RP:Into The Lion's Den

Part of the Do You Believe In Magic? Arc

Summary: Pilar and DomiBrand meet up with Lionel and get down to business to defeat the Huns. No. Wait. The dragon. Yes. The dragon.

Frostmaw Fort Main Room

Routine is a foreign and dangerous word in Lionel O'Connor's estimation. To settle into comfort of any sort would feel akin to turning his back to the Lithrydelians entirely; to attune himself toward a cycle of daily events would lower his guard against the myriad of unknown factors presently haunting the perennially troubled realm. Routine, to Lionel, is inherently a method of relaxation, and relaxation, to Lionel, is what destroyed Catal, gave Elazul chance to murder his wife, and so much else besides. It is painful to him, thus, that routine is what he has found in the months since his return. On this particular occasion, routine means rising before dawn, running his latest recruits near to chest-bursting through the training yards, breaking his fast on a meal of ham and potatoes more lavish in texture and taste than he'd prefer, and then treating with shrewd-tongued political opportunists of many shapes and sizes. Currently he is wrapping up a stiflingly bland meeting with a collection of Frostmawian merchants dressed in velvety robes he'd sooner see cut into blankets to warm refugees. Their requests are patently absurd and he's spared no expense in dishing out the cynical remarks which in his youth had flavored his every sentence. "This is going nowhere," he mutters, stepping wayward of the puffed-up money barons in their posh red velvet and their uniformly absurdist mustaches and their baleful distrustful glares. "I don't know how in hell's name I wound up shepherding you idiots, but I've had enough of your snide insinuations." Before they can so much as wail, he cuts them off with a wave of the left index finger. "I should go." And go Lionel does. He's halfway down the hall with the merchants squealing like so many pigs. "You can't do this!" One man protests. "The queen will hear of this!" A woman threatnes. "You were in charge of our satisfaction! We have legitimate business concerns!" Lionel shakes his head, unbuttoning his stuffy silk dress shirt with its flashy regalia. "I'm in charge of nothing," he replies from afar, "but assisting in the livelihood of the people I serve. Today, that task is better sought after anywhere but here." It won't be the first time Lionel is chastised by others in the government for blowing off courtly obligation. It won't be the last. His boots clank upon the cold stone floor as he heads for the door, intent upon doing something he's better-suited toward. Like hitting things with a sword, perhaps.

Pilar threw open the door to the room, having been informed by the guard that the man she and her companions sought was within. "Sir Lionel!" she called, "we need to speak with you!" Her uncharacteristic forwardness evaporated when she noticed the large crowd already gathered. And they were all glaring at her now. "Um..." She ducked behind DomiBrand.

The schismed Catalian had spent much of the trip here in a thoughtful silence. Even with Brand out in his nearly opaque illusion form, it was easier for him and Dominic to confer with one another internally, to discuss what might be said and by whom and then pass along their consensus to Pilar. But of course no sooner had they reached Lionel and the angered merchants than those plans took flight, straight out through the arrowslits that pocked the walls on either side. Dominic flinched at the unexpected mob and shrank further into Brand’s arms; Brand rolled his eyes and dropped his younger counterpart to the floor, leaving Dominic to limp through the pain of a sprained ankle and pull Pilar back to where she’d be visible, a reassuring hand wrapped around her forearm. Brand, for his part, broke into a grin that was almost disquieting in its broadness. “Can’t say as I thought I’d ever be seein’ you again, frankly.” Green eyes scanned from Lionel to the throng behind him. The projection’s smile dimmed to a knowing grimace. “You’ve got bigger dragons to slay’n this lot.” After their previous encounter all those months ago, Brand had Lionel figured better than to bother framing it as a request. Or maybe he just didn’t have the patience for niceties and groveling for favors, even from those far more renowned than he. “Every gorram bit as vile though, I’m afraid.”

Lionel still wants to hit things with a sword. It's fitting, then, perhaps, that as these newfound guests arrive, one of them talks of slaying. It all happens so quickly -- Pilar's arrival and near-instant request, the merchants and their further scowls, the familiar male faces that follow with their pointed trademark Catalian features. In a customarily straightforward, if trite, reply, the first thing out of the commander's mouth is "what?" He blinks, then blinks again, seemingly sizing up the not-translucent Brand, and then he cocks his head to the side, thoroughly ignoring whatever nonsense the irate red-robed fellows behind him. "Oh, yeah," he says at last, nodding as events from months past return to his mind. The fact that he and Brand could bring a ship full of slavers to explode into a charred wooden husk and Lionel would need time to even recall the event speaks volumes to the man's endlessly adventurous life. "Right back at you," he answers in recognition of his countryman, having long since figured he'd not see these two again, either. And yet... something doesn't entirely add up, here. Somehow, these two both seem like one of the Catalians that Lionel had helped free that night. The simplest explanation is doubtless the truth, he soon presumes; surely, they're just two separate Catalians. There were at least a dozen, after all. Yes, that must be it. All this time, Lionel is visibly perplexed, and all this time, he ignores the merchants. "Let's talk outside," he suggests. "None of us will survive so much wailing." He opens the door into the snow-patched courtyard, fetching an apple from a wandering maidservant as he does. After two ample bites, he finally says something that matters. "What dragon?"

Pilar steadied Dominic, allowing him to lean on her to take weight off his injury. She helped him outside, remaining silent. Part of her was still mad at them (and yes, Linn too) for leaving Khitti behind. She was already straining to keep her emotions in check, she feared if she spoke to either of them she would be... less than cordial. She directed her words to Lionel instead. "Raiez. She's got my friend, and I don't know how many others. Please, help us save her... Save them."

“Only one other,” corrected Dominic, a pained and apologetic gaze fixed on Pilar even as he turned to address Lionel. “Raiez was keeping a great number of mages in captivity, but... m-most of us were able to escape. Most of us.” Here, Brand interjected, leaning in close to the other blonde Catalian. “Catch is, they’re both vampires. So assumin’ they’re alive --” Brand’s expression briefly darkened, indicating he assumed otherwise, “-- Raiez must be challenged with them safely out of harm’s way. The blood’s toxic to them, or so I keep hearin’.” With tilted head, Brand’s line of sight drew to Pilar, seeking something in her expression that would confirm his most recent statement. “I can probably handle that part if it’s needed, but takin’ on a dragon’s a whole ‘nother matter.” The man stepped away to lean against the nearest wall, twisting his neck with a hand to the tendons as if there were a soreness he couldn’t rid himself of. Ridiculous, of course. Illusions couldn’t feel pain or stiffness, right? Darting eyes fleetingly shot Dominic’s way, and the younger male moved subtly to stretch in a similar manner; the tension in Brand’s pose eased almost immediately.

"Aw, geez," Lionel says. If the full weight of the situation has dawned upon him, he's doing his best to conceal it. There's something off here, the man assesses; one of these Catalians doesn't seem all there, so-to-speak, and yet somehow, it's not the one with the mild case of transparency. Lionel sighs, stashing what's left of his apple in a pouch which hangs from his right shoulder. Littering is bad, after all. "This," he starts, "is my relieved face." In actuality, his face hasn't changed at all, or if it has, it's only by a hint, and it's probably got more to do with having escaped the bureaucracy. "The queen sent a general order to find kidnapped mages. My own investigations were sparse; not long after I heard the news, other issues popped up, as issues are wont to pop." He scratches his cheek absentmindedly. "Alright. Three things. One. These prisoners of this dragon's, what are their names?" Apparently, the bygone prince isn't bothering with the word 'Raiez.' "Two. Where is this all going down?" He snaps his finger. At first, the action appears random, but within a few short seconds, an armor-clad woman with hair the color of autumn's reddening leaves approaches the group, bows respectfully, and perks a brow. "Three. You'll be my guests for the remainder of the day as I gather together a small squadron, starting with this gallant and curiously tall woman. It's too frakking cold outside and you look too frakking tired for travel by nightfall." Lionel eyes Brand. "Well, two of you look tired, anyway. You look positively limitless, although you've got a... bit of..." He squints. "Um, like, air, going through you, or... something."

Pilar allowed Dominic and Brand to answer Lionel's questions. They knew more. But she was not pleased with having to wait. "I'm not tired," she said. It was only half true, however. Physically, she was fine, but mentally she was drained. All these turbulent emotions were taking their toll. Sleep would do her good. But, she didn't want to leave Khitti to rot for another minute.

“Oh,” said Brand, flatly. Another glance was passed to Dominic, a furrowed, ‘is he for real right now?’ before he turned back to his countryman. “Yeah. It does that sometimes.” Was the famed Lionel really going to be enough for this task, Dominic wondered? Raiez’s magic was strong, and this man didn’t even seem to recognize an incompletely conceived illusion when it was right in front of -- wait. No, Brand, what are you doing? Brand, no. Brand, please -- ah, blazes. “Uh, i-it’s, uh, I only know the name of one of them, sir,” stammered Dominic, clumsily attempting to draw Lionel’s attention onto himself and away from his rogue shadow. All through Dominic’s monologue, Brand was slithering to Lionel’s side, attempting to wrest what was left of his apple from out of his bag. “K-Khitti. Khatherine von Schreier. And another redheaded vampiress, a lightning mage.” He vaguely remembered Khitti telling him she’d met this man before, but he couldn’t recall if she’d mentioned it being a good meeting or a bad one, and now he could only scramble for words and hope for the best. “The cave is, uh, more or less on the borders of frostmaw, near a lake. We could try to go back in the way we came out, but I suspect she’ll have that blocked or otherwise be watching it. S-so it may be best for us to try to find another way in. I … I believe there was one through the lake, since Raiez often entered and left the cave through a pool in her den.” Assuming Brand was successful in his fruit heist, the apple’s core quickly vanished down his illusory gullet, and he retreated with a prideful smirk at his reluctant co-conspirator. Lionel… do you know illusions love apples?

Never has Lionel ever had cause to worry over his apples. Is it the trappings of a sheltered life? One real look at Lionel's saga would suggest otherwise. And yet, Lionel is oblivious to the final fate of the apple that catches Brand's eye. No, 'tis not for a lack of perception that the man misses the down-gullet half-fruit. In the beginning, Lionel was on the run. For years and years, the child was barely one step ahead of his despotic pursuers. His arrival in Lithrydel at the age of 15 quickly trained him in battlefield tactics aplenty. He's fought in wars, he's fought archdemons. He knows how to keep an eye on apples. It isn't for Brand that this victory is won. It is Dominic's dominance entirely. A certain occasion widens Lionel's azure eyes -- and that occasion is the naming of one Khatherine. That name is a troubling one for the man. It may even be troubling for his writer, if we're permitting a single stroke of meta-analysis. "Nine hells, each of them hotter than the last." It's all the Catalian can think to say. "Khitti." Literally Khitti. The remainder of the plan is suitably overheard, although one might struggle to recognize Lionel's comprehension because his left fist is clenched and his breathing is somewhat erratic. "I can't even..." Surely, there were more words planned for that sentence. The damage is done, but like a proper failure of a pseudo-scoundrel, the fellow assumes a better posture and clears his throat. When next he speaks, his voice is forcibly stronger. "Right. Well. Nothing for it then. We'll rescue them and be home for supper." Who is he kidding, anyway? But then he says something borderline useful. "We don't need to settle for the same old entrances. There ought to be something I can blow up. We'll use a small force as a distraction, but..." He tilts to the auburn-haired warrior beside him, oddly quiet all this time. She rolls her eyes. Lionel has a way with women. "The way in is through. Trust."

"We have to go soon," Pilar said. "Every moment we waste standing around is another moment they could be killed." If they were even still alive. She had been so hopeless, so despondent, but now that they had a chance to find them, she wanted to go, and now.

Dominic shifted uncomfortably, wringing his hands. “Believe me, sir Lionel, Pilar, I want nothing more than to go in there right this very moment, b-but, uh --” Brand interjected, sparing Dominic from agonizing to find the right words. “-- But it ain’t gonna work that easy or we’d already be back there. Far’s I can figure, we get one shot at this if even that, an’ I’m not gonna have us frak it up by runnin’ in with a plan all half-assed.” A pointed glance was shot Dominic’s way; getting kidnapped to rescue Khitti from within was Dominic’s Plan A, and it had of course failed massively. Each had plenty of cause to blame the other for their present Khitti-less predicament. “That gorram dragon’s gonna have gone overboard on protective spells, you mark my words. Warning spells, so she’ll know we’re comin’ even if she’s not at home. Spells to prevent gettin’ that jar open, from within or without. Spells to trap us for attempting a rescue, to make us lose our way, or kill us. Even if they’re dead, she’s still gonna want revenge. We’re talking about a -dragon-, for frak’s sake. A dragon mage. We need a raiding party of combat mages and warriors and healers and someone who can dispel powerful magic like hers, not this ragtag band of …” Here, Brand too faltered, eventually tossing a frustrated hand into the air, “whatever you’d call us.” Those emerald eyes moved to pierce Lionel now, as Brand stepped too close into the space ahead of the fabled Catalian. “You’ve got assets like that here, right kid? How many people can you mobilize given a few days’ notice? A week's? We’ll have to combine your resources with any of the escaped mages willin’ to go back there -- which I suspect will be few, without a substantial bribe -- and make sure they’re all apprised of the layout and the potential threats and can work together cohesively. An’ if we go with that plan of a distraction team, we may also need someone who can facilitate communication between that and the main team. A telepath? Vampires with a blood link?” Well then. Clearly Brand had been stewing on strategies for a while.

Lionel takes occasion to rub his eyes free from their tiredness as Brand interjects. It's not that Dominic and Pilar are wrong; heavens know the hero would rather head in straightaway. In the old days, that's precisely what he'd have done, but upon considerable -- and considerably painful -- reflection, he's realized how many lives he could have spared with a proper bit of planning. That's on him, and whoever these people are, their deaths won't be. Nor Khitti's, for that matter. It's well and true that this is what races through his mind alongside the track of tactics Brand puts forth. He has an answer, but it's the red-haired woman beside him, her face expressively startled -- by her own decisive interjection, perhaps? -- who speaks up. "We have much of what you seek," she tells Brand, as Lionel lofts a brow. "Presently, our legion comprises twelve warriors skilled in either blade or battle ax, four mages trained in the arts of elemancy and foe-weakening, three healers cut from cloth not so far off from what one would expect in a royal academy, and several dwarves of suspect reliability who can, if nothing else, be used as live bait." Lionel clears his throat. "Christina," he admonishes her, "the dwarves -- and most of our complement -- will not be leaving Frostmaw. But," he says to Brand and Dominic and Pilar now, "expect several well-suited soldiers in the field alongside us. Of that you have my word. Damn if it isn't cold outside, though. Christina, please be a doll and inform our aforementioned dwarves to set quarters for three extra guests. I'll catch you on the flipside." Who the hell says that? Who the hell ever says that? The woman's eyes might have rolled inward in their sockets, if such a thing were even possible. "Do it yourself, damn it. And how many times have I told you? My name is not Christina." Lionel pretends to have disappeared before the woman's steadfast refusal. He does a good job pretending, too, but in the end, he is the one who informs the dwarves.