RP:Initiations

Part of the Hour of Wolves Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: In the midst of a six-on-one no-holds-barred skirmish with small-fry drug dealers, Lionel is rescued by Eirik, a recent arrival in Lithrydel with impressive physical feats. When the dust settles, Lionel extends a life-changing offer to the lycan.

Frostmaw: Middle of Town

Lionel has never been fond of hats -- a strange consideration, when a man is raising his right elbow to blunt the force from another man's thrown punch. He curves his stance flatly at the knees, then vaults his upper body backward to avoid a knife which carved into the snow scant inches from his person. With his left hand balled into a desperate fist, he aims for the jaw of the first assailant, tripping the second with a well-connected foot, but there are six more of them and he's completely unarmed. Panic is spreading through the intersection, with villagers rushing to their houses, merchants to their bodyguards, and not a damnable one of those bodyguards coming to his aid. His soldiers are elsewhere, his Knight-Commander's badge and honorary vambrace are unequipped, and Lionel's ridiculous hat is floating off down the street to the tune of a bellowing wind. He grimaces, admiring that hat which he will likely never see again, and inwardly he ponders how it was that he found himself in this mess. Going incognito to ascertain the wheelers and dealers of a drug cartel, that's how. Well, he's found them, but they've found him, too, and as he feels the burn from a chiseled woman's punch to his rib, Lionel coughs a bit of blood onto someone else and rotates himself ninety degrees. It's a dodging game, now, but unless someone shows up soon, he won't be able to hold on.

Eiriks march down the cobbled street is a lazy one, without the usual well-hammered steps the soldier had been used too. Silver eyes gaze up at the enormous statue towering over him, while Alaza the clothing merchant hollered her wares. "Get your winter clothing," she was cut off. Eirik's gaze snaps to turn, eyes settling on the commotion of a brawl. Six to one, he thought, jaw clenching. The lycan preferred to not interfere, but noticed the unlucky in hats fellow, had no weapon; that's all it took. In but a heartbeat of time, Eirik springs into action like a coiled cobra. His infectious life-stealing greatsword is pulled from its sheath and white-knuckled in a death grip. Its' magics hiss to life, spitting against the very air. Muscles snap and launch the berserker forward; each step hastening his deadly arrival. Shoulder is ducked low, Eiriks massive frame intends to slam into the back of one attacker to topple him over entirely. The only other weapon Eirik had carried, was a rather long dagger, which is pulled and thrown on the ground towards Lionel. Hopefully the stranger would see it!

Lionel might not look like much at the moment, what with a bleeding upper lip and a fractured rib and an absurd red longcoat covered in dirt and ice, but on most days he's the Hero of Hellfire, Frostmaw's Knight-Commander and the Last Prince of Catal. All these pompous titles, but the point of the passage is that a man like Lionel will certainly note the knife. He catches it swiftly, as if it were a ball and not a deadly weapon, and then, in that same motion, he swirls it in a mean hook and stabs into the fleshy exposed right side of a beastly man who'd just had a similar notion with a knife of his own. The big oaf is wallowing in self-pity as soon as that knife catches flesh, tumbling over directly into the buffoon Eirik has brought to heel. Together, they collide; together, they crumble. The blonde woman with the big broad shoulders grabs for Lionel's neck to twist it grotesquely, but instead she finds air, Lionel having ducked into an incredulous acrobatic pose and then barreled backwards to knock her into flat submission. Three remain, but their eyes all betray worry, most of which is leveled toward Eirik, the interloper. "Yeah, I'd be scared, too," Lionel taunts. One of them, a tan-skinned half-elf with a crooked scar running down his nose and neck, shakes his hands but withdraws a greatsword of his own from a strap upon his back. "Your queen poisons the well," the half-elf sneers, "three generations of legitimate business turned to ashes because of a few scattered cases of poor reaction to the chemical. She poisons the well, and we will poison you." He swings for Eirik, and Lionel slips past him, taking both his comrades down in quick decisive slashes.

Eirik breathes deeply, preparing himself for what is to come. Heart beat quickens and adrenaline surges. Gaze hardens, and bloodlust rises while Eirik's eyes shift, from silver to a deep golden hue. It's an ominous foretelling, one which heralds the curse; speaks of the knives edge the Berserker now walked. Not just with the threat of change, but the threat of losing his mind to the overwhelming rage. The words of the attackers and Lionel fall upon deaf ears. Eirik reacts. The blade is snapped up violently as Eirik steps; his intent -- not to block the blade, but the fleshy arm itself with his greatsword. To be touched by such a weapon is beyond cruel; a wound that would stay infected, no matter how much cleaning it received. It would need a rather strong healer. However, Eirik wasn't finished! His weapon shifts to follow the attack, and now whips downwards trying to claim the arm as a trophy! The beserker shifts again, pivoting on foot -- the attacker most likely in surprise as weapon is now horizontal and prepared for one final thrust. He hesitates, taking a deep breath, calming the nerves. "Run," he calls out finally. His voice like crushing gravel beneath a weighted boot.

Lionel is really rather enraptured by Eirik's performance. He's only just turned from nonlethal wounds to the pair of fellows behind the half-elf when the lycan strikes, and what a strike it is. He lofts a brow, widens one of his azure eyes beneath that lofted brow, and crosses his arms, keeping the offered knife handle-outbound as a showing of peace. The half-elf, squealing in raw agony and hammering at his wounded arm in utter disbelief, glances between the two men and hobbles. "This ch-changes noth..." he spits, his arm shaking more than he'd seemed to anticipate, and he gapes at the injury, then takes off down the street and into a startled crowd. "That'll mark him," Lionel notes admiringly, and he winces, seemingly bewildered. Something snaps inside his mouth. "Hm." And then he spits out a tooth, which torpedoes into the snow just beside one of the five crumpled smugglers. Just then, three Frostmawian soldiers arrive from point-northeast, slowing their approach at the sight of the lycan. "It's alright," Lionel tells them. "He's a friend." His words, however, are marked with uncertainty. His voice cracks ever so subtly. "Right?" The question's for Eirik; the guards begin cuffing the prisoners and order is steadily restored upon the streets.

Eiriks stance widens, deep heavy and ragged breathes force his chest to rise and fall dramatically. Thoughts of home race; of his loved ones. The people he taught and trained. The people he helped protect and finally the warrior's body softens. The berserker wasn't lost, not yet. Like so many times before, his head tilts and body twitches for moments. Eyes shift back, and silver hues now glance towards Lionel and the guards. His weapon is sheathed, "I am a friend." Eirik looks back to the rest of the group on the ground, "Perhaps you didn't need my help." The warrior moves away from the scene, only a footsteps off to the side to allow the guards to do as they please. "Normally I know who I throwing myself into a fight for." He grins, the scar across his face shifting with parted lips. "I'm Eirik," he adds hand reaching out for a firm handshake should Lionel accept.

Lionel accepts the hand and they shake, but his face, minus the bloodied lip, is a twisted little smile backed by kind and decent blue eyes. "No, no," he corrects, retracting his hand after a moment's passing. "I definitely needed the help." He snaps his thumb and middle finger together, twirling about toward the guards in the same maneuver and pointing his index finger at them in mild accusation. "And I expected it to come from the folks on my payroll, not a Good Samaritan. Don't get me wrong, help is help and I could be dog food by now, but you three need to hit the books. I don't know he page, nor the sub-paragraph, but there's bound to be something in there about not letting one's superior officer get bludgeoned by angry drug-dealing women..." He stares at them, and they chafe, averting gaze until one of them, a small-stature young woman with combed-back black hair, clears her throat. "Our apologies, Knight-Commander. I accept the blame." Lionel scans her. "Name, soldier?" She stands in perfect poise. "First Guardsman Theresa Grayson. I ordered the men to escort me to the blacksmith for upgrades." Lionel turns to Eirik, waving his hand. "Name's Lionel," he tells him, belatedly. "Stick around, this'll just be a second. What'd you need upgrades for, First Guardsman Theresa Grayson? Something wrong with the gear the queen's provided you?" She flinches but holds her ground. "Yes, sir. It sucks, sir. The entire shipment sucks. It's not like the rest -- it's always been good. But not this time." Lionel nods, faux-knowingly. "Right, right. This time it sucks. Well," he says with a sigh, "that's an odd turnabout and we'll investigate accordingly. Congratulations, First Guardsman Theresa Grayson, you've uncovered your first lead. Now get outta here, will ya?" She smirks proudly and the trio of Frostmawians take the smugglers fully out-of-scene. At last, Lionel gives Eirik his full attention. An awkward wave. "That was some parlor trick you had, there. Where you from?"

Eirik watches the guards chat with Lionel. Studies their manners, footwork, weapons and armor. He watches it all, before he stands upright, correcting his lazy posture. "Some place like this, but very far away." Far indeed, home was another world. The lycan had been banished. Silver hues fixate on Lionel himself ignoring all the others. Head tilts at the comment of a parlor trick. "I'm not sure what you mean?" If the man had been referring to his near shift, well, that was commonplace among the Rosfjorians. They all did it, without shifting. "It's a pretty normal thing where I come from," he husked. Whether that was true or not, is an entirely difficult thing to say. "Why were they attacking you?" The warriors hand waves idely in the direction of the attackers. The outsider was truly that. He had no concept of the recent wars, no idea of Frostmaw and Larkets destruction. Who's side had won. None if it. This had just been another stroll in the park for Eirik.

Lionel shakes his head. "No, no. Not the change. I'm talking about your battle stance. You took that fellow in the arm something fierce." He says it as if dismissing Eirik's other abilities, but in truth he's just as curious about that, too. "Well, I have a bad habit of doing the right thing no matter the occasion. It's gotten me nearly killed more than once." A lesson in prime understatement, this -- Lionel has fought in several wars, gone head-to-head against Dark Immortals, and survived. But this is how he leads. "I'm Queen Hildegarde's right hand around here. Got wind of a drug op, so I pursued. Normally I've got this sword. Ridiculous sword. Fire sword, you see, called Hellfire. It has a trick or two of its own." Another understatement; Hellfire once vanquished hundreds of Elazul's minions in under a minute. "Anyway, I sneaked in. Tried to gather intel. Didn't go as planned." He gestures to the blood in the ice, lifting his hat an placing it snugly upon his head. "Listen, ah, Eirik?" He pauses, mulling him over. "This is going to sound completely left-field. I won't take offense if you laugh and stomp on off. But those moves of yours -- Frostmaw needs them. No, heck, scratch that. Forget Frostmaw, for the moment. -I- need them. There's some real ugly stuff going down in Lithrydel lately. Real ugly. You came to the aid of an unarmed man. Why'd you do it?" He waits.

Eirik nods finally understanding what Lionel meant. So many names which the warrior didn't understand beratting his ears. "My stance?" He nearly laughs then, though Lionel might not find things so funny. "I'm untrained in everything. My only guide, experience. I lose myself to the lust of combat. Sometimes it's too much and I shift. I never back down. I always push forward." He pauses for a moment to allow Lionel to realize the kind of wildcard he truly was. "I'm a Berserker." That is something quite different from the skilled warriors and knights which surround the area. As for the drug op he sighs, what a waste. Seems more then devestation riddles this place. He had seen the state of Larket. Now it seems drug problems existed in Frostmaw. "If you don't mind my tactics, then I've no problem giving aid. I'm here locally." Eirik points down the road, "at the tavern."

Lionel doesn't seem to require much time to process Eirik's explanation. In fact, for a few seconds he seems almost stoic. "I never had any formal training, either," he replies, "and now look at me. Twenty-nine years old, and I've got folks twice my age coming to me for advice on how to land a left hook, how to swing a sword without giving away position. I could tell from watching you, just briefly, you've got it, too." He grins a little bit, but it's an ugly thing on a handsome face for a man who just lost a tooth. "Say, here's a thought." He paces a few steps, turning his back to the lycan, but he produces a sheet of parchment from the chest pocket of his red longcoat. He sends it soaring toward his newfound acquaintance. "Warrior's Guild. We've got spots for every walk of life. If you need coin, we've got it. If you need purpose, we've got it -in spades.- There's no shortage of devastation riddling this realm," he continues, unwittingly repeating the very thoughts which have just recently sprung through the lycan's mind. "That letter will guarantee you a spar to gain entry. Thing is, I just saw you fight." He winks. "So consider that one in-the-books already. Think it over at the tavern. Might be, I'll swing by. Buy you a drink or six. This realm's got problems, Eirik, and I don't mean drugs. I mean ancient evils and emotionally manipulative crystals and despot rulers and kids who live their whole brief lives in destitution because their parents can't afford bread. Wherever you're from, wherever you're going, if any of that stirs you to action, find me." He disappears into the crowd. Eirik's knife has somehow been lodged into the ice right in front of him mid-speech, although nothing in the way Lionel had moved will have revealed that action.

Eirik takes the letter and listens to the speech. He knew nothing about the land, its' politics or countries and people. However, if it promised a fight, Eirik would be there. The knife is plucked from the mound Lionel stuck it in, a half grin besmirching his own gruesome visage. A fur-lined hood pulled up over his white walled head as steps carry the Lycan towards the tavern at Frostmaw. Lionel would be sought. That's for sure. The outsider as well vanishes within the crowds.