RP:Loss After Loss
Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc
Summary: Brennia and Lionel have a talk of what is to come, but they align themselves moreso.
Snowless Training Yard
One would never know this patch of land once held the bloody remains of innocents killed long ago, for all have been cleared away and given proper burials nearby so that this area could be reborn. And reborn is has been, transformed from a battered street to a wide yard fenced in by a low, black stone wall. The yard sprawls out on either side of the iron gate that serves as an entrance, and the expanse seems to be sectioned off into four large rectangled areas by strange white lines drawn upon the ground--deeply embedded strips of marble, if one were to examine these closely. The ground itself is a peculiarity too, a soft, golden sandy surface without a single speck of snow upon it, as if the weather refuses to go near it. In fact, even the numbing chill in the air seems to be buffered while within the yard's boundaries. You suspect the four orbs of pulsing fluorite--white in the north, black in the south, crimson in the east, and cobalt in the west--that decorate the corners of the fence have something to do with this, riddled as they are with elaborate etchings of runes, sigils, and other arcane markings. Here lies the training yard for those learning the art of outdoor combat in Frostmaw, a blank slate to be altered as teachers see fit in instructing their students through the rigors of environmental conditions, for it takes no more than an adjustment upon the fluorite spheres to produce any arrangement of climates within their given battlefield. Rain, sleet, arid desert, howling wind, or boggy swamp, the four fields are infinitely mutable in their existence, as is to be expected of an institute devoted to the art of combat around the world. To the west looms an immense building, even by Frost Giant standards, with behemoth double doors of a darkly colored pine bearing the stern facade of Aramoth, God of War, chiseled across their collective front. One can safely assume this is the training academy proper, where various dojos, studios, and classrooms can be found, and unimaginable lessons attended by eager students of the art of War.
Lionel worked tirelessly through the night in the skirmish’s aftermath. There were wounded to tend to, startled allies to speak with, vile accusations against Chisel to becalm, and more than a few hushed inquiries concerning the meaning of Larketians on Frostmawian soil. Some of those he spent time with as the first rays of dull red sun peeked out over the mountain insisted he tell them what he’d said to Josleen; Lionel, finding no cause to conceal the truth, came into possession of a parched throat for all the times he’d had to repeat that vitriolic conversation in demanded detail. When the black sky turned grey, a greater appreciation for last night’s carnage was found. Many bemoaned the victims of the assault, but Lionel, bitterly forcing himself to acknowledge the event in pure math, could at least find cold solace in the fact that only two perished to those terrible arrows and just one more met her end to the orcs’ serrated blades. Now he stands, the yard’s great fire long since burned-out, the corpses of enemy combatants tossed into that fire before its end. He stands as the sun rolls lower into the overcast, signaling the coming of evening. He stands, sleepless and weary, hoping to espy Valrae again so that he might make sense of it all, but she does not come.
Brennia lingered in after the fighting had come to a stop as if she were looking for something while helping to tend to the wounded. She had her wings hidden under her cloak again as she was back to ‘incognito mode’ and make work of looking for any clue these attackers were of the Flewminati by checking the back of their hands. If they were she would find the familiar eye with a wing tattoo with the iris depicting the world of Hollow and a single tear. Every once in a while she would hum that inaudible note to check if that faint red aura was still lingering, but it was not and she swore Lionel could see it too! Brennia was no practical healer, but she had some salves and potions for her journey ahead which she didn’t think twice to assist the healers in their efforts. Even singing calming melodies for those needing painful mending. Then she spots Lionel standing alone, but vigilant and eventually made her cloaked self over to him. Her velvety montone timbre speaks up as if she knew what he was looking for, “whatever we saw… It’s not here.”
Lionel has seen the comings and goings of so many humans today, so many elves, so many dwarves and certainly frost giants, that when a hooded figure lurks close the only thing about him that changes is his stance; it’s a fighter’s instinct to let his legs loosen slightly, arch his shoulders just so, narrow his field of vision to center discreetly on an unlikely opponent. He’s done this for all those humans, all those elves, all those dwarves and even frost giants. It isn’t something he can control and he’d never stop it if he could. The woman nearing him now will have found no discernible links to the Flewminati on these orcs, but the world is changing rapidly now in the wake of their master, and she would do well to continue looking in the weeks and months to come. It’s only as her approach is imminent that Lionel blinks to realize it’s Brennia, and he makes to reach out his right arm for a shake before remembering that it’s slung in wraps and bandages, immobilized by the slash he received from one of these felled foes. “You saw…?” He cuts himself off, pondering Brennia’s wording. Maybe he -is- mad. Maybe this -is- Mulgrew’s machination. He shakes his head and sighs. “I saw something too. And whatever it was, I wish it were still here.” How can he explain he saw Valrae? Nevermind the skulls, and the hopes he and Uma share for a possible resurrection; in the here and now, and with all the ways Lionel’s mind’s been messed with through the years, how can he tell anyone but his closest surrogate family that he saw her? His sister! Lionel recalls Brennia’s actions and smiles. “Thanks for getting Khitti out of this.”
Brennia never even caught the expecting woman’s name, but with their body language with each other they seemed close and it was the least Brennia could do, “I did see and don’t mention it.” She finally felt safe enough to pull her hood back revealing nearly shoulder length wavy hair and dark teal eyes fall to his arm on the side she’s on, “here.” She pulls free a small potion and hands it to him, “it will help with the pain. It’s from the Imperial Healers in Schezerade,” she said with a near frown for her heart already aches for home. If he lets her she makes work of what she’s observed and carefully stitches him up while softly humming to distract him from what she was doing, but Lionel’s most favorite scent coming from the avian probably helped with that. “All I saw was a faint dark red force hovering about for a split second, but whatever it was - I could sense it wasn’t malevolent. What did you see?” Her stitching was decent, but nothing like the experts who have practiced this. She pulled free a small gold container which looks like a makeup compact and gently covers his wound in a clear gel-like substance - it would feel cool and probably sting a bit. Wrapping his arm back up tight enough so it stays put, but not too tight that it hurts. It was odd, such a soft and warm touch from a woman so chilly as of late. “Sensing such a lost soul reminded me of-” she doesn’t finish that thought and steers the subject away from that… “I was here when you and Leone were addressing those gathered. After my own circumstances it gives me hope and I plan to help in any way I can.” She was stowing away the last bit of her ‘aid-kit’ while barely looking up at the man… in all honesty she felt like a failure lately.
Lionel is terrible at bows, and it’s a rare enough thing for him to want or even think to offer one, but his avian acquaintance’s kindness deserves one. His attempt is borderline passable; he’s too relaxed for it, too fluid in motion, too modest in stature, too narrow in shoulders. Well, at least that last part’s the fault of genetics, not sloppy showing. He ingests the potion at once, and either the effects are immediate or placebo’s kicking in psychologically, because he’s already feeling better than even Esche’s restorative spells and ointments had achieved. “Thanks. I…” Again, he’s cut off; the rich fermented grapes of some far-off Rynvali orchard assail his nostrils as if the wine’s already been poured. Not so long ago, the scent would have been something else, something baser or more refined; he can’t recall what it might have been, because he’s turned to wine and can’t fathom he’ll ever turn wayward of it going forward. Too many enemies for all that. “I appreciate this.” Social anxiety is at its worst for the lad when he’s being helped. Him helping others, however, is simply his way of life. “I saw… I saw Valrae.” Is it the scent of perfectly-aged wine? Is it the arm, feeling better, or the stitchwork so well-received? Whatever the reason, Lionel has gone and said it after all. “Did you know her? Surely you must know the name. She’s famous now, in death, and she ought to have been famous in life. She…” He realizes he’s rambling and he laughs cynically at his own incredulity. Conveniently, he feels the slight sting of the gel right then and there, shoving off any thoughts of trying to explain his vision further. “Well, that’s who I saw. And I’m glad for your help, Brennia -- truly.”
Brennia couldn’t even count the times he’s thanked her already, “Lionel,” her Veretian native tongue bubbles up in the name, “it’s okay, really. After our adventure I would hope you see me as an ally and there will be no need for thanks,” It was slight, but she smirked and glanced up at him. When he says the name she quirks a brow while staring ahead of them at the pile of orc bodies, “I do not know the name, but I think we heard whispers of a red witch?” She felt out of touch, “I should have done more even with the jar and the Flewminati and the college, but too little too late now.” Cold and calculated as she is, she can be far too hard on herself, but this is one very odd trait for an avain, “maybe this is why I lost the election.” A nonchalant shrug to her failure as if it meant nothing, but Lionel saw her before and after the jar being destroyed - she was ready to save all of Lithrydel over her own safety. Seeming far older and wiser since their first meeting, withdrawn and dry, but since he let down his guard for a second with her then she will return the favor, “I heard something when I brought the jar close to the lava… They said I get nothing and he knows what is to come to Schezerade by the hand of Vermillion. Then, mockingly, he told me to watch out.”
Lionel scratches absentmindedly at the stubble of his cheek. A short-cropped blonde-haired woman, Guard Captain Kara Thrace, steps close to them both. She offers a curt but polite nod to Brennia and awaits her turn to speak. “You’re right. We’re allies, you and I, and all the better for it now that I’ve gone and told Queen Josleen herself to frak off with her invitation of combined forces against Kahran.” Kara Thrace blinks to hear it said; evidently, she’s been so mired in her duties that word has yet to reach her of it. “A red witch,” Lionel repeats Brennia’s words, nodding emphatically. “A woman who became a martyr. And I saw her, and if by some cosmic chance what I saw was not a fluke, then I reckon you felt her, too.” That’s when Brennia references her election. Lionel grimaces and Kara openly gapes; it’s clear neither of them expected this outcome. Kara gives Lionel a pointed look; ‘should I leave?’ is full upon her countenance. Lionel shakes his head and hopes it will be enough that he trusts her for Brennia to trust her too. “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am,” Kara offers, whatever she came here for out of her mind in the wake of this revelation, “that’s tomfrakkery. Plain and simple. You should have won that election. Our scouts reported the people adore you.” Lionel sniffs the cool evening air and sighs. “The hand of Vermilion, eh? Just another bastard come to make this world miserable? Or is there more to him? What can you tell me about this bloke that the press reports up in Schezerade haven’t already said?”
Brennia’s expression didn’t shift when he mentioned of what he told Josleen. The avian did trust whoever Lionel did and was certain the pair were going to go off one some official business, but this… Her gaze drifted slowly to the stranger, overly long pointy ears blushing red from the flattery and she swallows hard simply because the truth is, “thank you, but I did too much for Lithrydel and not enough for Schezerade. What you are saying may entirely be true and I hold small hope for it, although most avians only think of avians and just because they live high in the skies, they do believe they are above anyone.” It almost seems to shame the woman as she averts her gaze now, “that is their greatest fault and I am afraid that they are blinded to the danger ahead.” Then Lionel is asking of Vermillion, “corrupt businessman with many dark secrets, but money and threats bought his way in. That day at the Summit when he lashed out - I saw another face within him. He is being possessed by who I believe to be Orra, a face I only seen in the spectral curse in Vailkrin. Vakmatharas’ right hand Necromancer and creator of the jar, but those two couldn’t be more perfect for eachother and I think that was Vermillion’s greatest weakness which invited the spirit in. He wants power and money - what better way to get that then funding a war.”
Lionel twitches. His blue eyes regard Brennia with a sort of added purpose when she speaks of doing more for Lithrydel than Schezerade. It’s a painful reminder of how little he did for Larket in the months following his brief war against Macon and most especially the build-up and revelation of Kahran’s existence and cruel intent. Truly, there is no fiber of his being that regrets telling Josleen no. He and Kara both remain quiet when she speaks of her shame. On another night, Kara Thrace would be the life of the party, even -- she holds her liquor and she’ll dance with damned near anybody. But the world’s gone sour enough for even she to hold her tongue in times of dark self-reflection, and Lionel himself is rather an epicenter of such notions. He cringes when Brennia references Vailkrin; too much dark self-reflection is built into him with that City of the Dead for any man to take. “He sounds like a right fine tool,” Lionel says. “But a tool that cannot be underestimated. A necromancer of that power may rival or exceed the strength of the very necromancer I just sent several of our staunchest allies into the Southern Sage to pursue: Qybek. I’ll aid you in whatever way you need, be it soldiers or funding or something more, if you hold hope to oust him.” Kara laughs pointedly. “Frak, ser, you’d have done it regardless.”
Brennia nods once to Lionel with that small smirk again, a way to say thank you between allies. “I’ve helped many bard students and guild members escape the campus, but there are still some that were recovering from the battle that I must rescue. I’ve been banned from Schezerade and the Flewminati are on the hunt - that is why I am without secret service protection and cloaked. I must keep to the shadows for now and work from there, but why take out Vermillion when we should be focusing on the head of the snake - Kahran.” She now meets Lionel’s gaze, “I do not know what use I can be to you. I can pick locks, put people to sleep and I've been working on using tonics to change my appearance, but even though no one will know wherever I drift to - there will always be a way to call on me when you need me.” She hands Lionel a pitch pipe and it would be useless to him, but, “if you select this pitch here,” she indicates the ⚜️ engraving, “it calls for the headmistress of the bard’s guild to your aid.”
All this talk of snakes and their heads is becoming routine for Lionel. Between the symbol of the Ouroboros and the naga threat to the east, it’s enough to give a man ophidiophobia. “Believe me, slicing off the head of this snake is precisely what I intend to do. The trouble is that Kahran’s whereabouts are unknown. He’s not even on our plane of existence -- the alliance has confirmed his location to be elsewhere, deep within a realm called the Shadow Plane. It’s an imprint of our world, or our world an imprint of it, or…” He shakes his head. “Whatever it is, it’s a dark and twisted place. It’s more dangerous than most of Lithrydel and his rate of expansion there is presently unknown. But so long as he can deploy his forces on a whim from the Shadow Plane into Lithrydel like he did last night, and like he’s done countless times previously, we’re losing. Our upcoming expedition into the Shadow Plane aims to change all that. Maybe we’ll find his main base. Maybe we won’t. It won’t be easy but we’ll do what we can to strike a blow. But we can’t stop there. We have to face his generals, like Qybek. And we have to face his allies, in Schezerade and everywhere else. Don’t ask me how he manages to recruit so many low lifes; ‘hey, I’m going to blow up the world’ doesn’t really strike me as a great sales pitch. But what do I know?” Lionel shrugs and wipes a tiredness from his face as best he can. He takes Brennia’s pitch pipe gingerly into the palm of his hand, studying its symbol for any lore he may recognize. “Your skills will be invaluable, Brennia. We’ve need of such artisans as your craft entails. I’m afraid I’ve spent far too many years hitting people with a sword -- nimbly, mind you -- to learn anything you just listed.” He returns her smirk.
Brennia felt stick to her stomach with the talk of the shadow plane, a place she’s been briefly, but the dark doesn’t scare her it was the thing attached to it, “it is a terrible place.” She visibly shudders at the thought of being there, stepping through there with the help of a certain vampire, but that is behind her now. “Darkness doesn’t always mean evil while light doesn’t always mean good… That was a hard lesson I’ve had to learn in my three hundred plus years.” His own thoughts on wondering why someone would want to stop living via the world going ‘KaBOOMmm!!’, “we all harbor misery and every once in a while the right people come into people’s lives at that precise moment to pour oil on the fires. For Kahran to even get to speak to Vermillion he would have needed the host to welcome such a parasite such as Orra.” In the back of her mind she wonders if her ex would be the type to assist in such matters, but she’s certain they might bump into each other on the road ahead, “I’m going to keep my eyes open, my mouth shut and my hands in pockets for a while. Please, If anyone is to ask, I was never here. You don’t know me or where I’ve gone - tell people you think I died, I don’t care… Not like I haven’t already been there done that,” she mumbled the end there. She takes a deep breath, “well… Keep your head up and your friends close. Maybe the next time you bump into me I’ll be some grungy beggar on the street, or the smart mouth saleswoman with a cart full of goods to sell.” After placing a gentle pat on his shoulder she pulls her cloak up over her head, “is there anything you wish me to do at this time?” After his answer she would escort herself out to the streets where she find her horse named Nauxnayme and be off, never staying in one place for too long.
Lionel has had to learn a similar lesson. He’s fought deranged paladins and stood beside a former necromancer he now calls sister. Even so, there are certain boundaries he can’t cross; allying with Macon’s Larket against Kahran is one of them. “You were never here,” he confirms for the sanctity of their agreement. “I’ll be sure to keep a few spare coins in my pocket until next we meet. For now, simply stay low and keep watch wherever you go. Our enemies have been known to keep their friends in public places where the din of others helps conceal their wickedness. Should you hear anything, I’m not a hard man to find.” Lionel tips his head as if he were wearing a hat and watches Brennia depart. An ally gained.