dead(?) giant’s blood barely touched her worn, frost-coated clothes, and a relieved sigh escapes her lips. It’d be difficult to explain the situation to Lyros, and she’s pretty sure that he would never believe her story anyways. Her gaze focuses again on the elven stranger, who doesn’t appear to return her half-hearted shout or even notice her at all. He’s lost somewhere in the haze of battle, a manic presence that’s caused all but two of the remaining giants to flee or succumb to his blades. How could but a single person hold against a horde of them? Whatever it was, it kept her entranced, enough so to keep her from running into the middle like a fool. With the last two frost giants ganging up on him, Riselet reflexively edges closer as to offer some semblance of protection—but stops herself, knowing she’ll be a liability in this state. But just staring does nothing, either! A frustrated grumble escapes her lips, the halfling conflicted. If only she had brought her blades…
Ayras let those two giants get close as he charged up the lightning in his left hand again. The sparks grew and grew, spat more furiously as the seconds passed by. Ayras swayed this way and that as spears thrust out at him, used his sword to keep those iron tips from finding purchase in his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind the vampire knew that his weapon couldn't hold up to the abuse much longer, but the instincts that drove everything from the forefront didn't care. The blade continuously met with the incoming weapons, kept the elf safe, until it, too, snapped. Ayras roared as the spear tip sank home into his side, but it was not pain that registered on his face. No, the elf was furious, his face twisted in a mask of rage. He grasped the spear's shaft with his right hand, pulled with all his vampiric might, brought the giant closer...and let his left, metal hand erupt in the giant's face. There was nothing left of the brute's head but bone and melted flesh by the time the arcs dissipated. The giant's companion did not come in this time. No, he turned and vomited. After his previous companions he fled. A pity his course took him straight towards Riselet. Ayras didn't have it in him to chase after the hunter. He collapsed onto his knees, grunted as he pulled the spear from his body. He'd have to feed to heal. Again. He was having to do that more often than usual, these days. Maybe he really was getting reckless.
Riselet stares wide-eyed at the display, wordlessly watching as the giant’s head is literally melted off of his torso. Magnificent, but also utterly horrifying; a true last stand, she’d say. The halfling doesn’t know if she should be sickened or enraptured, but has little time to gawk as the last of the group hurriedly lurches away from Ayras and heads towards her. The giant doesn’t notice her, it seems, and is much more intent on following behind his brethren lest he be smited to dust like the rest. Yet she can see it looming overhead, nearly caught in its shadow—she’d rather not tango with another giant right now, utterly defenseless in its wake. Silent as she can be, the assassin scarcely evades the creature’s line of sight, taking cover under the cramped shelter of a split tree. It pauses, almost if trying to sense her presence, and continues; Riselet has to stifle a laugh. Thank -whoever- that giants weren’t blessed with intellect. After a few minutes of dead silence, she crawls out of the makeshift refuge and makes her way towards the elven stranger, running as fast as the heavy snowdrifts allow. From what she can see, he’s in terrible shape, blood staining the pure white of surrounding snow—but still breathing, as it seems. He emanates some odd deathlessness; he certainly -looks- like an elf, even with flaming red hair, but there’s something that almost feels off to her. The halfling, ungainly and tiny under her layers of clothes, makes her way up to him, voice soft and concerned. (If she wasn’t afraid of those giants coming back, she’d be deafening, no doubt.) “Holy sh— Are you alright?! I mean, it was so cool how you totally slaughtered those giants, but… Okay, right now, we need to fix you up. Um. Somehow… Gods, I -think- this salve can work, but I’ve never tried it myself…” She fumbles for it before doing a double-take at his wounds. “Wait a sec, you’re bleeding so much, how are you still alive?!”
Ayras looked up at the woman when she began talking to him. He must be worse off than he thought; he hadn't even heard her approach. He was definitely off his game in that moment. He pulled his hand way from his side and looked down at it. The snow wasn't all that was stained red. "Gods damn it all," he cursed. "I just washed this shirt -again-! And blood never wants to come out..." Really? He was complaining about his shirt being stained? Such a vain creature, he was. As he heaved a sigh, the vampire started to pull the shirt up and over his head, winced as his body stretched more than his wound wanted to allow. By the time it was actually off his body, the vampire audibly gasped, and it was then that, if Riselet were looking at his face, his fangs would become visible. "I'm not alive," he said at length to the half-elf as he put his hand back on his wound. "Not in the way most people think of as alive." He began to rise to his feet, but a great sway sent the elf back to the ground. He looked up at Riselet, perhaps a bit sheepishly...until he noticed what she was. Something hardened in his eyes, but a few moments later it softened away. "Not a full-blood. I suppose I can live with one of your kind being here with me, if I'm going to die out here in the middle of no where."
Riselet isn’t quite sure what to expect after her observation, but not -that-. It almost looked as though the stranger was completely shrugging off his wounds, casually removing his shirt and, perhaps not intentionally, revealing his fangs. Her blood runs cold. “A vampire?” Out in the woods? That can wield two swords at one, bend electricity to his will, -and- has the sickest mechanical arm she’s ever seen? This guy is definitely not someone to be messed with. Riselet suddenly feels a lot smaller in his presence— humble, even—especially in the way he eyes her. A steel-grey stare that hardens for the briefest of moments, accompanied by ‘not a full-blood’. Oh. Her awe is replaced by a sense of shame, and she averts his gaze, heaving a sigh. “Oh. Uh. Thanks for the hospitality. Actually, I should be thankful—if you were a drow, you’d just kill me right on the spot and dance on my corpse. So, whatever, cool.” She shifts her weight so she’s crosses her legs, a hand resting on her chin while the other holds the expensive balm in her hand. “So, you need to drink my blood to survive, right? But isn’t blood gross? I mean, I’ve tasted it before. It’s like iron. Do vampires have a thing for iron?” Her voice is more monotone now, the slightest hint of scorn dripping from each syllable. Not a full-blood, huh? Her blue eyes trail the speckled snow only to meet his grey stare, still somewhat unnerved by the revelation. “Listen, I’ll help you out, but I’m not interested in becoming a… Liege? Sire? I don’t think you wanna drink my blood, anyways. It’s -gross-, right?”
Ayras let the woman go through her rambling, let her edge her words with her ire. He knew most people hated being called half-blood, but today, this time, it was a good thing for Riselet. A very good thing. "You say if I were a drow I'd kill you and dance on your corpse," he said as he leaned back, as he winced as his wound was pulled at. "I say that if -you- were a drow, I'd drain you dry and dance on your corpse. Don't mistake what I said as an insult. What you are just saved your life." And then she spoke of him needing her blood. Yes, he needed blood to survive, and normally he'd be more than happy to sate himself on the half-breed's blood. But this was Frostmaw, and he had made a vow long ago not to harm its citizens and visitors with his vampiric needs. It would be the last of last resorts. "To you mortals, I suppose it would taste disgusting, yes. But to my kind, to a vampire, most blood is the sweetest thing on the face of the earth, sweeter than the best wine. Unless you're an ogre or something like that. Then it's disgusting." He grinned, just a little. His fangs may have shown again. "And I have no interest in siring anyone, girl. You've no need to worry about that." Not that he could, not being an elder and all. "I don't need another like Mirror running around."
Riselet sighs, mostly out of defeat, and nods. “Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right.” She -supposes- being a dirty gray has some uses—like being a deterrent against people she’d be better off not associating with. This guy, whoever he is, doesn’t seem half bad… And doesn’t want to suck her dry, or so he says. She listens to him more attentively now, a bit less bitter over that brief remark, and even lets out a laugh at his ogre comment, a loud guffaw that could have easily attracted any giants in the area. It was tiring to be frustrated, especially considering how winded she already was from running. She leans in to examine the spear’s mark, blood still oozing out of the perforation. She recoils a bit in disgust, opening the container to reveal a thick, viscous balm. Her gaze turns back to it, and she only briefly considers the fact that he’s shirtless—which elicits a small blush. Two shirtless men in the same week! First Lyros, then this guy. She blinks a bit, returning to the task at hand: fixing this guy up. “No, but seriously. You look like you’re in rough shape, and I’m literally the -worst- when it comes to stitching wounds. Unless you’re really okay with walking around with that big gash or having me slather this, uh…” she glances at the cream container, a bit dubious of its contents, “...Stuff on you, I honestly don’t mind. I’ll be woozy, yeah, but you’re a lot worse off than I am.”
Ayras sighed. He really was in a dilemma. He needed the blood, but he knew how he could get. He knew he tended to get carried away in the moment. Did he want to risk it with this woman? He looked down at the hole in his side. He was just about to give in when the ground started to rumble again. What was it this time? The mammoths again? No, there was a humanoid screaming with it. Ayras dragged himself to his feet and stumbled off a few feet to lean against a tree, peered off into the forest. Yes, there it was. He could just make it out through the foliage. One of the giants had run himself in a circle trying to get away. It was coming right for them; Ayras grinned. "Looks like you won't have to become a meal, after all, little Grey." Hm. Yup, he found himself a nickname for this one already. He charged the power in his metal hand. He could feel it wasn't as powerful as the blast that melted the one giant's face, but it would suffice. Once the exile bounded into view, the elf sent out a blast of lightning that made the brute go stiff, made it fall to the ground. Ayras staggered over as it laid there twitching, knelt next to it. "Trust me, buddy," he said to the frightened giant, "I'm going to hate this more than you." And down his mouth went, set right over the fellow's jugular, and moments later blood began to seep out at the corners of Ayras' mouth.
Riselet was in the middle of giving Ayras a nice pat on the back—the best consolation she could give the poor vampire—until a frost giant unexpectedly comes out of the woodwork. A straggler? Riselet braces herself for what she thinks is going to be a tough fight, until Ayras grins and begins to charge his metal arm. The bolt unleashed easily paralyses the giant, making the fight much simpler. Oh, -that- thing. She brushes off the ‘grey’ comment (unsure as to whether that was a compliment or insult), rising from her seat and wiping away the excess snow. Even with that weird metallic weapon, she’s still more than worried about her injured acquaintance, following behind him a few steps as he goes to… Feed? Riselet does little more than gape at the display, shielding her eyes a bit in disgust. Was he sure about this? Would he stoop that low just for the sake of not biting her? She can’t tell whether to be relieved or a bit upset, but lets him continue nonetheless. “I… Are you sure you’re not gonna regret that? I mean, y’know, different strokes for different folks, but I’d rather bite the pretty little damsel than the weird, ugly giant, am I right?”
Ayras pulled his fangs away from the giant's neck, a grimace on his face. "Trust me," he said, his voice strained as he tried not to vomit, "I'm regretting it. But it's better this way." He looked over at the half-drow as blood trickled down his chin. Oh, how he was tempted so! She was definitely right, her blood would taste far better than the giant's. In the end, he shook his head. "No, it's better this way. Trust me, as much as I would want to and appreciate the gesture, I can't feed from you. Not up here, at any rate." And so he went back to feeding on his giant feast. At least he wouldn't be lacking for blood from this one. No matter the source, though, the feast helped to kickstart his vampiric healing. The wound in his side was already starting to stop bleeding, to knit together. That sight might just have been more disturbing than seeing him stretch it open when he removed his blood-stained shirt.
Riselet waves her hand and lets him continue, a bit curious but not wishing to pry. He had his reasons, and even someone as stubborn as her knew not to invoke the wrath of a vampire—a -feeding- vampire, no less. “Well, okay,” she muttered in reply, feeling more than a bit embarrassed just staring at him feast on the exile. She’s about to turn away until she catches sight of his deep lesion heal: an engrossing, if visceral experience. Riselet would never have an experience like this before, and almost relishes in it, ogling the wound with an strange sort of fascination as it repairs itself. The smallest of things she considered curious absolutely enraptured her, up to the very concept of vampires themselves; she’d have to ask the turned elf about it sooner or later, provided they would cross paths again. Or maybe now is the perfect opportunity! “Say, uh, what’s-your-name,” she peers at the feeding vampire, a glint of inquisitiveness in her eyes. “Tell me more about being a vampire. I mean, if you’d be willing.” She dives under her cloak and procures a short stick of charcoal and a well-folded piece of parchment, scribbled with notes. “I might not look like it, but I’m a true scholar in the making! Uh, sorta.” She laughs bashfully, breaking the mood.
Ayras had his fill from the giant before he finally lifted his mouth away. The brute was certainly ashen by that point, and if not dead, soon to be. Ayras scooped up some clean snow and used it to clean his face from the blood before he turned back to the inquisitive half-elf. "About being a vampire? You mean, how it feels and whatnot?" He had never really considered it before. How did a person go about explaining what was an every day thing to them? His brow wrinkled as he thought about it, as his arms crossed and his metal index finger began to tap against his chin. "It's cold, for starters. There is no such thing as body heat for one of my kind. To me, the air around us is warm enough for shorts." Not that he ever wore shorts a day in his life. Pants or nothing, all day, every day. "My kind get advantages. Strength, speed, magical ability...It depends on the vampire, though. I, myself, got strength. My magical ability is because of my previous studies." He rolled the shoulder on his wounded side, used the movement to pull at the muscles by the laceration. It was tender, but it didn't feel like he had just been stabbed, anymore. "As you can see, we heal fast. Especially when we feed, and feed regularly. Older vampires than I can heal even faster." The elf moved away from the fallen giant then, walked over to Riselet, a hand extended. "My name is Ayras, by the way. Ayras Drathir. And I should probably learn your proper name, shouldn't I, Grey? I have a feeling you'll get tired of my nickname for you at some point."
Riselet scrawls nigh-illegibly on the paper as Ayras talks, her hand as the only support. The text is smudged and difficult to discern, but it’s there, and that’s what matters! She nods enthusiastically at his explanation, sated. Riselet, herself, knows next to nothing about them besides what she can gleam from trashy romance periodicals, and nobody—not even -her-—reads them for the plot in the first place. “Interesting! Y’see, I’m fresh for Cenril, so I’m not really, uh, up to speed on a lot of stuff, you could say?” Another laugh, this one a bit more dry; she doesn’t know why, but Riselet feels as though she needs to explain herself wherever she goes. Some deep-rooted self-consciousness, most likely. Setting the writing apparatus away, Riselet takes his hand (making sure to wipe off the gritty charcoal remnants on the giant) and gives it a self-assured shake. “Ayras, Ayras. Nice name. I’m Riselet Eirvelhys. I’m glad you didn’t suck me dry!” Another chuckle, aimed at her own comment. Laughing at her own jokes is probably her worst habit. “And Grey? I don’t mind it that much. I’ve heard worse!”
Ayras eyed the woman's neck with a smirk. "No, I don't think you'll be one I suck dry, no matter if I ever get a bite or not. You're too cute to let go to waste." Ah, there was that typical Ayras, always flirty. Kithri would kill him if she had heard him. Not that he cared at that point. Honestly. Vampire women. "You're from Cenril, you say? I haven't been down that way in ages. I never had much call to, during my times spent here. It didn't help that I was always vanishing, shirking my duties. Lost my title that way, I did." Wait. What? Ayras wasn't spouting that title? He must have gotten ill from the giant's blood. He had to have. He'd normally be bragging about who he was. "I don't suppose anything interesting has happened down that way, recently?" He lifted his silver eyes to Riselet's blues, his trademark smirk on his lips. "Aside from it letting loose such a cute little thing, that is."
Riselet, puzzled, tilts her head in response to his advanced—flirtation of any kind goes straight over her head, an oddity considering that she usually takes things at face value. “Uh, ‘s much appreciated,” she smiles diffidently with a light giggle, almost as if growing timid, with one hand playing with her hair. It’s only then that she notices how Ayras absolutely towers over her. He has to be at least, what, six feet? Riselet instinctively stands on her toes in a vain effort to appear a bit less short, with diminishing returns. She’d need to invest in heels one of these days. “Yeah, Cenril. Only like it for the beach, honestly...?” she pauses at the mention of a ‘title’ but brushes it off, vaguely wondering what he meant by it. Titles mean little to her as it is; what counts is whether or not he could best her in combat. That was, to her chagrin, most likely a yes. “I wouldn’t say ‘letting loose’,” she put a hand to her chin in mock-thoughtfulness, gazing at the clear sky above. “It’s more like Cenril -lost- me. Like how a kid loses their beloved toy, or some hoity-toity noble loses his favorite wallet…” she raises a finger as though remembering a fond memory. “Actually, the last part -did- happen more than a couple times. By my end, of course.” She returns his smirk, one of self-satisfaction rather than amor.
Ayras laughed at the way he had no effect on this woman, short of the mild intimidation. Oh, he was going to like this one. "Riselet Eirvelhys, scourge of noble's wallets everywhere!" he declared her as he swept into a bow. "Cenril's loss is surely Frostmaw's gain...assuming you plan to stay?" He eyed the woman curiously, began to circle her. It was as though he was appraising her, judging her worth and value for Frostmaw. "You seem a mite ill suited for the weather here, though. Have you not stopped at one of the shops to purchase some fur-lined outfits? Something more suitable for the cold?" How strange that he went from calling her cute to trying to get her in as much clothing as possible. "And you say you were the cause of the nobles losing their wallets, so I'm supposing you're a thief or rogue of some sort? I recommend not doing that around here, especially now that you've said it to me. I'll know who to look for."
Riselet shrugs at his comment. She’s unsure of whether she’s going to stay herself. Frostmaw is, well, pretty cold, but as far as she knows Lyros doesn’t mind it as much. Being contractually obligated to protect him from here on out, she’ll just go wherever he goes. “Ah, maybe, maybe not. I’m not sure yet. I was actually going to buy some pelts to sew into something nice—like a new cloak, maybe. Fully tailored clothes can get pricey, after all.” She feels a bit hounded by him circling her, but she’s never going to say that aloud. Her pride is at stake, of course, and she can’t just admit to Ayras that he’s kind of scary. Just a bit. Her eyes trace features that stand out to her; his earrings, his arm, those eyes, that -gaze-. She isn’t sure how long he’s walked upon the earth, but he carries some sort of experience that makes him radiate danger. Maybe it’s the whole vampirism thing, but Riselet isn’t sure. She keeps her smirk plastered on her face, voice lilted and proud. “Rest assured, my thieving past is behind me!” Mostly. More or less. But right now, she’s less interested in talking about herself and more about him. “But I’m curious—where’d you get that cool metal arm? And learn magic, and twin wield swords like that…” Riselet can barely pick up a sword herself. She pouts, genuinely frustrated. “I’m actually -really- jealous, y’know. You’ve got everything that I don’t.”
Ayras might have actually understood if Riselet had said she felt hounded. He was a vampire, after all. Vampires tend to...well...eat people. He showed no signs of her eyeing him over to have bothered him, however. Indeed, he truly felt unphased by it. The most he did was look down at himself when she started listing the things she was jealous about. "The arm came courtesy an old artificer friend of mine, back after I lost the arm to a competition of arms. The magic I've always had. I've been practicing magic since I was a child, apprenticed under my clan's master mage." He eyed Riselet before he spoke about the swords, weighing in his mind what he would say. He didn't know how she would take what happened, whether she would find some sort of self-blame for what her half-kin did to him. But...she asked. "The swordplay came from my time as a slave to the drow. After they had their fun torturing me and doing...other things... to me, they threw me to the gladiatorial pits with a collar that suppressed my magic, and armed with a sword. When I started to get proficient, they threw me in with two. They wanted to see me die because of my race. The House that owned me fell before they got the satisfaction, and I escaped into the Underdark, and eventually found my way back to the surface." He shook his head. "Trust me, with the scars I carry, I have everything you -don't- want, too."
Riselet’s face is flushed with suspense—what amazing stories did he have to share? Tales of adventure and mystery, surely! Her azure gaze is firmly fixed on Ayras, mouth curved in a grin. The first two stories are exciting, and she almost interjects to learn more—until she watches as his expression turns downcast abruptly, hers darkening in turn. She doesn’t interrupt as he goes on about his, sympathizing (even understanding, almost), stare still affixed towards him: still curious, still wanting to know. Riselet almost wants to tell him it’s alright, though it seems as though he’s past all that; it’s not as if he -needs- her consolation, anyways. “Ah, um, I guess you’re right,” she replies, softer this time, a muted blush forming over her cheeks, one that always appears when she gets particularly embarrassed. “I just, uh, acted before I thought.” It doesn’t feel right to chime in with her own story—it’d just make them both uncomfortable, anyways. One hand on his shoulder, she goes up on her toes again in a vain attempt to catch his attention. Trying to cheer him up, Riselet greets Ayras with a large, childish grin. “But, on the bright side—that stuff’s behind you now, isn’t it? You’re here now, and happier, surely.”
Ayras laughed, but it was not a happy sound. He turned his face away, stared out into the forest and away from Frostmaw, toward the site of a hamlet that once stood in the foothills of the mountains. He was there, surely, that could not be denied. He was alive as far as the word could be stretched. But there had never been much beyond his playful antics. He never let people get close enough to him to learn of his past. He never stayed around long enough for them to try. It was only recently that he confronted some of his past. It had changed him, turned him into a bitter person when it came to the drow. "No, you thought, you were just unaware. The fault is not yours, Grey." He looked back to the half-drow and sighed, running his flesh-and-blood hand through his hair before he ruffled hers and stepped away from her. The woman's proximity had suddenly started making him feel uncomfortable, and he couldn't place why. He went up to the ashen giant that still laid on the forest floor. He was surprised to find that the thing was still clinging to life. He wished his swords hadn't broken. He'd have put the thing out of its misery. It might have been gruesome, the way he would have gone about it, but it would have been therapeutic. "You know, there are places of learning where you can pick up these skills I know. Or other people who would be willing to teach you their crafts. You need not remain jealous of my talents." He lifted his metal hand and flashed the slightest of smirks, the closest he could get to his usual humor at that moment. "This, though, I think is a bit beyond you."
The break between sentences is odd; though she barely knew the man, it felt unlike him to be sullen. Riselet sighs inwardly, beating herself up. Somehow, she always manages to hit the sorest spots with her words. Maybe it’s the universe trying to tell her to think before acting. Maybe she’s just a bit unlucky compared to most. Maybe it’s karma. Ayras is nice, as far as she’s concerned—nice people don’t deserve to have their pasts dragged up by someone like her. The vampire’s hand on her head is cool, but not the chill of Frostmaw; it’s an absence of heat that still leaves a presence. Her hair’s been ruffled twice since she left Cenril. That’s a pretty nice track record, as far as she’s concerned. She watches him back away from her towards the body of the giant, and for the smallest second her heart sinks. Riselet takes it all in stride, though; she merrily walks up to his side, still grinning. “Ah, I’d love to! I’m not quite suited for that sort of stuff, though—like magic. Magic’s always been a bit beyond me, sadly. Some kind of weird disorder. Or maybe I’m just dull. I can barely sense it most of the time,” she shrugged, mostly unphased. “I guess it makes me feel like more of an ‘other,’ in a way.” Riselet dares not dwell on her own past despite hinting at it here and there—it’s much harder to be dragged out of a depression than snapped out of a reverie. She acts surprised at Ayras’s declaration, eyeing him with fake envy. “What?! No way. I was just about to slice off my arm so we could match!” Riselet cackles loudly, tears in her eyes. “Hah, I’m kidding. I’m not about to lose a limb anytime soon. Unless I do—then you’ll have to refer me to whoever crafted that for you, ri—ght?”
Ayras listened to the woman, and listened some more. He knew he was sulking. He hated when he sulked. And this woman didn't deserve for him to have so suddenly become distant. It truly wasn't her fault. She did manage to get him to crack a smile, though, when she joked about cutting her arm off. "I'm afraid you'd have to find someone else, now," he said as he moved behind the half-drow, as he laid his metal arm over her flesh-and-blood one as though to see how it would look on her. "The person who crafted mine has long departed. None have seen her in years." The giant groaned at that moment, drawing Ayras' eyes once more. He didn't want to kill the thing in front of Riselet, not in his usual manner. He didn't want to scar her, to show her the monster he really was.
Riselet smiles warmly as they compare arms, hoping that a few jokes would snap him out of his acrimony. She goes to say something until the giant interrupts her—startled, she almost jumps at its death rattle. “Did it groan? Eugh, it’s still alive?” She looks towards the near-dead exile before her gaze moves to the ground, casually picking up the biggest limb within reach. As she approaches the giant’s face, Riselet turns to Ayras with the slightest bit of hesitance. “Uh, close your eyes, Ayras. Or don’t.” Like before, she takes the branch and roughly thrusts it into the giant’s socket. Thick blood seeps from it in spurts accompanied by one of the most pitiful moans Riselet’s ever heard. Putting her whole weight into it, the branch is -just- long enough to hit the brain. After shoving the rest of it inside, the halfling finishes it with few hard kicks to the skull, and it stops moaning—or breathing. She wipes her gloves on her clothes, nonchalant. “That’s how I killed that loner from earlier. Idiot kept running after me even when it started losing speed, so I just shimmied up a tree, got on its back, and stabbed it ‘til it died. You always gotta go for the eyes, y’know,” she glances at him, staring him straight in the eyes. Her own seem vacant, almost. “It’s a one-way ticket to the brain if you’re good enough.” Riselet knows that what she’s saying belies her attitude—and, maybe, her whole personality—but it’s not as if Ayras -knows- she’s an assassin. Then again, talking about all that aloud certainly makes it obvious.
Ayras watched Riselet dispatch the giant. He had to admit, it was effective, and far more humane that what he would have done. It's for that very reason, perhaps, that he didn't think anything of it. Not until she started speaking about how she killed the other, about going for the soft spots. That lowered his gaze to her, and forced a single ruby eyebrow to loft upon his forehead. "Maybe I shouldn't send you out for more martial training." He'd definitely have to keep an eye on this one. Gods be damned, and he was hoping he could actually have trusted this one. "I suppose you're more drow than I first thought." There was no levity in his voice when he said that, and the chill that took over his demeanor was obvious as he stepped away from the small woman.
Riselet looks towards Ayras, gaze softening slightly—a very forced sort of softening, as if she’s trying to disguise a part of herself. She was caught in a strange sort of half-state; one part of her unabashed about her knowledge, her past, while the other completely estranged from it. In those moments, she isn’t sure how to react to his claim of her being ‘more drow’, or how he steps away from her slightly. Is it out of revulsion, or fear? She isn’t sure. Her face goes to a neutral expression, brows furrowed, mouth curved downwards in a small frown. Riselet, surprisingly defensive, takes small, slow steps towards Ayras. “It’s not ‘cause I’m a drow. I wasn’t even raised by drow, y’know—I was raised by one elf, on the surface, all my life. And my dad, s’far as I know, is from the surface, too. I just, I dunno… I’ve always been like -this-. That’s why I left Cenril, to get away from it. But it always comes back.” She raises her hands as if to plead, but drops them suddenly, frustrated. “If you only like me when I’m being all elfy, you can go. I’m both, and I’m neither. Not like I asked for this, anyways…” her voice is reduced to a grumble, eyes focused on the ground.
Ayras stood his ground when the woman started moving toward him, stared at her with deadened eyes. His fists were clenched and his jaw tight; he said naught a word to her, didn't even try to interrupt when she told him to go. He understood her dilemma, he truly did. He was torn between his morals as a knight, as an elf, and his needs as a vampire. The biggest difference between them was that he never tried to hide what he was from others, unintentionally or not. "I don't care which way you act. What I care about is that you lied. You professed to be without skill. You acted as though you were completely detached from your heritage. I should have known better. Every drow I have ever met has shown their heritage. Why should I have expected you to be the exception?"
Riselet groans in irritation, a hand to her forehead. Cold against cold, but she doesn’t even feel the blisters from her pseudo-frostbite. She doesn’t want to explain to him that it’s more a matter of staying alive than a matter of lineage, but he’d just hate her more if she said it aloud, wouldn’t he? “It’s not my heritage, it’s my -job-!” Riselet is startled by her own raised voice, snapping out of her brief plunge into disassociation. “I— I know about this stuff ‘cause that’s how I had to live, it’s how I learned to survive, and then it became…” she trails off, unsure of how to word it. “A part of my life. I didn’t even know I wasn’t pureblood ‘til I got called a gray. For the longest time I thought I was an elf, mom never told me, I had to figure it out myself. And I’m dumb as a rock, believe me.” The more Riselet talks about herself, the angrier she gets. She hated this. She hated running her stupid mouth until she got blue in the face, but habits are always harder to put down than to pick up. She crosses her arms, hoping her words somehow reach him. “I don’t -like- killing, Ayras. I don’t -like- hurting people. When I do, it’s like I’m back there, and I can’t switch it off. It’s like having drow blood in you without even knowing it’s in your veins.” Her hands go back to her sides, balled into fists. She doesn’t know if she’s more angry or hurt—and by who?
Ayras might just have softened a little as he listened to Riselet go on, at least until he thought about what he had wanted to do to the giant. His eyes went to the thing, to the branch that stuck out of its eye, to the blood that leaked down the side of its face and neck. He was a damned hypocrite and he knew it. She didn't enjoy killing, she said. He knew he did. That's why he came out to the wilds so often. No one would bat an eye if he killed monsters, or exiles, or whatever plagued the city. It was his outlet. And he was a vampire, to boot. He had a reputation down in Kelay, one that constantly had him being told to leave the tavern there. But he had changed in the years between then and now. Something had altered him on a psychological level, and he hated what he was. Truth be told, he almost wanted to be mortal again. He didn't say as much, didn't say anything, honestly. He just went up to Riselet and wrapped her in a hug. He didn't want to hate the girl. He didn't want to hate anyone anymore, though he knew that would be impossible. His past cut too deep. It would take a remarkable full-blooded drow to change that about him. But this half-drow...it could be a start.
Riselet stews in front of him for a while, completely silent. She doesn’t know whether he’d take what she said to heart or just brush it aside and leave her to her machinations—and a part of her would be devastated if he took the latter course. It was odd to open up to a stranger, like she was exposed for the whole world to see. He didn’t exactly force it out of her; she could have easily cooked up some dumb white lie, some excuse to bait him, yet she didn’t. And perhaps that sole decision made all the difference. When he holds her in a hug, Riselet freezes, unsure of how to react, but slowly reciprocates. Her arms barely reach all the way around, but it works. “Uh… Thanks, Ayras,” she mumbles somewhat incoherently, voice muffled. “For— uh, for forgiving me.” Riselet feels guilty, almost like she’s too easily forgiven, but accepts the vampire’s bit of kindness nonetheless.
Ayras nodded before he backed away a step and coughed a little into his hand. If he could blush, he may very well have. Instead, he ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, let's keep that between you and I, yeah? I have an image to uphold." Oh hush, ya big softy. The vampire moved away, finally went to collect his stained shirt, though he obviously did not put it back on. Huh. He hadn't thought about that. He wondered how Riselet felt about some strange, shirtless - and let's be honest, muscular - man hugging her out of no where. If he were in her position, he'd be downright red in the face about the time he realized what happened. That thought alone made him chuckle, though he didn't bother to tell little miss Grey what he found so funny. "Hey, if you ever want to learn how to use a sword, feel free to come to me. Once I get some replacements, anyways." He frowned as his eyes went to his discarded weapons. He'd have to get them fixed. Or...do something with them. An idea started forming in his mind as he looked down to his metal hand. Hm. Why not? It might be worth a shot.
Only when Ayras steps away does Riselet notice the blush on her face, cheeks radiating warmth against the cool leather of her gloves. Though the vampire obviously didn’t feel especially warm, the halfling notices how uncomfortably hot she is under the clothes following the hug. At his remark, she crosses her arms again, nose in the air, “So do I!” She huffs, but her mock-condescension soon breaks into laughter. It feels like the past few moments before had never occurred—that he hadn’t gotten rightfully upset at her for her sudden change in personality, that these two odd acquaintances (or maybe even friends, sooner or later) weren’t nearly on the verge of a fight. The offer Ayras gives her makes her entire demeanor change, her face lighting up: “Wait, are you serious? Real training? From none other than the master of masters, Ayras Drathir himself?! ” Riselet sounds sarcastic, but her intentions are wholly sincere. “Alright! This’ll be great! Can I call you teach? Wait, no. There’s gotta be somethin’ better. Master sounds kinda weird, and mentor’s way too formal…” Deep in thought, Riselet puts a hand to her chin in an attempt to formulate the perfect nickname for him.
Ayras found the halfling's laughter to be contagious. He was soon having his own fit of laughter, though most notably when he got a look at her reddened cheeks. Oh, the poor girl, so easily embarrassed. Ayras would definitely use that to his advantage. "Yes, I'm serious," he said when she asked about his offer. The title she bestowed on him made him laugh all the more, and it was so, so very hard to straighten his face and compose himself when she tried to decide what to call him. "Just call me Ayras. I'm no Knight anymore, nor a master-at-arms for any hoity-toity noble. I am just a man who loves his home, and one who is willing to offer some lessons in the skills he has." It had been a while since he worked with anyone in the art of swordplay, and he said as much. "You'll be my first student since the Queen." The Queen? He taught swordsmanship to royalty? Well then.
Riselet grins widely at Ayras’s laughter. It’s a nice thing—though she can say with pride that she’s good at making others laugh, a surge of confidence flows through her when she sees how vibrant and animated he can be. “Okay, Ayras it is!” she exclaims, one hand punching the air. “Well, Ayras, how about we head on out and I buy us some drinks? For celebration, of course.” She knew it wasn’t the wisest idea to get a bit buzzed in the middle of the day, but surely Lyros would be fine with it, right? It’s not as if they had any major plans, as far as she could remember. Riselet’s enthusiasm takes hold of her now; there’s a spring in her step as she makes her way to the forest’s path, looking over her shoulder to see if the vampire’s following behind. She gives him a look of incredulity when he mentions teaching the Queen, eyes squinting ever so slightly. “The Queen? Really? I’m up against some serious competition, aren’t I?” The halfling smirks, waiting for him (im)patiently at the well-traveled path.
Ayras smiled at the energy of the half-drow. She'd be a fun one to be around, he thought. But when she offered to buy drinks, he almost looked sad. And she was already on her way before he could decline, too! But thank the gods she stopped to turn and see if he was after her. "I'm afraid I'm going to pass on the drinks," he said, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Those other giants are still on the loose, and someone's got to make sure they stay away from Frostmaw. I may not hold my title of Knight-Captain anymore, but I still look at it as my duty. Go and have fun, though. I'll catch up with you another time, and you can go about disbelieving that I taught the Queen a thing or two about using a sword." He flashed Riselet a grin before he went off on his own way deeper into the woods to hunt down those exiles. He'd definitely have to be more careful without his swords, but it wouldn't be the first reckless thing he'd done in his life.
Riselet’s grin stays even as Ayras declines. There’d be plenty of other times for them to make merry, and she had some business at the tavern to take care of, too. Specifically, drow business. Lyros business. With a wave, the halfling sees the vampire off. “Alright! That’s fine, I get it. I’ll see you around!” she cheers, going off her own way into the forest and, with enough luck, back to Frostmaw. The sun’s getting high; by the time she returns (if she ever does), it’ll be noon. Lyros is hopefully still asleep, but she quickens her pace as the vampire’s silhouette goes out of view. The rest of her stroll is uneventful, but there lingers a certain calm as though the vampire’s watching. If the two cross paths again—which she hopes—then he’ll certainly make for an interesting drinking buddy.