RP:Home

Part of the Sauriangate Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Following the climactic battle, members of the Warrior's Guild are given medical treatment and time to reflect. For Rorin, self-respect has taken a major blow. For Lionel, it is worry over Khitti's health, and the hope to find Ameno alive and well. For Raphaline and Eirik, it is matters of the heart. Chekhu, being Chekhu, is adorable. As Sauriangate comes to a close, that old standby quote rings true in Lionel's mind: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Fort Frostmaw: Medical Ward

Lionel arrives without fanfare. The soldiers in his ranks are quick-booted to approach their Knight-Commander as he descends his choice wyvern, but he waves them off in frustration and points to matters more urgent. Hildegarde has not had an easy flight; Khitti has awoken for long enough to scream bloody murder in frantic bursts of pain. The woman is sound asleep again, but her condition is dire. “Help your queen,” Lionel commands, but Hildegarde will have nothing of it. “I have her, Lionel,” she gently tells him, and she carries Khitti’s body straight through the fort, earning stares and calls for unneeded help every moment. For the time being, both the queen and the vampire are out of sight, and Lionel assists in the carrying of Emrith to the medical ward. Rorin and Eirik will presumably follow, and perhaps Dyraxdiin as well, and together they’ll take up beds and await assistance. Lionel seems to be in better condition than most of his allies, though, but his shoulder has taken an ugly cut he can’t ignore forever. Wincing in pain, he sits at the edge of his bed, looking around. “Bound to be someone here eventually… I mean, uh, it’s not like the Knight-Commander just rolled in…” He shakes his head, but the action only hurts, and he flinches.

Rorin follows Lionel with his head down. He wanted nothing more than to apologize and wring his hands together with worry but Rorin kept his hands on his weapons and his teeth in a grit. The sounds of Khitti struggling from Rorins own attacks has his head wringing. Having taken minor damage around the plates of his armor, though some scratches on his legs and thighs are disturbingly deep. "Here, gimme that," he said to Lionel rather unsquirely and gave a deep sigh. He'd mucked it up. At least he could fix something though. "Hold still," he told Lionel as he pressed the wound together and poured light into it. Warmth stretched out with an ethereal blue glow. Inside Lionels shoulder restitching began between muscle fibers and slowly blood returned cleanly to where it once was. Rorin wasn't the best but the wound wasn't the worse so it should only take a minute or two to heal. Meanwhile Rorin could think of just how much he had ruined nad nearly killed his own teammate. Plagued by self piteous thoughts and introspection there was not yet much to say on the squires part.

Chekhu is, at her core, a curious little creature. She makes a habit of going where she hasn't been asked to go, finding what should best be left hidden, and in general being in all the wrong places. Today, though, is different...a little different, at least. She happens to be quite literally sniffing around Frostmaw Fort when the group of injured comes in. Having no idea what has happened to wound so many but wishing to learn more the foskin perks her ears and begins to shadow them, staying well back. She follows the mixed scents of sweat, steel, leather, rock-dust and blood deeper into the fort, and whether by providence or simple disinterest, no one stops her. Being less than five feet tall and barefoot may have its advantages. Chekhu's frizzy reddish hair bobs as she swings her head to and fro, sniffing quietly, keeping up a brisk pace as the party ahead of her reaches its destination. She arrives in time to see a large armoured man enacting some sort of magical healing on another...and the other, it would seem, is a face she recognizes, if only in memory. "Lionell!" she squeals, running toward him and tucking her head down for extra speed. Her stout little legs carry her a surprisingly goodish distance in a startlingly short length of time, but she fetches up before leaping on him, brought up short by both his face and the reality of the situation. "Oh hmm," she murmurs, her little vulpine face adopting something very close to a pout. "Hmm, he does for the shoulder I think." Wheeling to face the man - whose magic means he might well be a paladin - Chekhu addresses him, pearly white teeth bared in something that is either a grin or a snarl. "You came from the same place where his shoulder took hurt, yes?" The thrusts her head forward, sniffs once, then shakes her head. "Your blood spilled too." She wiggles her small hands, and makes complex little stitching motions. Still grinning, she takes a step closer. "I am Chekhu. I heal. I also bite things and find things, but today I think I heal. Sit down, leave Lionel alone." She reaches out with one hand to give Rorin's chest a gentle little shove. "Sit down I say. And tell little Chekhu where you hurt."

Eirik climbs off that wyvern, injured leg shaking as weight is placed upon it. He nearly cringes from the agony that carves its' way up the sore thing; the aftermath of battle an all-too familiar feeling. The ashen Northman had taken the time to tie his belt around the wounded leg, in order to halt the advance of bleeding. The gash itself deep, noted by the caked blood upon his cotton pants. Silver eyes gaze at the commotion momentarily, but he coninues to heavily limp behind the others. Brann Forbruker is pulled from his side, and placed on the bed before rump lands on the same surface. Eiriks leg still throbbed but thoughts now drift to Ameno, the man who had been taken. He'd be sure to follow Lionel and hunt for companion whether he lived or not. He wondered if Khitti too would be alright. Beyond that the Lycan contiued to breath deeply while waiting for assistance. Inspite of his thoughts, the warrior is grinning. That had been exactly what he had signed up for.

Dyraxdiin had decided to follow the group to Frostmaw and make certain of their safe return before he himself went back to Xalious and the Mages Guild therein. Now, his eyes move about the medical wing, and the fort itself when they ventured through it, having only seen it from the outside last he visited. Instead of occupying a bed himself, most of his wounds being trivial things in his mind, he opts to remain standing, albeit leaning heavily upon his Xalious wood staff. The great wyrm glances to Rorin, the one who seems the most emotionaly distraught, and offers a few words, "Many are the casualty of battle. Not only do our bodies suffer, but our minds as well." Understanding Rorin is a paladin by the workings of divine magic, Dyraxdiin continues, "A paladins strength comes from his body and mind, but even more important, his faith. When body and mind suffer, so too will your faith diminish." He passes his staff from his left hand to his right, to better look upon Rorin, "There is no point in worry. So instead, steel yourself, mend your wounds. And then have faith the vampiress will be well." After all, what are paladins good for, if not faith? Knowing a few paladins in his younger years, he knew a few that had fallen because of their dwindling faith - it is not something he wishes Rorin to experience.

Raphaline had not been in the healer’s region of the fort when she had caught wind of the arrival of a few of those who had been a part of the warrior guild’s most recent mission. Knowing a few of the gentlemen who had gone, she is quick to toss aside the book she had been reading in the library and hurry down the halls. She hears the sound of heavy foot falls and yelling as she grows closer to the bay, her mind settling on the work ahead. When she arrives it is at the tail end of Rorin healing the shoulder wound and the little foxling commanding for others to sit. It is now that the bard takes on the role of healer and very deftly in a firm tone of voice says over all the voices, “Everyone needs to find a place, sit and wait for a healer to come by. No ifs, ands or buts about whether or not you need to be checked over. That will be for me and the other healers to decide.” She quickly rolls up her sleeves and ties back her curls before she begins to make her rounds. Seeing as Lionel has had his wound take care of, she offers him a half smile as she calls to him, “I will be back to check on you and that healing wound.” The smell of blood though draws her to Eirik who she can see is nursing a deep wound on his leg. Carefully, she kneels down so he doesn’t have to stand and places one hand on either side of the wound. “This might hurt,” she tells him before she begins to hum to herself. The song causes magic to begin to come to life in her fingers and soon drifts into the skin surrounding the wound. From her the magic of her song calls to the very fibers of his body to knit itself together, to close the wound and no longer allow for blood to leave. Her own hands are now caked as she withdraws them, allowing the wound to breath as it slowly heals. “Don’t put pressure on it yet. One of the other healers will wrap it,” she says, glancing up at him before moving on to her next patient. “Rorin,” she says as she approaches the paladin, “any serious wounds?” For the minor ones, she could leave the others healers to tend to; her magic is only to be used for deep wounds.

Lionel says nothing as Rorin heals him, for he is not yet sure quite what to say. The healing power embraces his wound, folding it inward in holy light, and the sting subsides considerably. It isn’t perfect, but it’s appreciated. “Thank you.” These two words won’t do Rorin justice, and Lionel is self-aware enough to see that, so he continues. “What happened was horrible, but you’ll have plenty of opportunity to make up for it. There is still much to learn of the world and its… chemistries,” Lionel finishes, but he gently pats the squire. “She’ll live. She’ll be livid, but she -will- live. And, in time, she will forgive.” He might say even more, but a foxkin has drawn forward as if from some distant recollection, and she’s saying his name and barking orders. “Wh…?!” Lionel gasps, as memory returns. When they’d met, many months ago, Lionel had been searching for Khitti, in the midst of the saga of Raiez and her wicked mage-kidnapping ways. Now, with Khitti safely in another room in this very fort, it’s all Lionel can do to update the diminutive creature bluntly. “We found the mages,” he says to her, closing a long-dangling plot thread in four simple words. Eirik’s grin is noted; Lionel cannot help but grin right on back. Somehow, the pieces have all fit together such that the lycan showed up at exactly the right time, and exactly the right place, to get exactly what he’d wanted. Then again, who is Lionel’s author kidding? It’s -always- the right time to get involved in bloody heroic antics when Lionel O’Connor is around. Dyraxdiin’s speech to Rorin arrives at roughly this point in the lull, and Lionel studies the wyrm thoughtfully. ‘Hildegarde was right,’ he ponders, but his thoughts are interrupted when Raphaline storms in, straight to work and taking it upon herself to handle administrative duties with aplomb. He watches, enjoying the show.

Rorin nearly jumped out of his skin when some foxkin had snuck up on him! Some creature named Chekhu had just scared the living hell out of him and frankly he was entirely lost in what to do. "Oh, uhm, what," he looked about as if he needed help. Perhaps he did. He sat down full of stutters and awkwardness and started to peel off his armor. The mask was unscratched and beneath was the equally unmarked fresh face of a nearly 17 year old boy with shaggy black hair and grey eyes deep with worry over Knitti, Ameno, and all his comrades. Rorin would hear Dyraxdiins words and find perhaps a slight comfort in them as he nodded. "Thank you for that," he spied Dyraxdiins Xalious wood staff and recalled only an extremely powerful guild mates commanded them however the exact title of the position. Rorin took out his seal of Arkhen from beneath the dark doublet he wore beneath his coat and rubbed his fingers over it with worry. He would not know it yet but such a habit existed amongst even the strongest of paladin's and many a worn badge was found with them. The hands of a paladin wore at the masterfully carved mythril more than any amount of war or time. He offers a simple shake of the head to Raphaline and to Lionel nothing but a sigh full of regret.

Chekhu is short enough that even once Rorin has seated himself, Chekhu is not so much taller than he. "Oh, a young one!" Chekhu claps her slim hands together and beams. "Young and yet you hurt so? These people--" She raises an arm, indicating both Lionel and the other man nearby, the one favouring his leg. "These people, they know things. Things you don't know yet. Things I don't know and hope I never do. Listen to them, they have the healing words I do not. You though? Hmm." Chekhu stares into Rorin's eyes a moment, a frank but not unfriendly stare. Then, without warning, she reaches out with both hands, letting her instincts guide her. "Sore wrist," she says, prodding gently at the back of Rorin's hand. "Cuts, little ones that need no stitchings. But--" Chekhu's pink tongue runs fretfully over her lips. "Hum. Leg wound here." She pokes very gingerly at a gash in Rorin's right thigh. "A vein there." She teases a single strand of hair between the fingers of her other hand. "Three more of these deeper and you are dead now. Maybe you live to right wrongs. Maybe you live by luck. I will make sure it gets no worse." Chekhu squats down, takes a small box from the light leather pack she has taken to wearing, and extracts from the box several items: a handful of bright green berries, needle, thick coarse thread and sharp little scissors. In past days, the foxkin would probably have used her teeth for the fine work, but the guild seems to frown on such practices. She reaches up toward Rorin's face with the berries. "Eat," she commands, her high voice still possessing a ring of authority. "They taste bitter. They may make your head swim. Your leg, it will hurt less if you eat berries before I begin poking little holes in you in order to close the big one."

Eirik watches the emerald eyed bard approach him, knowing full well what was about to happen. 'Damnit,' he thought. Why couldn't they just stitch him up? Honsetly he wanted to throw his hands up and refuse, but his reactions are dulled and slowed. He hated magic and was now forced to watch Raphaline go to work on his leg. The northman cringes, like a child receiving a shot. His own past the workings of such fear. Illisaria the witch of the reach had been a menace to his people for centuries. Using foul magics to force mankind to bend to her will. The lycan had fallen victim to her whims on -many- occasions. Jaw clenches and eye sights narrow as he turns his gaze away. Then it hit him. Eirik wanted to scream, instead the warrior found himself grinding his teeth as she finished. An audible sigh of releif exits his lips when she pulls away, for in truth Eirik had been holding his breath. Eyes shift back to Raphaline before she climbs up to her feet and assesses the rest of the room. Eirik now notices Lionels stupid grin and a nod is given in his direction.

Dyraxdiin moves his attention to the entering Raphaline, who barks orders in a tone honed to a knifes edge - something only experienced healers have acquired. As a dragon, Dyraxdiin believes himself exempt from any such order - a creature known for their inherent stubbornness. However, after a moment of thought, he decides to find himself a seat upon a nearby bed, lacking the required energy it would take to combat the womans words. Besides, it isn't important to him. And so, he settles down into a patient position of rest; he may as well let the healers look over him, even though he feels there is no need. The staff of his is left to lean against the wall beside him, hands to prop himself up as he leans back on them. Lazily, he will inspect the ragtag bunch of people gathered about, all in varying stages of pain and exhaustion.

Raphaline finds that no other dangerous wounds are needing tending, so she switches her magic to something else. As she approaches Rorin, her emerald gaze noting the stress in his gaze, she lays a hand a top his shoulder as the fox does her work. “Rorin,” she begins to say in a soothing voice as the magic begins to flow from her fingers, “take some time to rest and reconsider your thoughts later.” She begins to hum a soothing tune, one that intertwines with her magic to urge his mind and body to give him a short break. With that little bit of magic, she withdraws her grip and finally turns to the Knight-Commander. She dons a soft smile as she approaches him and says, “Let me see how the wound is.” It is together, a bit roughly, but, with a bit of her more detailed magic touch, it will heal precisely. Her voice remains soft as she runs her finger tips over the wound. Satisfied, she turns her emerald gaze to the knight and says, “You had better take an easy. I don’t want to find out later that you hurt your shoulder even more so.” There is no need for words to be shared as she touches the side of his arm, offering her silent support for him and what has occurred. The other healers are tending to the others, looking over Dyraxdiin with a careful eye or wrapping the closing wound on Eirik’s leg. As for the bard, she finds herself a place to sit and catch her own breath; healing magic causes aches in her own muscles.

Lionel rests. The Knight-Commander lets the scene carry on without much ado, laying on his back and mulling over the day’s events. They’ll need to find Ameno. That’s the first priority, but what next? Frostmawian politics, Larketian politics, guild instructions, soldier routines, scouting missions, the possibility of Balgruufian sympathizers in their midst, everything folds over him like a blanket. Perhaps the man is not resting, after all. Khitti’s wellbeing concerns him, now, as does Emrith’s. Chekhu is nursing Rorin, and Lionel snaps out of his daze long enough to catch that bit about his squire living for a ‘reason.’ He smiles, staring up at the stone ceiling high above, remembering those words having been cast upon him time and again. Now Rorin is part of the pattern, too. He turns on his side, then tenses his muscles in a bid to rise from the bed. Peering over at Raphaline, the Catalian thinks better of it; her ire is one battle too many today, even for Lionel. So instead, he lays there, and he clears his throat, tilts his chin, and speaks. “Heck of a trick you had going on back there, what with the web and all that. Listen, uh, the name’s Lionel. I kind of help run things around here. Not sure where you’re from, but the realm could use more folks with your brand of talent. You really helped today.” He’s barely finished his little introduction when Raphaline’s investigating his wound. “Hey, you,” Lionel answers her, not bothering to confirm her orders. The look in his eyes says everything, anyway.

Rorin listens to the odd little healer and looks at his leg. Damn raptors got into everything. "Oh, I guess so," he tried to say with a smile. Rorin was rather aware he could have died in the battle but not always had he been sure exactly how. Rorin balked at the berries but are them anyway. Better than taking the stitchings straight he supposed. Rorin looked upon Raphaline and replied that Khitti deserved more care and tender words than he but listened to her words. Like a large coin he began to flip the symbol through his fingers and roll it in his hand. Despite that it should press him the bards magic did give him room to breathe. He focused instead on ways to make it up to Khitti. To all of them. Dimly Lionel's address to Dyraxdiin ran through the squires ears and brought a tired smile to his lips. Listening to Lionel try to be official always entertained him.

Chekhu gives the berries a couple of minutes to do their work, then begins the businesslike procedure of sealing up Rorin's leg wound. It is relatively small, requiring only eleven or twelve stitches, each delivered with a deft little punch of the needle. "Don't grumble," Chekhu mutters. "Six. Seven. Eight. Stay still!" Rorin might not have moved, but Chekhu is rarely quiet while working. "Better this than the other thing," she murmurs, then pats the man's knee with one hand. "I leave this to be dressed by another healer." Her eyes have already noted several. "And remember, you go easy on that leg. If it rips too much, if you strain it, there is a vein that will burst. Blood will spray. You will die. Don't die, yes?" Chekhu smiles, a rather bright and uplifting expression in these grim environs, then clambers to her feet, tlutching her gear in her small hands. In a piping voice she calls out, "Any need me? I have clever hands. I can heal. Or can talk. Not all hurts are of the body. Just ask." She begins to patter about the room, observing all and sundry, reluctant to go even though she feels as if her work might be done.

Eirik lets the other healers take care of bandaging his leg before any sudden movements are made. The lycan really had nothing to say on the matters here and instead resigned to something more natural. He leans back, careful of his wound and wonders just what the mage had done back there? Whatever that spell was, he never thought he'd be greatful for magic. Greatful for Raphalines as well. Eirik closes his eyes, though does not sleep. Instead he runs the battle through his mind again and again. For now, the ashen warrior stayed silent. The blackened wings of death had not come to claim him this day.

Dyraxdiin meets Lionels gaze with his own, a nod of his head to ensue as he listens to the informal introduction. "I am called Dyraxdiin, of Xalious." His tone deep and sure, "It is an honor to have been able to assist. We have Ameno to thank, once we find him, for informing me of the battle today." As for the remainder of Lionels words, Dyraxdiin responds with, "By realm, I assume you mean Frostmaw itself?" He leans to the side to peer around the healer that now stands in front of him, tending to their work of inspecting any wounds he might have. "What do you have in mind?" He asks awkwardly around the healer who, unable to do anything for him, soon leaves him to his rest. Chekhu is given a shake of his head in passing as a response to her question of healing.

Raphaline is grateful for the ability to sit, but as the conversation turns to something a bit more official, she decides to once more check on her escort. As she makes her way over to Eirik, the healers that had been tending to him are quick to depart and leave the bard to take care of the rest. The look that crosses her features, reveals a level of compassion for the northman as she finishes up the wrapping on his leg. Under her breath, so only he can hear she says, “I was worried about you today.” She ties off the cloth and moves to stand once more, but finds her muscles taunt with a bit of stiffness, so she steadies herself with one hand on the bed. She counts to three before standing to her full height once more and then grabbing for a nearby chair to seat herself in again. Once she is comfortable, she shifts her attention to Eirik once more and takes in the remnants of the battle still etched in ash on his face.

Lionel shakes his head vehemently. “I mean the realm,” he repeats, with added emphasis. “Lithrydel. All of it. From one stretch of the continent to the other. It’s only a recent thing that I’ve chosen to serve a given country. Frostmaw could use the assist, too, sure. As a mage from Xalious, though, I’d be willing to bet you’ve studied your histories. Just ten years ago, the realm was covered almost entirely in darkness when the Immortals, Khasad and Elazul, nearly won their war. We were barely able to push them back. That’s an extreme example, but it’s a… perennial tradition around here for very bad things to happen.” He scratches the nape of his neck. “Don’t know what you’ve heard about Frostmaw, but it took Hildegarde acting like the spitting image of ol’ Donovan Keane -- that’s, uh, another name that might pop in those tomes down Xalious way -- before I felt like there was a singular kingdom worth fighting for. In the past, I went where I was needed. Now I’m needed here.” He pauses. “Give it some thought. There’s good work to be done in Frostmaw, if you care for it. We’re doing what we can to keep the peace in a world not known for it. We’ll be in touch, yeah?” He rolls onto his back again, shaking his head toward Chekhu. “You did wonderfully,” he encourages the foxkin.

Eirik was lost in thought as Raphaline had approached him; eyes still closed, mind daydreaming. In fact he was entirely unaware of her presence until she finished his bandages. Tired silver eyes gaze to her, that boyish grin smearing his scarred features again. "Worried about me?" The new guild member had taken note of Raphalines quite tone and made sure to speak as softly. Despite his obvious wound, he was resilient beyond most, but he was only teasing her with his words. His attention moves to Lionel for a moment and then back to his self appointed charge. He was probably the reason for her soft tone. Like she had always told him, tomorrow is another day and Eirik carried no expectations. Eyes bolt open in sudden realization, "have you heard from Sabrina?" He asks, suddenly awake more now than he had been since their arrival.

Raphaline gives him this look that says 'how dare you tease me' before she shakes her head. It seems she quite content to find those nearest and dearest are finding their footing once more and able to heal. Given this isn't her first fight to heal friend's from, she doesn't believe it will be her last. But, when Eirik mentions Sabrina, her attention perks up. She had gotten his letter but couldn't just leave to go to Larket righ then--too much had to be done. Her plan had been to leave in a few days, but now that he brings it up, she gives him this rather sorry look. "No, I have not heard from her yet," she answers, shifting her gaze to the Knight-Commander for a second before looking to Eirik again. "If I know her, she is resilient. I plan on seeing her soon, I just..." got wrapped up in her duties here.

Dyraxdiin sits forward, having regained enough of his energy to maintain a descent posture, hands to clasp and rest upon his lap. The Immortals. Indeed he had read about them, his cursed slumber saw him through countless centuries of Lithrydel's torment at the hands of many a dark foe, all the while unable to have done anything to stop it. Upon awakening, he entered a world largely unknown to him. Much of the land remains the same as before and most of the races too, but very little else. He has made it a point to become familiar with its history, not only to gauge the time he had been sleeping, but to gain a working knowledge of what to expect going forward. "I will give your words some thought, but my allegiances are to the Mages Guild first, and I do not wish to compromise the integity of its neutrality." With that, Dyraxdiin will rise from his place of rest and offer a formal bow, "I can be found at the Mage Tower, should you have need of me, Lionel." Soon after, the mage will take his staff and depart from Frostmaw, careful to change back to his natural form out of sight in order to shorten the already lengthy trip.

Lionel decides he’s been in bed quite long enough, thank you, and Raphaline is rather preoccupied, too, so surely she won’t notice if he sits upright. Too bad for him, her little glance occurs right when he does so. “Completely understand. Take it easy.” Ever the casual speechwriter, this one. He stands up, now, eyeing Rorin. This is his guild. Khitti and Emrith and Rorin and the rest of them. Eirik, Kaori, Beldur. Hildegarde in the lead. Like Frostmaw, it’s his home. Gone is Catal, gone is Alexia Isis, gone Donovan Keane. But this is home. The briefest of smiles crosses his lips at the sight of Raphaline. “Home is where the heart is,” he mutters in a chipper tone. He’s looking at the whole crowd when he says it, and if Raphaline is perceptive -- and who are we kidding, she’s perceptive -- she’ll know that Lionel O’Connor, Catal’s Last Prince and the Hero of Hellfire, has found out precisely where his heart is. He leaves the ward, leans against a nearby wall, and smiles.

Eirik would clench his jaw at her response, though he was far from angry with her. The berseker abruptly sits whether Raphaline agrees to it or not. There would be no stopping him. "I have to know," he hushedly whispers. Brann Forbruker is clasped within his hand and placed back at his side. No wound would stop the berserker, nor word from his commander. The ashen faced man scrambles to his feet, and takes a step forward. Even if his leg tore back open he'd contiue his limping walk. Eirik was a grim sight to behold, defiant in his very nature and unwilling to give in until the very end. Like Lionel he too would be gone without listening to anyones words of warning; that is if they so presumably happen.

Raphaline sighs deeply, sometimes she just wants to smack the warriors in her life on the back of their dumb heads for being so stubborn! Finding her own body tired, she is not very quick to stop either of them, for see, she is stubborn too. She follows them out, looking down both hallways to make sure neither of them has collapsed from exhaustion! Oh, both of them better be warned, there might be an earful about not resting next she sees them both.