RP:Impromptu Meeting At The Pass

Summary: Four strangers happen upon each other along the Xalious mountain pass, each with a different intent, though they all manage to overlap. A runesmith is suspicious of everyone. And an injured woman forms a connection with a dragon, struggling with his need to transform. A paladin ensures no one kills anyone else. There's a reason why they refer to this area as the 'pass' as it seems the unlikely four are merely passing through, and live another day to tell another tale.

Ranok || Calm winds blow languid across the skree and stone of a well worn path, rustling dust into droll patterns. The grasp of winter was not yet released in its clutch on the mountains, the air chill. There was no frost this night, a small boon, as it would be some time before the spring thaw came properly, along with the crop of small shoots of grass and plants that took tenacious root on the scarce soil. Small tufts of dried up clumps clung still to stone, doing very little to bring any measure of vitality to the scene. Overhead, clouds scuttle with more urgency, covering a nearly full moon in alternating masks of darkness. It could almost be called a calm night, for the nearly bearable warmth of air and a rather lack of anything interesting. The stall that had sat there for years, run by some beady eyed merchant, the wood split and worn with the beating of sun and wind, was calmly stuck in the rut had worn about its foundations, small stones piled there from spring washes and snow melts. The feeling of calm was soon shattered by the sweeping approach of a speck in the sky, some swiftly approaching thing of flapping leather and the faint spark of electric. In a crashing arc, down came a man with intent. Feet extend out in a practiced motion, the landing spot well chosen, and impact with the sound of steel scraping stone. Sparks fly and pebbles too, a long scrape as physical force is doled out to extinguish itself on well engineered machinery. A moment is taken to adjust itself, one hand a dull glimmer of metal in the strong moonlight, a hat wide in brim slanted back, hardly preturbed from its perch atop the tall man's head. Then, somehow projecting the feeling of what could only be called strong jawed determination and low on fury, Ranok approaches that ramshackle stall with constrained murder in his step.

Rayala is standing rather haphazardly against said stall, fiddling with something at her right hip, left hand thrust into a pocket there, right hand hidden up a sleep and hanging at her side. “No,” she’s saying in a dusky, guttural voice that belies the amount of time actually spent in this region and not afar. It seems the golden-haired lady is stowing rather than retrieving, for a moment later the golden scale-freckled hand is removed from the pocket, empty, just in time to be thrown up in defense over a scarred face. She whirls for a moment, trying to pinpoint what it is that has shot by her with such momentum, and then her nostrils flare. “Ranok?” she says, cutting off the insignificant argument being made by the sketchy salesman now at her back. Her plain face, scarred from left to right, framed by gilded freckles — scales, perhaps? — twists as her hand lowers once more. There are nerves in her voice, and confusion, too, but mostly a friendly, gruff sort of warmth. There is no such warmth from the growling creature who emerges from the shadows cast by her skirt, a massive hound with horns atop his head, who she calms with a swift, whispered “Ara!”. Arajakata settles, and Ray turns her face, eyes closed, to the heavy footfalls of an old friend.

Scandal fur lined boots trudged up the path his breathe steady, his eyes glowing with a fiery red against the night, his skin as dark as ebony making his form hard to be seen had it not been for the red hair of his short beard or that of his short cut haircut, or perhaps even the light brown furs that adorned this figures body. Were it not for the eyes and the hair, he might have been drow, but his figure his gait, it was nothing like the drow, it was solid, and sturdy and yet it also seemed to twist, the figures form morphed and changed becoming dragon like but walking on two legs. Scandal eyes rolled as if he was aware of the transformation, but not proud of it. For this form was unstable, as had been his forms for a time, since his awakening from his hibernation his abilities had been drastically driven to bleeding edge of unpredictability, were he not to presume his natural form much longer, he feared that he might enter it without his permission, his fear of what his size would entail, and how many would die in its wake, often led him to make his way out to Xailous for there was a meadow large enough to house his form, at its fullest, a place that he knew could house him, without killing a soul. As he continues down the road, he switches his gaze to a figure upon the road, and to a figure at the shack up ahead, while his eyes take in the appearances his mind keeps him focused, should they heed or call upon him he would reply and do his best to manage but before dawn breaks, surely he must reach the meadow, this form was falling apart as is.

Ranok stops up short. Confusion flies over his features. That someone knew him was not unfamiliar, not strictly. Once he'd have been infuriated that his reputation proceeded him. But now? It was mundanity. One could not seize the reins as he had and maintain anonmity. A moment passes, a boot idly grinding into stone to make his footing more sure. A moment of alarm when a hellhound bursts out, but by now he'd recognized. "Rayala." While there was warmth in her voice, his was more of a neutrality. A cool assessment, then a slight rounding of the edge of his tone, "I had thought you'd died. Glad you didn't." Eyes glance at the salesmen at her back, who was less then enthused to be present. Perhaps there was some inkling of just why the smith had come here with murder in his eyes, but then again, the sight and sound of Ranok's particular method of fast locomotion was not exactly kindly. But attention diverts, and there was some...abomination walking up the path. Using the same foot he'd centered his gravity on, the man whirls. The tattered edge of his duster flares and there was a sword gleaming darkly. Carried by his hand bound in flesh and blood, the other one wrought in the same dark metal is held loosely to his side, fingers splayed slightly. A gentle click as its point rests on the stone. Scandal is regarded as an approaching monster, "Just what the hell is that thing." A jerk of his head, and while Scandal is kept in vision, the stallkeeper is somehow shot with a death glare, "Is this your doing?" His voice was low, edged. Whatever had him agitated just got doubled. As a general rule, Ranok kept things that couldn't hold a shape at arm's length. Preferably with an equal length of steel. Low movement was noted as Naeftas pokes a head out, and the smith was swiftly getting to the point where things got bad.

Rayala doesn’t turn towards the first newcomer as one might when trying to figure out who is walking down a path at night. No, rather than turning to glance in his direction — his footsteps having alerted her to his presence — she tilts an ear towards the coming man, and takes a deep breath, scenting him. Her nostrils flare again, though lack of recognition this time keeps the diminutive lady quiet, at first, before uttering an answer to Ranok’s spoken query, “Dragon". An unknown dragon on the road at night is not something to take lightly, yet most of her attention remains with Ranok. She opens her mouth to speak again but is interrupted by the clanking of armor. Arajakata steps in front of her at the noise, his teeth bared, a growl ready in his throat. “A busy night,” the fair-skinned fair-haired lady remarks to no one in particular, instead of whatever she had meant to say to Ranok. This scent she recognizes, too, though the name accompanying it escapes her. If she knows that Ranok had drawn his sword — if it hasn’t escaped her notice — she does not remark on it. She does, however, remember that another question was asked. “My doing?” Apparently she doesn’t know to whom it was addressed. “No.” She leans back against the stall again and massages her thigh as though it pains her. “I doubt it anyone’s doing. Smells like his magic won’t hold. A mighty thing, to mess with the magic of a dragon."

Scandal was halfway up the road when he heard the sound of blade being drawn. “First draw, first fall,” Scandal groaned. While his transformation abilities may have been moot, the magic behind this dragon was unfathomable abyss, a fount of immeasurable power, and yet while he might not be able to work the magic he could certainly give it, but in this form, more was to feared for even in this petty for he could wield the strength of his true form, its unyielding force, but his heart was not with his strength. “Just passing through, business in the meadow, won’t take up your time,” His voice rich and deep with accent hinting through of something far long extinct. Truly this dragon may have more in common with fossils, and if to emphasis this the movment of his leg making a sounding pop and the bones creaking as if what he was barely contained even in this anthro form.

Naeaftas takes just a few steps closer, his ears catching the words exchanged and the sound of a blade being drawn. Gripping his warhammer, the elderly feline mutters a short prayer before calming his mind and opening his senses to the supernatural forces beyond the eye. Those with the ability to sense magic would certainly catch the banishing energy waiting within the warhammer’s head. The divine sense would likely have little effect at the moment—dragons rarely had much to do with fiendish influence or undeath—but Naeaftas is not going to become an active player in this just yet, and opening his senses seems a vaguely useful way to spend an extra second or two. The magic in his weapon will remain for a while, so he will have it ready in case either the flying man or the apparent dragon needs a time-out.

Ranok || An impatient hand, the smith absolutely forgetting that Rayala could not see it, "No, that piece of slime there. There will be words." The hand that gestured, his left, sparks slightly, pointed at the shifty shopkeep. The shady salesman was contemplating how best to vacate the area and get out before Ranok's ire was brought to bear. Scandal's arrival presented an opportunity, and the man was attempting to do his absolute best to become one with the worn out wood of his stand. The smith's head, and hand, is brought back to bear on Scandal. Words weren't exactly reassuring, and actions spoke. "Be on your way, then." Each word that dropped from the smith's lips were curt ones, and the implication was clear: go somewhere else. His posture wasn't one of outwards aggression, in that he would burst across the skree and seek to sink his blade, but one of iron. If Scandal didn't move closer, the sword would stay on the ground where it was. Each step taken would see an equal measure of steel raised in response. The smith could not see the magic contained within Scandal, and even Rayala's comments were not enough assurance. Perhaps less so. As Naeaftas opens his senses, blue lights flare over the smith's shoulder. Bright, sudden, and a livid electric blue, looking at them in the night was a painful thing. And what the paladin could sense might give him pause. Ranok was a maelstrom of power, a concentrated ball of something big. Small arcs of something seemed to emanate from his chest, twisting and touching upon a variety of things in the clearing. A uniform distribution along the shanty was, at the exact placement of notches in the wood where it had been nailed. Concentrations of metal or coins. The armor that Naeaftas bore, and the weapon he'd drawn, too, though these were so faint as to be indistinct. And some, even, ran deep into the stone itself. "Everyone stay the hell put until I figure out what the hell is going on."

Rayala has no intention of hindering this dragon-man’s path. Neither does she notice the catfolk-in-hiding. Moreover, she has not moved and so cannot understand why she is being told to stay put. “I think perhaps the man passing should be allowed to keep passing. Would that not be wisest? To avoid the battle?” These words of caution, softly spoken to the night, seek to calm Ranok, her voice a voice of reason.

Scandal was not afraid of the man, but he had no interest in what was transpiring, "I shall endeavor to do so, just make sure the creep you intend to kill dies with your anger." And then with a speed uncanny to any past he is gone, thunder rumbling in his wake from his passing.

Naeaftas winces at the stranger’s departure, having been previously unaware that a person could move that fast without the aid of magic. “Then again,” he muses as he massages the spot where his ears meet the rest of his head. “who’s to say he –wasn’t- aided by magic…?” Looking to Rayala, Ara, and the flying swordsman (Rancliff? Rakov?), the catfolk stows his hammer and stops concentrating on the smite that had been saved for haphazard peacekeeping. “I seem to recall you suggesting long ago that I get out of the tavern, mister,” he says to the smith. “I must say that making the decision to do so tonight has given me a bit more excitement than I bargained for.” Turning to Rayala and her companion, he lifts a hand and waves. “I wish I could stay and catch up, Rayala, but I fear it’s time for me to find a place to rest, now.” With that, Naeaftas retrieves an object from somewhere within his armor: a seashell, of some sort. Focusing on it for just a moment, the paladin disappears entirely, bound for somewhere warm.

Ranok rests his sword on the stone, entirely distracted by Scandal's departure. His expression was still thunderous, but he wasn't going to go borrow trouble. With Scandal leaving, the threat of some shifting...thing was fading too. Dragon or not, if it couldn't hold a form, it wasn't magic he wanted around him. The cat paladin was standing fully then, and then just as swiftly departing, which earned an eyebrow raise. Still, a smooth motion sees his sword sheathed, "I have no idea what the hell that was all about. But, seeing as-" A halt. The shop keep had disappeared. Boots fall on stone in disbelief, "Where the hell did he go." It was less of a question, and more of a statement that struggled to remain calm. Leaning on the stall's splintered edge, he looks inside. Empty. "Unbelievable." Fingers grip so hard that the wood creaks. "Unbelievable! That bastard swindled me, and escapes. I bet he got that monster dragon thing to distract me." There was the sound of falling stone, and his head snaps up. All at once, he explodes into motion. As he passes Rayala, he snaps out, "I'll find you later. I have business to attend to before it escapes." And then he's gone.