RP:Grace Under Fire

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary Lionel promotes Rorin to full knighthood, but not without significant conversation between the two men. The moment of achievement is short-lived, however, as Grace -- the sole survivor from the attack at the Royal Academy of Aramoth -- comes bearing grave news.

Rynvale: Broken Barrel Inn

Rorin so far didn't like Rynvale to be perfectly honest. So far as he'd seen it was full of pirates and the most flea bitten quality of sailor he'd known in a port thus far in his young life. Just as well that most of them left them alone after Kreekitaka visited Rorins booth earlier down in this spit hole of a tavern. That and the advanced crossbow Rorin adjusted over table and lap. Parts were strewn about over reports and journal entries. Rorins grey left eye played over his immediate surroundings with the wheels turning in his head. Clearly deep in thought tending to his weapons, the ever ready squire, despite the inhuman right eye under it's patch busily scanning the tavern crowd. It saw in a different way or perhaps through a different world and so no barriers could hide the souls of the wicked or righteous from his sight. Rorin had much to think about. Giant fish, unknown territories, crabs in space- a steady glass of water the only other piece of his goings on.

Lionel has cracked a small, genuine smile. The Tranquility. They have a ship. The Warrior’s Guild has a ship. With it, they’ll be able to locate this mysterious island and put an end to the insectoid menace for good and all. Even fleeting, this feeling of hope rejuvenates him enough to prompt a late-evening stroll downstairs into the tavern proper. He spots Rorin, his eyes briefly fixed on his friend’s lone one, and a frown threatens to overtake him. He must be strong. Perhaps for them both. On his way down, a slender young barmaid with notably fluffy blonde hair cants her head and pouts her lips like some kind of caricature. “Why, does a handsome fella like yours truly care for a taste?” Ignoring the woman’s inappropriate use of grammar, the Catalian merely shakes his head. “Don’t trouble yourself.” He absentmindedly reaches into his pocket and forks over several golden coins, Frostmawian make. The woman gasps, hand to her mouth, but gleefully accepts and steps away swiftly. Lionel cannot abide waitresses paid so little and with such small respect for themselves as to resort to -that- line of work. Once he’s reached Rorin, he pats the lad on the shoulder and seats himself across from him. “Glad you’re here. There was a battle here in Rynvale, but we repelled them. I’m sure you’ve heard that by now, though. The good news is, we got ourselves a ship.”

Rorin muttered to himself. Details of some reports were scant due to the guild crossing. Rorin had come among the last after finishing his business in Larket and now much care was to be had, much study to be done, so many plans to formulate. His bastard sword also lay about having received its treatment of sharpening and holy water to a whet stone. A sharp sigh. His right arm was twitching again. The blue scaly flesh and clawed hand was hidden well in the long sleeve of a dark coat and a thick white glove. Why did it do that? With alarming speed his right eye spun in its socket and eschewed a source of power. Lionel O'Connor. Always surrounded by spirits with his fiery heart. Rorin took interest in the sight of Lionels soul, as he did all guild memebers when he could, but for now he would let Lionel approach without giving away that he knew. More than likely Lionel could feel the scrying. Rorin would lay his near finished work across the table and lean back, a greeting smile to Lionels hand upon his shoulder, "Commander, it's good to see you," Rorin nodded with Lionels words and looked at the reports. Already the squires hand had filled several missing detaiks of the accounts with acquired knowledge. "I've met those who would say so though I've yet to know it. I should like to take stock of the ship. Kreekitaka met with me and had some... interesting things to say. One detail is missing that perplexes me though-" he pursed his lips and pointedly retook his work while trying to nonchalantly ask, "why is Ranok subtracted from our rosters? Weren't we receiving aid from his engineering skills not too long ago?" Rorin had been quite busy in Larket and hadn't caught up with guild news for some time. The missing pieces of his tactical arrangements irked him to no end.

Lionel can feel a strange pressure, but attributes it to migraines. They are so common, after all. Scrying of any sort goes unnoticed, for now. “Ranok blames me for the deaths here in Rynvale.” He says it almost woodenly, allowing a brief pause and a lifted brow before he continues. “You can imagine what I said to that. The Guild did everything in its power to minimize casualties. He’s bitter about it. Thinks he should have advanced warning. We sent a damned letter to multiple cities, including this one. It never arrived. Wasps, I reckon, but we’ve got too much on our plates to lose sleep over his delusions right now. If he ousts us from the city? Well, we have a ship now, with ample space for crew complement, anyway. But until then, we’ll treat Rynvale as our primary base of operations, because the bugs could be back, and we’ll need to be ready.” He sighs. A tankard of ale has been placed before him without asking; he sips deeply. “By the way. Sorry for the lack of fanfare.” Digging into his pocket, Lionel retrieves a silver star-shaped pin with a dragon engraved upon its center. He tosses it to the table. “You’ve been through hell, Rorin. No squire should endure a fifth of it. Seldom few knights, for that matter, but at least this is a start.” He gestures to the pin. “I name you Ser Rorin, Knight of Frostmaw. Knight of the Queen.”

Rorin tries to understand where both mens thoughts had been. "I am sorry Commander. He was a good ally," and it was Rorins fault- this all was really but he paid no will to voice so. "I'm certain we did all we could. In the end only a fool would wall themselves in. I pray he is no fool," and it was doubtful Ranok was. Any leader would take such a sudden devastation as a personal blow. That was to be expected. "Fanfare does me no good Commander," Rorin would say with a small smile; his left eye falls upon the pin and he takes it up in that hand. The smile has fallen from his face. There is a surge if emotions there subtle and complex as the currents of the stormy sea. "Ser... Lionel, I," it looked as if he had something that cut him to say.

Lionel frowns as Rorin’s smile vanishes. He purses his lips, leaning in slightly. “What is it? What’s been troubling you?” Left unsaid: Lionel’s worries over Rorin’s considerable changes in appearance. Best to let the lad speak of these things on his own. Perhaps that is the subject he will broach now. The men have reached that too-fleeting a thing, that most splendid of simple yet utterly elusive life aspects. Respite. The tavern door swings open and a tan-skinned woman with raven hair tucked neatly begins to step warily past the bustling crowd in search of Lionel, but for the next moment, they remain uninterrupted.

Rorin had so much to say on this. This was not the best of places but how much time did they really have left? Never enough, it would seem. "I... I can't accept this commander. You know this. I've only been cleaning up the mess I made all this time and everyones gone to hell and back. If I pledge myself to the queen- if I accepted this token- what would it really mean? Frostmaw has only gotten worse. Lythridel has only gotten worse. Because I couldn't smash some damn bugs." He sighed deeply and sat back, still going at his crossbow, "people nearly died and I'm only damn lucky the gods gave them another chance through me. What I've done does not deserve knighthood. Not yet. Until I've saved them all, not until we're safe, truly safe, and the nightmares of Haath no longer echo in this world. I abandoned you at every turn in Vailkrin. Fear destroyed me. I made a petty sacrifice in Gualon. Still we toil and despair. These things came out after I faced them. The world is near to it's end because one foolish adventure didn't do his job." Rorins arm burned and itched. That panging in his head. The eye focused maddeningly. A prompting of Arkhen? Or was it the same way that it opened at night unbidden to stare out between worlds as if resting while the wicked still walked was a sin?

Lionel fixes Rorin with perhaps the most intent look he’s ever given him. “Listen to me, Rorin. This is far from the first time the realm is besieged. It will not be the last. And I do not believe it is even the gravest threat presently facing the realm.” His tone is crisp. “I have felt as you do now… too many times to count. It -never- gets easier. Rorin, my entire country is in ashes. Vailkrin? Let me tell you about Vailkrin. When the Second Immortals and their orc and drow armies spread across the land, blanketing it in darkness, the forces of light took a stand in Vailkrin. We lost. For every man that lived, four died. Vailkrin itself, as you see it today, is completely rebuilt. Almost -no one- survived. And me? What did I do, that fateful night?” He swallows some ale. “I was captured. I was chained and caged and beaten to a pulp. I was dragged away as Vailkrin blew up in a blazing white light that torched the sky. I spent the next six months a prisoner not just in body but in spirit.” He pauses. “No. I spent the next -eight years- a prisoner in spirit, but six months into my capture, I escaped. And now? Every time I return there, my heart sinks. Every time I’m there, I feel like I can’t do a damned thing. I can barely move a muscle to care about anything, or anyone. And you know what, Rorin? I’m Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander. I’m the Hero of Hellfire. Catal’s Last Prince. Half a dozen other meaningless facades. I’m me. A man. Flawed, deeply. But I keep fighting. Because the realm is besieged. Because this won’t be the last fight. Because men like us do what we do so that anyone we -do- save is free to live a life with some semblance of happiness in it.” The ale is finished. “Maybe you don’t deserve that pin. Neither do I. But there’s no else to wear the damned thing.”

Rorin shared that stern look. They knew they would come at arms on this, surely. "It may not be our greatest threat but it is one I have brought forth." He breathed tense but deep and his left eye searched the table for words. "I am not a soldier of Frostmaw. A paladin does not pledge themselves to king or country, only to a righteous cause. I follow you because you are a true hero. Hildegarde stands against evils. Frostmaws people suffer greatly. I am but one among the many." He took the pin between his fingers and stared into it as if it would offer a better meaning. A better life. A better way for Frostmaw and her own. Lionel was right. There wasn't any. The only words that came to mind were those ancient words of the holy order, "I will defend the weak, and punish the wicked. For faith, courage, honesty, and the light of all peoples. What is but another badge to me?" Rorin slipped the pin into place in a pocket book among others. "Somebody has to do it, right?" He asked lionel finally, "might as well be us." And really, there couldn't be any one else better for the job.

Lionel exhales, satisfied. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility of failure here. Whether he knows it or not -- whether he will ever know it -- Lithrydel needs Rorin. Lionel straightens in his chair, feeling a great weight lifted from tired shoulders. “Right.” He smiles, raising his left arm midway in an effort to call forth more drinks, but he lowers it awkwardly when a raven-haired woman snakes her way through the final stretch of the boisterous crowd. Her eyes are narrowed and her cheeks are taut. Lionel mistakes this for pending accusation, until he recognizes her and blinks in confusion. “Grace? You were stationed at the Academy. What are you doing all the way in…?” His voice trails into quiet despair. There is no reason she would come all this way unless something terrible has happened. “What is it, soldier?” Only now does he realize the cloth armwraps he’d previously dismissed as a fashion statement are in fact elaborate bandages -- and Grace’s legs and hips are covered in them as well. The woman is half a mummy. “Ser,” she starts, her voice shaking. “Take a seat,” Lionel offers, but she shakes her head willfully. “I prefer to stand. Ser, the Royal Academy… there was an attack.” Lionel’s eyes widen and he rises from his chair instantly. The rush of his action prompts several nearby patrons to murmur disagreeably, but he does not hear them. “The terrorists?” He asks, a bit too loudly. Again, a shake of the head. “The Guild fellow, Ameno… we brought him to sickbay. He awakened, only… it was not him. He was barely recognizable. He… it... “ Grace goes stone-faced and dispassionate. “I am the only one left.”

Rorin didn't feel satisfied. He felt pent. He felt rushed or cramped with his thoughts or guilt he wasn't sure. Or maybe it was that feeling in his arm. 'I don't want to be a knight,' he conceded mentally, 'Gods know, I don't want to be any of this. I wish there never was a need for such a thing. But there is. And so I am. And many have thanked Arkhen for that.' Quietly he meditated on these things and worked while a girl he had no recognition if approached. Only when Lionels words strike him does his half gaze turn slowly. "Ameno? Gods, what's happened to that poor twisted soul?" Rorin attempted to exchange a glance with Lionel before he put down his weapon and stood to take the girls hand and soother her. "Rest now, warrior. You've done your duty well. Pray for those who are gone, for they will watch for you. We will handle this." A simple look and both of Frostmaws sons knew they would be taking a trip back to Frostmaw without delay.

Lionel grimaces, balling his hand into a fist. Grace seems poised to shake her head once more, but he nips that thought in the bud with a firm glance. “It’s four days from Frostmaw to Rynvale with favorable winds and lack of rain. I can tell by looking at you the attack occurred five days ago at the earliest. I’m ordering you to rest.” He places a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and she stiffens, but relaxes her stone-faced glare into a look of shock and remorse. It is almost as if Grace Valerii has only now found occasion to grieve. Without another word, she saunters up the stairs toward one of the Guild’s rented rooms, knowing without asking that Lionel will have paid for several. She falls into a deep, dreamless sleep soon thereafter. Lionel takes a deep breath and nods to Rorin. “Not tonight. First thing in the morning. This wasn’t the maiden voyage I had in mind for the Tranquility -- I thought we were going east, not west. But it will have to do. I’ll alert the others. Some will need to remain behind in case the insectoids attack Rynvale again.”