RP:Looks Can Be Deceiving
Iridessa was still very new to the lands of Hollow, but was also eager to explore, to learn. In her time spent lingering in the area of Kelay the young woman had caught snippets of overheard conversation mentioning various locations that she might look into, and after asking around a bit decided on a trek into the mountains of Xalious. High amidst their peaks was a kingdom, or so she heard, called Frostmaw. A land said to never thaw, but which still supported life and civilization. She was curious, eager to see if it was as harsh as a permanent winter would imply. Her enthusiasm soon faded when she realized the cold went beyond winter levels, cutting through the cloak she had worn. With a trembling form, the woman ducked into the first public building she found, a tavern warmed by a fire which slowly eased the feeling back into her numbed limbs. At first glance, one might suppose that she was of elven heritage from the subtle point of her ears. Her scent, however, for those who might detect it, had the clear mark of a lycan. Aqua eyes drifted across the room as she continued to shiver near the door.
Lyros secured a room here earlier by guile, luck, and the use of a cheerful and talkative half-elf to pay Drargon and assure him that yes, she would look after and keep a good eye on the grumpy drow in her company. Naturally, said half-elf is currently doing the exact opposite - Lyros has left her snoozing in their cramped but cosy accommodation. He took a short nap himself, but Riselet snores, and the drow is hungry. Slipping out into the tavern proper, he makes his way to the bar to try and order something to eat, but is halted before he can do so, spying a vaguely familiar shock of flaming hair through the crowd. He blinks, considers waking Riselet, but— no, she must be exhausted after the emotional rollercoaster they embarked on today. After a few moments' hesitation, Lyros skirts around the other patrons to where Hildegarde sits, clearing his throat to try and catch her attention. "Evening," he greets her somewhat lamely. The mage is a little less intimidating than usual, fearsome spiked armour and heavy cloak left behind in favour of his vest, simple burgundy pants, and heeled boots - though he's still wearing those claw-tipped gloves. "Are you...well?" Is he trying to make conversation? Blasphemy!
Hildegarde ’s sole eye shifted to the door as the stranger entered the tavern, very clearly chilled and unaccustomed to the freezing temperature of the Frozen Tundra. “Sit yourself by the hearth, m’lady,” she advised politely, “you will find Aodhan more than capable of warming you up.” The Silver reclined in her seat once her advice had been imparted, sitting in silence for a time until the mismatched drow approached her table and sought to seek her attention. He thought it lame, she thought it polite. “Greetings, m’lord,” she offered politely, sitting upright once again. “I am well, yes, thank you for asking. And you? I trust you have not wandered blindly into any other nests…?”
Iridessa rubbed her arms in an attempt to warm herself with friction, slowly turning her face toward the lady who had spoken to her. She couldn’t help but notice the elegant way of speaking the individual held, the lack of an eye being only a secondary thought, “O-oh….th-thank ye…” A small bob of her head was given with the stammer reply, her halting speech not from shyness but chattering of teeth. As she stiffly proceeded toward the fire, Dess took note of the drow entering the area. She personally held no ill will toward the race, she wasn’t actually an elf, and had not been raised to hate, after all. But she had been made aware by Ole Ma Oakes that bad blood existed between the races known as drow and elves, and that while Iridessa herself was a lycan, her usual appearance strongly resembled one of elven blood. Having never encountered a drow before, she chose caution, though he didn’t seem frightening. The regal figure of the woman who had beckoned her to the fire was imposing, though, she noted. Between the meal meant for a ravenous appetite, the clear fighting experience, and the strong frame, she was definitely intimidating...but seemed kind enough.
Lyros stiffens at the use of the title. "Lyros," he corrects quickly, only giving his name in the hope she might drop the formality altogether. "Just Lyros." His gaze wanders to the empty plate, briefly, and he wonders if she is the type to automatically give her name in reply, out of courtesy. She seems the type. Lifting his focus to the Silver once more as she speaks, the drow studiously ignores the few sidelong glances he earns himself for even daring to stand near the woman. He is still not quite certain of who she is, but he has heard the rumours, the whispers of a name. She does rather resemble the Lion of Frostmaw they spoke of, he thinks, absently watching the fall of her hair. "I've had better days. Worse ones, too. And no, no more nests...although that is related to something I wanted to ask you." In contrast to the foul mood he greeted her with the other day, Lyros seems a touch more subdued this even, his features lacking a trademark scowl and settled instead into a more neutral expression. He still looks as if he needs more sleep, honestly, shadows under his eyes and a weary aura draped over him like a blanket. "An...acquaintance is fascinated with wyverns. She'd like to see them, but..." He fidgets a bit and trails off, looking reluctant to continue. Turning to glance over his shoulder and search for the woman Hildegarde called out to before, Lyros finds her watching him and frowns a touch, but offers the slightest of nods all the same.
Hildegarde briefly raised a hand to Lyros, as if to silence him and excuse her interruption all at once as she spoke to Drargon loudly, “Drargon, my good man, see to it that the chilled lady has a mug of warm mead and a warm meal. Let it not be said that Frostmaw has no sense of hospitality,” she said, before lowering her hand and listening to Lyros speak. “Lyros or Just Lyros… Lyros The Just?” she asked with an evidently amused quirk of her lips; causing the mottled flesh of her cheek and jaw to tighten horrifically. “Please, sit,” she gestured to a chair at her table. Hildegarde’s hair was perhaps a mane to some, some of it swept to over as if she had carelessly pushed it aside while running her hand through her hair; a few braids are visible here and there but one and only one is tied with a tattered blue ribbon. Warrior braids, to be sure, a mark of respect and prowess within a martial culture such as this. “But it is dangerous… and you’re going to inflate the ego of the princeling. Is this acquaintance of a good heart?”
Iridessa offered a small smile as she caught the eye of the drow, an attempt to reassure him that she felt no inherent dislike for him or his kind. The gesture might have lost something with the slight quivering of her features do to the lingering cold as it slowly ebbed in the glow of the fire, her slender hands lifting to rub at her cheeks in an effort at warming herself. She heard the lady at the table order hear a drink and meal, and gave a slight bow, her balance thrown off a bit by the tingle of feeling returning to her legs, “Thank ye kindly. Ah owe ye one…” Slowly she was growing more comfortable, and when the mead and meal were delivered by Drargon, she was glad to partake, beginning with a hearty sip of the drink, which brought a rosy hue to her light, freckled cheeks.
Lyros' calm mood is still not enough for him to endure jokes about his name; the drow huffs at the Silver, a little exasperated by her teasing. It is still not the more acerbic reaction he might normally display, but clearly this is not his sort of humour. "Lyros. No House, no titles, and I'm definitely not just." He'll take that seat all the same and try to catch Drargon's attention to order something to eat, which the giant almost seems to brush off as though he never heard anything. Perhaps due to Hildegarde's presence, or maybe just because he's already serving up food for the newcomer, he grudgingly brings a mug of mead and a warm bowl of stew to Lyros once Iridessa's own meal has been served to her. Lyros pokes the steaming food with his spoon as he watches Hilde toy with her hair, his sharp eyes taking note of the multiple braids and that one, singular ribbon. He tilts his head, mildly curious, but quickly becomes distracted when she begins speaking again. "She's very eager to go, no matter the danger. But you seem to know them well...if you could join us..." There's a pause and Lyros wrinkles his nose. "...I'd appreciate it." It takes a bit of effort to get the words out, but he manages it eventually, before turning back to his stew to have a few bites. In afterthought, he adds while wiping his mouth, "And yes, she is. Talkative, but...a good heart." Why she's hanging around with Lyros is anybody's guess, given he is neither of those things.
Hildegarde shook her head as Iridessa offered thanks and mentioned owing her one, “You owe me nothing. All are welcome to a good meal,” she replied with a warm courtesy and champion smile before her attention shifted once again to Lyros. “I will go with you both. The Princeling and Nameless King are curious sorts, but around the unknown they may prove more dreadful than playful. Besides, I ought to visit the lordling more often,” she admitted. “We are… Well, old friends, I suppose.”
Iridessa closed her eyes with a happy sigh as she set down the mug on her table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. While some might call the young woman pretty, if wild, proper manners had never been top priority on Ma Oakes’ training regimen. Oh sure, Dess knew enough to say please and thank you, but sometimes the finer points of etiquette did slip past her. Like napkins, and not interrupting, “Yer talkin’ wyverns, yeah? Fascinatin’! Never had the pleasure o’ seein’ one meself, but Ah’m sure those beasties are somethin’ fierce!” Between sentences she was spooning mouthfuls of soup, her aqua gaze shining eagerly now that she had warmed a decent amount, the colour seeming to shift constantly between bluish and greenish shades.
Lyros has surprisingly good manners for one raised in the vicious underworld of Trist'oth - Matrons do not enjoy cleaning up a mess, obviously. He makes sure to wipe his mouth with a napkin before replying to the Silver. "With her luck, she'll offend one with her own jokes," the drow mutters with a small spike in his anger, recalling the events earlier and the words spoken so casually. He is not over it, and the rage still burns deep inside his chest, though watered down beneath a wealth of more soothing thoughts and a good bit of alcohol. "I do think—" Even from a distance the stranger easily drowns his voice out with her raucous interruption, causing him to place his spoon back in his stew and turn to face her. Lyros regards the woman coolly, trusting Hildegarde to engage the woman in casual conversation.
Hildegarde enjoyed good courtesy and manners, but she did not begrudge others who were not as mannerly as she was. Indeed, when Iridessa spoke up about how fascinating wyverns were, the knight could only smile; a smile shared with Lyros whom had met the wyverns and their Nameless King. “Wyverns are magnificent beasts, yet they roam Frostmaw all too often. In fact, there is a wyrm in the fire pit you sit at,” she gestured, watching as Aodhan shifted slightly in the flames. Sleeping, eating, burning: that was the occupation of the fire wyrm.
Iridessa let her gaze linger on Lyros a moment, taking in his features, finding a particular interest in the intense coloring of his eyes, where her own sight lingered for awhile even as she spoke to Hildegarde, “Ah see, then they be causin’ problems runnin’ about, aye?” Finally her vision tore away from the drow to look at the fire pit as it was mentioned, “Oh, so the beasties can be tamed some, then? Or is a wyrm some other beastie all together?” The woman collected her mug and bowl, and moved to the table where the others sat, not waiting for permission before settling in with them and resuming conversation and meal, “By the by,” Aqua sights once more landed on the drow as she smiled, “Ye have such very interestin’ eyes...Lyros, was it?” Her words revealed she’d been listening in at least since he’d offered his name to the other woman, “Ah’m Iridessa. Heard tell o’ drow, yer the first Ah e’er set eyes on though.” Clearly the young lady had trouble keeping her attention from jumping.
Lyros, squinting at the shifting mass in the fire pit, silently questions the safety of allowing a flaming wyrm to sleep in a tavern. He decides not to voice his concern but contemplates telling Riselet, although that brings the slight worry that she may ditch him entirely for Aodhan. While he mulls all this over, Iridessa keeps talking, and the drow is pulled from his thoughts by the realisation that she is -staring- a little too long for his liking. Adopting a frown, he quickly turns away and goes back to eating, only to find the woman encroaching on him at the bar and inviting herself to sit with them. He sniffs, swallows another mouthful of soup, and turns those hard amber eyes on her again. His usual grumpy self seems to be resurfacing; perhaps he is just bad with first meetings. "If you insist on trying to get this close to other drow, I can guarantee you won't live that long," the mage answers curtly, though he personally does not seem as if he has any inclination to stab her, however annoying he might find her. "My eyes are no different from any other." That is a lie, of course, though maybe the more orange tint to his eyes is from the fire. More interesting is his skin, patchy with splodges of white, a streak across the right side of his face. He looks to Hildegarde after a short pause. "You still haven't given your name." Ah, he noticed.
Hildegarde had no issue with the stranger approaching the table and joining them; the more the merrier was her opinion on these things. “A wyrm or wyvern will choose to help. There is no taming nor force to it, it’s all in the asking and in their choosing,” she explained. Surely, a beast raised to cooperate and know trust amongst humanoids would be more inclined to be a placid and helpful force of nature. “Oh come now,” she grunted at the mild threat from Lyros, “drink some mead and worry not about how long your lives will last.” The Silver paused for a time, listening as he spoke of his eye colour and then pointed out she hadn’t offered up her own name. The last time did not seem like a fitting moment… “I am Hildegarde the Silver,” and she had a string of titles to match her name, but humble was her nature and modest was her way.
Iridessa gave a nod at his warning in regards to other drow, perfectly willing to agree, “Oh, aye. So Ah’ve been told, ‘specially lookin’ like Ah do.” Here she indicated the subtle point to her ears, “Course, looks can be deceivin’...an Ah had a feelin’ ye wasn’t like the drow Ah heard tell o’. Hildegarde’s got the right idea though, don’t she? Says it so pretty too! Drink up, and let live!” Raising her glass in a toast she then drew a long sip, setting it down and once more swiping the back of her hand over her mouth, “As for yer eyes, they sure aren’t common as that! Shine like fire sure enough! Ah ne’er seen anything like ‘em! And…” She leaned in a little to get a good look at his face, “Yup, Ah thought so! Yer skin’s not what Ah was expecting! Thought drow were all dark!”
Lyros huffs another exasperated sigh at Hildegarde, but takes a long drink of mead all the same, though her words were certainly no order. Unintentionally, he partakes in Iridessa's toast. "Looks can be deceiving, all right," he grumbles as he sets his mug back down, though he won't elaborate any further on his exact meaning. Being the perceptive thing he is, the drow made sharp note of the Silver's prior words regarding the wyverns - asking and choosing...he'll have to remember that for sure. No doubt it will aid him in his next encounter, even if he still believes he successfully intimidated the wyverns into treating him with caution. He does not react to Hilde giving her name, not at first; Lyros is focused on Iridessa and growing tired of her scrutiny, and her comment on his skin is the last straw. "I am. This is— a chemical burn, is all." Another lie, but at least this one is vaguely believable. With his stew mostly finished and his mug half-full, the drow pushes himself out of his seat and offers both women a nod and a short, "Good night," though afterwards he does add to Hildegarde with a faint smirk, "I knew you were more than a guard." That said, he'll turn to take his leave, heading back to his room to hopefully get some more rest.
Hildegarde smiled at her company: an elf looking lycan and a ‘chemically afflicted’ drow. What an odd trio they made, but she enjoyed the company nonetheless. The Silver lifted her mug and drank some of the chilled water before placing the mug down with a 'thud’. “Looks are always deceiving,” she replied gently, before simply shrugging her shoulder, “I am a guard. A name does not change that,” she said, smiling in return to Lyros. She had been a guard once. A sworn-sword and protector of the streets. But now she protected a kingdom, she protected a part of the realm. She was a guard in a bigger sense. With the drow having departed, the knight rose from her seat with a grunt, “I beg your pardon, m’lady, but I too must take my leave. If I linger any longer here, I will not find the will to return to my duties! I hope to see you again in Frostmaw, however. Your company is most pleasant,” she assured the lycan. “I bid you a good day,” she said, with a courteous and respectful dip of her head before she departed from the tavern.
Iridessa blinked at the emphasis on the affirmative in the drow’s response. She was rather naive, and sometimes missed the fact that she was annoying to people, but even she could tell she had crossed a line with something in her previous comment, “Alright, then, Lyros.” She murmured slightly softer than before, casting her gaze aside as he bid the women goodnight. She drew a breath and called after the man as he departed for his room, though she was fully aware that even if he heard her, he probably wouldn’t reply. Ma Oakes was the same way when upset, though she usually would come around after some time. So with a hopeful smile she at least had to try, “Ah hope ta see ye again, Lyros! Mayhap we can be more cordial next time!” Turning her attention to the Silver who was taking her leave next, the lycan smiled happily, “Aye, Ah’ll be sure ta return. Next time Ah’ll be more prepared! And ye can call me Dessa, if ye like. Next to ye, Ah’m hardly worthy ta be called a lady! Well, then...Ah’ll be seein’ ye! Thank ye again for the kindness ye’ve shown!” A bow of her head was offer in return as she braced herself for her own inevitable venture back into the frozen air.