RP:Grace Under Pressure

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary Rorin recovers from his injuries and is visited by Oline, Lionel and Alvina as they discuss crowbow bolts and what to do with foolhardy men.

Warrior's Guild Infirmary

Rorin layed in the infirmary looking as drugged as he felt. His left eye stared in lucid grey cognitive function, cloudy, at the glass of water just barely out of reach. The upper left quarter of his head was the only part if it not bandaged, special thickness patched over his right eye, unable to turn his head much and reduced to breathing/drinking through a tube to his mouth. His right arm was in a dark leathery sling, sealed off, and runically endowed to aid his healing as well as keep out infections. The bandaging covered from his head well down to the top of his right hip. It seemes his legs were the only part of him still properly functioning and he occasionally stretched them out seeming a bit restless. The winter wolf Isangrim quietly held a book Rorin read for what little entertainment he could manage.

Oline stood just outside the infirmary, looking about as worried as she ever had. Looking at Rorin in this state.. physically ached. She wanted to get closer, to... talk to him... but it was hard to muster up the strength to just plod in there and actually do it. This was her fault. The idiot had done this to himself because she'd been so arrogant as to believe she could hurl herself into battle like Lionel and walk away unharmed. If he had any sense at all in that big stupid paladin head of his, he'd have let her die like she deserved. The voices still screamed in her ears. The dead still demanded their justice from her. What had he done but bought her a momentary reprieve from facing her fate? Biting her pierced lower lip, Oline thumped her head against the wall gently and tried not to sob. Self-pity would get her nowhere. She wasn't crying for Rorin... Rorin didn't even need tears. He'd recover. She was crying because she knew she'd be the death of him.. and that was utterly self-serving! Poor me. Rorin's gonna die and it'll be my fault! Bah! "Bullsheyeht!" she howled, and without warning plodded forward into the infirmary. "Tha's bullsheyeht! Yer nawt s'posta gowehn blow yerself up when yeh've gawt a date! Y'missed Valen's soddin' weddin' y'jackahss!"

Lionel isn't anywhere near the infirmary -- not yet. He's neck deep in an aggravating debate with the shaven-headed elf called Esche, and he'd rather be just about anywhere else right about now. Maybe even the Nameless Desert. "I told you, I don't even know who they are, myself -- not really!" Lionel flails his arms and stalks down the hall, but the elf is as persistent as they come. "Yet by your own admission Nel and Endred have saved you more than once. And just now, they possessed an artifact capable of tremendous magical output. They... Lionel, wait, I say!" Sweeping his embroidered green robe to the side, Esche rushes to catch up. "They call themselves Watchers, but what does that mean? How old are they? And from which civilization? It is imperative we formally document such things, Lionel!" By now, the Catalian is rounding a corner and catching Rorin in his peripheral. He slows his scramble, his eyes switching gaze from blatant frustration to solemnity. "Hold that thought, Esche." The elf lofts a brow, standing still. "I do not hold thoughts, nor do I understand the command. If you... oh, confound." Lionel is already in the infirmary, wincing and examining his friend and squire. "Hey, there." Small words from a supposedly great man. But they're a start. "You did great, you know. You all did."

Alvina arrived, a bit after everyone else it seems. A very quiet man, who said very little, came with a missive from Lionel requesting the bard’s presence. It was shocking, to say the least. The bard arrives with a confused look on her face to see who she guessed might be Rorin, a familiar face when he’s not all bandaged and laid up but only from the charity auction in Larket. Oline was someone she has yet to meet in any capacity thus far. “H-hello?” She shuffles her way forward, discouraged by Oline’s shouting to advance too quickly. It was difficult to tell what exactly she was interrupting here, when Lionel passes her with a companion in green robes on his heels and she freezes where she stands. Esche stops beside Alvina, wearing a similar look of ‘Can you believe him’ to which Alvina would give a crisp but uncertain nod of ‘I absolutely can’. She’s glad to have such a strong encounter with a stranger. So she stood there, pulled back and separate from the crowd of faces that were familiar with each other, because she was only familiar to one of them. Her navy cloak hung down, drapping her in a formless cone. Her hood was down, resting against her shoulders, leaving her autumnal curls loose to spill down her back and across her pale skinned cheeks. The man who brought her had vanished, likely off to tend to other things. She tried her greeting again, with an uncertain smile. “H-hello all.”

Rorin raised his only available eyebrow as Isangrim turned his keen ears to ths hall. The wolf looked on in alert. Rorin attempted a fair lean for the injured pilgrim, which here means he would lean 3 inches leftward before wincing. The disturbance came to him though as Oline burst into the trauma ward screaming. Rorin chuckled just breathily so he didn't disturb his chest and used his only hand to convey a sort of shrugging motion. He would grab a pad of papee and bit of pencil to write 'in the same way that you're not supposed to die? I think being alive to see it is more important than being in the hospital' he would look past Oline for a moment towards the hall. Lionel? What was he in the middle of? Rorin couldn't smile much, but it was in the pilgrims eye as he waved to Lionels entry. Rorin gave a thumbs up, he definitely thought everyone had fought their hardest. He gives a simlle wave to Alvina as well, not really recognizing her. Must have business with the commander.

Oline exhaled a deep sigh and shook her head. She hadn't screamed... just... shouted a little. Okay, so she had big lungs... s'nawt her fault. She's a giant! Grumbling at Rorin's written words, but... admittedly defeated by them as well, those cream-colored freckle-covered cheeks would glow faintly scarlet. "Ah wuzzun gonna Dahyuh... dun be so dramatic..." she sighed, but no. She was definitely going to die. She knew it... Rorin knew it... anyone who saw her holding her guts in through her armor new it. The boy had saved her life, and... and she was trying very hard to be grateful. Fortunately, Lionel and Alvina's arrivals spared her from making much more of a fool of herself. "Ahh! Uh... um... Ah... hey-yuh?" she stuttered with a wave, proving she could ALWAYS make a bigger fool of herself. She backed away from Rorin slowly, to give Lionel some space with her squire for one... but also to give Alvina a quiet looking over. "Ello. Ah'm Oline. Uhh... sorreh... bowdt th'shoutin'."

Lionel is somehow completely unfazed by Oline's entry outburst, nor does he seem pensive -- or especially provocative! -- toward Isangrim. Neither of these things has removed a certain serene, melancholy composure from the Catalian, which makes Alvina's arrival all the more noteworthy because Lionel's eyes definitely widen and he straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. Closer to the door, Esche lowers his head almost imperceptibly and purses his lips, leaving. Evidently, the elf has decided he sill glean no further detail on the Nel and Endred enigma at this time. Just as well, Lionel thinks. Esche, although unaffiliated with either Frostmaw or the Warrior's Guild, has nevertheless aided in matters of strategy and scouting countless times on Lionel's behalf. Surely, the fellow could be doing something similarly beneficial now. "Alvina," Lionel greets the blacksmith, taking two short strides wayward of Rorin and Oline. "I apologize for sending you all this way. I've had to split my time between the fort and the guild lately. There are... well, we've got trouble on both ends of the spectrum. Have you eaten yet? Get some stew; it'll take the chill off." Lionel, being linked to the Ishaarite fire spirit Halycanos, does not tend to suffer from chills terribly often. But he is well enough aware of what life is like for the majority of his companions, and a fierce wind has swept across the mountain today. As it happens, Oline has begged pardons at this precise moment, offering Lionel a closer proximity to Rorin. The man is beginning to believe he is intruding on something precious, something mostly foreign to him -- romance. He isn't quite as awkward as he used to be, though, which is a saving grace, because it allows him to take a casual return stride toward the squire. "You need anything, you let me know. Anything." He gestures toward the giantess, now. "Either of you. Suffice it to say, I'll gladly approve time off. Take however much you need. If that mosaic is right, we've got as much ahead of us as behind us. After what we saw in the desert, though..." He reflects upon the both, glumly. "After what we went through... I'd never stop you from bowing out."

Alvina waves her hand at Oline’s apology, quick to dismiss her fears. “It’s all right, I’d shout too if some handsome idiot risked his life for mine.” She can only infer that’s what happened by the yelling and the writing on the paper that she can still see. It wasn’t exactly a private conversation. “I’m Alvina,” She offers the giantess her hand, to shake it politely. The bard always offers her fleshed right hand the first time she meets anyone. It’s easy for people to get the creeps from her metal one. Sets a bad tone for the rest of the encounter, especially if people stare. When Oline has been greeted properly, and the bard offers a wave to Rorin but wouldn’t burden him with trying to speak to her. “Alvina,” She repeated towards Rorin for the benefit of a less than proper introduction. “You’re looking…alive.” She beamed, only then turning her flustered gaze to Lionel who received a repeat of his own name back to him. Like they were identifying each other for a group of scientists. Alvina. “Lionel.” He continues to offer her stew. Her stomach is all butterflies and nerves to be here, and she couldn’t eat if she wanted to but she agrees. “O-of course. I’ll just…” She points over her shoulder, towards what she thinks is an eating…area? Oh no, that looks to be a closet. Good call, door label. “Oh no, I’ll find it. It’s all right.” And then she falls silent, out of respect for whatever crazy thing happened in the desert. Possibly these injuries? She’s relieved to know the Knight-Commander is in fact alive, but also distressed. Had to move operations, more trouble. There was always more trouble. She took a step back, to give them space.

Rorin just looked at Oline as honestly as possible. She really had been going to die and they both knew it. That stinger had punctured several of her vital organs and injected enough venom into her spine to kill a dragon. Even after what he'd done they were still lucky she was alive. Hell, they were lucky Rorin only lost his arm. And eye. And throat. And pretty much the upper half of his right side. At Olines rather awkward greeting to the others Rorin nearly face palmed. Oline, the most adorably clumsy of giants. Lionel wasn't just acting oddly. It clicked! Rorins eyes went wide. He knew exactly who Alvina was! He raised his hand with the palm up and a bit of waving, to incite something of an introduction from Lionel. But time off? Absolutely not. "I'll be good to go in two weeks," Rorin wrote for Lionel and looked rather adamant about it. At least Alvina seemed nice. He put his thumb up at her and looked happy. They did th t thing Rorin and Oline did with the flustering and the names!

Oline was as naive and awkward as ever. Alvina was apparently going to the closet. Lionel was a bumbling idiot. Rorin blew himself up. Oh yes. The future of Hollow was looking to be bright in these oh-so-capable hands.The giantess shook Alvina's offered hand with a shy smile and a polite nod. Her own much larger hand was nervously thrust out, clasped upon, and gently bobbed the newly-met lady with another bright red fluster of her cheeks. She was careful not to go yanking the poor woman's arm out of its socket or anything. That would make for a lovely first impression. Thankfully, Lionel finished up with Rorin and quickly began offering the lady food, giving Oline the excuse she needed to slip back over to the paladin's bedside. "Sod. She's a priddy wun, huh?" she said hushedly... which for a young giantess probably meant the whole wing heard it. "Kinna fill'er pain a bit. Ah'v endid up innat closet a few tahms, m'self..."

Lionel is a man of quick deductions. It kept him alive as a boy, it's kept him alive as a man. It's often caused him grief, when those quick deductions have been wrong. But for the most part, it had been a boon, not a bane, that the Hero of Hellfire is often capable of rapid analysis in a brief time. Just now, he is studying Rorin for the span of a mere few seconds. Long enough for the lad to catch his gaze, but too short by far for much to be said for it. During this particular passage of time, Lionel is seeing others he has known insisting that they, too, will be fine. People like Griff and Shogo and Renai. People who refused to back down no matter how injured. People who died for that stubbornness. But the past has faded, ever gradually, into the present for Lionel -- he's something of a man reborn, after all. And in the present, he sees someone else, too. Khitti. Her fierce determination is empowering, contagious, inspirational... and dangerous. Were she here in Rorin's place, had she lost an eye and a throat for her grit, she might ultimately say the same thing. And either of them, both of them, could die any day, now. Rorin is adamant. Steadfast. But it is plain for anyone, everyone, to see that he has suffered greatly for his heroics. He has lost in ways even Lionel himself cannot know. And like Khitti, Lionel doesn't want Rorin to die. All of this passes like the shortest of storm clouds. All of it races and whirls through his mind like a tempest. A few seconds later, he's nodding in earnest. "Of course," he tells Rorin. Lionel sees too much of himself in the boy to say anything else. Alvina regains his attention, and once again, his eyes widen slightly. "Oh, heh. You haven't been here before. I suppose that might present a problem. Hey, Anton!" What a random last line, it seems, until a shaggy blond fellow of an age with Rorin pokes his face into the room with an overeager, almost puppy dog expression. "A winter wolf!" Anton exclaims happily, his accent thick with far-off tones. "My goodness, how cute! I mean, ah, y-yes, sir!" Lionel points to his companions. "Stew for everyone. Triple portion for the giantess, if you would." Anton salutes, seemingly as serious in this one small task as if he had been asked to hold the line against an implacable enemy, and he's off. Down the hall in such a sprint, that stew won't take long at all.

Alvina is pleased to make the acquaintance of Oline, and dwells on that for a moment longer. Lionel is talking, Anton is talking about the wolf near Rorin and Oline is now whispering? That last bit’s unclear. That leaves Alvina to fiddle around with the hem of her cloak and nod gratefully for the ordered stew and the missive that brought her here. In the meantime though, she’s happy to sit back as the conversations continue among the others. Truth be told, she’s fidgeting and casting glances at Lionel to be sure he is real. Oh yes, quite real, everything is fine. Dandy howdy doo. Swell. A blossom of blush paints her cheeks when Oline says she’s pretty, because wow that was flattering, you’re gorgeous too. We should go dress shop sometime…but the words never leave her lips.

Rorin first merely shrugged his hand again. She was pretty, sure, but then he had to look at the giantess rather incredulously. Maybe it was the drugs but what the hell was she talking about? Maybe Lionels lasting and pragmatic gaze full of past ghosts for those short few seconds. Those seconds where Lionel was probably judging how close Rorin actually came to death. Maybe that was how Lionel coped. Seeing how others would probably die before him and be stricken off another page of the mans dark story. What really mattered was petting Isangrim between the ears, as excited as the canine was. Alvinas fidgeting becomes a point of focus and Rorin wiahes dutifully rhat he could at least roll the bed around and let people pay mild attention to someone else.

Oline was all thumbs and big toes. Two left feet. Awkward. Lionel was the boss, or the closest thing to one she really knew about, and so every time he came around she found herself double-and-triple-checking her every move. That rarely ever ended well. Rorin was... well... Rorin was a weak spot she frequently found herself succumbing to. Sputtering his name on the brink of death? Really? It was no wonder the damn fool had gone and risked his own life to save her... she'd practically demanded it of him! The only person in the room who didn't completely terrify her was Alvina, but... she found herself behaving just as awkwardly around Alvina as Alvina was behaving awkwardly around the rest of them... if only because she didn't want to make the poor woman feel any -more- awkward. She felt as if she were failing in that regard. Taking a deep breath, the giantess finally excused herself back out into the hallway and seated herself against the wall. Not so much out of sight, but... out of the way enough that she could take a moment to gather her thoughts. "Ahl... vee... nah..." she practiced the name, probably not quietly enough to avoid being heard again. She really needed to learn how to actually speak quietly. "Ahlvee-nah... priddy name, too..."

Sure enough, Anton is quick as lightning with the stew. He wheels a small, flat-topped wagon into the room not six minutes after his spry departure, with three bowls of stew surrounding a massive casserole dish with more stew. With a polite bow, the boy passes around the meal, the casserole dish of course being handed to Oline, and once he has made sure there are spoons and napkins for all, he bows again and wheels the wagon out the door. "Oi, Esche, you sultry stalker, ha! What are you..." Anton's strange words fade into a distant mumble as the door is shut behind him. Lionel takes a mouthful of the stew. It's a well-seasoned blend of boiled turnips, purple carrots, and local game. Rabbit, by the taste of it. Salt and garlic are added in generous supply. The aroma fills the room, and steam rises from each serving. He tilts back toward Alvina and explains her summons at long last. "I need you," he starts, and then he reaches for a napkin to wipe the edge of his bowl, "to take a look at a couple of unique bows -- bowguns, after a fashion -- and see if you can craft more of their unusual ammunition." Nodding to Rorin, he carries on. "We're at war with a harsh insectoid race hell-bent on treating us as livestock." The bits of rabbit in the stew suddenly give Lionel a queasy feeling; this must be how they all look to the bugs. "Rorin and Ranok -- have you met Ranok? -- they wield weapons that seem particularly effective. We won't be out scouting the next lair for some time, but we can't dally overlong. These things get hungry quickly. Also, I missed you." A curious addendum. Oline exits the room, no doubt very nearly bumping into Esche. The elf has not left the area, and he blinks and peers upon his much larger ally with a thoughtful expression. "Begging your pardons. Lionel often asks me for things regardless of my proximity. I have found it best to remain within close range, lest he grow flustered." His tone is remarkably matter-of-fact. "You mouthed the young lady's name. Alvina. It is an agreeable nomenclature?" A small smile forms on his thin lips and he raps his oaken staff to the stone floor. "I... am sorry for injuries sustained by your friend, Rorin. The lad fights with such intensity, in battle and beyond. I would have done all I could to help you, myself -- I have powers, too, of a sort -- but I... was a bit preoccupied being tossed across the dungeon like a rag doll." He sighs. "The man Brand saved me. It appears we all need help at times. Perhaps it is merely the way of things, and we ought not dwell. I,for one, am eminently thankful. To Brand... and to Rorin."

Alvina would have fallen head over feet to dispel that thought from Rorin’s mind. He was the hero of the hour! For saving Oline, and whatever else he’d done to earn those future scars that were bandaged up over there. She’s just happy to be here, really. When Lionel finally addresses her, mouth full of stew, she can only stare wide –eyed at him until he completes his questionable sentence. Bow guns? “I can do that.” Damn right, she could do that. She could look at bow guns for days, make all the ammunition. Take down armies, if she had to. What was the question again? When Lionel drops Ranok’s name she gets a similar look of surprise on her face, the first spoonful of stew still steaming just outside her lips. “Ranok and I are old friends,” She says, glad to hear he’s doing something besides keeping to himself these days. She’s about to go on but Lionel’s still talking and saying some nonsense about missing her and it feels too private a thing to say in front of strangers so she can only let her face fill up with blood, adding a heavy rogue to her already pink skin. “I missed you too…” And just like that all the weeks of waiting and wondering fade away, nonexistent in the path of Lionel’s smile. Oline then leaves without a word, and the bard spins on her heels to rush after her, because that seems more realistic than muttering some lovey dovey nonsense at Lionel in front of Rorin. Poor guy already got exploded, now he has to listen to this! She comes upon the giantess practicing her name and smiles softly at her. “Thank you, Oline. You have quite the pretty name yourself.” The red tones in her hair catch in the low lighting, highlighting the woman’s warmth as she bends down, wrapping her arms around her knees and hovering near Oline’s position on the floor. “Rorin seems quite the brave type, doesn’t he?” An obvious statement, to open the pages of conversation between the two relative strangers. She adds this after Esche says his piece about proximity.

Rorin was all legs and left sided. One arm one eye. Smiling. He was much looser around Lionel more because Lionel treated him as an equal- though that had to some tense arguments in the past. So he simply sipped his heavily medicated water and paid attention. Wasn't a whole lot else for him to do. Oline excused herself to the hall. There seemed to be some strange breakdown of communication between the four of them. He sort of tried to wave Oline back in before the door shut. He'd rather her be akwardly with them than be without her. He regarded Lionel respectfully. 'Havent met him. Arbalastier I recall. Talk to Artificers downstairs. Helped craft. Dwarves created crossbows, story of Arbalaster. Will tell you more when better. Have books about it all somewhere. Journals too. Mod kit in room. Not difficult to make.' He looked at Isangrim and tapped the word 'Arbalest'. Apprently the wolf would know what to bring him, barking happily and leaping off the table for the door, giving Oline a friendly nuzzle on the way out before continuing his fetch mission. Rorin was left to just sort of look at his stew. People knew he couldn't chew, right? The damage to his cheek was so bad he was lucky to be able to use a straw. Nice gesture though. Was Alvina leaving now too? Damn. And he'd just sent for the crossbow.

Oline chuckled at Esche's comment, if only because she found there to be a surprising degree of truth to that. Also because he had a funny way of speaking that reminded her faintly of someone whose... name and face... she just couldn't quite remember. She scooped herself up a ladel full of stew and blew on it to cool it before letting it slip off the edge into her mouth, jusssst in time to find herself in the presence of Alvina! With a mouthful of stew, the giantess could only hold up a single fingered 'one moment' as she quickly chewed and swallowed. "Ah... yeh... sorreh 'bowdt tha'. Sumtahms Ah... juss... kinna say whuddevvuh's on m'mahnd. Evvin iffit ends up sowndin' stoopid... 're... weird. Ah dunno wah yer nawt s'posed t'juss tell sum'n when y'thenk they're priddy, or y'lahk they's name..." she shrugged and took another bite of stew, this time swallowing it down hard. Rorin was a topic she didn't mind discussing at all, however. Well, it did make her cheeks go a bit redder than they'd already been. "Rorin's... brave... budddit's gunna geddim kill't wunna these days. N'then whudd'm Ah-..." she trailed off, shaking her head. "... whudd'm Ah s'posta do, y'know? Ah mean, shoore. This tahm's mah fawlt fer almost gettin' corpsed. He... sayf't mah lahff... bud tha' dun meck m'worry enny less, y'know?"

Alvina did know. She knew all about men who had a tendency to run off, say they would be fine, and throw themselves into dangerous situations with little thought to those left waiting for them, on the side of the battle field or hundreds of miles away. So when she nods, her eyes closed so they don’t give away all her preciously guarded secrets! “Don’t apologize,” She said, still holding her friendly smile. The color in her own cheeks has started to fade, more a splash of blush than full face paint. “All you can do is trust that they will do all they can to get back to you. Men like that are stubborn and think they are invincible. They’d damn well like to believe they are until something knocks them off the horse.” Strictly a metaphor, she didn’t know if the injury had been horse related. A horse shaped bomb? Probably not. “Do your best not to worry. Believe in him instead. Send him your hope and faith. It might pull him through when he’s tired, knowing you are thinking about him and wishing him well.” Small advice, from a small woman. After that, she stands. Giving Esche a bow in return for allowing her interruption. “Oline, you should come back. It’s not the same without you?” And with that, the crimson haired bard makes her way back into the room to her stew, which she’d set down upon leaving. She surveyed the sad sight of Rorin, sans winter wolf, and Lionel in his chair. Why wasn’t he eating? Rorin, clear why he wasn’t. Could they get this stew into the straw? Bleh, the idea isn’t pleasant, so she puts the bowl down before feeling rude. At least holding the container made her feel warmer, and Lionel had commented just enough embarrassing remarks to remind her heart to beat against the frigid weather. “Bow guns?” She said, taking a seat on the other side of Rorin, awaiting more instructions when they would come. She’s just in time to hear Lionel’s bit about the Monarchs. She’ll pretend, for Josleen’s sake, she hasn’t heard any of that, because she can only assume he means Macon.

Rorin tossed up his hand in agreeance. Hell of a month for sure. But people would about it. Rorin sighed. They always knew. Oh well. Nothing wrong with a bit of word spreading. Lythridels heros. That would be nice to hear. Lives saved. That's what he really wanted. For some odd reason Rorins eye seemed greyer than usual. Dimmer. Perhaps it was the drugs. Rorin hummed curiously. On his paper sketched a simple map of the country and indicated where the nests may be. That island... Rorin wrote next to it for Lionel 'send word to Dyzz. Troblin. Can help us find here. Has turtles.' He knew Lionel wouldn't fully understand but there was little Rorin could say without launching into a full written tale on the matter. It wasn't long before Alvina returned sadly Oline not with her. Rorin sighed while Isangrim worked his way back up the hall. He would stop to bark at Oline again, as if waiting a moment, before coming inside. Leaping onto the bed the canine would shake off the harness they used to cart around certain items and take the liberty of retrieving a treat from one of the side pockets. Rorin thanked the wolf and patted him before unbuckling various bits and pulling out the sum of one advanced crossbow, the magazines of auger bolts, a few tomes and journals on the matter, and his modification kit with held several parts. Rorin flipped open a particular tome on the origin of crossbows, citing a section which read 'The weapon known as a crossbow, bowgun, bowtruckle, hand bow, or bolter, is not as modern as we would think. Crossbows were invented by the dwarf Bortin Abalaster, around the year...' it continued on with a section Rorin found particularly interesting on a war against the darkness and a bet between Arbalest and the famous elven archer, Sifter, but that seemed a bit irrevelant at the moment.

Oline sat alone... well, no., she sat in the company of Esche for what felt like ages. It wasn't really, though. It was just a couple minutes. She found herself watching him fuss over his duties with no small amount of respect. He'd put his life on the line too, and yet here he was sitting alone in the hall looking at... scrolls? She made a mental note to find him later, and make proper introductions. Maybe even get to know the elf a little better. He seemed like a good sort of person to know. For now, though, she'd shoulder her way back into the infirmary with a smile and a friendly pat of the shoulder spared Esche's way in passing. The effort caused a few stray strands of scarlet to slump down into her face, making the sheepish expression as she approached Rorin all the more ridiculous. "Thenks, Rorin. Y'know... foh... blowin' yer stoopid self up t'save me. Ah... en't... nevvuh bin tha' close t'dyin affore. Ah... rilla thot Ah wuz dun, y'know?" She... really didn't care, at that moment, just who heard her say it. "But... if thehizza next tahm... r'membuh this. Ah en't wanna live iffit kills you. Tha'd... jus meck me wanna b'dedd to. Dig?" Oline said, "Orrite... Ah sedd whudd'Ah hadda say... back t'whuddevvuh 'portint stuff yeh were talkin' 'bowdt!"

Lionel cants his head as Alvina returns into the room. Amid the relative tumult of a crossbow fetched and a treat devoured and a collection of words written on the relevant weaponry, the Catalian says little, although he will have inadvertently corrected the woman's estimation of the term 'monarch' in the process. "I suppose that's the best word we've got for them -- monarchs. Queens, by the looks of it, and I sure do hope the third one isn't half as ghastly as the second. That queen wasp... antlion... thing...?" He shakes his head fervently. "Exploding eyeballs. Sword-arms beneath them. Seriously, what the heck?" It's enough to give a man nightmares to top the nightmares he already suffers. "We'll mull over the artifacts we scooped up from that hellish place in a few days. There's bound to be a clue there somewhere." He does his best to parse Rorin's vague message of a creature called Dyzz being of assistance, then nods, slowly. In the interim, Oline returns. She has strong words for Rorin, words which snap Lionel out of his thoughts and prompt him to examine her. He rises from his seat, moving wayward so that the giantess has all the more room beside her beau. "No one left behind," he mutters with a smile. "You fought just as hard, Oline. Without you, Khitti wouldn't have gotten so many shots off, and none of us would be here to speak of it. Rorin wouldn't leave you behind, and we sure won't leave Rorin behind." It's a promise.

Alvina was super interested in all the stuff now in Rorin’s possession. She wouldn’t notice the dim light of his eyes because she’d never known him any other way, really. Not in such close proximity. She looks over the crossbow with a curious caution. The bolts are reviewed at length, before scooping up the tomes and journals to skim them. She reads the portion aloud, that Rorin points to, filling the space with her soft voice until Oline enters and takes their attention. Alvina’s heart swells at the scene. It felt tempting to add a ‘hear, hear!’ but this wasn’t her fight, so she buried her face in the tome and smiled secretly. How cute! It’s tempting to throw a look in Lionel’s direction but she resists, by the gods, somehow. And now Lionel is adding to the heroics and thanking Oline just the same for saving Khitti. Khitti of all people! It’s a touching scene, Alvina feels blessed to witness it. “No one left behind!” She cheers, caught up in the enthusiasm of the room, with no real direction to take her chant in. The woman clears her throat, and nods stoically, all the while suppressing a smile. It’s just in her nature to be happy, when surrounding by such bright personalities. “I’ll get to work on this immediately.” The clarification of the ‘monarch’ miscommunication brings a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. That’s right, the warrior’s guild was impartial. How could she forget? “Can I take these with me? To study?” She asked Rorin while she tried to bundle everything up in her arms. What could she say? The Engineer was anxious to get started.

Rorin did his quarter-eye-smile Olines way and gestured it was no problem. Of course he'd blew himself up for her he was just glad his mouth was bandaged or he'd so something so mushily romantic everyone in the room would start blushing. Instead he gave her a thumbs up. Being bandaged meant he didn't have to lie saying he wouldn't die for her either. That was sort of his job after all. He went back to the task at hand and began to fiddle with various instruments and schematics. In his head he was explaining to some effect the various types of crossbows which were arranged in size, created mainly by Arbalasters descendants Arbalast and Blastier, and of course the rail system later inplemented by gnome tinkerers, which allowed easier modification. That of course was more imported by various single handed gestures and pointing to different things scattered about the bed as he also pulled up the schematics of the auger full metal bolts he'd worked with the guild artificer on. Not that they were the first to come up with the idea but rather they had just localised it. Several of the tinkerings had been done by them and Rorin working together so they deserved credit too really. The current model displayed here was his go-too of course, a three bolt track yew bodued silver smithed Lycan hunter collapsible frame with pull loader, 3 step pressure trigger, recurved arms, triple stringed, stocked, rail system, complete with 12 round side load magazines of full metal tin aurger bolts, produced with an incline for accuracy, the heavy magazine bearing 6 tin cored brass layered rounds, and a few of Rorins magical trinkets for lightening weight, eagle vision, and different blessings. He looked a bit perturbed at someone taking them. He'd written the journals himself but she looked trustworthy. Sure, whynot.

Oline watched Rorin fidget wordlessly with his weapons, eyes both wide in wonder and... bewilderment. Whatever he was trying to convey was clearly lost on her, but then... it wasn't really meant for her. Alvina seemed quite competent, maybe whatever hand-gestures he was making and the various showing-of-how-things-worked was all she needed! The giantess somewhat envied her, that. The only thing Oline was so competent in was bludgeoning peoples' faces in. A skill which surely came in handy as a member of a guild of fighters... but... eyes fixated upon the floor it was evident she understood she was surrounded by people considerably out of her league. She felt suddenly, and ironically, like a child standing among giants. It wasn't an uncommon feeling for her, either, especially lately. Still... she'd climbed the back of a queen bug and bashed her sodding wings off! That... that had felt pretty good, even if it nearly resulted in her premature death. Oh, hells... she'd lost a scythe... and... her kanabo... andwhat had happened to any of those? She'd been too disoriented to actually go back and get them. Also, the whole almost dead thing. "Ah'm... gunna need'a git sum new ahmuhments..." she sighed to nobody in particular. "Mastuh Valen's gonna be pissed Ah lost th'club he 'chanted foh me..."