Part of the Sauriangate Arc

Summary Usurper-King Macon's plans are in motion. Having dispatched five of his Kingsguard to the Xalious region, another of his schemes begins. But the Kingsguard aren't prepared for the combined heroics of Lionel, Krice, and an ill-fated Stroud... nor does anyone suspect the saurian inquisition.

Xalious: Rough Range

Macon ::Maureen has only been part of the kingsguard for close to two months, but regrettably this still gives her seniority over most of the others charged with protecting The King of Larket.This and the maddening effect the king now seems to have on those around him has made it fairly simple for the young-looking lycan female to gather up three of her fellow kingsguard for this unsanctioned mission. Just before dusk the dark haired mage and her eclectic group (that includes: A lightly armored, average looking human male carrying more swords than anyone could realistically wield at once. A heavily armored bearded male that carries just one really big sword. A bow and arrow toting elf with goggles positioned up over his forehead just waiting to be pulled down. Finally a woman that looks like she could be older than Maureen and any of the others present combined, in mage’s robes.) set up their ‘trap’. The makeshift road here is made to be impassible through a combination of rut digging, boulder conjuring. An overturned carriage, discarded here after losing an axle to the already rough terrain, is used as cover for four of the off-duty Kingsguard that lay in wait. The older woman waits even further off down the road on the Kelay side of the barrier they have created, she simply cannot crouch or kneel for long enough for the carriage to be able to hide her, bad knees, you know…

Krice came from the northeast, dressed in his usual black garb with that ever-present katana strapped to his back. His steps were unhurried but purposeful, and he appeared as thoughtful as one could get whilst in the middle of an almost-war. As he arrived at the northern flank of the pass, the man slowed to a halt and came out of his thoughts slowly, realization embodied in his mannerisms. Someone was here, and he knew that scent well. Lycan. In a bid to curb the swell of anger that unfurled in his chest, he inhaled through his mouth and exhaled out the nose, a calming breath accompanied by him slowly scrutinizing the terrain for the origin. The winds were light and swirling, and even his sensitive nose struggled to pinpoint from which direction the scent was drifting; let alone that it, along with others, were tucked tightly together behind the fallen cart. The fallen cart... It was commonplace along the Xalious-To-Kelay roads, trecherous as they could be for unsuited wheels. The seated older woman drew his eye within a moment and he studied her from afar. He knew her scent as well, laced with the arcane as it was. After another few seconds spared for consideration of his next coruse of action, Krice took one step forward and then another, crossing the road to approach the mage. " Hey." His greeting was straight-forward and civil, and mildly distant; his overdeveloped hearing took note of sounds foreign to an otherwise quiet stretch of road and he turned his head, gazing past the overturned cart into the shadows further west.

Lionel isn’t quite awake. It’s been enough days now blending together to seem like one high-pitched fever dream; the clear and darkening sky and the light Xalious-bound wind isn’t helping. There’s a calmness in this stretch of land -- barring the occasional saurian, of late -- that can’t quite be found anywhere else closeby. Even on the open road, business here just isn’t what it used to be, so there is time to relax without a soul in sight. Beside him, the mountainous hulk of a man called Stroud, thick of beard and quick to fury. There are no other companions with the Catalian tonight. Hours have passed since the pair have made effort toward polite conversation; it’s increasingly obvious to them both that neither of them seem to have much in common outside of work. Stroud likes hunting; Lionel prefers his meals previously slain. Stroud likes fishing; Lionel’s never bothered trying. Lionel likes cats; Stroud sneezes within six meters of them. Lionel likes drinking; Stroud hasn’t touched the bottle in near on twenty years. That’s another thing -- Stroud’s a fair bit older. Late forties, perhaps early fifties. Muscles are taut and thick, but hair’s closer to salt than pepper. There’s just no point. It’s just as well. It’s a beautiful night. Everything’s coming up roses until Hellfire strapped to the Knight-Commander’s back shoots up a crimson streak, pulsing vibrantly in silent alert. “Stop.” Lionel turns to Stroud and the two men duck fast into the bushes to their immediate west; narrowing their eyes, they stare forward from their safety perch and just barely make out three shapes, varied, up ahead. “A carriage, fallen,” Stroud notes, shifting slightly. “Yep.” Lionel cranes his neck. “Looks like a wreck. Trouble is, Halycanos seems to think they’re the party crashers.”

Macon :: The older woman is startled, or at least pretends very well that she is, saying such, “Oh! ‘Ello, dear. You startled me.” She waves her hand dismissively down the road towards the obstruction she played a part in creating, “Do be careful if you're heading that way…” she advises while standing up as straight as her old age will allow her to, “The road is blocked. I ‘ad to turn back myself, you see.” If he Krice doesn't stop her right then and there she will dive right into a one sided conversation, that may include some truth inside the lies, about how she was all set to go visit her daughter and granddaughter (and her son in-law too, ‘I guess.), over by where all those Hobbits live. ‘Krice is so much more handsome than that son in law. Where is he from?’ She is sweet enough, and doesn't betray any annoyance she might have towards the interloper, possibly because she just enjoys talking about her daughter. Back at the overturned carriage the remaining four would be ambushers catch sight of the flame swords reaction to their presence and unnecessarily duck down further. Glances are exchanged and the big guy with the beard mutters something like, ‘go out there, doll.’ Maureen growls, nearly electrocutes the warrior right then and there, somehow controls herself, and with a nod of her head sends the elf out instead. He stumbles out from behind the carriage, “Wh-who’s there?” he asks while training an arrow, pulled back and ready, towards the brush hiding Lionel and Stroud, the fear in his voice half-feigned, half-genuine. “My carriage crashed here… horse ran off.”

Krice -was- awake; sharp of sight, senses, and mind. Unlike Lionel, he hadn't been tasked with official city business of any kind, and thus he didn't bear the weight that such a burden placed on the shoulders of its sufferer. A free agent all his own, as it were. He sensed the magic of Hellfire's flames but whether or not he was aware of the Knight-Commander and his companion remained to be seen, for at the very least he didn't show as much. His searching gaze drifted away the west and returned to the older lady toward whom he walked, whose startled reaction to his presence seemed genuine enough, if out of place. He hadn't intended to frighten her; for all intents and purposes, it had seemed as though she was gazing roughly in his direction when he emerged. Anyway, back to the conversation at hand--or, rather, 'the listening'. This old bag sure could talk. He was on the cusp of saying -something- to the mage when the unsteady elf--paradoxical?--emerged from behind the overturned cart - facing -away- from him. He studied the revealed male for all of a moment, seemed unconcerned with his arrow-ward attention westward, and then slid a sideways look back at the aging woman. " All that talking, and you didn't say a thing about any traveling companions." A beat. " And quick to explain his presence." The silver-haired enigma took a single step back from the mage, leaned away slightly as if to peer around the first-class-act elf, and called to the bushes in the direction of which the elf's arrow was aimed: " Whoever it is, beware: They have a dog." Intriguing, since he still couldn't -see- the other three behind the cart, and lycans in human form were difficult to spot, even so.

Loinel and Stroud are quick to cast suspicion on one-another for making a right hot mess out of the whole ‘let’s be sneaky’ concept just as soon as that elf wails his decree. It’s not like Lionel to be caught so easily and he has half a mind to tell the great big hunter-fisher oaf right here and right now that the next time he’s the essence of stealth his Stroud’s straight-edge and allergic arse just isn’t welcome. In fact, he’s just about to tell the barrel-chested buffoon to grab hold of his shield and raise it in mock surrender so he can show Stroud how it’s done and move around swiftly to the other side of the trap. Krice, however, has a simply memorable voice, and that is precisely who Lionel is hearing now. “I’m coming out,” Lionel calls, his entire plan changing in an instant. “I don’t want no trouble, but y’all are starting to freak us out, if I do say so myself.” He keeps his tone recognizable, in hopes the silver-haired enigma will confirm it’s him, but he adds an obnoxious drawl, because desperate times call for desperate measures. “Me and my partner, Tabby, we used to work for Frostmaw. But I’ll tell ya, we got thrown out, and we’re just looking for steady feed…” He trails on, stepping out into dusk and moving with arms up and perfectly over Hellfire’s hilt to keep the sword out of sight. Sure, they’ve likely already seen it, but this entire plan hinges on dumbfounding the opposition. You see, all this time, Stroud has proven Lionel so very, very wrong, and Lionel himself could not be happier for it. Big as he is, he’s been crawling on his stomach like some kind of solid snake, and he’s done it quietly, efficiently. And oh so very quickly. He’s snuck between debris, waited for shifting shadows, and he’s done it all upwind of Krice’s reported ‘dog.’ He’s moved diagonally, wayward of the enemies, and he’s done so in record time. And his own tremendous bow is now aimed, arrow on lock, directly for Maureen’s neck. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he bellows, and in the span of the second it takes Stroud to -- hopefully -- stun the Kingsguard, Lionel kicks into the ground, flashes Hellfire free from its sheath, and moves with a blistering jet of blue-hot protective flame directly for the caravan.

Macon :: “Traveling companions? Oh my dear. Is there someone out ahead of us? I can barely even-, your eyesight must be tremendous!” the old mage praises the warrior while squinting down the road towards the carriage and the exposed elf. In her hiding spot, Maureen sneers when Krice calls out that bit about ‘a dog.’ Her peers aren't even aware of her… affliction, so how could this guy over there tell? In the time that she is wondering this, everything falls apart. Lionel says the magic word ‘Frostmaw’ and even though he is claiming exile it is enough to trigger that fury that has led this group out here tonight. Stroud calls out and those three remaining Kingsguard stand, the young mage quietly speeding through a long incantation while Lionel begins his blazing charge. The elf bowman lets his arrow go towards the hero in response to the hostility and Maureen snaps her fingers, conjuring a rotating, spherical cage of white electricity that surrounds her trio and the sideways carriage. If Stroud fires into that thing, the arrow will be vaporized before crossing the lightning threshold, so what might happen to a hero if he tries his luck? Unfortunately for the elf and the older mage, they are left out of that protective barrier. The old bag, as it has been put, doesn't let such bad luck deter her, acting in time with the rest of her crew, in her case against Krice alone. Her eyes widen, flash a bright green, and glance upward above the nosey warrior. Out of thin air a great boulder -pops- into existence and drops as quickly as gravity can deliver it. Should he dodge, more will be on their way in the same manner with the same onomatopoeia…

Krice recognized Lionel's voice in an instant, and as the Knight-Commander emerged with arms up in decree of benevolence, the warrior looked on. Whilst the other male pleaded his case as a Frostawian Exile, the silver-haired man was scrutinizing what he could of the upturned cart, the revealed elf, and all the scents of things he -couldn't- yet see; but his attention overall did not drift away from the placating mage. It appeared as though Stroud's cavalrous arrival was not expected by the warrior, for he shot the arrow-wielding man a thoughtful look. Of course, now everything was going to unravel and crash straight through all Earthly layers into Hell - or rather, Hellfire. The sword exploded and Krice wasn't entirely sure why, because three other cart-related goons popped into view and then the mage directly in front of him, albeit a few metres away, was moving her lips but not to continue their conversation. And it had been such a pleasant one, too. With matters escalating, the warrior's awareness of a mage's penchant for incantation spurred him to move. He unsheathed his sword, pivoted onto the toe of his left booted foot, and thrust the curved steel of his katana at the throat of the mage with harrowing speed; too fast to be human, to tanned to be vampire. Though the mage was a woman, and - to naive onlookers - standing harmlessly away from the main fray, Krice sought with haste to choke her magical words with her own blood. And then a boulder was falling toward him and he felt air compress beneath it, the only warning given him. Ceasing his attack before he could complete it, the silver-haired enigma bought himself enough time - because he wasn't human, you see - to shift out from under the boulder's shadow, only to find himself under the threat of another. A side-step enabled him to clear the second projectile and drew him closer to the mage who weilded them, each evasive act keeping him from straying too far from the source. His movements appeared effortless and without flaw, and once near enough, he reached out to snatch at the mage's throat with his right hand, at any rate positioning himself close enough that the boulder would injure her -too- if another was inbound. Lionel and Stroud were left to deal with the others for now. It wouldn't do well to lead rock-rain over to the other heroes of the party.

Lionel is at a speed most supernatural. Whatever it was Krice knew the man could run at a clip, surely he’ll see there’s something paranormal to it now. Yet for all that speed, momentum seems a merely momentary concern. When the elf launches arrow, Lionel’s boots are already skidding, quaking up dirt and top flecks of stone. Hellfire, its titular magic abruptly concentrating directly ahead and dwindling on the steel itself, catches that arrow and it disintegrates without gusto. The forward wave of heat and flame dissipates well before reaching the caravan; Maureen’s conjured electricity dutifully blankets her and two others. There’s nothing Lionel can do about that right now. Stroud, for his part, flinches and bristles his magnificent mustache. A low key answer to a spectacle of light and sound. Both Lionel and Stroud are now within proximity to see Krice plainly with the embers of the setting sun. Both Lionel and Stroud exchange the very briefest of glances and then bolt. Stroud to the east, Lionel to the northwest; Stroud in a bulking hurl, Lionel in unnatural aura of bright blue inferno blazing all around him. It is at precisely this instant that Krice is dodging great big rocks, and it can’t be left unsaid that between a Kingsguard’s white lightning, a hero’s wicked fire, and all these damned projectiles, anyone within two or even three leagues of the carnage is wide awake and probably terrified. Lionel’s vault leaves a trail of ochre shades in his wake, and he’s repositioned himself directly to the elven archer’s left. Needless to say, it’s hot. Very, very hot. Sweat drips from beneath ashen hair and azure eyes appear almost primal as his weapon is raised in a swift and perfectly horizontal slash to the archer’s abdomen. Yet something is amiss. At the last second the Catalian pivots his right arm from the hilt, there to complete the swing in one strong grip. His right hand moves to deck the elf clear across the jaw, and then continues its descent to his chest pocket, there to withdraw a single serrated obsidian dagger which is thrust toward Maureen’s nape. Will it land? Probably not, all things considered, but something has to be done to keep these shielded Kingsguard paying a lick more attention to him and a lick less to Stroud. For Stroud, in his mad march, is now behind one tempest-tossed boulder and awaiting command.

Macon ::Gwen, which is the name of the sweet old mage Krice is trying to choke the magic out of, tenses when the warrior closes the distance. She has no means to avoid him, bad knees, you know, and so she does not. Krice will however find that her throat is not so easily crushed, her skin is as hard as Larketian stone and so in the time it might take for him to adjust his grip to what he finds at her neck she is able to get off a few more magic words, eyes flashing that brilliant shade of green again. The skin at her neck sprouts sharpened spikes like some kind of stone porcupine. The boulders she conjured up to crush Krice, as well as others in the area(watch out, Stroud) also begin to move, rolling towards each other and then on top of each other like they are building rocky snowmen (stonemen) out of themselves. Krice is indeed far too close to drop another rock towards him, if he backs off he will be the target of a stoneman’s headbutt. Who sends an arrow guy onto the front line, Maureen? That poor fool is outmatched against the legendary fire sword and the man it is coupled with. While he shows some real skill getting off a pair of close quarters shots, one just plain misses, and the other is similarly incinerated before the shooter himself is burned, slashed, and slammed brutally. Maureen flinches at the same time the dagger is suspended in the air in front of her face by her lightning barrier, turned molten, and allowed to fall to the ground where it will cool into a solid black puddle. “Ready!?” she barks a question that she doesn't wait for the answer to. The sparking cage comes down and Lionel becomes the target of a dual wielding swordsman and a guy with a sword more suited to cut down a giant than a regular sized dude. The big blade comes down first, diagonally, followed quickly by two horizontal slashes from the more nimble guard in the shadow of the larger strike. Maureen is changing, filling out robes with fur and muscle, and sniffing for Stroud…

Krice was not battle-fresh; throughout his many years as a warrior, he had experienced things - like any man of the sword - that had hardened his resolve, strengthened his body, tightly locked up his emotions. Hollow's supernatural creatures were essentially commonplace in his history, as were its mages. When he failed to crush Gwen's throat in the instant he grabbed it, Krice withdrew, highly aware of potential secondary defensive measures - and with little time to spare; one of Gwen's porcupine-spines brushed across a fingertip, drawing a single pearl of blood from the skin beneath his nail. It was a welcomed, negligible pin-prick preferrable to the pockmarked, useless-hand alternative. Whilst Lionel tended to the remaining comrades of the aging magic-user, Krice maneuvered around to her side, inadvertently shielding himself from the oddly-animated boulder-beast. Stroud was revealed to him because of said beast, but the warrior didn't openly acknowledge him. Too busy for pleasantries. With steel-like strength and magical porcupines protecting Gwen's skin, perhaps he'd lack the correct weapon to pierce it; holding his katana behind him with the blade angled upward parallel to his spine, the enigma kept it at the ready but out of the way and resorted to hand-only combat. His right arm swung up toward Gwen to grab her head, hair and scalp-skin alike, for a quick, forceful shove that would dislodge her from her feet. If she harboured no other magic tricks, she'd find herself tossed face-first into the ground, helped along by every muscle fibre twitching in unpredjudiced unison through the enigma's offending arm.

Lionel is still mid-swing when Stroud is indeed forced quite suddenly to watch out. The man’s dark eyes widen in abject shock when he commits a full-bodied dive as far to the south as his tremendous strength can take him. He’ll land on his stomach and roll three times to the side, having dropped his bow for lack of a means to carry it through such an act. When he rises -- and he rises quite quickly, at that -- both gauntleted hands are drawing the thin twin rapiers housed down his back and holding them forth defensively. All things considered, Maureen should now have no problem at all finding Stroud. By now, the elven Kingsguard has fallen, tattered, and Lionel lets out a hurried huff, twitching his skull just a few degrees sideways to let loose the massive pile of perspiration. In that beat, the electric curtain disappears, and two skilled swordsmen charge at the Catalian. “For the love of Keane,” he mutters with exasperation, but his eyes flick westbound with a practiced subtly mid-speech to register Krice’s condition. They’ve flicked back and the man stretches his right leg at the knee, keeping his right hand away from Hellfire’s hilt. The weapon is held at a diagonal arc to match the even bigger blade pending. Lionel clenches his teeth, draws another dagger, readies it for a throw at that nimble double-bladed Kingsguard, and then… blinks as Stroud comes barreling into view straight ahead of him. The beast of a man won’t wait for Maureen, but he’s caught between three combatants and cannot reach her as she morphs. Cursing, he’ll raise his blades to intersect the opposing pair; steel clashes on steel and Stroud issues a sturdy kick with his left foot in an attempt to incapacitate his chosen foe at the torso. Lionel is saved from one Kingsguard but drops his dagger and desperately grasps Hellfire in both shaking arms to take the massive sword in a block. Now, Lionel and Stroud are both mid-clash, and the Knight-Commander screams indecipherably to let further flame billow into life and coarse across Hellfire. It should hope to stun the big-bladed man into hasty retreat, given that the flame immediately bursts free from the sword in a move to incinerate the flesh. A heck of a way to end a stalemate. But that’s not all. At once, something thunders so loudly all present must take note and wonder. In the distance, a steady noise, reverberating like an impossibly heavy stomping. Not far beyond the treeline, something stirs. All this sound and fury has awoken the saurian.

Macon :: When all's said and done Maureen has shed robes and torn through anything that was beneath, revealing herself to be a massive black wolf on all fours. The woman proves to be an anomaly even so far as Lycan go. Her fur stands on end, not from tension, but from static electricity. Perhaps she is somehow spellcasting in this form, or maybe some other strange effect is at work here, but whatever it is, the mage is definitely electrically charged, and shockingly so as any who come into contact or even proximity to her will find out. Arcs of white hot energy sporadically travel up her back, illuminating dark fur as they do. This truly unique beast is certainly worthy of the well known opponents her trap gone wrong has drawn out, but sorry Krice and Lionel, this huntress is looking for physically bigger game. Luckily(?) for Lionel Stroud is very near to him. Sniff. Growl. Snarl. Bark. Growl again and she is off! In this form Maureen’s speed might be considered downright unfair. The Lightning Wolf is probably an appropriate title for the Rage afflicted Mage Academy graduate, what with the way she bolts forward, zigging and zagging seemingly erratically, but in a way that just maybe brings her on the path of least electrical resistance towards the man who, is briefly out of combat after the dual wielder absorbs Stroud’s kick and indulges in succession of swings, parries, and ripostes, coincidentally (also thanks to Hellfire’s blaze) backs out of blade range. He is shocked briefly, but painfully as Maureen zips by him and pounces towards Lionel’s travel companion, teeth bared and looking for sweet neck meat. Lionel’s direct opponent fancies himself a pretty tough guy, and the madness created in him by The King of Larket’s infuriating aura sees him standing up to the fires of the fabled blade and facing the consequences of serious burns, to his hands and also his body where metal armor is being rapidly heated. Skin starts to bubble when the fires spring forth onto him, but somehow he ignores the pain and pushes back into the clash of swords, looking to create some space for another wicked swing, from low to high this time around. He can't keep this up much longer… Meanwhile Krice is facing a quarry. Gwen again finds no means to avoid being grabbed and thrown. Whenever there is space between her and the warrior, he is under assault from multiple angles from falling, rolling, and careening boulders that crash into each other indiscriminately, changing their trajectories wildly when they do so. The old woman pushes herself up to her feet and if someone isn't distracted by rocks, or swords, or a wolf, they might see that her face is literally cracking and crumbling, revealing the same exact face beneath, albeit a bit less sun-kissed since it has been beneath a layer of living rock for who knows how long. Only Gwen and the multi sword user so much as flinch at the sounds of whatever they've awoken, the other two are far too feral to bother with fear.

Krice felt the atmosphere shift as Maureen completed her transformation, enshrouded in electricity as she was, but his focus remained staunchly on Gwen. He gawked inwardly at the regenerating mage and remained close to avoid the spray of boulders that would otherwise try to crush him, which of course left him more at risk of suffering her body-related magical defenses. Still, as she rose to her feet, the silver-haired man took a moment to glance over his shoulder at the chaos further west, in that moment locking eyes with Lionel. Their gazes were communicative but fleeting, not long enough to distract either one from the task at hand. Were those boulders still out there, waiting for him to clear the master of their conjuring? Before Gwen could find her full height, the warrior darted out from beside her to test the answer to that question, sheathing his katana once more in the same motion. Sure enough, a bloated rock fell straight toward him - and he remained in place. All at once it seemed as though the rock had crushed Krice, but he percevered beneath its weight, a sustained grunt alerting unoccupied onlookers that he was still alive and well - if his bent legs visible beneath the rock were anything to go by. Supporting the projectile on the stacked strength of his vertebrae, and cushioning himself from the blow with the musculature of -both- arms and one shoulder, the enigmatic warrior gave a mighty shove to throw the rock at a low angle toward Gwen's face. If anything could shatter rock, it was -other- rock, right? Releasing that boulder opened him up to the dropping of another and he leapt eastward to dodge it, receiving a graze to his left shoulder in the process. It was enough to knock him off his trajectory and he landed in an unceremonious roll. One rotation later, the man was up on his feet and darting away to dodge another boulder, and another, if the mage was still alive to maintain that magical link between the here-world and the rock-one. And all the while, he managed intermittent glances toward his occupied allies, making himself aware to their condition and their predicament. Did they need help? Hellfire's flames and Stroud's determination suggests 'no', at least not yet. With the rolling of thunder underfoot, and the cry of a severely pissed off big nasty looming in the distance, Krice knew that the tide could turn against them. Whilst dodging Gwen's boulders, he would lead them away from the mage with swift, evasive steps that drew him ever closer to the treeline. If he was going to eventually get crushed by one of those damnable rocks, at least he could lead them to inflict the same punishment upon the saurian by proximity. If the rocks were gone, he'd sprint for the treeline, weapon at the ready."

Lionel is accustomed to this close-range pyro-projectile attack going one of two distinct ways. Either his enemy is exceptionally adept and avoids the whole song and dance or they melt away in frank agony. The one thing Lionel has never seen is some freakish combination of the two. The foe’s forward push is formidable -- Lionel senses it in a sliver of a second, willfully deciding not to resist. Instead, he hops back of his own volition, using this opportunity to prance on his feet a bit and send the blood flowing through his body. It is then that he and Krice lock eyes, and Lionel takes in the pertinent information of the enigma’s battle plan. A bold one he’ll seek to aid. But the Kingsguard’s rising swing crests the hot air with too much force; it grazes tight-packed mithril beneath Lionel’s black silk shirt, buttons sliced to ribbons and the mithril mesh itself broken at the chest. Beads collapse to the ground and Lionel gasps, wondering if this might be his ignominious end. Instead, a solid red streak has been carved from the very edge of the foe’s sword; this scar will likely never heal. But Lionel is safe for a heartbeat and he twists acrobatically to the left, closer to Krice even as Krice moves further away. He launches that previously-held dagger for the burned man’s burning mouth as he twirls, again and again, twirl after twirl, his destination not immediately clear. He’ll fall gracefully to the dirt near Stroud, who must surely be having a rough go of it by now. In his peripheral vision, the Catalian has remained keenly aware of a monster made flesh, a wolf-beast of unimaginable alacrity. Yet nothing quite prepared him for this -- nor Stroud. The large proud man grits his teeth and raises his two swords in an ‘x’ pattern over his face, then stands still as night whilst Maureen lunges. When she descends, both he and Lionel jump erratically, both to the right, in a defiant pitch to bewilder her. Two things happen in the next beat between clashes. One: Maureen’s final pounce still tears through flesh’s edge, there to savor the sweet meat of the left side of his neck. It misses vital arteries by a hair’s breadth but blood bursts like a gruesome fountain. Just one burst, then Stroud has dropped one sword and he’s clutching his neck and screaming, but the man is down on his knees. Two: the saurian arrives on the playing field. Roaring infernally, it charges straight past Krice, exiting the treeline scant meters from the silver-haired warrior. It is gargantuan. Its scales are green flicked with red, its jaw is wide enough to snap an Uyeer, and its ample arms reveal claws half the size of Hellfire. The saurian’s swiftness brings it on a direct arc with Lionel and Maureen both; the Knight-Commander has no recourse but to dart to and fro until he’s dodged the thing’s gallop. The creature veers, canting its head in a vicious snarl as it sweeps its tail asunder, toward the nimble Kingsguard and his two fine swords. It opens its mouth and rears those deadly claws downward in an effort to swallow and slaughter Maureen straight ahead and whatever’s left of Stroud the Indomitable…

Macon ::Gwen has summoned way too many of these seemingly sentient boulders to keep track of them all, or rather to keep track of which one is which. This comes back to bite her when one of her conjured up rocks, a big one, is sent flying her way. Confidently she speaks a few magical sounding words and ends it with the elven word for six. She should have said ‘five’. The massive stone rams into her, seemingly crushing her into the ground (unlike Krice, she is knocked flat and her legs are not visible beneath) while one of the boulders in hot pursuit of the warrior -pops- out of existence. The rocks are still moving around with their master seemingly incapacitated or worse, but they are quickly becoming sluggish and simpler to predict. On the Lionel and Stroud side of the fateful encounter Maureen is lapping up blood from her snout before it cauterizes from the electricity sparking about her canine form, leaving her unable to breathe through her nose, a unique issue that she has had to deal with previously. The boiling great swordsman roars triumphantly when he manages to land a blow, making that mouth a bigger target for Lionel’s thrown dagger. The blade enters at an angle, chipping a tooth before it pierces his cheek and peeks out of the side of his face, blood spraying briefly and oozing slowly thereafter. Still no sign of pain, but now he can't even really roar with that dagger stuck in his mouth. He stumbles and props himself up on his massive weapon, poor Gustav… Then comes the saurian and a difficult decision for The Lightning Wolf. She stands over what a second ago was a sure kill and meal and for less than half a moment laments that she must bolt if she is to live to hunt again. Another shock is sent through Stroud as she leaves his proximity, the action as merciful as it is incidental. The transformed electromage is out of sight in about two heartbeats, leaving her companions, or what is left of them behind… Boulders change targets as Krice had intended, moving to crash into the creature that has emerged and pile on to incapacitate and cover an escape. The as of yet unnamed dual wielder continues to be nimble, attempting to hurdle the sweeping tail, but fails barely, his feet both getting caught, sending him tumbling through the air in two and a quarter full somersaults before he crashes face first into the hard ground, concussed and immediately unconscious, his weapons flying off every which way.

Krice's nose flared subtly in response to the varied blood smells that rose into the air, momentarily distracting him enough that he sought to confirm the well-being of his would-be allies. He could also tell, subconsciously given his high levels of focus, that the werewolf had vacated the area, and a couple of hearts had stopped beating. Well... At that same time, the boulders that had once been quickly pursuing him seemed to lessen, easily halving the effort he needed to put into dodging them. The emerging saurian caught his eye as its large head materialized out of the forest's shadows, darkness rippling across sinew and scales in a menacing homage to the creature's inherent power. Krice changed trajectory to meet it, and as he ran alongside the creature's hulking legs, those boulders fell with him. Their reduced speed ensured that most of them actually missed the creature, so it was with a calculated sidestep that the enigma aligned himself to run -under- it, keeping the monster's belly overhead. As such, the sluggish boulders would hit low on the saurian's spine, more centrally on its swaying tail, narrowly avoiding the fallen dual-wielder but punching a crater into the ground by his head. While he was under the saurian, Krice discovered that perhaps he could do some damage to the not-as-armoured belly providing him anti-boulder protection. In a move that could have toppled the enormous beast down onto him, the warrior withdrew his katana whilst running with the creature's momentum and leapt from the ground with enough force to drive his sharp blade into the saurian's gut, its point hitting something more substantial than flesh and muscle, lodged somewhere deeper inside. He dangled with it for all of two seconds before transferring the weapon to only his left arm, a grimace passing over his features as a reminder of his previously rock-bruised shoulder. With his right arm free, Krice grabbed at torn flesh and dug in all nails for better grip, so that he could maneuver his curved steel through the saurian - with noticeable effort, given the impressiveness of the beast's size and mass - for maximum damage. Never once did it cross the enigma's mind to run while the beast was incapacitated. Angry as it was, and -large- as it was, it could have flattened Kelay and Larket with energy to spare for the trip to Xalious. Obviously, hero-types like he and Lionel couldn't let that happen. Not while the will to fight still burned in their veins.

Lionel tenses as a foul feeling rushes through his body. Stroud’s final screams are silenced by the werewolf’s static discharge and yet another chapter in the Catalian’s life of sole survival carries forward like a saga motif. His eyes narrow in raw malice for only a split second before reverting to the ongoing encounter. There’s no time for hate and Stroud wouldn’t have asked for it anyway. The thought buzzes through a focused mind as the man pivots on one foot and throws Hellfire from his grasp to the ground nearby, the tip slicing with frightful efficiency through the damaged stone of the road so that the weapon is lain to rest as softly as if it were sand. He leaps forth sharply to evade the saurian’s charge, aware of Krice’s position beneath the monster and sparing a lofted brow at the worry that the wounded creature might slump to a fall right over the enigma. As Lionel hoists Hellfire from its perch and sweeps it back into the air, he wills a focused flame to fire from its steel and crash with a resounding swoosh straight into the saurian’s left flank. The thing is screeching, bellowing in cold animal fury at the sickeningly deep strikes Krice has inflicted -- a vital organ, something gastrointestinal, is exposed and dripping. The ooze’s trajectory is the exact coordinate of Krice’s luxurious hair, thus continuing the unfortunate epic that is the skilled swordsman’s propensity for finding himself covered in the blood and guts of terrible lizards. Lionel’s concern, however, is for the saurian’s pending collapse. His flame does as he’d hoped, knocking the beast sideways so that its smooth landing is wayward of all those still living. Chances are high a man as talented as Krice could have and would have been gone long before the fall, but heroes are as heroes do, and Lionel shares his newfound acquaintance’s desire to protect. In so doing, the Knight-Commander has taken the strategic route of allowing what is left of Stroud to become no more -- the saurian’s body slams brutally down into the earth exactly over the still-warm corpse, mangling it beyond recognition. Yet the saurian is far from finished. Even now, it is active and thrashing, and in a stronger and more threatening fashion than the one these two stalwart defenders had fought further down-road just days prior. Its tail wags to the side with booming gale force as its claws dig deep into what’s left of the caravan, and its skull goes out fast in Lionel’s direction. The Catalian can only block with all his strength to bash the thing flat on its nose, causing a howl and a snarl and an outward reach with both arms toward him as it regains its footing and hovers menacingly over him despite the growing trail of entrails falling from its nasty abdomen. Lionel, seeing those arms approaching and realizing he’s mere footsteps away from the unconscious body of a certain dual-wielding Kingsguard, briefly entertains the notion of a half-assed sidestep and a skewer of the enemy soldier as an offering to the saurian’s pending grab. The idea dislodges from his scrambling brain as fast as it arrived; he isn’t going to kill when a mortal enemy can’t be conscious to plead mercy. This isn’t the Army of Khasad; there are matters of ethics he will not cross. Instead, Lionel taps into supernatural momentum to swing Hellfire in full grip over to his west and send a trail of scorching blue flame to carry him out of harm’s way. The stream of that blue flame left in his wake sizzles saurian claws and crisps its scales, rendering the arms paralyzed and ineffectual. The saurian roars again as Lionel ends his path of flame, stops abruptly beside Krice, raises his sword vertically and breathes. As for the saurian? Well, it’s pissed. Claws inoperative, stomach lining drooling wherever it should go, it rips Stroud’s mangled head clean off his tattered neck, swallows amid a fixed, almost -knowing- look upon Lionel, and charges toward them full speed ahead. “Never a dull moment,” Catal’s last prince whispers to his ally.

Gustav stands nearly perfectly still while the two heroes get to slaying, because he cannot really move at all without something hurting. If not for his labored breath, the swordsman might be confused for a petrified statue of himself meant to commemorate his resilience in this skirmish. Thankfully(?) for him Stroud and Maureen must have looked more appetizing than his burned up, skewered self, and without moving a muscle he has somehow managed to avoid the danger of the saurian’s wrath, even managing to stay upright with the aid of his massive weapon in the face of the rumblings and winds caused by the creature. Lionel and Krice finally stand beside each other in a position that places Gustav between them and the now wounded beast. One might recall that he used the last of his strength to connect his blade with Lionel, but now that there is a lizard charging towards him, he has a new, better last bit of strength and he uses it oh so elegantly. The man, in armor warped from heat, pulls himself into a pivot, spinning his body and dragging his giant slaying weapon across the ground until enough momentum is gained to lift the blade. Like he is about to perform a hammer throw, he rotates, though only fully around once, timing his wicked swing with the monster passing him by. With savage force, added to by the lizard’s charge, Gustav swings that tremendous sword towards the kneecap of the nearest foreleg of the saurian… No matter what happens from here, Larket’s prints are all over this incident. Between the left behind dual wielding swordsman and the the ruined robes of The Lightning Wolf that clearly trace back to The Academy of Magic, there can be little doubt where these five came from. It should be noted that boulders are finally starting to stop flying around and several are -popping- back out of the physical realm, including the one that seemed to crush Gwen. No trace of her body can be found beneath it besides perhaps some shale knocked from her strange, rocky outer shell.

Krice caught a glimpse of fallen warriors - foe and ally - and clenched his jaw, bracing for impact. Over the dinosaur went and its human argo toppled from the gaping hole in its gut, crashing to the ground in a hard roll that looked more punishing than it was. He stumbled gracefully - if there was such a thing - to his feet and released a huff, barely breathing before the saurian's momentum brought its large right foot fast from behind. Krice felt the wind in front of it compress, a similar warning to that of the falling boulders, and he managed a sharp confirming glance over one shoulder before ducking to avoid impalement on the beast's claws. When he straightened, it was to the whip of a reptilian tail thrashing against his left side. Angling his katana, he managed to spread the impact of the blow through the curved steel, but he was knocked into the ground anyway. Rock and soil shattered around him and he hit hard with a grunt - a sound more frustrated than pained. As soon as the saurian flailed in such a way as to take the tail -away- from him, Krice pushed to his feet and inhaled deeply, expelling an exasperated sigh. Flexing left fingers around his katana hilt, the enigma tested the grip of his slightly unsteady left arm and readied himself for the beast's next attack, a moment spared in the direction of the crushed Stroud. He had been dead already, but still... Covered in blood, flesh, and dirt sticking to everything, the war-soiled warrior caught peripheral sight of Lionel's fire-borne evasion and glanced his way, taking a moment to consider the saurian while it was focused elsewhere. Nothing wrong with a momentary break. Krice advanced at a brisk walk but halted as the Knight-Commander's evasion brought him abreast, coolly observing the dinosaur's victim-turned-snack. Poor Stroud. " That is so mean," mumbled the warrior, flexing his grip around his katana hilt once more. He was aware of Gustav standing somewhere between them, but given the saurian's readiness for round two, he did not divert his gaze. Following Lionel's whisper, he lifted his right hand to push a sliver of intestine off his index finger with the pad of his thumb, an irritated snarl curling his upper lip. For the Knight-Commander, Krice uttered, " I wouldn't say 'no' to a day of boring," On the heels of Gustav's offensive, the silver-haired enigma jogged forward, running alongside his temporary ally and remaining clear of that large sword and its wide swing. As the oversized blade drew near to the saurian's leg, Krice initiated a burst of speed that took him well past the injured swordsman and alongside the dinosaur. Loose soil shifted underfoot as he leapt at the beast's aimed-for leg, gaining heights no normal human could have achieved, and latching his right hand onto the lip of a large scale. As a result, he landed upon the beast's shoulder and held fast to the rigid, organic armour whilst presumably Gustav's attack made some sort of impact to its gait. His hesitation lasted only a few seconds before, with a shifting one-handed grip from one scale to another, and sure footing, Krice progressed up the saurian's neck toward the back of its skull where he reared his left arm, katana drawn. It was more a slicing weapon than stabbing, but there he was, driving it toward the dinosaur's flesh at a subtle angle that followed the curved steel, seeking the beast's brain somewhere behind the protective bone.

Lionel is impressed. He's impressed with Krice's remark. He's impressed with Gustav's lunatic fortitude. It is impressed upon him that he just watched a close ally's head get eaten by a dinosaur. And he's been given the impression that he and Krice are freshly allied with a member of Macon's Larketian Kingsguard. This wasn't what he had in mind this evening. A starry sky has replaced sunset with nightfall, and thus, the fuchsia flames now billowing to envelop Lionel's blade are given an eerily beautiful glow. Within the next several beats of his heart, he gauges Krice's trajectory, then blinks as the silver enigma ascends the pillar that is -the saurian.- "Goodness Kasyr, what have you done with your hair...?" Gustav strikes true to the creature's knee and Krice's scale grab digs deeply enough to elicit a lizard-like shriek. It flails in agony and attempts to throw Krice clear off itself with a back-and-forth of its tremendous tail, but the sway is too rhythmic and easy to predict. Krice remains on target. Lionel takes off in a run, not tapping into the sword's powers for any enhanced speed. He won't need it. Just as Krice withstands the shaking monster there to slice open the brain, the Catalian reaches the thing's opposite leg from Gustav. Tilting Hellfire in both hands, he flicks it in an abrupt motion and all those fuchsia flames pop off the steel and remain perfectly in place. Lionel continues charging wayward and shouts loudly enough for both his conventional companion and the boiling, blistering Kingsguard to hear. "Both of you, off, now!" The fuchsia flames surge to the oozing underbelly in a single intent motion, then detonate like some sort of infernal bomb and rip the saurian open wholesale. Between Krice's brain slash and this... whatever this is, total death is instantaneous. The saurian's upper body remains intact, but it falls to the earth in such disarray, and the flames that tear apart much of its bottom half surge and snake their way through remaining flesh. Krice will have to be customarily swift to hop free from it before all is turned to bone and ash and dreadful poison. Gustav will have his work cut out for him if he hasn't already started running.

Gustav literally cannot even. The impact of his blow lodges his giant weapon in the knee of the beast so that before its momentum is stopped he is dragged along for a few yards before he even thinks to release the handle of the blade. He slides to a stop face first in the ground, the dagger that was stuck in his cheek getting knocked around, causing more damage that is really just adding insult to mortal injury now before it is dislodged and leaves him without much to cover the teeth on the right side of his mouth. The dual wielder that Lionel spared the life of a few moments before stirs and groggily shoves himself to his feet. He blinks more times to count while finding a shaky balance on his two feet. The young man eyes his scattered swords dizzily, declining to move to go collect them, and then hears the Catalian’s call. The concussed swordsman sees his peer guardsmen, wounded, incapacitated, dead. He sees the saurian. He sees the flames and he finally moves to get Gustav away from there, but it is far too late for that. The lower half of the beast bursts, parts falling onto the downed kingsguard and the inferno spreads from lizard scales and flesh onto the unfortunate man, igniting him. Still Gustav gives no satisfaction to his killer in the form of any show of pain. He simply burns, and melts. The lone remaining Kingsguard struggles between fear and fury, flight and fight, and ends up choosing the former just barely. He stumbles with his first extended step, passing off the near trip as a bend at the waist to collect one of his swords from the wrecked ground, before falling into a wobbly sprint eastward towards Sage and Kelay.

Krice's sword hit slush through tendons and he admitted to himself, with a nod, that it was a bit difficult to pull the steel free afterward. As the creature reeled from his attack, he rooted his feet against its scales, locked both hands around the hilt, and jerked the weapon free along the same angle along which he had submerged it. More blood sprayed against his throat in the aftermath, just another accepted side-effect of close-quarters combat, before the floating-fire and warning call of Lionel reigned in his attention. He didn't waste time looking around for the Knight-Commander, and after a single step taken back toward the sheer side of the saurian's damaged leg, he kicked off the beast's scales and retreated in a back-flip that saw him arcing down toward the ground as the saurian exploded. Given his position, and Gustav's, the silver-haired man was unable to save the already-burned man from a fiery death. Landing a few metres away to see the magical flames in all their effective glory, Krice spotted a simmering glow at the ends of his hair, resting over his right shoulder. He reached up to pinch the silver strands before they could burn more significantly, at which point that Kingsguard stumble-sprinted into view. With the saurian finally defeated, the blood-and-guts-covered warrior took note of the retreating swordsman and instigated a final 'battle' move to intercept him. He stepped forward, and on the second step via his left foot, he shifted almost completely out of sight to reappear in front of the Kingsguard, a mass of blurred silver and black - and dinosaur giblets. His expression was one of indifference, until he thrust his right arm out toward the other male and sought to grab at his collar; his eyes sharpened with malice and he snarled in disdain for the lone Larketian survivor. " You're safe, now," growled the enigma, shooting Lionel a glance that offered -him- the choice of direction. Krice had an idea or two in mind for this captive, but given Frostmaw's involvement via the Knight-Commander, he opted to let him choose the outcome, instead. Beside him, the warrior's left arm shook noticeably as it held his katana low and out of the way, but he tensed the limb to minimalize the symptom. It was a wonder he had an arm left all, following the graze it received courtesy of Gwen's boulders. The warrior's reaction to the disappearance of those boulders was unremarkable obliviousness.

Lionel skids to a halt beside a saurian explosion. There are two key reasons he's grateful this trick worked: it worked in tandem with the fellow warriors to help collectively save their asses, yes, but it also confirmed that that particular technique is effective against the proud beasts he and Krice will soon be slaying en masse. Fellow warriors. The thought clicks in his head and he turns to see the last of poor Gustav. So much for that arrangement. Who's left? He scans the field and sheaths his sword, dizzied to find a lone foe remaining. It's just about now that Krice shoots him the look. He sighs, but his sigh goes on far longer than he'd anticipated. He's tired. Go figure. He saunters up and strolls all-too-casually beside the concussed Kingsguard, then taps him on the shoulder -just- gently enough not to knock him over. "You're a long way from home, and this is a right fine mess. What's the deal, friend? The heck were you doing?"

Gustav’s last remaining compatriot on the scene is dropped to the ground, his lone sword clattering to a stop beside him. The once nimble, now dizzy swordsman props himself up in a seated position with his palms pressed against the ground behind his back. He spits angrily towards the heroes and snaps back, “Fighting the war that -you all- started.” That Furious King sure has instilled a hatred towards Frostmawians well to fuel his forces in this conflict. Dark brown eyes dart to and fro looking for any opportunity at escape… If only another dinosaur would come out… or maybe that electric woman that convinced him to come out here in the first place… Nothing...

Krice really hadn't meant to knock the surviving Larketian off his feet, but he was covered head to knees - and a little bit below - in dinosaur multi-crap and he felt sticky and gross. Not to mention, he -also- was tired; the delicacies of minding one's own strength sometimes didn't engage. Dancing with saurians and dodging boulders had that effect on even a superhuman. The dizzied swordsman continued to be the target of the focused warrior's resolute stare, which softened slightly in irritablity. He jerked a thumb toward Lionel. " Hey, don't group me in with Frostmaw," he grumbled, before crossing that arm over his abdomen to absently rub at the opposite elbow. " I'm just here because I -so- enjoy swimming in guts." Not. " Let's be honest, now."

It occurs to Lionel that he can't tell this lad not to lump him in with Frostmaw, either. Being the Knight-Commander himself, he's in charge of the military now, and how the heck did that ever happen? Life is strange. He extends his hand in offer to help the man up to his feet. Whether or not he accepts, Lionel will speak. "I'm a little late to the party that is politics," he admits. "I can't confess to know everything that's happened between Larket and Frostmaw. I do my best. Paper stacks the size of an overfed avian. But I try. I've been gathering a picture and it isn't always pretty." He pauses. There must be a way to convey empathy. "The name's Lionel. Yes, I am a higher-up within the queen's court. Yes, that makes us enemies -- by technicality. But think back a decade and more. Think to the Battle for Light. When Donovan Keane and I fought beside Larket, we did so because we believed in a realmwide peace. I still believe in that potentiality, man. Do you?"

The lone remaining Larketian wrinkles his nose at Krice’s demand to not be lumped in with Frostmaw. The look says plainly, ‘You just fought next to him, so you’re with him whether you like it or not.’ It is really unfair of Lionel to bring up names like his own and Donovan Kean’s to a man as young as the one he stands over now. To the concussed dual wielder they represent boyhood heroes, and well, he just spit at one of them not a minute before. He is getting less and less dizzy by the second and makes an attempt at pushing himself up to his feet, regathering his sword, backing up, and replying in the process, “I do.” Really that is the only answer choice available to the Larketian guard in this scenario, but he hedges, “...but Frostmaw cannot choose who should be King of Larket. It is not The Silver’s place to free Larketian criminals…” These are definitely The Furious King’s talking points being regurgitated, but don’t they still sound so reasonable? “That isn’t peace, -Heroes.- It’s subjugation.” Macon has said every single one of these words exactly like this… Is this poor kid a victim of wild propaganda, or is he speaking the truth of the situation he and his home are in that has clearly spiraled out of control?

Krice let Lionel speak with the other swordsman as he stepped away to investigate the area. Blood saturated the earth, and flesh and tendons altered the silhouette of the terrain. The death of that saurian left a Gods-awful mess. As Lionel regailed the youth on tales of old, dropping names legendary to those of Hollow, the enigma did not openly react; perhaps because of his ignorance on Hollow's history, or perhaps because his focus was waning. He stood by the shredded cart behind which the Larketians had once taken refuge, and through blurred eyes thought he could see the remnants of some kind of munitions. All of it was destroyed, of course, in the rampaging and subsequent collapse of the now-exploded saurian, but it was there, waiting to be discovered. The warrior teetered on his feet and released a quiet grunt before he turned to shuffle southward, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

Lionel grimaces at the young man's retort -- Macon's hold is real. Or rather, it is his hope that this is the dilemma; if Larket's citizens believe this utterly of their own accord, things may be worse off than his worst nightmare predictions. "The Silver," he begins, suddenly realizing he's never before called her that, "is aware that the man you serve has placed some kind of spell upon you. Or else, something less than secred, regardless." He pauses. "I know. You don't need to say it. My answer sounds like precisely the thing a dubious sort might try. But before you grit your teeth again -- don't deny it, you're a teeth-gritter -- consider this one thing. If I wanted you to believe a lie, wouldn't I try for something a little less absurd? I can think of ten things right off the tip of my tongue right now that'd have you listening fast. None of them are true. You need to take a real hard look at the conditions in your city and realize something: there's a shroud in Larket and whether Hildegarde wants you all risen up as saviors or tossed into an oven, -I- want you safe. And, for the record? She's not a bad queen." Krice's potential departure has been noted, but the Catalian only now glances up to acknowledge it. "Bed time?"

The Larketian male backs off a few more steps while still listening intently to Lionel’s words. With a shake of his head, to clear it further from his wooziness, he turns his back on the Catalian and bends at the waist to pick up another one of his swords. He swings it weakly, squinting at it, trying to see if it has been damaged in any way before looking the hero’s way again. “How would you react if I said, to you, the same thing? That your belief that your Queen is good is the result of a spell? What makes my loyalty less-than yours?” He starts a slow stroll back towards Lionel while speaking still, blinking the man opposite him into focus, “You won't convince me that Larket’s Hero is a villain and I won't convince you that you serve a war mongering beast that has spun you lies about my King.” That bit about wanting him safe earns a faint smirk.One short sword is pointed defiantly towards the Knight-Commander. “This only ends one of two ways. Either we both leave as enemies, or we fight and only one of us leaves.” A cautious glance is sent Krice’s way during the warrior's investigation, just checking to see if he might intervene.

Krice was on his way south, deeper into the forest--though whether to investigate or depart remained unknown--when Lionel's words drew his ear. The warrior halted on the edge of the road and looked east, toward the two males. It was the Larketian who ultimately spurred the enigma to return to them, and he strode just a step past Lionel to stand within striking distance of that short sword. His features were rigid, expression overshadowed by irritation. He had no patience for mincing words. " Wouldn't you know it, I'm covered in dino-guts, and a hundred boulders were dropped on me." He dodged most of them, but that wasn't the point. " Needless to say, I'm not in the best of moods and the last thing I feel like doing is listenin' to your dead-end logic." He jerked a thumb toward himself, and then to Lionel. " -I'm- not affiliated with Frostmaw. The only reason I'm here fighting with -this- guy is because we were -both- coincidentally on the road at -this- time to come across you and yours. I'm an outsider; my mind is free from the words of both the Queen -and- the King, and I can see a difference in the Larketians as relating to the Usurper who rules you. Frostmaw's people are free while Larket is mind-warped, says the -Outsider-. Kelay citizens have noticed it, too; something's wrong with your city and you should be trying to figure it out instead of arguing with us or asking to die." Because really, a concussed fool on his own against two experienced warriors wasn't likely to go well for him. " The only lies spun anywhere are in Larket, and they've been spun by your 'Captor'."

Lionel is teetering on a stubborn willingness to let the lad be on his way. There's a fire in the kid's misguided eyes that he's not convinced is entirely Macon's doing. Under separate circumstances? In a different life -- an easier life? The punk wouldn't be pointing a weapon at the Knight-Commander unless he were ordered. Lionel would help him shake off the juvenile delinquency, an irony by its own right given teenage Lionel's escapades. But that's not how it goes down, at least not yet, and a quiet rush of gratitude cascades over Lionel when Krice returns and chimes back in with the smartest thing he could possibly have said. Will it succeed? Or will it merely prolong this political faux pas? Lionel tenses and sighs. In his face, should the Larketian bother to look, there is mild surprise leveled at Krice for the intervention. It's genuine, too, and maybe it will help turn the tide. "Ask any outsider. Their perspective is a heck of a lot more likely to align with this guy's." A passive gesture to regard the enigma. "If nothing else, really take a look around. Ask people in various provinces. Ask them what they think. Drop that gear of yours somewhere safe, masquerade as a common village chap for just one day, and see what happens. It's not Frostmaw that thinks Macon's a tyrant -- it's Lithrydel sans one very convenient exception of a city. And when you go and you confirm that, you'll either uncover a lie spread across the entire realm or you'll realize -we- have the right of this." A beat. "Either way, I reckon you'll want to know."

The unnamed Kingsguard -does- grit his teeth at Krice when he returns to Lionel’s side to pile on poor King Macon. The word ‘usurper’ is meant to irk the kid, and it does. Unfortunately for Lionel and Krice, this guy doesn't know Maureen well enough to realize that something must be off with her to have made the Lycan drag her fellow Kingsguard out on an unsanctioned mission like this one. Let's face it, the girl is an absolute pro outside of Rage Stone influence. The Larketian swordsman knows Krice to be one of the ‘outsiders’ that assisted Larket against the Fermin attacks which -everyone- knows were orchestrated by The Fallen Paladin Kelovath. These two heroes, in the dual wielder’s eyes, appear just as he does in theirs. Deceived. Blind. It is frustrating to see that Krice, who, without knowing, fought against the villain Kelovath, now so easily sides with the Paladin. He sighs and lowers his sword, believing his offer of a duel to be declined and that he can leave with his life. Under other circumstances he would argue that Larketians are the only ones convinced of their King’s legitimacy because they are the ones who lived through the turmoil, brought about by Arkhen’s Paladin and ended with Macon’s return to Larket, but he has already noted that there will be no changing of anyone's mind here today, and so he holds his tongue on the matter and takes a few steps to move past Lionel on the side opposite Krice. “Maybe I'll try that then…” he offers at an attempt at a farewell.

Krice shot a look at Lionel. " 'This guy'... What, we cut up the same enemy and all of a sudden you're using my words?" He wasn't serious, of course, as told by the ghost of a smirk at the left corner of his mouth. That's all it was, though - a ghost, and the enigma's attention returned to the Kingsguard, whose lack of an answer did little to prove to the warrior that his - and Lionel's - words had got through. Just like that Kingsguard, he opted not to keep trying. With the Larketian's departing words, and movements, Krice turned just enough to watch him go and pressed his lips into a thin line. He knew that the Larketian did not believe either one of them, but perhaps with time, the idea planted in his mind would fester until he actually -did- investigate the happenings in Larket. For now, the enigmatic swordsman released a close-lipped sigh and underarm-reached behind him to check the security of his katana. It was firmly in place, if a bit grimy, once more sheathed against his back.

Lionel can only watch the lone Larketian depart and hope Stroud's sacrifice was not in vain. That seemingly frivolous loss of life will not let him rest quietly tonight. As he casts his gaze to the black sky now full of winter's constellations, he lets out a breath and remembers something sickeningly comforting -- he wouldn't have slept well, anyway. He expects himself to thank Krice aloud after turning downward from the distant nebulae to acknowledge the warrior and his humor. Yet when Lionel locks eyes with Krice, and with the spared Kingsguard fading fast from his line of sight, he realizes there's nothing to thank him for. Krice is only acting as Lionel himself once did, maybe. Going where he wills, with the wind or otherwise, and doing good things in the process. Lionel's own lips tighten and a tiny grin captures their image. Quietly, he strolls to the dead saurian and then he kneels. It's the closest anyone will ever again come to acknowledging an important man whose final resting place is here scattered in with the dirt and with the leaves. "I'm sorry, Stroud," he whispers. "I won't let your death be in vain."

Krice turned his head when Lionel stepped forward, watching the Knight-Commander approach the last resting place of his deceased comrade. For a moment, he stood in reverent silence deferring to the fallen, but with adrenaline leaving him and the battlefield having finally settled, the pain of his injuries began to encroach on his focus. He pressed his lips together, more irritated by the discomfort than anything else, and turned from the crouching Lionel to cast his gaze further east. Back there, Kelay looked so calm and peaceful and -clean-. Here, at the west end, things had gone to hell and the evidence of it was -everywhere-; a splattered dino-carcass and residual remnants of more humanoid fighters. Blood and flesh. With his gold-streaked eyes returning to Lionel, Krice waited a moment before he said, " Sorry about Stroud," and turned to move eastward through Kelay.

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RP:Kingsguard to Queen's Caravan

Xalious: Rough Range