RP:Frozen Flame

Part of the Hour of Wolves Arc

Summary: Lionel and Alvina become embroiled in a high-stakes plot to destroy a key building within Frostmaw. Led by the half-elf Eth'lorien, the enemy forces seize the building and rig it to blow. Alone and operating against the clock, the pair will need to set aside complicated emotions if they have any hope of victory. It is here at this pivotal flash point that the first chapter is written on a powerful black ice bow destined to be wielded by the vampire Khitti...

Frostmaw

Lionel shakes his head. “No,” he repeats. “I’m looking for Alvina Liadon. These schematics need to be delivered directly to her.” The clerk just isn’t getting it. Here at the state offices, clerks rarely do seem to get it. Diligently, she shakes her head, penciling in the same three words she’s already written as many times: ‘We’ll Deliver Them.’ She won’t even speak to him anymore; she will not relent, she will not back down, and it does not seem to matter in the slightest that Lionel is Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander. “This is unconscionable,” he objects, pacing and fuming. He’s in his traditional black silk attire, although there’s no mithril vest underneath today, because frankly, why would he need it? Hellfire is similarly left safely elsewhere, and so are his other swords. In fact, the only offensive piece he has on him is his quick-witted temper. Lionel narrows his eyes at the clerk, who does not bristle. “Did Alvina specifically tell you not to let me see her? Is that it? Because if that’s it, look, fine, fair enough. But if she didn’t --” The clerk interjects. Guess what? She writes the same three words down all over again. Lionel cannot believe it. Nearby, the other six bureaucratic members of the office are deep into their paperwork, no doubt avoiding eye contact with him. The offices are a four-story tower, but the upper floors are largely vacant today. Presumably, Alvina herself is somewhere up there, probably on the third floor as that is where several state blacksmiths often operate. The facilities are spartan by design but very accommodating in tools of the trade. The second floor is largely abandoned and the fourth is reserved for meetings and alchemy crafting; really, this building is pretty barebones. But the relentless stubbornness of this one particular clerk, this clerk that Lionel has had the tremendous misfortune of speaking with today, sure does make it all feel choking.

Alvina is walking back from her lunch break. Her hair is up in an impossibly odd bun, a charcoal pencil stuck in between the leather strap holding her hair up and the bun itself. Her hands are full of papers, a coffee like container, and two books. An entire bagel (minus one bite) is hanging out of her mouth when she passes the front desk, in her own world. The lady at the front desk hasn’t change her opinion on the matter and is starting Lionel down to just leave whatever he’s delivering and get on with his day. She’s got better things to do than argue with him. ‘If that’s it, look, fine, fair enough.’ The bard stops, Lionel’s voice is echoing above all the other sounds that accompany office work; the shuffle of papers, the harsh scratch of quill to parchment, the one guy that always has a cough. “Hmm?” She mumbles, mouth still full before looking around for the man who owned the voice. From a distance, he looked very normal and warm. Alvina waits, just a minute, just long enough for the woman to re-write her catch phrase and for Lionel to sigh, exasperated by the ordeal before approaching. Emerald green eyes look at Lionel and then the woman. Was she denying him access? That’s hilarious and very good to know. So even when Alvina was working, Lionel couldn’t just barge in. If only Hudson knew that, maybe he’d stop insisting this job was a big scam for Lionel to get close to Alvina. The bard mumbles a few incoherent words, shows her identification to the woman, and tilts her head towards her office as if to say ‘He’s with me, it’s fine’. The woman rolls her eyes and leaves the desk but Alvina’s still standing there with no free hands, and a bagel between her lips. She blinks through the lens of her work glasses and waits for Lionel to react. Once he does, she has no choice but to lead him to her office, which is just as cluttered with parchments and scrolls to set everything down. If he tries to take anything she’s carrying, she’ll only walk faster to deny his request. The work space is sparse at best, beyond the mess. It’s all clearly not personalized or home-like in any way.

Lionel does not in fact make any attempts to take any of the things Alvina is carrying. Virtually everything about him is distanced, professional, and deliberately calculated. It’s an odd look for the man, given his history, but he’s selling it relatively well. “Thanks.” A simple enough statement which is not so rude as to deny her the gratitude of relieving him from the awkward situation but not so personal as to suggest anything. His walk is fast-paced, but polite. His expression carries him forward, although he does need to note the reason he’s here. “Queen Hildegarde has plans for a certain bow. It’s designed for Khat von Schreier, if you’ve heard of her? Khitti, to most. She’s a vampire, so her strength will snap the bow unless it’s crafted very particularly. Black ice. Something about black ice. It’s all in the file I’ll be passing to you.” They ascend the steps, two floors up and then they’re at the office, and the pace Lionel leads with still seems formal. The Catalian looks anywhere but her, taking in the sights as if there’s even much to see. There really isn’t. The trip takes them through stone passageways completely undecorated and the office itself is not exactly luxury. He clears his throat, fetches the blueprints, and places them neatly on her desk. Aye, -virtually- everything about Lionel is elsewhere, but for those damned eyes of his. There can be no mistaking a delicate, almost wounded, shading to them. His voice would not betray this, nor his stature. But it’s all right there, plain as ocean blue, should she look. “Anyway, I’ll be off.”

Alvina goes about setting down her books and parchments, arranging them in no particular order and removing the bagel from her mouth so she can finally speak. The glasses she's wearing are far too big for her face, and somehow many her look smarter or less threatening. Softer, if you will. And those magnified eyes of her are looking at the plans. In Lionel’s hands, on the desk, now in her hands. No where near him. The sound of shuffling papers overpowers their outlandish dialogue, and she looks through the notes half paying attention. “Are we not friends anymore?” She asks him casually, taking a bite of her bagel and studying the curvature of the bow’s frame. Black Ice? It would take a specific tool set to work it into that angle… “I’ve never heard of this Khitti. Tell me about her.” It’s the first time Lionel and Alvina have been together since she started the job and the first interesting project to be presented and from the Queen herself? Well, Alvina had to give this priority certainly but she always wanted a chance to talk to Lionel. He was animated and warm, even from a distance, before she approached the scene. That’s when it shifted. He was cold...automatic. An automaton of gears doing what they should and only what they should. Like all shreds of humanity had been wiped clean when she drew nearby. It was a hefty price, to pay for this position. To watch a man she considered her friend (thought they hadn’t know each other more than a few months at best) change in every possible way. Did she have to learn him all over again? Which version was dishonest? Which version was truly where his heart lie? The questions in her mind were too deep and involved, she pushes them away, afraid to uncover any truth that might lead her to believe he wasn’t keeping his word.

Lionel furrows his brow, tilting his angle so that he addresses Alvina directly for the first time. His response is imperfect -- he cannot completely maintain the tonal facade after such a question. Inside, he’s burning up, as if suddenly Halycanos can’t regulate his core temperature, as if suddenly all that spectacular Ishaarite fire magic isn’t contained, as if suddenly he’s blazing in piercing pain. What an inquiry. The bit about Khitti utterly eludes him at first; instead he’s quick to answer but broken in reply. “What? I, ah, we’re… I can’t, ah,” he clears his throat, “you and I, we’re very much… together, ah,” wait, no, that’s not right, “together we’re colleagues, and I consider that… definitely something.” Another throat-clearing. This may be the worst reply Lionel has ever given anyone. “Khitti is another foreigner to Lithrydel.” There. Controlled tone. Better cadence. It’s a far easier delivery. “She’s involved with Dominic, a fellow Catalian. I’ve known her a while. She’s a member of the Warrior’s Guild. So that’s… peachy.” Awkward thumbs-up. “Listen, um, I should go. You know, just a ton of work. Work, work, work. I’ll be back in a few days. Thanks again.” And he’s gone.

Alvina didn’t bother to look after Lionel as he left. The plans before her are starting to tell her a story. A story of metal workings and construction. The Knight-Commander’s reply is incomplete but she doesn’t notice. Bits of his conversation stick in her mind. “Colleagues.” She repeats back to the empty office, wondering if the clerk would give him as hard a time leaving as she did when he arrived. Who knows how long he’d been standing there before Alvina walked up. Her guess was about 10 minutes. That’s normally when Helen stuck to writing notes and scrunching up her face in protest. The bard spins around, squinting through the small window to watch Lionel exit the building downstairs. My, he’d gotten down two flights of stairs in a hurry but at least he’s out. A heavy sigh and she’s looming over the plans, letting the physical world fade away to the imagined schematics that overlay the papers on her desk. In her mind, she could take them, make complete models of the designs and rotate them around on her whims. Colleagues, she thought, realizing the full size and strength of the bow she was about to construct. Black Ice...she was going to need the advice of that Frost Giants after all. She scuffed, hating Hudson for being at least a little right, and leaves the office to see who else worked here that might be able to help her.

A few days later, Alvina has a managed through the priceless help of two Frost Giant Blacksmiths and one very nervous half elf, to shape Black Ice to her will and the schematics sent to her by the Queen. It was an interesting material; half magic, half ice? Maybe another half old world secrets...and bagels. The bard blinked, she’d dropped her bagel on the bow. Vampire bows are not made of breakfast foods. Her fleshed hand reached to grab the bread treat, only to be nearly immobilized just from grazing it’s surface. Thank the gods for her metal hand. Whatever it was made out of it, it didn’t stutter to the conditions or magic therein. Her skin was another story. It wouldn’t be a problem for Khitti, since she was a vampire and all, but still the bard had fashioned up some sleek black grips on the bow just in case. If an enemy grabs this bow wrong, or gets grazed… it’s an extremely practical substance. Alvina wished she knew more about it beforehand but now, at least she had the practice and know how to wield it (more or less). The most fascinating part was that she had to almost MELT it before it became malleable. The same is normally true with most metals, intense heat and heavy hammers right? Wrong, in the case of Black Ice. Just like Hildegarde’s heart, the material only melted when met with extreme COLD instead of heat. It only responded to the blue iron furnaces in Frostmaw. A discovery that took her nearly half the time to make the bow! It’s still quite early in the day, or so late in the evening that it has become day again when Alvina falls asleep on her desk. Unruly strands of her hair, make contact with the bow’s icy bits, and develop a perfect coating of frosty ice where the contact is kept. Anyone who walked in might assume she’d passed out or worse, if not for the soft snoring that echoes around the room.

No one enters Alvina’s room. Dawn’s very first light shines the slightest sliver over the bow through a bronzed window, but the state office tower is as silent as the crypt. Two hours pass as Alvina slumbers, and downstairs, the clerks fetch breakfast and gossip. All of them but Helen, anyway, who has no love for gossip and prefers the peace and quiet of her cornered-off wooden cubicle. It’s a run-of-the-mill morning and it’s not likely to awaken the sleeping engineer, but what happens next sure might. At precisely eight o’clock, the burgundy double doors of the tower’s main entrance swing open with a snap and five red-leathered humans -- and a brown-leathered half-elf at the forefront -- charge in, shouting. The half-elf’s tone, although lighter and softer than his peers, still manages to command. It is a seasoned decree, made by a man whose ugly scar, from across his left eye diagonal to his chin, suggests this is far from his first crime. “Down,” he growls, “now.” The clerks, quick to see the brutish blades drawn from each of the hostiles, do as bid. “I am Eth’lorien,” the half-elf continues. “This tower is now mine.” He turns to his peers, motioning with his head. “Spread out. Check all floors. Remember your training. Place each batch at the precise coordinates. I want to see the biggest fire Frostmaw has witnessed since our client was sent packing.” The grunts, three male and two female, mumble in the affirmative and begin their search. Each of them carries a woolen pack strapped to their backs, and each of them wields their weapon at the ready. Shortly thereafter, another five grunts -- this time there are three more humans but also two lithe elves -- enter the building and promptly lock the doors behind them. Eth’lorien and a few of his allies work together to tie up the clerks, and it is only dear Helen who fixes them with a defiant stare. “You’re not cut out for sulking, sweetheart,” Eth’lorien informs her, and he backhands her, then kicks a nearby clerk for good measure. Soon they’re all chained together, and no one outside is any the wiser for it. One of the intruders, a red-haired fellow with an endless smirk like he’s always got something funny on his mind, takes turns cracking open the doors on the third floor. Thus far, he’s not found Alvina’s chamber, but he’s creeping ever-closer, and he’s whistling and cracking his knuckles. He stabs into each door he opens, chuckling at the action, and it’s this self-same action that seals his fate. For as soon as he stabs Alvina’s door, his neck is snapped and he falls to the floor, still smirking as if there’s anything funny about his death. Lionel pulls the scimitar free from its resting place, but it’s been blunted by this fool’s repeated stabs, so he tosses it beside the corpse with a huff. Lionel had come here the previous evening and he had not thought to leave. Lionel, still unarmed, had slept on the fourth floor without anyone even knowing. Lionel has spent the last two days chasing smugglers with potentially Balgruufian ties, and their attacks have prompted him to worry over Alvina -- a woman he most assuredly still loves. And that is why Lionel is here, now, with Alvina presumably on the other side of this door he is now swinging open, and the two of them are the only people in this locked-down facility that’s being set to blow by these mysterious interlopers. If she is indeed still in her quarters, he’ll bring his finger to his lips and whisper. “Shh. Something very bad is happening here and we’re the only ones who can stop it. Don’t panic. Deep breaths. We’ve got this. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, but we have to act fast.”

Alvina had been dreaming about something. The dream blurred a bit with reality because there were crashing sounds that bled from one into the other. In her dream, Aria was jumping up and down from the counter to the floor. It was making such a ridiculous racket. That cat must weigh at least a hundred pounds in this dream! Hudson must be feeding her too much...but then her face is very cold. She’s out in the snow, and there’s an avalanche crumbling down the side of the mountain she’s on. The crack of the snow as it rushes over forests, snapping old oaks and elms in two without slowing. It’s too aggressive, fear rises in her stomach and there’s a louder sound. A dead thud that pulls her back to reality. She shoots out of her chair, standing upright and panting at the doorway as Lionel walks through. It’s disorienting, she almost falls backwards but lands in the chair she’d just hopped out of. In ways this doesn’t feel like it’s reality, because Lionel is here and he’s talking to her very calmly, looking at her like she’s just another person. Her eyes are so wide, and focused on him that they sting uncomfortably. The knee jerk reaction of anyone being told not to panic...is to panic. A tension settles in Alvina’s chest and she tries not to hyperventilate. He’s prepared ahead, reminds her to take deep breaths but she can only concentrate on one thing at a time. The first thing he said. The not panicking portion. Right. She better do that immediately. “What do we do? I’m not a fighter, I can’t fight people, I don’t know how to do any kind of fighting.” This was a flashback, the last time she tried to fight anyone she lost her arm and had not intention of losing the other one. Cerinii wasn’t here to put her back together again and Ranok was all the way in Rynvale, and who knows if anyone else would be able to read her notes on anything (not that she made many because it was secret technology from Ancient Avians and she had to protect it…) Alvina’s thoughts all string together in a run on sentence, without pause or consideration. Her words do the same. She’s shaking, adrenaline pushing itself through her veins as she tried to gather her composure enough to help him see this thing through. It felt too life and death to be a dream anymore. The gigantic bow was between them, sleek and glistening in the sunlight. Small clouds of cool air rolling off each curved length of metal. It looked just like a bow made of glass. The opposite of what Lionel’s request had been for.

Lionel wastes no time noting his observations. Not for the bow, not for the woman, not for anything. A mission has started and they’re the operatives now, no matter what Alvina thinks of her abilities. This is no dream. “I wouldn’t ask you to fight,” he tells her, calmly. “There are between ten and twelve of them in total. I do not have a weapon. I will secure one from someone who hasn’t blunted theirs beyond measure.” He gestures candidly to the corpse behind him near the doorway, neck mangled. “They’re setting strange packages at regular intervals on each floor. They have taken the clerks hostage but I’ve not heard any demands.” All these words are delivered in a cool, crisp manner. “What I need you to do is to trail behind me and investigate the first package you see. Tell me what you believe it to be. If possible, dismantle whatever it is they’re preparing. WIth the haste they’re moving in, I can only surmise they intend to blow this entire facility and send some kind of message to Frostmaw.” Lionel approaches Alvina, placing his hands to her arms. “We can’t let that happen. I need you.” Out of his peripheral, he glances at the bow. Destined for Khitti, but for now, a curious glass-like apparatus. “What’s with the specs?” His eyes widen and he releases his hold on the engineer. “Can we use this?”

Alvina is still breathing heavily as Lionel explains their mission now. If they didn’t stop these guys, whoever they were and whatever they wanted, she would never get to go home. Her girls, Hudson, all gone. Can she examine the packages? She nods several times, yes of course that isn’t out of her skill set. In fact, it’s damn near the only thing she CAN do. Lionel goes on to explain that he’ll fight them all in some rally of courage but...he isn’t wearing any armor or carrying any weapons. This wasn’t a battle field, this was a soon to be graveyard if they didn’t do something. Lionel’s stepping closer now, putting his hands on her forearms and she’s frozen, beyond the loud sound of her rapid inhales and exhales. Azure eyes fall on Khitti’s bow and ask more about it. It’s so ironic, that she’d spent all this time working on a weapon like this… “Recurve bow, Black Ice material that repairs itself if broken. Very light. A Draw weight of nearly 200 pounds. A fatal shot for any humanoid with Black Ice arrows. It will freeze anything it doesn’t kill on contact, sending a slow frost bite from the point of origin through outward. That is if the thing shot doesn’t explode to pieces with that kind of force. Protective grip of black leather, for the wielder to avoid frostbite from the rest of the exposed points of the material. Short and sweet? We can carry it but we can’t use it. We’d have to be two large adult men to even have a shot at drawing that back.” No pun intended. “It would take us and Helen and every clerk down there.” In explaining the weapon, Alvina forgets to hyperventilate, when Lionel’s gaze swiveled back to her. He needs her? Of course, to help with the thing...that’s happening. Yes. She was important to their survival. He wasn’t shrinking from her. He’s another person entirely. How many sides of this man exist? “W-we should hurry,” she says, with no clear direction. Lionel had seen everything, she’d have to rely on him to be her eyes.

Lionel listens to the explanation, observing the bow from all angles. He’s deep in concentration; this much is patently obvious. “Light, you say.” He smirks. “I have an idea. Carry it with you. Strap it to your back if possible -- we won’t need it for a while, yet.” With that said, he twirls about and makes for the door, fetching that blunted scimitar. Turns out, Lionel’s got a use for the thing, after all. Presuming Alvina follows, they’ll make a good clip across the first stretch of the third-floor stone hallway, tiptoeing to avoid drawing the enemy to their presence just yet. And it won’t be long before they happen upon that first of the many packages Lionel had mentioned, either. It’s a woolen knapsack, although the outer edges are stained in strange reddish powder. Alvina might wish to avoid skin contact with the unknown substance, and should she carefully open up the knapsack, she’ll discover a whole bag of the stuff. Lionel squints, kneeling beside her and shaking his head. “Red dirt. Gods damn it, but it just had to be red sand.” He rises, and the very next thing he says is fifty shades of ironic. “Look, ah, I can’t imagine you’d know the first thing about the drug trade, but this stuff’s the next best thing to Tiger Lily Freddy, or whatever that thing’s called that’s taking the Cenril market by storm. I’ve busted a few guys around here who have been selling red dirt by the barrel. Thing with red dirt, though, is a lit fuse will send it off all rather suddenly.” And Alvina will, by now, have recognized a half-burned candle strategically placed with its wick like a timer beside the bag of this illicit substance. It will have to be handled very delicately, lest she inadvertently blow them up ahead of schedule. Meanwhile, footsteps from around the corner startle Lionel into action. He waves a single finger at Alvina, ushering her to focus on whatever it is she is doing, and he moves silent as a cat to the edge of the wall. When a burly, bearded fellow begins to turn that corner, Lionel sneaks behind him. The poor sod has just milliseconds to recognize that a certain woman is fiddling with his well-placed medieval bomb before his neck is snapped the same as his friend’s. Lionel catches the corpse to lessen the impact from its fall.

Alvina is trying to babble some half concocted reply to Lionel’s request. Why did they need the bow?! They couldn’t use it! Was he even listening? Reluctantly she pulled the large bow on to her back, the magic metal chilling her flesh, even through the cloth. Best to hang it over her left shoulder then...and they’re off! Down the hall like mice, trying to dodge the family housecat. A package, off on it’s own near the most deserted section of the floor appears, covered in red powder. Alvina uses her metal digits to peel open the pack, full to the brim of something she’d never seen before. “Red dirt?” She asked, because Lionel seemed familiar. Her face becomes a mask of shock when he tries to describe what she knows as Firefly Steve. She doesn’t correct him. It’s safer that way. “Y-yeah, I’m not hip to the...drug trade…” A nervous laugh, that was more a sigh, and she’s trying to locate the candle that had to act as the fuse. Thank goodness it’s a candle, and not something more arcane. Lionel is shuffling off and the bard is on her knees beside the package, hands fumbling with the candle to extinguish the flame. The small bit of wax was superheated already, causing her to recoil and almost drop it directly into the pile of Red Dirt below. The now dead body is lowered to the floor. Alvina turns to tell Lionel something, she can’t remember now because the hot wax is dripping between her fingers and burning her hand. “Ouch, ouch ouch…” She mumbles, trying to stand and get the candle away from the explosive drug. That’s when she trips over the dead gon's body, aiming meets the floor face first. The fall rushing wind of the fall extinguishes the flame, even before Lionel rushes to catch her in a reactionary double play. The bow has glanced the dead man, and his face is solid, the freezing magic spreading the longer it remains in contact with him. Alvina stutters something, moving to stand upright, peeling malleable wax off her red fingers. “W-where is the next one…?” She whispers while blood pulses loudly in her ears.

Lionel catches Alvina, although he does so in a professional manner -- it’s a formulaic hook, the action of placing one’s body precisely where it needs to be in order to cause the reaction of another body in their arms. When the bow connects with the dead man, Lionel cannot successfully underplay his reaction; he stares, dumbfounded, at the raw power emanating from that weapon. No matter how many villains he’s scorched with Hellfire, there’s nothing quite like watching someone’s face freeze. For half a heartbeat, he’s scared, but it’s willed wayward and on they march. “Nearby,” he says, plainly. Like clockwork, they scour. Lionel stands guard while Alvina risks life and limb. Over time, he fails to mask his feelings. With each passing package, he is closer to her, his face is wracked with further worry, and it’s clearly directed toward her. He won’t speak, not unless spoken-to, but she’ll only need to glance his way but briefly to recognize love and devotion when she sees it. How she’d react to such a thing is not on Lionel’s mind, because he’s not quite consciously aware he’s broadcasting it. By the time they finish the third floor, and then the fourth, it becomes hauntingly odd that they’ve not encountered another soul. “Either they’re all downstairs or they’ve already cleared out.” Alvina will discover that the candles are, unsurprisingly, nearer to burning through their wicks the farther on they march, and so Lionel leads them down to the second floor with speed. Again, no one. Time is running out.

On the first floor, Eth’lorien paces. His left arm holds his sword firmly, but his right is seemingly tucked beneath his cape. The clerks are still and silent, but the half-elf simply snickers. “Five more minutes,” he whispers into the air, “and Frostmaw will hear our client loud and clear. Demtris,” he calls, and a woman bows her head. “Two more candles. One on either side. And then we leave.”

Alvina is too tense to notice Lionel’s expression. He had a history of wearing his feelings on his sleeve or being oddly blank and cold. Perhaps it feels more natural to her to have him standing too close or watching her intently. It was comfortable, if you don’t think about the implications or the fact that they were minutes away from a fiery explosion if they thought too much or too long about things that didn’t matter. Like feelings, or personal space. ‘What happens if we miss one?” She’s whispering as they work their way down a flight of stairs, her metallic palm guarding the bow from the ground. It was much taller than her, after all. They had taken out so many already. There’s a need to know things have improved. That all the work they’d done mattered. Her hand is still red, pulsing and too warm to the touch. The adrenaline coursing through her deafens the pain. Lionel’s led them to a sure victory, or so she thinks except...all their altercations have been one on one, and Lionel had the advantage of surprise. If there was one person for each package, there were still plenty of people in the building and they couldn’t take them on alone. The bags of Red Dirt aren’t hidden down here. They were all out in the open, for the pair to pounce on and defuse. They’d become practiced in the art now; Lionel standing guard and scouting out the next pack while Alvina handles the wicks in a professional fashion (aka not burning her hands repeatedly). She works with flame and dangerous materials on the daily, but it’s never in a high pressure situation. It would make any unseasoned civilian nervous. The second floor looks clean but there’s a nagging uneasy in the air. The whisper of voices from somewhere on the first floor reaches them and Alvina freezes in place. “T-they’re still here….” Her burned hand reaches out to grab Lionel by the cloth of his shirt, panic painting itself into her features. “W-we can’t fight them…” She reminds him, shaking slightly with worry.

Lionel gently tucks his free hand to wrap around Alvina’s trembling, burned hand. He’s serene almost to a fault, collected even when they hear the voices from downstairs. “If we miss one, then a smaller explosion occurs. Far smaller. That’s all. This isn’t some kind of chain reaction circumstance. These fools can’t seem to afford the more potent magics.” His fingers tap hers soothingly. “We can’t fight them, no. But I can. And I will.” He says it as if he were dryly reflecting on the weather. Just like that, he makes his way back to the stairs. “Remain up here, but closeby. Keep a keen ear for what they say down there. If anyone starts up these stairs, hide.” He smiles, sweetly. “Can you do that? Just hide, if the need arises. I’m going to say the word ‘Belisama’ if I need you to come down and find those last candles. I won’t let them lay a finger on you, though, no matter what.” A beat. “I promise.” Alvina won’t have much time to object. Lionel races down the stairs, causing quite a ruckus in the process, and all eyes are on him -- the six clerks but the nine remaining brigands, too. Helen scoffs, Eth’lorien blinks, and nine scimitars are raised in coordinated assault. “Well, hello there,” Lionel says pleasantly, whipping forward his own offensively useless blade with an audible swoosh. “You,” Eth’lorien grumbles, and Lionel does a double-take to realize the half-elf is the same fellow whose right arm had been sliced clean off by the lycan Eirik earlier in the week. “Losing a limb tends to make folks a bit more cautious,” Lionel continues, stepping forward and around various tables and chairs in a curved path around the opposition. “But this is just outrageous.” Eth’lorien spits. “Not even you could possibly understand what Frostmaw is about to witness, ‘hero.’ This is our shining moment. Every inch of this tower will burn like --” Lionel interjects. “Like a big fire, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Your plan sucks, Eth. Can I call you Eth? I dismantled your little trap cards. No one’s falling for them, Eth.” The half-elf’s beady eyes narrow in cold rage. “Kill the clerks,” he commands Demtris, who turns around to follow orders only to spot Helen, hands unbound through clever dexterity, holding a piece of paper with three words: We’ll Deliver Them. “What?” The woman asks, bewildered, and it’s all the time Lionel needs to hop over a desk and smack her upside the head with his bad sword. She shrieks, tumbles unconscious, and he pilfers her scimitar, diving into the pack of those who follow. But it’s right about the time his fresher weapon cracks and thunders into various incoming blades that he recognizes the two last candles, their wicks under a minute from ending. Eth’lorien now sneers gleefully at the expression on the Catalian, then sprints toward the double doors with two of his companions on either side. In the midst of a frighteningly fast flurry of strikes and parries and dodges and slashes, Lionel has no choice but to shout ‘Belisama,’ and should Alvina come down, he’ll do everything in his power to wave toward the packs while stabbing and skewering the foes. One will be near to her point of arrival, but the other is all the way on the other side, and Eth’lorien and his bodyguards will be right nearby.

Alvina is hunched over against a wall, blood pounding loudly in her ears. She’s trying to decipher the whispers, hears Lionel’s voice retreat from the steps and the clatter that follows. Shuffling feet, clinking weapons, and one very irritated male barking orders at what she can only assume are his minion. Loud Voice must be in charge, and if he’s in charge, Lionel will have to get to him. A simple strategy. The fish rots from the head, as they say. So her thinking was, why not cut off the head? Pure logistical genius. Maybe she was the tactician type! Or maybe her body was flooded with survival hormones that created these falsely brave scenarios in which they all survive and go back to building weapons, and their homes, and their babies. Even their angry BOYFRIENDS that won’t propose to them. Err, to her. Obviously Lionel did not have a boyfriend….right? No time to think any further, Lionel’s voice is shouting that CODE WORD and she’s acting far faster than she’s thinking. Alvina managed to clear the bannister in one well placed leap and descend the stairs in a breath of time. The scene is pure chaos, but she spots another bag near the stairwell and kicks the candle away. It rolls near a clerk that’s still bound, who stomps it out with his foot. Perfect. Glad old wrinkly face was useful now of all times. She hoped he had a real name, and she hoped she lived long enough to find out what it was. “Lionel!” She calls, to act as a distraction. There’s a quiet hope that anyone who turns to greet her will be pleasantly surprised by Lionel’s blade through their stomachs. There’s not much she can do in the way of fighting, so she’s forced to scamper around like a drunken mouse again until she realizes the location of the last pack. She’ll have to cut through Eth’lorien and his right (and left) hand men. A curse is mumbled under her breath, Helen is actively trying to untie the other clerks and no one is stopping her. Go girl, Alvina thinks, shifting back and forth between her two feet on the same tile of flooring. What could she do, what could she do? One of Eth’lorien’s men speeds up to her and grabs her forearm roughly. His olive skin completely blotting out the gold metal beneath. Was he strong enough to crush her arm? No time to find out, Khitti’s bow is precariously close to his face...maybe if she… Alvina let’s herself go limp, leaning forward in the man’s grasp. The bow comes in contact with his face and he snickers, reaching down to pull the bard back upright and do whatever bad guys do. She doesn’t want to think about why he’s holding an obsidian dagger between his teeth or why his hand is moving to roughly tug her hair back and expose her neck. His left eye begins to twitch, just as she’s standing again. The frostbite has started to set in on his face, causing him to panic and drop the knife. Alvina bends down, picks up the knife and throws it across the room to Helen. Why she didn’t use it to defend herself is unknown. All it takes is a swift kick to his shin to make him release her, while touching his now frozen eye and screaming in his own frenzied panic. “Lionel, there’s not enough time!!” She shouts, trying to think of an easier way to navigate the chaos without either of them getting caught in the inevitable blast.

Lionel watches a knife soar through the room and Helen catch it deftly -- what’s the deal with this broad? Why is she so good at literally everything? The multitalented clerk is cutting through rope with relative ease and Lionel is indeed seizing opportunity to slice through several thugs like the work of swordsmanship he is. In fact, crazy though it may be, what started as stacked odds has left a pile of bodies in Lionel’s wake. Eth’lorien stares in disbelief. Clearly this half-elf has never seen the man operate a sword before; their previous encounter was all fisticuffs, and Lionel’s not half as good at fisticuffs. “You’re too late,” Eth’lorien declares, stereotypically. “I’ll die knowing this was a job well done. That’s all I ever sought for ten damned years, was one more job well done. As for you lot, you’ll just die.” His lone companion, however, has other plans. Out the door he bolts, no higher purpose having summoned him here today than to earn a paycheck he’ll never receive. "Nah," Lionel answers, stepping over to stand beside Alvina. "...Nah?" The half-elf repeats the word, awkward and confused. "Nah." Lionel nods knowingly. He drops his scimitar to the floor unceremoniously, and Eth'lorien moves in front of the last pack of red dirt, his countenance a rush of caution. Lionel wraps both hands around the safe-to-touch portion of the bow, and he closes his eyes, reopening them to reveal a brilliant red which only Eth'lorien will see. Gone is azure, replaced by twin rubies, and the half-elf bristles, lifting the pack in his hands, cradling it as the final countdown begins. "Stupid move, Eth." Lionel's blue eyes return, and he looks to Alvina. "Trust me. This is the only way." The briefest of pauses to let her settle into what he is about to do. With a pronounced swerve to his footing, the Hero of Hellfire, temporarily aided by the Ishaarite spirit of Halycanos within him, wraps the woman's one flesh hand to join his around the draw, tucking an arrow and notching it. Eth'lorien only has time to let his scarred jaw go agape as Khitti's black ice weapon earns itself some well-earned lore before it ever even reaches her grasp. The arrow, charged with rare talent, strikes through the half-elf's heart and pierces the candle in one deadly concurrence. The man turns to ice and the candle is extinguished with only a trace of wick almost too small to identify.

Alvina mimics Eth’lorien’s gaping mouth and allows her hand to be added to the draw, knuckles tensing to grip and pull it back with Lionel. The tension doesn’t give at first, it takes a moment to respond to their shared strength. She’s too dazed to register Lionel’s eye color when he turns to take her hand. The shot is fired, and the gruesome scene of a terrified man, clutching a homemade bomb is frozen in ice before them. It’s over. This is how it ends. Alvina likewise feels a frozen in place, her fingers still on the draw to take the bow back from Lionel and re-strap it to her back automatically. It was something to do, while her brain tried to reboot itself. Helen has freed all the other clerks, who are crowding around to make inquires of who these people were and what they wanted from Lionel. All except for Helen, who hung back to watch Alvina walk numbly away to collect the rest of the Red Dirt bags scattered across the facility. It’s busy work, nothing more. The clerk falls in behind her, silently, and helps her carry everything back down to the first floor. No one has left, all the doors are still barred. There’s a buzzing of conversations between the remaining office folks who are making coffee and talking themselves into eating someone’s birthday cake ahead of schedule. They’d almost died, it’s only fitting. The explosive drugs are piled near the entrance. It will take a cart to take it all away, to who knows where. Alvina should ask Lionel but she still feels too numb to talk or interact with anyone. Helen separates from her, without a word during their entire gathering expedition to drink her own cup of coffee. The bow is no longer on her back, she tucked it away in her office while they were up there. Her heart is heavy, her thoughts bogged down. How was she going to tell Hudson? How could she convince him this job was safe after today? She couldn’t argue his cause after this. She’d have to quit. There was no way around it. With her mind made up, and no air in her lungs, the bard scans the floor for Lionel but he’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe he left to fetch a guard? Why was everyone else still here? Are they being detained for formal questioning? Thank the gods no one was hurt…(no one that mattered, no one on their side). The frozen model of death and desperation gleams in the corner, Eth’lorian’s face twisted in pain. The bard walks up to it, examining the details like it’s a piece in a gallery. It had happened so fast, his face didn’t even have time to wear the blank, thoughtless mask of the dead. A fleshed hand lifts to her mouth, to cover her lips in thought. That could have been her. Or Lionel. Or Helen.

Lionel needed to be elsewhere for a moment. In the minutes following his successful joint strike on their foe, he's very quickly checked to ensure everyone is unharmed, assured them security is on its way, candidly explain Frostmaw will completely understand if they take some time off, and then grab some fresh air. Right now, he wants more than anything to hold Alvina, tell her he's proud of her, thank her profusely, calm her nerves any way he can. But that simply wouldn't be proper. Outside, he orders his troops to scour the area, holding no fewer than six related conversations as they ask their questions, and civilians pile up in shock, and this corner of the city is alerted to the uproar. It's all so loud and cumbersome. After a while, he waves off further inquiry and returns inside, wondering if the engineer will still be there. She is. "Hey. Good work. Thank you." A smile is hers, if she'll see it. He can't hug her, but at least he can acknowledge her.

Alvina jumps, startled when Lionel speaks to her. She’d been moving through the crowds as if a ghost, happy not to speak to anyone or be noticed. Simply existing felt cumbersome after what happened. It’s a reflex for her to try and force a smile, but in the spirit of their agreement of honesty she lets it slack to wear her real expression; confusion, fear, relief, uncertainty. In the back of her mind, the woman feels like she should be overjoyed that they survived, and grateful to Lionel for his fast thinking. He’d save them all. Before she can say anything to him, fleshed digits clutch the cloth against her chest and a sob punctures the silence left for her reply. Like an arrow, the sound falls before them out of thin air, striking her in the heart. This panicked feeling laced with incredible loss, why? No one had died. Everyone was okay. The building did not explode and the plan was foiled. Why then did she feel so undone? No one else was acting like this. Was she out of her mind to feel this so vividly? There’s no pulse to know just where it’s coming from. It’s pure shock. She’d overhead Lionel earlier telling the other employees they could take time off, to be with their families. Frostmaw would understand. Would Frostmaw understand when Hudson forbids her from returning to work here? Everything was supposed to be safe, Frostmaw and Larket made peace. There were no wars to predict this attack. Alvina takes a step forward, dissolving the distance between them. Her forehead drops, pressed against Lionel’s collar bone, beneath his chin. He was so much taller than she was. Without removing her arms from their current position (wrapped around her torso) she leans against him and weeps. What she’s weeping for, even the bard doesn’t fully understand.

The Lionel of yesteryear would not have known what to do. Trapped in an endless waltz, reliving the same dread beats ad nauseam, he would tense solid at this touch, a frozen flame like the one he and Alvina had just blasted. But that Lionel is gone. Here, he exists in the present, not the haunted hero but the Hero of Hellfire reborn, and he is able, if still awkward, to be the real him and express himself as he desires. Lionel still flickers through multiple half-masks, miniaturized personas, when the need is perceived to do so. He could not exhibit this overwhelming sense of connection to the woman during the mission, nor beforehand, but here she is now, beautiful and weeping, and it is not some ghost from the past but the present he has been waiting for. "Shhh," he soothes, his hands gently against her upper back and his chin over her forehead. "Shhh... it's over now..." His left hand rolls over her back ever so slightly, not quite a pat nor rub but a vague motion nevertheless, and he holds her, for as long as she wants or needs.

And so Alvina cries. For everything, and nothing at all.