RP:Glimmers

Part of the Hour of Wolves Arc

Summary: Immediately following the dramatic events at the Eastern Gates, many of the Frostmawians and their guests retreat to the fort, where Oline assists Leshhak, and Lionel ruminates. Krice helps civilians, as well as a young soldier of the cause named Anton; the silver-haired enigma then makes way to Lionel himself, to reassure him and to speak with Ranok on a pressing matter.

Eastern Frostmaw Gates

Oline rose slowly, her legs barely holding her weight. Unbridled rage was the only thing keeping her going, now... though thankfully it was directed inwardly. Useless. Pathetic. You helped nobody. Determined to prove the hateful voice wrong, she staggered her way over to Leshhak and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. "Ah'm... raht 'ere. Yer orrite. We're... inna sahd-street. Juss... juss c'mere 'n siddown... tha'... stuffs rilla potent... yer... shakin' lahk a leaf." The last bit was said even as she pulled the man into the alley, dropping back down onto her butt without any care for the state of her pretty dress or the fact that she couldn't feel her cheeks anymore thanks to the snow. "... s'much foh th'sellibrayshun, eh?"

Krice caught peripheral whiffs of the toxic gases that permeated the air and he kept himself away. He noticed Meri on a rooftop, retreating, but he hadn't a clue of the context behind her presence so he reverted to his default knowledge; she was a friend, not a foe, and was thus allowed to depart. As Lionel was carried northward by Hildegard, they passed him blindly and his gaze followed the aforementioned, brow furrowed in concern for the shellshocked male. What the hell had happened here? Those sharp eyes swooped across the battlefield once more and he began a steady retreat to the north, intermittent backward steps drawing him from the poison-filled icy air that swirled around the survivors. He noticed Jarith, Oline, and others familiar while some were not, but even in the chaos and uncertainty of his ignorance he could tell that things were settling - at least down from where they had been in his absence.

Leshhak felt Oline pulling him out of danger, and was grateful. When she heard him plop onto the ground, Leshhak did the same, or at least tried to. He ended up falling onto his stomach with a groan. "Potent... yes..." he said, picking up a fistful of snow and shoving it into his eye in hope of washing out the crap from his eye. He turn his ear to Oline and smiled. "Yes... too bad..." he said hesitantly, "I heard some of the people talking about a fort... shouldn't we go there and recuperate?"

Fort Frostmaw

Lionel | Fort Frostmaw is a symbol of the resilience of the kingdom's culture. In the darkest hours, this great stone keep has held firm. The sun has set and its last strands of pink and fuchsia are all the light that's left for the steady entourage of heroes and soldiers and terrified civilians... until the enormous torches upon Fort Frostmaw's forward wall shine like a beacon in the night. Queen Hildegarde leads the charge, with flanks of cavalry and footsoldiers and native Frost Giants all in a gathering defense around the townsfolk. Lionel is in there, too, huddled against the queen like a frightened child. The red dust is beginning to wear off, and he's blinking nervously and glancing around. He is praying that this was another of his nightmares... but everything feels so real. "It happened, didn't it? It really did happen...?" No one hears him; the large double doors at the fort's entrance swing loudly, creaking and then permitting. Townsfolk are led to medical wards and spare chambers. Merchants are given similar treatment, even as some argue they deserve better somehow. The queen herself is terse, explaining to the large contingency that she will be awake all night planning and studying. Lionel is offered the choice to join her, but it is soon clear he is in no position to plan just yet. As people disperse, Lionel passes a few Northborne, nearly bumping into them despite his typically lithe style of walk. He sits down at a table in the far edge of a massive hall, tired and afraid.

Oline nodded her agreement to Leshhak, but... standing was so hard. The giantess was exhausted... she had been -before- getting two lungfuls of the blue crap. Now it was like trying to walk on stilts... while drunk... and inside-out. She gave it another try, though, and eventually found her footing. "Ah'd rathuh juss... go crash atthuh Inn... buh'Ah s'pose... th'Fort mebbe a smahtuh oppshun..."

Lionel glares ahead at a nearby torch as if peering into the eyes of death itself.

Leshhak pulled himself up onto his feet, his legs still shaking. "IT's closer," he agreed, leaning on the wall. Brushing the snow off his face, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Miss Oline," he said regretfully, "I still... can't see. Could you lead me to the fort?" He hated having to rely on a friend, but it was necessary in this case. He was totally blind and while he could stand and walk, he was likely to jsut wander right back into the chaos and get killed.

Krice saw Eirik, recognized him from a time that seemed so long ago now, acknowledged that he wasn't in jail as expected, and then moved on. He saw Oline, assisted by Lesshak in the wake of the broader retreating group, and he did nothing to stop them. Instead, remaining north of the battle, he observed everyone to make sure that the innocents could seek safety in the fort, and the guilty were gone. He moved a few paces south to assist a Frostmawian soldier who seemed stunned, staring mindlessly into the darkness above him. Krice used an arm, secured it around one of the soldier's, and hoisted him to his feet; his other hand moved to the male's back to steady him upright before giving him a gentle, guiding nudge to the north. " Follow the others," he said smoothly, calmly, hoping that even in his drug-addled mind the man would be able to adhere to the direction. He did, moving northward at a shuffling pace, and Krice turned his attention to everyone remaining once more.

Eirik continues to follow those orders until they are free from the attack, taking a moment to sheath Brann and wipe dust from his features and hair; of course, he is far enough away to not re-infect those around. Heavy breaths give way to the visible rise and fall of his chest. Finally silver eyes scan the northern people gathered here, wondering what that was about. What exactly would be their reaction to that attack? Lionels far off gaze is noticed, but Eirik does not seek to step in and pull him from thoughts. Krice is recognized, but nothing is stated towards the man. Instead Eirik continues to mull over his owwn thoughts.

Lionel | Anton Koenig was always a good boy. In school, he was an ace student. At play, he made sure not to hurt his friends and siblings during sports events, and he stood up to bullies on behalf of his handicapped younger sister. Growing up, he wanted to be a soldier for some land -- a man of conscience and justice. He was glad to be selected as one of the 36 foreign recruits Lionel O’Connor and Briar Ku Risu had chosen for an experimental new form of military here in Frostmaw, a multi-species military capable of defending against a wide variety of threats. He was proud, and he served well in the training program, and that damnable day when an unknown force slew 27 of his comrades, he felt paralyzed and soul-shaken. Yet it emboldened him. As a survivor, he had to fight well, and uphold virtues, for all the fallen who would have done the same. It’s unfortunate for young Anton Koenig that the effects of the ice spice prompt such vibrant despair, as if he is reliving that terrible event in-person. When he clutches his black locks of hair and stumbles into the side of a building, he begins an aimless trek elsewhere -- anywhere but here. He does not rejoin the group; he is not even aware that a call to the fort has been sounded. What he hears instead is that haunting voice. That voice that Oline and Leshhak and Meri had heard. It is intrusive, velvety and alluring but painful just the same. “I… don’t understand…?” Anton shakes his head. “I don’t understand…” The tragedy of Anton Koenig is that he will soon begin to understand. The tragedy is that in this one destined moment, young Anton’s fate has been sealed. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Oline clasped a hand upon Leshhak's, not bothering with her usual discomfort around people, and dragged him off in the direction of the Fort. The streets are filled with people doing exactly that, but... fortunately it seems that the violence is done. Making her way through the masses is a slow, tedious process. Many were exposed to a far greater deal of the dust than she had been... some were completely unconscious.. and others, still were just mulling about in a haze.When they do finally make it to the fort, Oline's first thought is to seek out Lionel. Lionel would know what to do, right? Lionel would have the answers. Upon finding the man, however, it is clear that he's not quite clear of the effects of his dusting either. Dazed, tired, and uncertain, her eyes slide back to Leshhak... assuming she hadn't lost him somewhere along the way.

Lionel tilts his head just slightly to regard Oline. His azure eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale. "It really happened, didn't it? Just as before?" His throat is numb and dry. He won't speak further. Not now.

Leshhak took Oline's hand when she grabbed him and made sure to keep pace with the giantess. He heard the chaos around him, relieved the violence was over, even if people were trying to make sure of what had happened. Oline suddenly stopped walking and Lesh nearly ran into her. "Apologies, Miss Oline," he said grimly, tilting his head slightly. "...we are at the fort, yes?"

Oline nodded, forgetting for a moment that Leshhak could not presently see. "Mhm... weyuh attha' fort." she reassured him, before letting herself ponder Lionel's words. "Lass tahm? Thissen't th'firss tahm sumthin' lahk this'z appen't?"

Leshhak perked up at the sound of Oline speaking to someone else. This isn't the first time? He listened in on the conversation, though he knew he should be looking for a healer for his eye.

Krice helped those who needed it most; people who hadn't yet moved, others who were wandering in the wrong direction. When Anton branched off from the retreating force, the warrior pivoted to pursue him, smoothly arriving abreast the other male to first address him with a calm voice, lest contact made his mind reel. " This way to the fort," said the silver-haired enigma, moving around into Anton's trajectory to place himself before the other man's gaze. Blinded by poison and addled by his own mind, the silver-haired man could tell that anton was in no position to fend for himself. He reached out, sought an arm with his left hand, and gently but insistently guided the foreign soldier northward. He went along for the trip to ensure that his charge made it safely behind the fort walls. He had lost Briar to the chaos of battle, a chance to stop her--to save her--gone from his grasp in the span of a few words: 'be right back'. Whilst strength and sentience remained his to wield, he would lose no other..

Lionel swallows slowly, looking at Oline as if she were a stranger. Actually, he is -- he sees Leshhak behind her, and his bloodshot stare is taking them both in, uncertainly. “Eye.” It might sound like an affirmative, and if it is interpeted as such, it won’t be incorrect in the facts -- after all, this truly isn’t the first time, no. But Lionel, of course, has another spelling in mind for the word. Another meaning. “Eye. Your eye.” He tilts his chin toward Leshhak. “Your eye. You need healing.”

Eirik would finally turn to join Lionel, Oline and the stranger Leshhak. Silver eyes shifting over each as they take their turns talking. His presence is merely that of the backdrop - listening in intently.

Lionel | Anton can scarcely comprehend the silver-haired warrior, let alone grasp events when Krice leads him to safety. “This is good,” the lad says, slowly. Krice’s actions today may have broken the wheel of fate from spiraling toward another bad end.

Oline was slow to catch Lionel's meaning. She was... feeling slow in a lot of ways at the moment. Only when Lionel makes it absolutely obvious he means EYE, like what you see with, and not AYE as in affirmative, does she turn around to look at Leshhak properly. A frown forms across her pierced lips as she leans in to look into the man's eyes. "Oh... sod... 'ees raht. Yer gonna wanna see th'heeluh abowdt tha'. Yeh gawt tha' sheeyeht all kinna uppin theyuh."

Krice nodded to Anton, but aware that the man's mind was a bit scrambled by inhalants, he followed up with a comment: " This is," he said, simply and agreeing. No sense trying to correct someone who didn't even know the difference between accurate and wildly imaginative. The battle had been fought in his absence, but its residual effects had drawn the silver-haired enigma here. Where usually he was a fighter, defending others against the violence of aggressors, now he stood in a supportive role, ensuring that the stragglers of the battle made it to the Fort. He entered the main hall with Anton in hand and glanced around, noting the influx of wounded and confused people gathered. The warrior managed to catch a Frostmawian healer on his way past and directed Anton to him, " Mental effects, like the rest," he mumbled, ensuring that the healer took charge of Anton before his gaze swept his surroundings for familiar faces. He saw Lionel across the room, resting in company of two others. As Oline acknowledged Lesshak's injury, Krice arrived beside Lionel but just out of reach to murmur a calm, " Y'alright?"

Leshhak nodded a little, squeezing Oline's hand gently. "Could you bring me to a healer, Miss Oline?" he asked, "and thank you for all your help so far." He was doing a good job keeping calm, but he was still shaking and his emotions were still spiraling out of control.

Lionel can feel the worst of the throbbing in his head subside at Krice’s approach. Duty returns to the forefront of his mind, even if he is still suffering profusely. Flashes of memory -- saurians, the Battle for the Bridge, and more -- they remind him of the here and now; ironic, considering that these things reside within the framework of the past. It’s enough to finally snap him from his stupor, but he still looks worse for wear and his voice comes in fragments, like a shell. “No… I’m not.” He sighs, leaning into his chair, but no sooner does he lean than he stands up, fists balled, his breathing somewhat ragged. “Krice, everything I always said…” He swallows. His throat is so dry, but he can’t think to seek water. “All the times I said, ‘here it is’, all the talk of darkness and… damn it, Krice, I think it’s begun. The earthquake, the saurian incursions, the insectoids, Macon and his powers, none of it, all of it… I’m not sure. I’m not making any sense!” He slams his fist into the wooden table, and it breaks. He stares at the broken table, as if in shock. “I came back to Lithrydel because I felt like something was coming. Something bad. I didn’t expect… any of this.” He gestures around at Fort Frostmaw. “This purpose. I didn’t expect it. The thing, that thing, whatever it was, whatever killed my recruits seven months ago, we never found out the source, but I… all of the bad things in Lithrydel, all of… damn it, Krice, it’s back. It never left. The bastards just now, the bastards, they teleported out using the exact same magic as the assailants who murdered my men and women. Do you know what that means?” His stare is on the warrior, now, his eyes pleading. Lionel, it seems, does not have the answer.

Oline closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She had to try to remember where she'd seen the medical folks heading. To Lionel, she simply stated, "Ah'll gid'im to sumwun, ser." before turning and leading Leshhak down the hall after the same hearler who'd taken Anton. Shooting him a glance out of the corner of her eye, she chuckled at his appreciative gesture with surprising mirth. "Y'kin pay m'back latuh... Ah 'cept booze, coin, 'n flesh. Take yer pick." And then she was gone. Krice... she'd made a mental note to speak to him again. It'd been a while. She wondered if he'd think her company less offensive now. Probably not... leastways not as sloshed as she had to be to keep from going out of her mind most of the time.

Krice didn't expect Lionel to be alright, but perhaps he hoped that the man could find hope in the future, once he had recovered. The ramblings that ensued, the restlessness of mind and body, were all observed by the silver-haired man who stood calm and strong beside the Knight-Commander, unaffected by the poisonous smoke or the battle itself; after all, he had arrived only to see the tail-end of precedings, spared the damage of the full experience. In light of Lionel's querying conclusion, he reached out to fold his left palm around the other man's shoulder, a firm squeeze seeking to reassure, to ground him. " Take it easy," spoke the enigma, casting his gaze around the room. " Water, rest - then we'll talk." If there was water to be had, Krice would leave Lionel's side to retrieve it.

Ranok had taken a walk. To restore the balance he held inside, the restless energy put aside. To push tired muscles back into order, to force them into cooperation. Mattie was somewhere else, trying to work off her nerves. She wasn't used to the front lines, the blood and battle. The poor girl needed some time to adjust, though she'd behaved admirably. A fine steel tested in fires. He'd quench her, so to speak, giving her a talk. But for now, other matters pressed. He came back into the man room as Lionel was speakin. Magic and teleportation. "All things bad stay, Lionel, that is their nature. But we might have a clue here." The ball he'd thrown through the glob is tugged forward, still following like an obedient dog, "Desparrow was an ignorant fool. But his forward nature and rampant love of stupid destruction taught me a few things. And forced me to try a few things more. Of which...magical harmonics and sampling." Ranok was moving closer, insensitive to Lionel's internal struggle. Life had to go on, and new steel forged. So to speak. "Every person has an imprint...and the more powerful the magical source, the more powerful the imprint." Ranok looks down at the sphere he was reluctant to touch, "Sometimes too powerful. I might have something, here. A sampling of this...magical energy, stored in a crystal echo chamber. Or it may be nothing."

Krice brought Lionel a glass of water and the accompanying jug, setting both on the table before him as Ranok arrived with his spiel - and a magical sample of... something. The warrior stiffened slightly, remained at the far corner of the table, and regarded the new arrival with a level stare. He studied the magical orb, squinted in apparent consideration of its contents and structure, before lifting his attention to Ranok. " An important clue, to be sure - but talk of it has to wait. The guy's in no state to theorize."

Oline returned to find Lionel, Krice, and Ranok all gathered. She slowly made her way up to the trio, listening to what all they were saying. It seemed Krice didn't want Ranok bothering Lionel with anything right now. She tended to agree, but... in the end it would remain up to Lionel. He was the boss.

Lionel finds himself seated beside the broken table before he knows it. Krice’s hand to his shoulder is, as ever, strangely calming .Everything about the man has always had this effect on him -- except in the heat of battle, of course, and that’s probably for the best. Water is in his hand, too, but when did it get here? He’s drinking it, and it awakens in him the realization that he has needed it desperately. From Lionel’s perception, however, everything is moving in patches. How did he stop pacing? When did Krice fetch the water? And what is Ranok talking about? He blinks. “Ranok…?” Studying the orb, heeding what he can ascertain behind the man’s words, he cants his head sideways. “You… got that?” His jaw drops, even as Krice objects to holding this discussion immediately. His head is pounding, and that screeching little voice inside him is beckoning him to heed the enigma. He really isn’t ready for this right now, no matter how desperately he wants to dive into the night with that orb and see what it does. “I’d like very much for that thing to be the ticket we need to justice,” he announces. His voice is back. His sternness. His resolve. His skin is still overly pale, his eyes are still bloodshot, and he still needs rest, but he’s speaking in the valiant tones he needs. Thanks to Krice, thanks to Ranok. “I would like that very, very much.” He rises. “Soon, we will see what comes of this.” The words are spoken to Ranok like a promise. Then, to Krice: “Thank you.” He doesn’t specify. Krice surely knows Lionel has numerous things to be thankful for -- numerous actions on the enigma’s part which have helped people, brought enemies down, and restored fragile balance when it was needed most. Right now, Lionel can’t remind himself that Krice does it for Krice’s own reasons. At times like these, Lionel needs to thank the people he treasures. The orb glows.