RP:How to Save a Life
Smithy's Shop
Even though both large doors to this business are flung wide open, the heat and smell of molten metals almost knocks you back as you enter. In the center of the open room is a fire contained in a stone pit. You don't see any actual flames, but the coals are a fiery red. Close to the fire are flat boards covered in metal, with anvils attached to the top. You see why as Gualon's Smithy slams a hammer down on a piece of glowing metal to shape it and sparks fly all over. On all the wall space available and stacked on tables pushed up against the walls are the Smithy's offerings. His own tools are near the fire and most are unrecognisible to you. To your North is a door leading to the Smithy's stables. To the South is a door but you can't see where it leads because the smoke from the shop is being pulled that way by the wind.
Leone :: The forge is dark, neither lamp nor furnace lit to illuminate and heat the building. The desert nights are cold, and a definite chill lingers in the air, made eerie by the chill stillness of the usually bright, warm building. A faint glow, like the lumination from midsummer bugs, comes from a trap door in the ceiling, a ladder embedded in the wall leading upward to the lofted space.
Maldoff made his way into the forge, seeking the only blacksmith he knew. He had been entrusted with repairing Kasyr's sword, for whatever reason, and he intended to see the task completed. His search had lead him to Gualon, but alas, he found the forge dark, and still. "I guess she's not here." He muttered before seeing the light coming from above. Moving slowly he crossed to the ladder, "Leone?" He called out, hoping it was her and not a more sinister force. He ascended the ladder, and peeked into the loft.
Laufeia could be called a sinister force, though her almost manic expression doesn't belie such. As Maldoff peeks into the loft it's her face he's met with, the high elf bent at the waist, hands on her hips and staring right at him with unblinking eyes, "She's sleeping. Probably!" Though with Laufeia here it was more likely Leone was simply ignoring her in a distinct effort to sleep, "Who are you?"
Leone is neither asleep nor ignoring Lau. The blacksmith has fallen unconscious, and is in a minor state of undress. Rather than her normal leathers, the farrier is stripped down to a tanktop and swimwear bottoms. The ritualistic markings of her former people emblazoned on her back stand out all the more with a strange and ultimately dangerous occurrance. Like the the dying embers of a campfire, licks of flame flash and glow just below the surface of the smiths skin, causing any exposed flesh to glow orange with ripples of light. The loft is sweltering, and it's easy to guess where the heat orginiates.
Maldoff blinked as he was met with a person he didn't know, "I'm Maldoff...I need to speak with-" He cut himself off as he spotted Leone lying upon the floor, seemingly on fire, and definitely unconscious, "Leone!" Though the bard was not normally one for rough actions, his first response was to attempt pushing past the stranger to get to his friend. His action was accompanied by an accusatory, "What did you do to her?"
Laufeia isn't so easy to push past, a surprising amount of strength hiding in her lithe frame. At the very least she lets Maldoff ascend fully into the loft, but for now she's keeping herself between he and Leone, "Let's see. I grew up with her- or well, she grew up with me if you want to be pedantic about it. Made terrible jokes at her expense, embarassed her in front of strangers. Hm." Her grinning smile only widens, "This one's all on her, i'm afraid! She likes to throw herself in harm's way in the name of saving someone else, you know." Twisting, she pirouettes into sitting on the side of the bed, where the heat from Leone was more intense. A hand is raised, finger waggled with a tsk at the other elf, "So quick to make unfounded assumptions. She'll be fine. I promise. She'll come back as a wonderful corpse!" Friend though this elf may be, she was undoubtably just a /little/ bit demented."
Leone has started to char in places, her fingertips blackened from smithing now standing in silent testimony to the internal fires that must be burning. More than just the tips of the farrier's hands are blackened, entire fingers now discolored and ashy, appearing that they would crumble to dust if touched.
Maldoff would continue trying to get past the high elfess as she explained the relationship she had with Leone, "Aren't you even going to TRY and save her?" He nearly shouted at the stranger as he rushed to the side of the bed, kneeling and looking at Leone. Maybe he could put the fire out, he did have some level of control over water after all. Opening his bag, a disgruntled sprite flew out, "Sprite! Water." The sprite crossed her arms and refused, turning her back on the man who was retrieving his flute from his satchel, "I'll give you some fudge." He offered, and that seemed to win the Sprite over. She began to pull water vapor from the air, a task which the elf could not do on his own, and form a small orb of liquid water. Then the elf directed the water to land on some of the red glowing patches of the smith by piping a few notes on his flute, a languid melody. He was starting with a small sample, in case it didn't work.
Laufeia waves a dismissive hand at Maldoff, "Maybe you should scold the smith she works for instead. I've only been here since last night. Besides, raising her from the dead /is/ something!" Legs cross, and she leans back, watching the other elf work with mild disinterist mingled with dissapointment, "I don't work with life anyway. That's her job."
Leone would have confirmed Laufeia's statement, were she conscious; life was certainly more the farrier's area, strangely enough. The sprite's water orb does have an effect. The splashed area sizzles, the flaming, ruddy undulations calming, dissapating. Almost immediately, the skin in the wet area curls up, like the edges of burnt parchment, and also turn an ashen grey. It would seem that water will quench the fiery threat, though the volume will have to be great.
Maldoff shook his head, "Do you really think she'd want to be cursed with the life of the undead?" He watched the water as he spoke, seeing the effect it had. Conjuring the amount of water it would take to quench the fire was more than his sprite had the magic or energy to accomplish, but at least they now had a clue, "We can save her." He looked at the stranger, "I need water, lots of it." He knew there would be a source in the forge, they needed water to cool the iron and other material's they work with.
Laufeia raises a brow, snorting lightly, derisively, "She already agreed to be raised, last night, if she died." With the part about not attaching her soul to the reanimated corpse convieniently left out. With an inconvienienced sigh, she stands again, pointing out, "Bringing her back downstairs is far easier than hauling water up by the bucket and soaking her bed."
Leone would have confirmed that there was a large trough and a pump along the far wall of the forge, if she could have. The room below was still dark, however. Were she conscious, Leone would have voiced her doubts that either of them would be able to see down there. Being positively obsessive about her craft, the blacksmith always managed to clean up at the end of the day, no matter how tired she was. Because of this, there would be no errant, half-made weapons or tools laying around, impeding the way from the ladder to the trough.
Maldoff frowned slightly, "Well, I won't let her die." He responded, "Is it safe to move her?" The fires burning inside her made him skeptical, as did the ashen appearance of burned flesh. If they tried to lift her and move her down the ladder, they might be burned, or worse, she would crumble at their touch.
Laufeia offers another dismissive gesture, grey eyes focusing on Maldoff for a moment, "She's not going to crumble. Yet." Offers the female elf, a critical eye turned to Leone's condition, "Wrap your hands up though! Under her arms with you, i'll get her legs." Laufei would, of course, then move to hook an arm under each leg at the knee, hands already somewhat protected by a pair of gloves.
Leone is hot to the touch, certainly. Who wouldn't want a flaming blacksmith on a cold night? If she survived, Leone would have to talk to the grog shop about adding a new drink. As it turns out, Lau is correct yet again; the trend is starting to become unsettling. The areas of char flake off to reveal layers of raw flesh below, when the farrier was touched or moved. Built almost entirely out of muscles, the plover is heavy. It would seem the high elves are fortunate that the human is short.
Maldoff gave a nod at the other's instruction, they had to try, at least. He glanced around, and found an extra pair of gloves, since he didn't have any of his own. Donning them, the bard hooked his hands beneath her arms gently and lift.
Laufeia moves, hopefully in enough tandem with Maldoff that they don't just drop the blacksmith, over to the ladder, setting Leone's legs down while she climbs back down, "Lower her down, now." She instructs, still a bit put out about this entire 'saving lives' deal.
Leone goes along for the ride, like an overlarge sack of potatoes. Her limbs are still fully manipulable, and the farrier's form bends, even distorts to some extent, with relative easy. Fitting the metallurgist through the trap door is like pouring strawberry preserves through a funnel.
Maldoff followed after the female high born, left to bear the majority of the human's weight when the stranger releases Leone to climb down the ladder. He lowered the smith upon the other's cue, gently, but as hastily as possible. He didn't know his way around the forge, so he wouldn't have an easy time finding the water, since it was stagnant in a trough.
Laufeia hauls Leone up and over her shoulder, though the high born elf is certainly of a lighter frame than the bulky blacksmith, and it's awkward, to say the least, even if she had the strenth in thinner appendages to bear the weight. She moves over to the empty and cleaned out trough, nodding to the pump at it's head before lowering Leone into it, "Work the pump then. Go on. Put your back into it or something."
Leone 's arms swing as Lau carries her, the smith's oddly narrow palms ricocheting off the highborn's rump as the battle-hardened priestess walks. That would certainly be a point of contempt later; that is to say, Lau would tease the human about it, and Leone would become contemptuous toward her childhood friend. But that was remain to be seen, and soon enough, the plover is plopped into her empty quenching trough, a dwarven-made drain and pipe system at one end, while a hand-lever pump occupies the other.
Maldoff nodded at Laufeia. He didn't care for the other elf's personality, but he wanted to save Leone. So he would do as Lau said. Gripping the handle of the pump firlmy, he put his weight into pushing it down, then pulled it back up. The action repeated until water began to flow, and quench the fire, hopefully, that resided in the human.
Laufeia perches at the edge of the trough, grinning to herself about the teasing fodder she'd have to hold over Leone later, when she was in a more concious state. A hand lingers down inside the tub-like trough, feeling the water level's rise rather than seeing it, though Laufeia did have exceptional night vision for a high elf. Rather she continued to stare at maldoff instead of watching the basin fill, and when she feels it reach the heel of her palm, offers, "That's enough. Unless you're planning to drown her instead." Which is a possibility she doesn't seem to sound like she minds.
Leone :: An eruption of steam is accompanied by a cacophony of hisses as the cool water flows into the tub. Several loud bangs resonate as the metal trough attempts to compensate for being heated and cooled in tandem. The room is foggy and humid, the odd scent of lillies lingering in the air. As if on cue, a deep yet autonomous inhale is heard from the blacksmith, a gasp that is activated by her functioning brain only, and not the smith awakening. A series of pings and pops sound, and the outside of the tub soon grows frosty, beaded with sweat, like an iced drink on a warm day. In a matter of minutes, the farrier's flesh becomes cool to the touch, no traces of probable, spontaneous ignition left.
Maldoff watched the tub filling, as best as he could in the dark, as he pumped the water, hearing it flow. The steam made it even harder to see, and for once the high born is glad for his female counterparts instruction as he stops working the pump. He narrowed his eyes, only to squint through the darkness, as he heard the smith gasping. The bard joined Lau at the edge of the tub, reaching to gingerly touch the smith, hoping his efforts had completely cooled her. Thank the gods the notion had work. It would take a long time for the injuries to heal, but at least she was no long smoldering.
Laufeia relished the darkness, the shadows, and while she didn't particularly mind the sunlight either - she wasn't drow, after all, it was the nature of her priesthood to favour one over the other. Even so she stands after a time, giving Maldoff full command over the side of the trough, heading over to fetch a candle from beneath the counter at the front of the shop. A match is struck, the wick light and the candle placed into a holder before it's brought back over and offered in resentful silence to the bard.
Leone comes to with a jolt, the smith siezing suddenly, her hands gripping the edges of the tub in a deluge of startled consciousness and water. Several breaths are gasped in, the farrier's chest rattling with each inhalation. A dripping hand is raised, shakily, to the blacksmith's face, and wiped down the length of her mein many times over. Without opening her eyes, and apparently entirely unaware that there are others in the room, the plover begins to scoop handfuls of water up and over her head, causing her almost characteristic bun to loose. A tumble of raven and silver glint down the length of the petite woman's back, pooling into the water and along the edge of the trough like the foamy head of a beer. For several moments, the smith sits in silence, sucking the water dripping down her face off her lip.
Maldoff was not surprised by the way in which the human came to. She had been through quite the ordeal. What surprised him was the motion of dumping water over her head. He would have thought being on fire internally would leave one too pained to move. Either way, he softly spoke, not wanting to startle her, but wanting her to be aware he was there, "Good, you seem to be in better shape." He nodded in appreciation to his fellow high elf as she brought the candle over so he could better see, "Are you in a great deal of pain?" It may have been a stupid question, but given her ease of movement, he wasn't entirely sure.
Laufeia sets the candle down upon the corner of the basin, leaving the care of not knocking it into the water and snuffing it out up to the other two whilst she retreats a bit futher back into the darkness, eyes not liking the flare of sudden brightness the candle had brought. They'd need a moment to adjust from no-light to low-light, "She'll be fine. She's resiliant, for a human."
Leone grunts in response to Maldoff and Laufeia, two birds killed with one stone. Already, the charred edifices have sloughed off, somewhere into the water, and only puckered, shiny swatches of red, raw skin remain. "I'll..." the smith's voice comes out in a croak, and she swallows hard before finishing, "Manage." The final word is panted out, a breathe heaved into her lungs before again her hands are cupped and brought up to her face. This time however, she drinks the water contained in the fleshy vessel with dried, cracked lips pressed to the point where the heels of her hands meet.
Maldoff watched Leone carefully, waiting for her answer, rather than taking Lau's word for it. He gave a small nod at Leone's assurance, "I can fetch a healer, if need be." He had no idea about the fire's divine origins, so it wouldn't occur to him that a healer might be useless. Wrinkling his nose at the fact that the woman was drinking water that contained her charred flesh, the high born offered, "Let me get you some fresh water to drink..."
Laufeia moves back over to the trough as her eyes adjust, sitting at the side of the basin once more, "I'll piggy back you upstairs again when you're ready. Get you changed, swaddle you like a babe." The potential for teasing was so close, but it would be better enjoyed when Leone had regained some of her health back.
Leone shuffles in the tub, the smith pressing her hands onto the side of the trough, she attempts to stand up. "No," the farrier says to Maldoff, her head shakes in kind, "a healer will do me no good." The statement isn't explained, though the smith had no doubt Lau would jump in with the missing information any moment. A hand is reached out toward the female elf, a silent plea for aid in standing, before she'd also respond to Laufeia. "I'd rather not be warm for a while. Let the cold seep through my bones," the plover says, chuckling in a rasping, wheezing sort of way.
Maldoff nodded slightly at the smith's reply, "Alright..." No point in getting a healer if it would be in vain, "May I play you a tune? Sometimes music can help to soothe pain." He was very worried for his friend, and when she tried to stand, he moved to support her, whether Lau did the same of not. The bard would be careful of the raw flesh, but likely would have to touch it at some point to help support her.
Laufeia offers Maldoff a bit of a sideways glance that isn't exactly welcoming, her usually overly-cheerful demeanour faded by now, "We don't have to swaddle you in blankets." She murmurs, taking support duty at Leone's side, opposite of Maldoff. After a moment of consideration, she offers to the bard, "No healer can control the fire within." It's vague, and not entirely informative, but the high born elf was no longer feeling generous in her mood, though neither was she feeling malevolent - just yet at least. Taking the lead, she moves to pull them all towards the ladder leading back up into the attic.
Leone steps gently out of the water trough, the flagstone floor immediately slickened with the runoff from the blacksmith. Unable to walk more than a few steps, the farrier takes an abrupt seat on the flat of the anvil, her bare feet pressed into the floor. Maldoff is given an eager nod, the metallurgist clinging to Lau's hand, holding her long-time friend to close proximity. "We'll go up later," she rasps to the female high-elf, her voice still rattling like a grinding wheel.
Xersom did not know what shape Leone was in, but the trio likely did not expect this particular creature to arrive in a hideously wounded state. Evil except for that barest shred of morality born from his reincarnation, Sacrilus was completely delirious. Utterly so. He didn't know why his gait brought him toward Gualon, or what the signs upon the buildings and their letterings meant. Hell, the ancient being didn't know the faces that he saw when he nearly fell through the door. One hand was upon his face to hold his mask there, of which the edges were flapped about against his fingers, revealing the glimpse of scars of carvings of some unreadable letters in a forsaken language except they were bleeding as if freshly carved. But his other hand clutched his right shoulder where blood so unnaturally dark in hue that it was nearly black flowed freely around the fingers trying to staunch the flow. Between his fingers his eyes looked wildly in their intense greens that were faux as part of the mask, but working nonetheless as he stumbled and fell to a knee; he was delirious. Vulnerable. "Master? I was trying to punish the drow, master, for hurting -her-, master. I feel love real, master, it is not a lie!" Garble, almost nonsensical, and those 'eyes' met were aloof as if looking beyond anyone present. "The blade tried to take me..."
Maldoff helping the human to the anvil, he gave a nod as she signaled that she would like a song. The high born turned on his heel, hurrying up the stairs to retrieve his flute. He would return just as quickly, the silver instrument in hand. Just as he was raising it to his lips however, a familiar form stumbled through the door. It was the ancient one who had told him to harness hatred for power, and he was bleeding terribly. What was with the injuries today? And what on earth could injure this creature that could melt flesh and bone? The bard looked first to Leone, then to Laufeia to see their reactions.
Laufeia wraps her long, spidery fingers around Leone's clinging hand, offering with a light scolding tone, "I said I would carry you." Still a shrug, the pair of them terribly stubborn in their own ways and unlikely to relent without at least a minor argument back and forth. Xersom's arrival is met with little reaction, though the slow, manic smile begins to spread over her features once more as she spots the blood and injury; the delerious state. It holds no hope though, for she knew neither Maldoff, nor Leone would aquiesce to her desire to let someone else die so that the battle hardened death priestess could revel in her craft.
Leone frowns as the infamous Mister X comes crashing through her door. And she was so prepared to enjoy a tune from Maldoff. The farrier's peridot eyes are swing toward Laufeia, a look of some significance given to the high elf at her side. "Go get the single-malt," the farrier chokes out to her lifetime companion. The blacksmith sinks slowly to the floor, the anvil used as a leverage point before she'd crawl over to where the twisted soul had fallen. Xersom is nudged with her foot, the plover attempting to lift his chin with her toes. "Hey," Leone forces out in gravelly speech, "will healing you...kill you?"
Xersom did not actually see Maldoff or Laufeia; he hadn't any knowledge of either of them before him or their intentions. His gaze was upon Leone as she spoek to him, and even lifted his chin with her toes after nudging him with her foot. The almost ageless being wildly lifted the faux gaze of his mask to the smith, between those fingers holding the fake piece against his true face, which could shatter the mind of mere mortals and thankfully is covered for the most part. But the male didn't exactly 'see' Leone. He saw something different, and it was made apparent when he spoke with a snarl, "I see you here. Dare you put your feet on me, mocking me, Sven, son of Syven; your allies Hind and Lore, the children of Hindus and Loreath are not with you; do you think your ascension means anything?!" He fell from his knee to both of them and one hand, releasing the hold of his freely bleeding wound that pools his vitae beneath him to land on the floorboards, "You punish me by giving me her and then taking my life. Master should've killed you when his hand was around your throat." This did hardly anything to answer Leone, unless she realized the implications of his words. But Sacrilus was in mortal pain. A very real, and very foreign thing to him as he kept bleeding.
Maldoff was quite helpless in the situation. He had no healing magic, so to speak, though his music could ease pain if the listener had the right mindset. So perhaps it would calm the raging, raving dragon. He lifted his flute to his lips once more, and softly began to play, not loud enough to interfere with speaking, just background noise t calm and soothe the mind. The tune swirled like water running over pebbles in a creek. twittering and fluttering as it flowed. It was all he had the power to do, foolish though it may seem.
Laufeia quietly moves to fetch the whisky as requested, an expression of dissapointment creeping onto her features once more. it takes but a moment before the high elf is back at Leone’s side, the bottle pressed into the other's hands before the battle worn priestess fades back into the darker corners of the shop, awaiting another request to be made of her.
Leone accepted the bottle of whiskey from Laufeia, the blacksmith's hand curled about the neck tightly, her other hand working furiously to uncork the top. With a loud pop, the stopper comes free, and the diminutive female holds the bottle aloft before speaking in scratchy, broken tones. "We honor you in the face of our enemies, on the field of battle, and in the recollection of our victories," the farrier shouts in a hiccuping growl at the ceiling. A long pull is taken from the contents of the bottle, the farrier only breaking the inebriating drink with a sputtering cough. Setting the vessel to the side, the plover promptly forgets about it. Instead, the bantam female rocks forward, her feet swiveled to behind her, weight rocked forward until the diminutive femme finds purchase on her knees. Already she's alight, like the twinkling of thousands of stars housed beneath a single, opaline canvas, the farrier's flesh sparks to life. Shafts of illumination twine with beams of brilliance as they emanate from the patterns of scars, burns, and tattoos etched into the surface of the smith's back and wrists. The new blisters, the pinched and puckered product of retribution revisited, also join in the disharmonic symphony of divinity. Another frown is levied against Xersom, but the blacksmith quickly realizes that the moment for hesitation had passed, and the metallurgist presses forward. Her hand suddenly on his wounded shoulder, Leone leans into Xersom, the full weight of the sinewous frame delivered unto him.
Xersom vaguely recognized and heeded the ease of his agony, of which no mortal could've felt due to the spirit of Orvaac warring with the fragment of the Nameless King that was Sacrilus when he was struck with the blade that contained the piece of the Light Immortal's soul. Slowly he twisted his head to look upon Maldoff as he did so with that flute; it wasn't enough to necessarily calm the raging, raving dragon, but it was enough to distract him before that hand was upon his wounded shoulder. The reincarnation fo the former general of Arrecation looked toward the source of that weight to fall upon the illumination that shafts of light where embroiled and entwined with beams of brilliance from scars, burns, tattoos, and other natural and unnatural glyphs of divine symbolism upon her body. The light cast X in a different feature to Leone and Maldoff; in its clarity, they could see what he was. The wraithen creature that had two holes of abysmal and impenetrable darkness instead of eyes, which sucked in the very light around them and had scars of carvings of forsaken and evil words all over his face; each scar bleeding as if fresh. But it was just the illusion of his true feature from the holy light revealing that which is hidden, and neither of them had to worry about losing their sanity as physically he kept hold of that mask against his face. But even this creature; this ageless creature so obviously created against holiness and good, seemed to wane in the light of that divine power, because it also revealed beneath that revelation a small shred of golden hue in his chest, symbolic of his humanity and morality gained. It's what kept him from being burned alive as Leone put her full weight upon his wounded form, which buckled beneath him. It did nothing to heal the forsaken beast, but in a way aided; as her body pressed upon that shoulder it cauterized and staunched the blood. He still lost a lot, and his hands, either shamefully or defensively, attempted to shield his face from the light that revealed it. "Don't look upon me!" Even in this state, the creature's power was intense and incredibly immense, as both of them would feel, but it was simply because of his wound and perception that he nearly cowered from Leone's 'healing'.
Maldoff closed his eyes as that holy light revealed the vile illusion of X's true form. He had to sheild himself from a sight he did not want to see. But still his fingers danced across the keys of the flute, and he piped out that soothing, swirling tune. He didn't know how well the healing was progressing, for he now couldn't see it, but he could feel the power from the unholy creature. Such power. Was this what came from the creature's hatred? Could the high born achieve this level of power with the same emotion?
Leone falls with Xersom, his buckling making her unable to hold her own balance aloft. Scrambling backward, as much as her own broken body would allow, the farrier finds herself covered in another's blood for the second time in three days. Cautiously, the radiant human stays in proximity of Xersom, wishing to keep that wraithen form in view, wishing to see into the depths of evil incarnate that, up until now, she had only been able to feel whenever near the abominable male, like the chilling breath of a vast cave. A gasp is issued, a shock and fright that twists the metallurgist's mein into a grotesque mask of emotion. Swallowing against the terror of the dragon's true form, the farrier cannot help but to find the light in the darkness, and it is toward that golden glow that next she reaches. At first, only a finger is pressed toward the bright spot, the smith prodding into the miniscule area in the hopes that, like raindrops in a puddle, the gentle caring inherent in the healing would being to make the sliver grow.
Xersom wretched and spasmed as the woman scrambled backward but still yet gave off that energy that was both immense and intense from his form; it was perhaps the soothing music that Maldoff played in his attempt to do what he could, even with his vision shielded from the visage of Sacrilus, that allowed Leone to reach into the bright spot with the gentle caring. A caring inherent in the healing that resonated with the holy favor not only of divinity, but goodness. In this incredibly rare moment, perhaps singular in its uniqueness, that finger touched the warm and serene whisp of a golden silver that was humanity, morality, and goodness forced upon the devastating creature that once felled hundreds of thousands with his own hands. It reacted with a craving to the nurting, like an infant desperately seeking the attention of a mother, but the darkness reacted violently. It struck outward form his damned form in the illusion of what he was by mercurial darkness that actually would strike at the offending finger with a painful taint; not one that would linger, but the way a tendril would slap away something. This was followed by the creature, at first, recoiling backward and curling upon himself, "No! Master will never allow it! You will die if you try-" which was cut off just at the end when that horrific face led the physical and masked face of the ancient being forward, in a shrieking snarl; likely the very same that met Norodruin and the heroes of Light at that famed point of battle. "You will kill me!" It wasn't so much of a warning, but more of a threat -somehow. A hand lifted and horrific power manifested into a sphere at his palm; it was shifting and almost liquid, but the very essence of it was blatantly evil. But... that noise. That melody. The hand clenched into a fist, disappating the dark magic, as Xersom's illusion fell away to reveal the dragon-in-human-disguise that Sacrilus was reincarnated in; it no longer revealed the shred of goodness that grew slightly, or the terrifying face of what he was, but the mortal vessel he was in. His wounds were burned shut, and fake eyes rolled back as the creature passed out. Even still, as unconscious as he was, there was that distinct power that resonated from him which was now latent alongside his awareness.
Maldoff closed his eyes tighter, trying to block out the distractions of the encounter between dragon and human as he continued to play his music. He wasn't sure if it was helping, but he poured his soul into it, willing it to have that calming, soothing effect he intended. The power, the sheer power, that he felt coming from the creature of evil sent a chill down his spine, he opened his eyes as the power grew and concentrated into a distinct point. That sphere of darkness intrigued and horrified him, but the high born knew it wasn't a good thing that was to come to Leone if that sphere was released. Then the illusions, and the sphere faded, leaving the human guise of the dragon collapsed and unconscious, but still radiating that tempting power.
Leone :: The strike had caused a roar to peel forth from the farrier's mangled throat, an indignity that the priestess-turned-blacksmith had never suffered before. Recoiling, the metallurgist shakes her hand, flexing her fingers in and out. In that instant, the holy aura had come crashing down, an audible slipstream of power retreating into the petite priestess like the thunderous tumult of a waterfall. The threat is not measured, not weighed, but still found lacking - unimportant- even as the malevolent orb coalesced in the hand of the dragon. It was not her own mortality that gave the farrier pause, and even as she tried turned the implications over in her mind, mulled through the sights and sounds of that evening, and several evenings prior, the blacksmith came to one wrenching conclusion. Maldoff's continuous melody breaks through the wall of thought ricocheting around the cleric's head, and she slowly turns to ply pale jadite sights against the elf. "Thank you," is choked out, the syllabals hindered by an unfettered sob, "Maldoff. Please, take my room in the castle for the night, I'll stay here with X."
Xersom , as curious as he would be for those implications and the wrenching conclusion, is unconscious, and lies in a heap on the floor.
Maldoff only ceased playing when Leone looked at him and spoke her thanks. He smiled slightly, and offered a nod, "I'm glad to be of service." The bard lowered his flute, and moved toward the smith, "Are you sure you will be alright?" He questioned, not wanting to leave if she wouldn't. Likely she would reassure him, and he would agree to take the room. If she said no, however, then he would insist upon staying with she and the injured reincarnation for the night.