RP:Into the Maw of the Dragon
Part of the Surface Tension Arc
Synopsis: Injured after their attempt to distract and draw Gevurah away from the Underdark, Hildegarde returns to Frostmaw carrying a badly wounded Lyros. The two land in the wintry colosseum, and Hildegarde's cries of pain and anguish soon attract the City of War's citizens to the stranded pair. Arriving alongside healers from the city, Krice ventures with Lyros into the Silver's jaws to remove a metal disc lodged in the roof of her mouth. Shortly after, Linn finds himself in the arena to investigate the scene.
Hidden Mountaintop Colosseum
An anguished roar permeates Frostmaw, seemingly resonating from the Colosseum.
Hildegarde had roared with pain when her body collapsed into the Colosseum, resulting in a rough and bumpy landing. Of course, her taloned and scaly hand had curled in on itself a little more, to protect the drow who rested within her palm that little bit more. But once they had fallen still, he had escaped from the confines of her palm and made his way up the length of her body and to her massive head. As his hands brushed over her stained scales, she made a low noise; that noise the big wounded animals make that make you feel sorry for them. Her mouth is slightly ajar, as if she’s breathless but in truth she can’t quite close it. Indeed, she can hardly speak a word given the present state of her mouth and the circular saw that had wedged itself into the roof of her mouth. The dragon groaned lowly at Lyros, her scaly head nudging very gently to the side as if to lend him some kind of comfort.
Krice came rushing into the colosseum ahead of a few others, responding to the call of their injured Steward. Such a sound was familiar to them, sadly, in these times of war; they advanced without hesitation as the loud cry of pain filled the icy air. Whilst bystanders lingered away from the fallen dragon and drow, shocked and concerned at least for the former, the silver-haired man rushed ahead, familiar with Hildegarde, vaguely-so with Lyros, and slowed once near enough for her to hear him. He called her name, his tone harbouring hints of concern but still calm as was his nature. Hands held out, the warrior expressed that he was no threat to either injured combatant, though his caution was aimed more toward the large, injured dragon than the much smaller drow; Hildegarde could do him great damage if she landed a blow in mindless self-defence. Approaching slowly, Krice observed the condition of -both- Lyros and Hildegarde, but the glint of distant light reflecting off something within the dragon's mouth drew his focus. He squinted, slouched just a touch to angle his gaze better, and subsequently caught sight of the saw embedded in the flesh of Hilde's palette. After a quiet grimace, the man spoke to the injured Steward, "Hilde, just stay calm. You're among friends." Along with the bystanders came some of Frostmaw's lower-ranked healers, not nearly the status of Leone the High Priestess but still efficient in their work. The warrior reached out behind him to stay them with an outstretched palm, just until he was certain that Hildegarde would not unwittingly retaliate against them. "I need to pull that blade from your mouth." Diverting his gaze to Lyros, Krice redirected his hand toward the drow and said, "I'll help you down." All he needed to do was take hold of the warrior's hand.
Lyros' brows draw together in a deep frown when Hildegarde answers him with that awful sound. Something, an emotion akin to guilt, plays across his expression but it is muted beneath the shadow of anger clouding his features like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. He hadn't expected her to take her oath as literally as this - to spill her blood to spare him from shedding his. Despite her best efforts, the mage is injured; though the gash across his back has stopped bleeding, the stab wound in his right side still oozes sticky, half-congealed liquid. "Hilde— why the hell...? I'm not—" Fingers curl against the Silver's scales as he dips his head to press his cheek lightly against the side of her face, muttering in a voice low and anguished, "I'm not worth this." From that angle, he's able to see between her open jaws, and the drow blinks upon catching sight of a glimmering object embedded in the roof of her mouth, immediately pushing himself back upright as a soft gasp catches in his throat. The disc. He'd seen Gevurah throw it at the dragon once more, dimly from the corner of his eyes as he'd stared up at a darkening sky. And she'd flown all the way back to Frostmaw like this? "Your mouth, I— open your mouth, Hilde, we have to...get that out." As he speaks, Lyros becomes aware of approaching footsteps and instinctively braces himself for a fight, his battered body tensing as he turns to glare daggers at those arriving. He quickly realises they are here to provide aid, however, answering the call of the Steward of Frostmaw; and, most importantly, there is a familiar face to be found among the crowd. Lyros meets Krice's approach with a prickly exterior, an aura that seems to warn, 'Don't get too close,' though both maleficar and silver dragon are weary and covered in blood. "...Krice," he greets with apprehension, eyeing that hand in askance before reluctantly reaching to grasp it, his grip slick with blood. He'll allow the warrior to pull him to his feet, but his legs are clearly having trouble holding his weight at all, the drow's balance uneasy, dizzy. Bracing himself against Hildegarde, he tries to reach into her mouth to pull the disc free.
Hildegarde’s spiked tail thumps against the earth like an angry cat as someone else approaches with a gathering of people, a deep rumble beginning at the back of her throat as if in warning not to come any closer. A dragon was like any other beast, they were far more dangerous when they felt threatened and sore. Even with Lyros trying to reach towards her mouth earns a little snap of her teeth, but that only elicits a shriek of pain from the dragon. The Silver rears her head clumsily, her large talon pressing into the earth of the Colosseum to drag across it and seemingly write something out. Would it be a warning? Would it be a curse? ‘Poison’ was the word, with a line dragging off from the ‘n’ towards Lyros.
Krice knew not to get too close to anyone injured, especially if one of those 'anyones' happened to be part animal such as Hildegarde. She was his main concern, but he was respectful of Lyros' want for distance in self-defence, as well. Still, that hand remained outstretched; if either one of them was to receive aide, they'd need to be separated. As the drow took his hand, the silver-haired man closed his fingers firmly around the blood-covered appendage and pulled at Lyros' pace, his other hand finding the slim male's upper arm to better secure him on his feet. Given Hildegarde's state, it was with rigidity in his own body that Krice kept Lyros from reaching out to assist her, pulling him back as he himself took a step away to distance them both. "Hang on," he warned the dark-skinned male. "Don't get too close." The warrior had no issue offering his own solid frame to Lyros for balance and support, and did so whilst easing him away from the injured dragon. "Let one of the healers look at you. I'll see to Hilde." Before Lyros could argue, the silver-haired man was addressing the Steward in her native draconic tongue, reassuring her that she was among allies, that they needed to get closer to help her. In particular, reiterating the need to remove the blade lodged in her mouth.
Lyros draws his hand back quickly before it can be bitten off, frowning. He allows himself to lean into Krice only because he would fall were it not for the warrior, and he does not have the strength of body or will to fight against him, and while he is reluctant to leave Hildegarde's side, there is little he can do as Krice leads him away. Once again those golden eyes drift over the others gathered in the arena and the drow scowl, aware of how foolish he looks. Not only is he weak and vulnerable but dressed in ridiculous clothing, his pants far too form-fitting and the corset constricting painfully against his chest. He is wearing stilettos with sharp, thin heels, though one has broken off. With a growl Lyros pushes off of Krice and stumbles a couple of footsteps away before collapsing back to his knees - with a swift gesture of lifted arms and hands reaching for the heavens, a torrent of blood bursts from the maleficar's back and envelopes him in a scarlet shell, obscuring him entirely from view. From within the drow's little ball of shame, his voice comes out muffled and knife-edged. "I'm fine. Just get that thing out of her mouth."
Hildegarde would not question where Krice had learned to speak the language of her ancestors, ancient and difficult as it was, nor would she even question the torrent of blood that burst from the back of the drow. But as the torrent of blood did come forth, the beast snarled loudly; tail thumping against the earth like the grumpiest cat that ever did live. If she had fur, it would be all ruffled and the hackled would be up but she was of scales, fangs and talons. Her wings stretched out slightly and quivered as if in warning to all who came close. The beast needed quiet, the beast needed slow and little movement. Though deep down she knew Krice to be the helpful mouse to her thorn-in-paw lion, the dragon was blinded by her pain and discomfort. Such was the life of a beast.
Krice did not keep Lyros against his will when he pulled away; unfurling his arms, the warrior released the drow to his own devices, though watched briefly as he grounded himself nearby. The wings of blood that burst from Lyros' back, and subsequently encapsulated him in a ball, at first startled the silver-haired man out of concern for the drow's well-being, but his reassurances that he was fine, along with the tone on which those reassurances were delivered, helped Krice promptly return his attention to Hildegarde. He would undoubtedly replay the ball of shame in his mind at a later time. For now, Hilde's tail-thumping warning was met with due caution as he lifted his right arm. Slowly, he outstretched his palm, fingers loosely extended. Without advancing upon the dragon, the warrior spoke with her once more in the ancient tongue he hoped she would find more comforting and familiar, his lilt accurate and intelligible, with an occasional slightly-mispronounced syllable. It wasn't his native tongue, after all. "Hildegarde, The Silver. You have a blade lodged in your mouth. I need to pull it out before the healers can help you."
Encapsulated in an opaque orb echoing softly with his own heartbeat, Lyros snaps the other heel off and tosses it aside with a strained growl. His wounds sting, especially where he was stabbed - quickly he inspects the injury and finds the blood struggling to flow, congealing over the two inch-wide opening. There might have been more damage were it not for the stiff boning of the corset aiding in deflecting the blade from vital organs. Where others might be incapable of moving or going into shock, the mage only huffs and pushes himself to his feet, and as he does so the bubble unfurls in gory mimicry of an opening rose, flecks of red spilling onto the arena floor to mingle with sand and dust. The blood moves fast to cover the drow's body, spiraling over his bare arms and down his legs, until he appears to be wearing an elegant crimson outfit, uncomfortable to the touch, visibly pulsing with each beat of his heart. Slowly and with great care, his footsteps silent, Lyros skirts around Krice and attempts to approach Hildegarde, a whisper of some dark, esoteric language on his tongue, quietly urging the small amount of his blood still lurking within the Silver's body to aid her; to seep through her veins like a soothing balm and wash away sensations of pain. A second rush of blood leaves his back in the process, only half melding with the strange covering he wears. The rest splatters to the ground, dark and viscous.
Hildegarde’s tremendous body shifted and moved; light glimmering off of her silvery scales in a near blinding flash as was the benefit of being so silvery. The Silvers were ambush attackers, blending brilliantly up in the clouds; blinding their foes with their bright and reflective scales. The dragon reared her head for a moment, her tail curled and poised as if ready to strike out and kill, her wings open and raised in glorious fashion to cast a shadow upon the Colosseum. Truly, Hildegarde was a colossus hidden in human form; her truest of shapes was something she so rarely revealed. Yet with a long and low growl, the dragon’s head lowered onto the floor of the fighting pit: maw opening wide as her blue tongue unfurled and lolled out as if she were an excitable dog. Her mouth exuded a chilly aura, every breath casting a plume of frost. Her massive fangs dripped saliva and what few drops (though large) touched the ground caused it to ice over immediately. It was a deadly thing to enter the mouth of a dragon. There was never a guarantee you would leave it.
Krice sensed the presence of Lyros' blood-magic and glanced over a shoulder in time to watch the drow move around him. Slowly, so as not to disturb Hildegarde, the warrior took one step away, distancing himself from Lyros but remaining close to the dragon, closer still to her open maw. The release of frosted breath caused him further to move above her nostrils, keeping himself clear of that potentially damaging air - made all the more evident by the iced-over patch of ground unfortunate to catch her saliva. Wow. Even out of the direct path, he could feel the chill wafting around the edges of her breath. Dangerous indeed. Glancing from dragon to drow, Krice took a moment to consider Lyros' ability, and the subsequent 'clothing' he wore, along with noting the words he had spoken to their mutual comrade. After waiting just a moment for Hildegarde's reaction, he murmured his next incentives; to venture into her mouth that he may remove the sawblade lodged there. First, Krice walked around the side of her head, trying to quickly and quietly gauge the accessibility of the blade from there. Given the size of the dragon's head and the depth of the blade's location, reaching it from outside was impossible. Fantastic. With his katana - still sheathed - removed from its place against his back, Krice prepared to use its curved length to lever out the serrated steel from Hildegarde's palette. He just... had to get there, first. "Whatever you can do, or -are- doing," he said to Lyros, in Common this time, "keep doing it. She'll need comfort through the removal of this." And he might need some sort of help. Before requesting as much, the silver-haired man exhaled and stepped forward, entering Hildegarde's mouth along the underside of it, beside her massive tongue. He did not dawdle, but he was equally reluctant to rush for fear that he might startle Hildegarde into self-defence.
Lyros snorts at Krice's words, only half-listening, his focus divided between the warrior and the Silver lying prone in the arena, a fallen giant and a sight, he knows, they would not be witnessing right now were it not for him. Perhaps if he had run from Gevurah, before, Hildegarde would have escaped the battle with less injury - the drow remembers how his lingering had distracted her from truly engaging the First Daughter in combat, the attempts she made to keep him safe making it impossible to dodge the razor-edged disc that had torn through scale and flesh alike. Her pain as a result of that sacrifice is a guilt that weighs heavily on his shoulders, and that is why he does not leave now, as much as he wants to be away from all the watching eyes. But the pervading aura of his blood magic is something Lyros is acutely aware of, and how closely tied his consciousness is to it, and everything will only get worse the longer it stays active. "I don't need you to tell me that," the mage answers Krice, clipped tones and irritation contrasting harshly with his naturally euphonious voice. It is only due to great effort that the magic is contained, even as fell black flames flickering in nauseating unlight move up his arms as he approaches Hildegarde's mouth, shivering in the wake of each chilly breath she exhales. His hair is ruffled each time, blood rippling across his frame, and it is with some trepidation that Lyros places a foot beyond the dragon's teeth and steps into her cavernous mouth after Krice, a hand braced against the inner walls of her mouth. Unlike the warrior, he decides to take the faster — and less saliva-drowned — route across the top of her tongue, his footsteps light as he moves swiftly, but cautious, the yawning maw of the dragon's gullet looming ahead. And there, close to the edge, the disc is embedded in her flesh, sticky blood oozing down her throat. "Mm.. that looks painful. Bear with me, Hilde," Lyros whispers into the depths of her mouth, while a thin trail of crimson detaches itself from the tip of his fingers like a stray thread, drifting through the air to the open wound, where it winds unnoticeably past the disc and into the Silver's bloodstream. "I'm hooking you up," he tells her, and perhaps Krice. "It'll ease the pain." Inch by inch, the covering across his own body thins until it begins to peel away from his legs and torso, revealing patches of the clothing beneath as Lyros pushes an infusion of his own blood into Hildegarde - the poison goes with it. It will do less damage to the Steward of Frostmaw than to her much smaller companion, as the poison is not lethal, more of a soporific to lull one's body and lower their defenses. Though it has already knocked Lyros out once, the effect will be lessened on a creature as large as a silver dragon; Lyros intends to use it as a simple relaxing agent, while his blood will ease the pain of the disc lodged in her throat, the flesh around it gradually going numb.
Hildegarde ’s mouth is a chilly cavern, each breath sounding like one of those ominous things you hear in the dark of night; that thing that bears down on the back of your neck, breathing loudly and gutturally, close but far all at once. While Krice took the safer and more saliva filled passage, Lyros danced across her large blue tongue. Yet as Lyros stepped across her tongue, the dragon made a sudden barrage of noises: a sort of thunderous cacophony of growling grunts. It was giggling. The motion of Lyros’ feet was ticklish. The dragon was being tickled. Once the drow fell still and worked his magic, the dragon fell quiet save for her breathing. Let the mice do their work on the mighty lion.
Krice could tolerate most of Frostmaw's 'civilized' cold weather without too much trouble, for a little while, even dressed only in his usual attire - sans robes. Hildegarde's icy dragon breath was another matter entirely, direct and piercing, almost straight to the bone. Each exhale sent the hairs along his arms into prickles and he forced back a shiver. Tucking his katana under one arm, he freed up both hands to alternately pull down the sleeves of his shirt, unfolding the fabric from elbows to wrists. At least then, he was a little more protected from the cold of the dragon's cavernous maw. Walking to the side of her tongue, skirting the saliva below--he had found out the hard way that stepping even remotely close to that liquid was perilous to the longevity of his feet--by walking along ridges of teeth-roots and gum, the man moved with - and in some cases behind - Lyros, deeper into Hildegarde's mouth. The saw-blade was clearly visible now, glinting in hints of light from the outside world, large and thoroughly stuck in her palette. Lyros' earlier and lingering snarkiness was forgone in favour of focusing on the injured female. The sounds that emanated up the length of her large throat at first bemused Krice, bringing with them puffs of icy breath. Soon enough, though, he understood the sounds to be those of mirth and couldn't help the wry smile that quirked most of his mouth upward, equal parts perplexed and charmed. As Lyros engaged his blood-magic to assist Hildegarde with her discomfort, the silver-haired man seemed relatively impervious to its lateral affects, though the tension in his jaw and subtle crease along his brow told of concentration, perhaps relating to his desire to stave off whatever affects it had on him. Irrespective of the reason, the warrior gave a brief glance to the drow for confirmation that his magic had been given enough time to work, listening to Hildegarde herself for sounds of further relaxation, and simultaneously studied how best they were supposed to reach that saw-blade. Dragon breath coursed over him and he shuddered, lowering his head and turning his face away from the icy brunt. "Damn, that's cold," muttered the silver-haired man beneath his breath, before once again focusing on the saw-blade. After another moment's pause, Krice stood up from Hildegarde's jaw and found position in front of Lyros, just out of reach, directly under that saw-blade, on her tongue. Speaking as calmly as possible so as not to disturb the dragon, he said, "Hildegarde, can you lift your tongue to get us closer to the blade? We can't reach it." Without some uncomfortable jumping, anyway.
Lyros manages to keep his footing, somehow, when Hildegarde starts to laugh, though his legs look about as strong as a stack of toothpicks at the moment. He shivers and curls inward on himself slightly, skin tinged with a deathly pallor that spreads further than the patchy white of vitiligo. The thin covering on his blood is swiftly, visibly darkening as it reacts to the frigid temperatures of the Silver's mouth - coagulating and drying out, little shards flaking away. Biting his lip, he wills heat from the core of his body to spread more evenly throughout his limbs and his bloodstream, desperate to salvage as much as he can. Judging by the amount he must have lost already through his various wounds and this magic, the drow is running close to being dangerously low on blood. A second rope of crimson, this one thicker, sturdier than the thread connected to Hildegarde, whips out of his back to wrap around one of the dragon's massive teeth, while another — pulsing with the maleficar's weakening heartbeat — coils tight around Krice's torso like a safety rope. This leaves Lyros tethered between the two points and acting as a conduit to hold them all together, and maybe to keep himself upright. "Hurry it up," the drow all but snarls at Krice, voice edged with thorns and decidedly sharper than it was five minutes ago. "There isn't much time." Not for him, not for Hildegarde. The words are foreboding when mixed with the malignant aura around Lyros, which is reaching the point of overpowering, and it is with great effort that he is stopping it from flowing forth and corrupting Hildegarde with its sickness, knuckles white and his teeth gritted, straining against some unseen force. Unfortunately, this leaves Krice to deal with the majority of its mind-altering effects - nausea and dizziness are particularly common. Behind him, Lyros makes a sickening noise as though coughing blood. He won't hold out much longer.
Hildegarde was not so far lost in her pain or beastly state that she could not listen to her friends and those who only mean her well. Besides, should they prove to mean her harm, she need only close her mouth and enjoy a snack. So without a sound of protest, the dragon’s tongue lifts upwards bringing Lyros and Krice closer to the roof of her cavernous mouth and towards that iron dusted saw. If only the mice would remove the thorn from this lion, they could all be on their merry way and out of the cold!
Krice was cold now; standing in front of Lyros atop the mighty Hildegarde's dragon tongue, he bore direct icy breath against him. His tolerance for frost was quickly weakening. As Lyros worked with his blood magic to comfort the Silver, its lateral affects began to visibly sicken the warrior; he slumped slightly, swayed on his feet atop the reptilian tongue, and grunted in clear discomfort. he remained focused, however, as determined as Lyros to free Hildegarde of the terrible 'thorn' lodged in her palette. When the Drow's second tendril of blood coiled around his chest, Krice grimaced again - though the witness of Hildegarde's throat would surely not judge him for it - and growled forth his displeasure, but he did not accost Lyros for it. Instead, as Hildegarde acknowledged his request and lifted them by pushing her tongue toward the roof of her mouth, the warrior blinked back to focus and reached out to slip his sheathed katana into the curved edge of the saw blade, between steel and fleshy palette. Without wasting any time, he pulled down on the two sides of his weapon, on opposite sides of the mighty lion's thorn, bent until his back was facing her tongue, and pushed his right foot against her palette to assist him in the removing of the saw blade. He grunted and clenched his teeth behind tensed lips, whilst the entirety of his toned, but blood-magic-affected body tightened and coiled in his efforts to help the Silver. Outside, Frostmawian healers waited a fair distance away for their time to assist, and concerned onlookers standing further away still prayed for the safety of their Steward.
Linn had come sprinting through the gateway to the arena, nearly stumbling due to the sight in front of him and his own breathlessness at the run he just had to make. Wearing the mithril plating on his armor this time around he would be rather conspicuous with the images of the stands reflecting off each surface of the plates. He entered with a worried expression, but was now looking up with an equal amount of awe at seeing The Silver as a dragon for the first time. A rapid glance around the arena would tell him that Lyros’s and Krice’s work in her mouth was something of critical importance. But right now all he could do was be part of the crowd, panting in an attempt to catch his breath as he watched.
A permanent scowl darkens Lyros' face now, his brows drawn close together and his lips twisted in a grim and silent snarl. He hisses something in his native tongue that is best left untranslated, narrowing his eyes as he takes the physical strain of Krice leaning half out over Hildegarde's throat on top of his own mental weight. At this point, his makeshift 'rope' is fraying quickly at the edges and his legs are trembling with the effort of simply standing. When all Krice's hard work finally bears fruit and the disc comes free with a wet, disgusting squelch, the mage snaps a final thread out to catch the razor-sharp item before it can tumble down the Silver's gullet, and promptly tosses it into Krice's arms while half-falling backwards. Overexertion weighs down on his body like a brick, one that is seemingly intent on seeing the drow collapse within Hildegarde's mouth; but despite it all he makes it free of her jaws, sliding out between her teeth as his hold on the blood tethers finally fails. A stream of blood turned to liquid splatters onto the Silver's tongue, and likely all over Krice, but Lyros is unaware of this as he crawls around the side of the dragon's head, away from the observing crowd, leaving a trail of scarlet in the ice-scraped dirt behind him. He tucks himself against one of her claws, breathing heavy and unevenly, both his head and consciousness swimming.
Hildegarde roared when the saw came free from the spongy flesh of the roof of her mouth, that epic roar of pain and fury (think of the t-rex roar from Jurassic Park). The Silver’s tongue promptly returned to its prior position, mouth opened wide for her two helpers to swiftly escape her cavernous maw lest she decide to take a bite out of them by accident or out of pain induced instinct. Besides, it was likely they’d need to vacate now in order to prevent themselves from freezing to death. As Lyros tucked himself against one of her claws, the Silver’s knuckle moved just ever so slightly as if to reassuringly brush – or more likely nudge – against him. The beast gave Krice a low kind of noise and blinked slowly at him. A sign of gratitude?
Krice's foot slipped from the roof of Hildegarde's mouth as the saw-blade popped out of her flesh, but he regained his balance on the curve of her tongue, partly due to the assistance of Lyros' blood-tether around his torso. He wobbled on his feet just twice, and curled the saw-blade's flat surface against his chest - once more with the assistance of Lyros' blood-magic - before stumbling over the dragon's fangs and out of her mouth. The frost of her breath and the roar that reverberated from her throat were enough on their -own- to give him a headache, more so coupled with blood-magic. Once safely clear of Hildegarde, Krice dropped the sawblade to the ground and slumped over, hands on his thighs, head low. The nausea caused to Lyros' ability was highly displeasing but the warrior did not begrudge his drow-acquaintance for it; he understood that it had to be done. After a few calm, slow breaths, the warrior regained composure of himself enough to straighten without vomiting all over the colosseum grounds and aligned gold-freckled eyes with the large face of the reptilian female. He watched Lyros crawl toward Hildegarde and then looked at Hilde herself, noting her possibly-thankful noise with an accepting half-nod. As the two injured companions sought comfort with each other, the third - Krice - located his previously-dropped sword and reached down for it, noticing then that his hand was covered in blood. In fact, his whole -body- was saturated in Lyros' blood but he lacked the wherewithal presently to care. Sword clipped sluggishly to his side, Krice turned away to stumble-walk out of the arena, stopped two steps short by a healer who had rushed in to assist him--the others advanced upon Hildegarde and Lyros, once sure that the latter's blood-magic had ceased. Lifting a hand, the silver-haired enigma dismissed his aide and grumbled for the healer to focus on the more injured other two, especially the Steward. As the healer argued - or not - in whatever way a Frostmawian healer would, the man stumbled forward without another word, leaving fading blood-prints behind every step.
Linn stumbled backwards in response to Hildegarde’s roar, falling to a sitting position against the gateway looking shocked at the whole situation and the noise. The sight of Krice and Lyros leaving her mouth was enough to get him to compose himself as he saw the familiar figures. He got back up and began to follow the crowd forward, though he decided to avoid the rush towards the steward. As Krice passed he made a concerned expression, likely due to all of the blood covering him, but it was overshadowed by confusion seeing that Krice appeared to be more or less okay. Linn was a little bit bewildered by the whole scene that he just walked in on. He approached with his sights set on the circular sawblade. Such an unusual weapon to find its way in to a dragon’s mouth… Once he was sure that the dragon and the bloodmage were okay he was looking to know more about what happened.
Lyros twitches at Hildegarde's nudge and slumps further against her, those cool scales against his cheek an oddly comforting sensation, though his whole body feels numb and distant. With some struggling, as his limbs feel leaden and noncompliant, the drow slips past the dragon's massive talons and into the space under her paw, putting the iron bar-like claws of the Silver between him and the rest of the world. He wants only to rest and sleep - his wounds are of no concern, though some niggling notion in the back of Lyros' mind is telling him he needs them tended to. As his consciousness flickers and fades, his magic and its effects begin to abate, but it is not until he has spent a couple of minutes scowling at any healer who dares approach him that the maleficar succumbs to his injuries, and the last traces of that awful, terrible aura finally dissipate. Carefully he is extracted from Hildegarde's claws, with her permission, and carted off back to the fortress and its infirmary by a trio of healers, comatose and leaving a faint trail of blood behind him.
Hildegarde did not protest when Lyros wriggled beyond her claws to imprison herself, some enjoyed the safety of a confined space. The knight would not begrudge him such. Yet when his consciousness left him, she would certainly open her hand so the healers might extract him and take him off to the fort for some much needed rest. Now she sits still as the giant healers and shamans prod and poke at the gash in her scaly side, applying salves and patches of fabric against the wound. No stitches would pierce her hide. The dragon’s sole eye comes to rest upon Linn and she rumbles for a brief moment, before finally speaking, “Linn.” She remembered his name.
Krice caught glimpse of a familiar man as he moved toward the exit, but his mind was focused on getting out of the colosseum, not on who had come rushing in at the sound of Hildegarde's mighty roar. Loosely secured to his belt, the warrior's katana bumped against his left thigh as he stumble-walked out of the arena, its back-mounting strap lightly whipping the fabric of his pants from thigh to knee. Descending into the darkness of the exit-tunnel, Krice moved away from the scene behind him and disappeared into Frostmaw's wilderness, gone from sight just as the healers gathered up Lyros and began to carry him through. On their way to the fort, the healers might have seen dribbles of blood that had come from the warrior's soaked form, halfway to their destination, but time and distance - and harsh, cold winds - dried up further trace of the silver-haired man.
Linn stopped in his tracks the moment The Silver spoke his name. This whole situation was only getting stranger and stranger to him by the second. He stared back, speechless. Though the arrangement of identities, appearances, and names began to slowly draw itself together in the chaos. There was only one person missing an eye that knew his name. His response was delayed, but came out without any doubt. “You’re the steward. The Silver.” He spoke as he gazed across her hide, suddenly the titles made every bit of sense that they possibly could have. He looked down at the sawblade before turning back to Hildegarde’s imposing form. “What... happened?”
Hildegarde ’s voice was like the thunder, a deep rumbling yet it still held some kind of femininity and familiarity. As he put the pieces together and sussed out her identity, the Silver bared her fangs in some saurian effort at a smile. “I agreed to meet with Gevurah of House D’Artes. I had to buy my allies some time and, well, buying time is often only bought in blood. I can only hope they have been successful.”
Linn put his boot on the saw blade between them as he examined it. His voice was a mere whisper in comparison to hers, but just enough to get his point across amidst the crowd. “Part of this war that I have walked in on I assume.” He scratched his head as he continued to look at the jagged edges of the saw. Everything seemed to speak for itself, and any other words he could find were likely best kept private in the event someone was listening. “I can only hope that you all will be okay at the end of this, there isn’t much I can do to stem the damage, only look through the pieces. Could I at least know what shot this thing?” He tapped his foot on the massive sawblade. Such a brutal weapon…