RP:Instigation
Part of the Surface Tension Arc
Synopsis: An unidentified, draconion drow provokes a fight on Kelay Way between a squad of drow soldiers from Trist'oth and Hildegarde (Steward of Frostmaw), Krice, and Leone. Seven drow are killed in total. Hildegarde takes the bodies to Xalious for treatment, before returning them to Trist'oth.
Kelay Way
Krice , as always, walked through Kelay without any real purpose to his steps, dressed in his usual black clothing with his katana strapped to his back. The warrior's pace was unhurried, and his attention taken by the intermittent greetings of Kelay's inhabitants, who all knew him relatively well as a 'Mr. Fix-It'. He returned their greetings, some receiving simple nods, others receiving even a small smile, but no one stopped him from his eastward stroll.
Slytheria moves soundlessly through the town. She is not hiding, and though easily seen she is hard to focus upon as if the light and shadows conspire against any who might wish to get a better look. She sees a gathering and pauses, leaning against a wall where some shade offers some little respite against the cursed sun. "Oh look, a minotaur." she says in an amused voice to Teacher.
Leone emerges from the tavern, the nub of a cigar still in hand. The stoogie is not lit, having been snubbed out at some point. The farrier takes the hard step down from the wooden floorboards onto dirt road, the door swinging closed behind her, shutting the cacophony of the bar indoors. The scent of iron lingers on the smith, tracts of opaline flesh shining through a layer of soot and ash, trails blazed with the sweat of toil. A paper bag is clutched in the plover's opposite hand, the top of the sack crumpled together, though the scend of food still bleeds through the paper confines. Whatever the shoer's direction was, it is quickly abandoned. Leading strides come to an abrupt halt, and the petite woman's citrus-hued gaze lingers over the distraught minotaur. Krice's movement is marked, and the peridot orbs swing his way. The smith arches an onyx brow inquiringly, a silent question as to if the swordsman knew what was going on.
Hildegarde ventured from the east, heading westward to presumably return to Xalious or Frostmaw. The knight raised her hand up to her face, grumbling slightly as she touched the fresh cuts across her skin. The bleeding was slowing to a stop, thankfully, but it still stung a little. The Silver thought it’d be best to at least get to her destination before taking a long and proper look at it.
Krice 's nostrils flared slightly in response to the scent of metals on the air, and despite the fact that Leone wasn't the only one to handle such materials, he knew it was her. Those red eyes sought her as she exited the tavern, but his attention her way was short-lived due to Leonti's public suffering. A brief glance was sent Hildegarde's way, given her movements in the east, but ultimately, his focus was ensnared by the metallurgist's questioning look. As they neared each other, he slowed to a halt and offered a bemused shrug. He didn't know what was wrong with the minotaur.
Slytheria is startled by the appearance of the drow squad, and involuntarily the shadows deepen around her until not even the drow vision cannot penetrate it. She waits, Flechettes gripped tightly in her closed fist. They will die if she is noticed she vows inwardly. She looks from the squad to the gathering of people, an idea forming. Perhaps these louts can be of some use to her.
Krice 's nostrils flared slightly in response to the scent of metals on the air, and despite the fact that Leone wasn't the only one to handle such materials, he knew it was her. Those red eyes sought her as she exited the tavern, but his attention her way was short-lived due to Leonti's public suffering. A brief glance was sent Hildegarde's way, given her movements in the east, but ultimately, his focus was ensnared by the metallurgist's questioning look. As they neared each other, he slowed to a halt and offered a bemused shrug. He didn't know what was wrong with the minotaur.
Slytheria is startled by the appearance of the drow squad, and involuntarily the shadows deepen around her until not even the drow vision cannot penetrate it. She waits, Flechettes gripped tightly in her closed fist. They will die if she is noticed she vows inwardly. She looks from the squad to the gathering of people, an idea forming. Perhaps these louts can be of some use to her.
Leone shrugs in response to Krice's shrug, both of them clueless as to the distress consuming the minotaur. The farrier's amused smirk fades slowly as she sees past Krice, over his shoulder to the wounded Hildegarde coming their way. Not a moment is wasted, and the blacksmith sidesteps the swordsman to approach the Steward of Frostmaw. Inhaling a sharp breath, the smith reaches one hand out toward the one-eyed redhead. "Hilde, what happened," the plover exclaims more than questions, "Come, I will heal you." A frown tugs at the shoer's full lips, turning the corners down in a display of consternation.
Leonti looks around abruptly, noticing the crowd forming near himself. he was never much of one for crowds, and getting nervous even more. After the Drunken Fools have taken their turns teasing and taunting the yet young minotaur, aggravating his thirst for their blood even more. he takes a few short breaths. "Remeber..." he murmers to himself, letting visions of his old master's teachings before he passed... "Your just on a visionary quest..." He exhales. Lungs compacted with air gave the minotaur an even more masculine look before they expelled and gave way to his rather lean figure. He looks towards the few that seemed to him as though they were staring... at his broken horn! "Blah! You've come to make fun of me as well?" He states as though he knew for a fact that was the case, "Well, go on then!" He gleams, starting to mimic the Fools from before "Oh, he's lost his horn!", "Probably just another drunk bull-headed punk.", "blah, blah, blah!", "You've people got no honor, nor the smarts to care for it!" He shrugs unwilling to change his beguiled attitude towards the peoples he's seen so forth. "This land is strange... Even if you're a stranger." He sighs as visions of his missionaries from previous lands come back to him.
Hildegarde offers Leone a smile, evidently touched by her concern, only to wince at the motion! The smile had made her flesh uncomfortable and pulled at the wound slightly, adding to the discomfort. “It’s fine, m’lady,” she reassured, “just a companion from The Eyrie being a little out of sorts. We beasts sometimes like to talk with our claws rather than our words,” she grinned, only to wince once again. The gryphon had caught her face rather well. Sparing a moment to glance over the location in general, the knight spies the minotaur who appeared to be in a state of increasing distress and this worries the knight greatly. With a raised hand to Leone and a slight frown, the Steward takes a step towards the minotaur and addresses him, “I do not believe anyone gathered today is here to make fun of you, m’lord, but I do believe they are wondering what could have upset you so. Take a breath, calm yourself. Tell me, what has upset you so?”
Krice 's gaze lingered on the minotaur when Leone moved passed him, but in the next breath, he turned his head to follow the blacksmith's approach of Hildegarde. From his place in front of Leonti, and slightly off to the right, he watched Leone's interaction with the injured steward--whose injuries did not seem to concern him; she was, after all, up and moving--for the taunts of the fools drew his ear. Looking over at Leonti and the drunken idiots, it was with a cool, level voice that he directed the latter: " Take a walk." Despite their drunken bravado, the foolish men stumbled off, leaving the minotaur to his own misery. Whilst Leone busied herself with Hildegarde, Krice addressed the emotionally disheveled four-legged male. " Stop complaining," he said.
Leone smiles gently toward Hildegarde, allowing the Silver to pass her by without further accosting. The smith's head is given a shake, causing the smattering of silver shards along her hairline to glisten like tinsel. Edging back over toward Krice, the farrier observes Hildegarde's interaction with the evidently hallucinating minotaur. For the moment, at least, the blacksmith would remain quiet.
Leonti shrugs watching the women starting to aid his tempered situation. As he calms down he looks to the redhead and smiles, reaching big hairy arms around her and hugging her tightly, "Gragh!" He groans lifting her up and swinging her from side to side, assuming she doesn't have the time to react. "I'm just new to the area." He says with a sigh letting her back down by the same area he picked her up from, only maybe with a little more frizzled hair and a few strands of his own shedding brown coating. He laughs and snarls, "Thankfully you people," he eyes the others with a nod and sly smile given to each, "got here in time... I've have done something I may regret..." He pats her on the head a few times with a wide grin knowingly, but playfully messing her hair up more. He looks toward Leone, "You must know what I mean, get caught up in everything around you, you sometimes lose track of who or what you stand for."\
Hildegarde would not be Captain of the Queen’s Guard, nor Steward of Frostmaw, if she weren’t a little bit lightfooted and expectant of attacks or movements at any given moment. As Leonti’s arms reach out, the knight steps back – confident she will not trip or find her footing obscured – and out of the minotaur’s reach. Not that she’s not a friendly sort, but possibly being grabbed by a distress minotaur is not something she wants to do. Even as he attempts to pat her head, the knight rears her head back a little bit to avoid the contact. “Perhaps you should not listen to the taunts of drunken people,” she cautioned gently, “nor should you let them rile your temper.” For all her armour, the Silver is a tad quicker than she looks.
Slytheria strikes as the drow move past the group. A strike from seemingly nowhere, a blade flying through the air and ripping through the neck of a drow walking close to Krice. The drow falls to the ground choking upon it's own filthy blood. The entire squad turns, at the sound to see the surfacers standing over their dying comrade. They draw weapons cooly, vengeance in their eyes as they advance upon all in the area. Slytheria herself slides deeper into the shadows, watching closely as the drow attack.
Krice didn't watch Leone as she approached him, likely because he was busy watching Hildegarde and Leonti. What an odd... interaction. He looked as though he could barely tolerate the minotaur's behaviour, given his distinct lack of anything warm or welcoming toward the creature. He had little time to dwell on anything happening in front of him, however, for a dagger zipped through the air to embed in the throat of a passing drow, which of course drew the focus of the group he was with. Awesome. The warrior turned, just enough to look back into the shadows from whence that dagger was thrown, but it was the drow group's approach of -his- group that earned and held his focus. He stepped forward, -toward- the squad, and lifted his left hand to the hilt of his back-mounted katana. Pausing just outside their reach, with his crimson gaze fixed on the drow male who appeared the most dominant--and thus, who was the leader--he said, " Your attacker hides in the shadows like a coward. Leave us."
Leonti chuckles as the girl backs off, "Ya know what!? Yer right!" He states smacking the rock sits by, "I shall follow yer advice M'Lady, you seem to know best. He gives a bow of appreciation showing his filed down horns to a greater extent, which in his culture was a syble of amicable pacifism while entering the monk livelihood.
Leone shrinks back as the cavalcade of drow approach where she stands by Krice; the smith was certainly no combatant. The swordsman's words elicit a sharp inhalation from the blacksmith, the intake of air held expectantly. A frantic glance is thrown toward the dragoness and the minotaur, the gemlike sights flitting between the predicament that the Steward is in, and that of the plover's own immediate peril. Imperceptably, even under the canopy of the tree-lined city, a crimson aura begins to emanate from the shoer.
Hildegarde, sensing the urgency of their current predicament, turns away from the minotaur to face the group of Drow assassins. “You are not fools, you can see that none of us gathered here were in a position or stance to throw a knife at you,” she moved slightly towards Krice and Leone; perhaps more towards the non-combatant plover than the swordsman. “Take your dead and honour him through your rites. Seek out the true hostile, not the people gathered here.”
Slytheria watches Krice's interaction and the drow turn towards her but see nothing, for her shadows fool even their vaunted vision. It was then that a drow furthest back moved across Hildegarde's shadow, a shadow that suddenly reaches up the man's leg and then rips downward. The drow's cry of pain and eruption of blood causes all to turn, only to find their comrade falling and all those near covered in deep red. Attacked seemingly from all sides, they ask no further questions and unleash their blades upon all who are not drow.
Krice had tried diplomacy, even allowed Hildegarde a moment to try hers, but diplomacy always failed when attempted with lesser species - whose understanding of right and wrong were warped by some twisted ideal or another. The death of a second drow did not draw his gaze, for he would have had to look behind him to notice - given that Hilde was not immediately in front of him. As such, his focus remained fixed on the group of drow left over. When they rushed in to attack, he rushed forward, taking the more dominant male. The rest were left to Hildegarde. Krice's intention obviously was to sever the head of the squad with the hope that he could at least -lessen- their will to fight. They were drow, however, and drow had proven to him time and again just how easily they could take up a blade in their own 'honour' if leadship was absent. A twist of the wrist freed his sword from its sheathe and he swung it down, the pristine steel curving through warm evening air to clash with the serrated edge of the leader's dagger. Krice readjusted, guiding his katana off the smaller blade before he swung it back in, seeking the dark flesh of the drow behind it. He met his mark, fresh blood spurting out from the drow's heart to rain across the warrior's steel; like a grape, or water-filled balloon, popping under pressure. He received a knick to his wrist from the drow's dagger, but it was shallow and did not seem to bother him. As the dark-skinned male hit the earth, Krice pivoted to track the progression of the others left over, his gaze passing fleetingly over Leone before he engaged in battle with another. His movements were swift, succinct, far too clean and accurate to belong to a mere mortal.
Slytheria erupts from the shadows, her great wings launching her into the fray. In her hands is a simple staff, and as she hurls towards the battle it becomes something more. Shadows flow down it's surface like water until it is as black as it's wielder's heart, and upon each end forms a serrated blade. In her hands it seems weightless, and it seems even the drow armor hinders it not. In a heartbeat two drow are down, one clutching a bloody stump where his sword hand once was and the other's neck was cleanly sliced through. Intending to continue her sweep, she does not see the third drow leaping through the air until it is too late. The two collide and both go down, rolling and struggling for dominance in the dirt of Kelay Way.
Leone mummbles "Forgive me," toward Hildgarde before reaching forward, two fingers seeking to swipe a swathe of blood from the injured dragon's face. If she were successful in procuring some of the drying ichor, the priestess would set to work fast, where a series of runes would be quickly written across her arm, the holy emblems thereafter imbued with divine magic, flaring brightly with amber light. As if in synch, the blacksmith's subtle aura expands to engulf the area. It falls just outside the heels of the drow, the attacking enemy. The luminous bubble will cause uncertainty, even fear, in the drowic squad, and those who do not run will find themselves unable to attack with any amount of confidence or prowess. The farrier's allies, her friends, on the other hand, should remain unaffected.
Hildegarde is irritated to see so much combat all at once. Indeed, she is more irritated to know that someone has instigated this and attempted to use this group of people as a means of destruction and death. But the knight must move quickly, if she wishes to survive the assassination squad. Indeed, she has no desire to bloody her hands thanks to the foolish actions of another, but life has ways of putting us in these situations! Without hesitation, the knight springs forward and twists her body with a dancer’s grace; halberd turning with her to gain momentum as it sliced through the leg of one drow – who had came out from beyond the treeline, his latrine break disturbed with the outcry of a battle – only to quickly push the spearpoint of the halberd down through his throat and swiftly end his life. The knight glances to Krice: he can handle himself, but there is no harm in assessing his situation for any damage or assistance required. As for Slytheria, the knight stares at her and her struggle, commenting to Krice, “Our shadow dweller, it seems.”
Krice flicked his sword out to the side, excess blood slipping free of the steel to splatter on the earth below. As that holy aura fell over the area, the warrior looked up and then down, as if tracking its descent upon the combatants. When it landed, the remaining drow who tussled with Slytheria certainly seemed affected. Krice himself, being -not- a drow, seemed without fear or unease, but his shoulders hunched as if the aura had been a cloak, visibly weighing down his shoulders. With only one drow remaining, fighting with the shadow-creature who had created this mess, the warrior stood down, turning his katana behind him in a reverse-grip with the blade nicely out of the way, aligned with his spine, and he spoke to Hilde a dismissive, " Let them fight it out. With any luck, they'll kill each other." He appeared slightly irritated.
Leone gives a relieved sigh as the combat appears to come to an end, though a glance is thrown to the prepared runes on her sleeve. A small shrug ripples through the farrier's shoulders, and she takes a step forward, toward the stilled Hildegarde. Should the Steward remain still, the smith would roll her forearm over the dragon's back, transferring the Queensguard's own blood, now formed and activated, back onto the halberd bearer's armor. Provided the effect was not fought, the holy inscription would ease any pain and fatigue the Silver might be experiencing. The mystical alleviation will remain until the ichorous stamp is scrubbed clean. Since the bloody sigils not yet dried, the plover turns to look at Krice, sizing up the weight that seems to have fallen over the swordsman in the interim. Deciding that the silver-haired male did not look like a godly man, the smith instead drops the divinely enchanted arm to her side.
Slytheria found herself tangled with the drow, who seemed determined to survive at her expense. She was the stronger, but the man had the advantage. His blade lost in the collision, he resorted to pummeling her with fists and elbows leaving the draconian dazed though still struggling. His head finally drives down, shattering her nose and causing her to cry out in pain. At his mercy, she seemed destined for death as he drew from his boot a knife. He raises it to strike at her breast, and then Leone's magics seem to finally effect the man. His hesitation is slight, but it is enough. Slytheria lifts her bloodied face and buries it into the drow's exposed neck. she bites, her sharp predator's teeth sink into soft flesh. Blood runs down her face, her armor, and finally drips into the dry ground beneath them. She shakes and then stands, pulling the dying man's hair without releasing his neck. The wet ripping sound cuts the air, and she tosses aside his now-dead carcass. She spits the flesh she had taken to the ground and without another word lifts from the ground and glides soundlessly to the east.
Hildegarde watched as Slytheria lifted from the ground and glided to the east, finding a little bit of anger welling within her. A dragon. She hated to see her own kind so foolishly endanger themselves, to so foolishly sully the public opinion on them. Such rampages is what led to the hunting of her kind! With a huff, the knight stays still for Leone to draw the divine runes upon the back of her chestplate, grunting out a ‘thank you’.
Krice took a brief glance at his surroundings. That whiny little minotaur was gone. Good riddance. As Leone approached Hildegarde, he glanced toward the metallurgist and watched as she transferred some sort of enchanted healing upon the woman. Those red eyes shifted to Leone's face once more, staring at her thoughtfully, and in that time she would be given a glimpse of weakness behind the strength seconds-ago displayed. Her lowered arm seemed to elicit some sort of gratitude in the man's expression, before he blinked his attention away as Slytheria dispatched her own assailant. As the shadow-creature drifted away, the silver-haired man looked down at the carcass she left in her wake. He sighed, those eyes falling shut before he looked down at the cut on his wrist. Hardly a bother. Turning his arm forward and up, he angled his katana back into its sheath, and twisted it one inch to the right, locking it in place. Without another moment's hesitation, the warrior turned to walk away from the group. He sought the shadows, moving southward out of view.
Leone allows the enciteful aura to ebb; there were no more enemies left. As the membranous sphere recedes, the priestess catches Krice's stare. A pang of regret flickers over the blacksmith's features, her mouth curving downward while the lime-hued sights seem to ask for forgiveness. There was guilt there, evident in plover's demeanor. An absent nod is given to the Steward, confirmation that she was always more than happy to help the redhead. The farrier watches the swordsman leave, but she does not go after him. Instead, the blacksmith turns toward Hildegarde, raising both hands in pursuit of the guard's face. "Let me look at those, then. We'll patch you up quickly."
Hildegarde was still stewing over the through of the ‘shadow lurker’ being a dragon, a member of her own species who had caused so much trouble, that she didn’t realise it was Leone who was reaching for her face. As the hand touched her face, the dragon offered a rumbling growl before allowing her face to soften with sudden worry and embarrassment, “I’m sorry, Leone, I did not mean to… to make such an unsightly sound at you, my friend.” The Silver sighed gently, “I ought to do something about those bodies.”
Leone looks kindly upon the Silver, even through the growl. The smith sets to work, fingers splaying gently over the steward's face, the pad of a digit located below as many of the larger cuts and scrapes as she could reach. The healing is sudden and resonant, a whip of white that curls forth from the cleric's wrists, writhes along the breadth and length of her hands before finally lashing down each of her fingers and subsequently slipping over the surface of Hildegarde's face. The wound knitting would be gradual, though any remaining bloodflow is staved immediately. "Don't pick," the blacksmith says of the scabs that were sure to soon form. Another glimpse is thrown toward the south, in the direction Krice had disappeared. "We are friends," the farrier corrects the Steward, "But I've never told him about my former occupation. There's never a good time to say such things in the course of conversation, and I'm not fond of rehashing it - nor all of the questions that come with the admission."
Hildegarde offered a little smile at the command not to pick the scabs, “I shall try my best not to, but scabs tend to itch,” she retorted, but not in a mean way. Just in a friendly way. “Well, so long as everything is all right, then I am happy with it. I would not like to see you sad, my friend,” she said it quite seriously, too. With a look to the bodies, the knight sighed softly, “If I see that dragon again… god’s above…” she shook her head. This was frustrating. “I must write to Tiphareth,” she said with certainty. “Let him know this rogue force incited a fight amongst his men and tried to have them kill us. Perhaps he will wish to stop the dragon.”
Leone pass from lit to quelled in a moment, as if a brisk wind had simply swept all of the godly energies from her person. A nod is given to Hildegarde's concern, along with a gentle smile that accompanied a reassuring pat to the dragon's shoulder. "I am fine, I just hate disappointing people so," the farrier responds, thereafter falling silent to listen to the Steward's words. After Hildegarde has finished speaking, it is again the plover's turn, the petite woman piping up with, "In the meantime, I will help you clean up. What should we do with the corpses?"
Hildegarde looked down at the bodies, gently pressing her halberd down into the earth so it would stand without her assistance. “We will return them to the Underdark’s Patron,” she said, “as is only right. Tiphareth and Frostmaw is, after all, allied through the bonds of the Mage’s Guild.” The Silver sighed, moving over to grasp a dead drow by the ankles so she might pull them all to one central spot. “I will write a letter, explaining exactly what happened here and what I saw of who started this incident. I shall also promise my assistance in this incident, for these men had done nothing but wander by… that is not an action that deserves death.”
Leone nods solemnly toward Hildegarde's solution. A moment's consideration is given toward the scattered bodies and their number before the diminutive smith speaks up. "Oh, a moment. I will go borrow a wheelbarrow," the farrier asserts, no action taken until the idea is given approval by the Steward.
Hildegarde shook her head, “No. I will not have said that these men were piled into some wheelbarrow as if they were… they were manure,” she grumbled, “we will cover them first, if we must. I do not like it though… I swear, I’d rather find who did this and have them apprehended.” With a sigh, the knight unclipped the cloak from around her shoulders, laying it flat upon the ground and placing each body on the cloak; wrapping the bodies up in its length. “I’ll take them to Xalious. Their bodies can be treated in the mage’s tower by any mages of the flesh, then they can be returned.”
Leone gives the Steward a sigh, and a begruding nod of assent. "Very well, then," the farrier says, helping to lift and carry the bodies toward Hildegarde, though it's quite evident that the blacksmith would rather drag them. A scowl mars the plover's features, the normally shining, pale green sights turned downward in near-disgust. "I understand your diplomacy, but I do not like these beings. I still harbor a grudge because of the wounds delivered upon Emi," the shoer grumbles with abject honesty.
Hildegarde shook her head, “No one deserves to die, Leone,” she frowned before just sighing softly. “It’s fine. I understand that not many people like the drow, everyone has their reasons as to why they dislike a person. But… they did nothing but pass us by, Leone, someone struck them and they defended their own and died doing so. It’s frustrating is all.”
Leone purses her lips, rebuttal imminent on the caramel tiers. Moments pass, and more bodies are shuffled. Still, no verbal riposte comes, the blacksmith biting her tongue to hold words of spite in defense of their mutual friend. Once the corpses have been assembled, the farrier starts to grasp at corners of the cloak. "I will help you carry them to the tower. I'm afraid that's as much use as I can be."
Hildegarde looked at Leone, realising that the woman was keeping quiet for a specific purpose. “I apologise, Leone,” she said gently, “I just… I don’t know,” she sighed. She wanted to avoid death and fighting, yet it seemed to follow her about all the time. “You needn’t help me, Leone. I understand if you don’t want to,” she said, grasping at the other corners of the cloak. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Leone begins to move the makeshift stretcher toward the Xalious region, as if urging Hilde on to where the mage tower stood. "I'm not offended, Hildegarde. I'm insensed. Angry. But not at you," the farrier finally says with resignation. "Death is inevitable, and I am not one to determine who should or should not meet it. Death is an equalizer," the blacksmith states grimly.
Hildegarde offered Leone a grim smile, “I think I much prefer when we chat over food or business than… this,” she said, as if trying to make the mood a little lighter. That said, the knight plods onwards towards Xalious. The bodies would be deposited in the care of the Mages, who could appropriately dress and care for the corpses as Hilde wrote a letter to the Patron.
Leone follows along silently behind Hildegarde. The dinner invitation, though not outright in offering, was noted, and would be collected at a later date. Once the pair reaches the mage tower, the blacksmith lingers only long enough to heft the corpses into place so that the mages might begin their process, as instructed by Hildegarde. Departing for other activities, the blacksmith gives the Steward and gentle smile, along with a promise of another - preferrably less eventful - meeting soon.