RP:Misperceptions

Walled Courtyard

Passing through the impressive North Gate or standing upon the threshold of Frostmaw Fort, the courtyard sprawls out before you, securely fenced in by the mighty wall. High above upon the wall, soldiers march and sentries stand guard, ever watchful of Frostmaw city's borders and those that move throughout the fort. With the knowledge that sharp-eyed archers oversee activity, one can move through the courtyard upon a stone-paved pathway, each piece hand carved with intricate, tribal designs beloved of Frostmawians. Bordering the path are grounds that should be nothing more than packed earth and snow, yet it appears to be a lawn of finely trimmed grass, of all things. How is such a thing growing in these harsh climes? Whatever the sorcery behind it, grass dominates this courtyard, a rare splash of colour so far North, and dotted with statues of various famous warriors of lore. Lining the pathway are lengthy, tiered constructs of stone and ice: benches, you realize, cunningly wrought to provide seating for races of any height. Southward lies the gates to depart this area, well-guarded to prevent the ill-intentioned from fleeing. While northward looms Frostmaw Fort, a behemoth construct of stone, wood, and ice, riddled with battlements, towers, and a myriad of deadly defences. As if the walls, mounted, giant crossbows, and guards were not daunting enough, to the east and west lie the courtyards of the Titan Sentinels, their earthen and frozen heads visible over the walls. The City of War seems to have earned its title.

— * —

Lyros has secluded himself in a corner of the courtyard, quite isolated from the never-ending hustle and bustle of soldiers and other fortress employees. Here he kneels with his legs folded neatly beneath him, eyes closed and his breathing soft, controlled, and even, as he faces the high defence wall with his hands resting across the tops of his thighs. It is clear from the noticeable unnatural aura around him that the maleficar is meditating, seemingly disconnected from the outside world while his focus turns inward to connect with the horrific sorcery he appears to wield - the air around his shoulders flickers with fell unlight and his shadow is long and thin behind him, completely at odds with the current position of the sun. Others give him a wide berth, as usual, passing by Lyros with hurried footsteps and hushed whispers. The subtle aura of malevolence makes it difficult to get close to him, as if it exists to ward off strangers as much as it is a pure weapon. The drow remains oblivious, though his body is beginning to shiver as a light layer of frost settles over the thick fabric of his cloak, dry lips tinged with faint blue. Every once in a while he inhales a slightly shakier breath, a product of the cold likely. He's probably been here for a while.

Ayras came out into the courtyard on the opposite side from where Lyros sat and meditated. He wasn't at all aware of the malignant aura over there in that corner as he went about settling himself into usual starting spot for his training, as he drew that red jasper sword from its new home at his hip. Instinctively, his other hand reached for where a twin should have sat, only for the elf to curse in drowish at its absence. No matter. He would either get used to one, or he would find another sword. In the interim, he would practice, would get used to the weight of his new weapon. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, the vampire went about his own ritualistic yet brief sort of meditation before he snapped into action. A barrage of heavy strikes segued into shorter, more precise strikes only to shift into a series of jarring parries. It wasn't until he lit off his first elemental augmentation to his routine, until his lightning lit up the courtyard brighter than the noonday sky, that he noticed the drow in the corner. His routine came to a halt, his body completing a spin that had his trenchcoat flaring out around him despite its weight. It had barely collected around his legs before he started over to the drow, only to stop short and lean against a nearby statue. He stood there and examined the mage at his meditation for a while before he finally spoke. "You know, there are warmer places to do that where you won't catch a death of a cold."

Lyros barely reacts to Ayras' approach, but his reply is instant, a soft-spoken quip almost drowned out by skirling northerly winds; "And there are more secluded places to fire off lightning bolts without scaring the daylights out of citizens." Eyes open, shining almost gold in the pale light of day, and the drow turns to glance sidelong at the other— frowning when his brain kindly reminds him of the fact that they are now colleagues. At this angle he looks almost normal, as only the left side of his face can be seen and the patchy right side is obscured. He does not rise, not immediately, choosing after a moment of staring at Ayras to turn his head away again and sigh. "Anyway, if I'm trying to connect with ice, why would I do this somewhere warmer?" he asks redundantly with a half-smirk while pushing to his feet; he stumbles just slightly, numb fingers rubbing at number legs, coaxing warmth and blood back into his lower limbs. With a flourish of his hands and a shake of his cloak to dislodge some of that frost, Lyros steps smoothly past Ayras and moves to one end of the paved area he was meditating on, only to bend to one knee and survey the space in front of him. It is not particularly large, but there should be more than enough room to move around a bit and experiment...yes, this will work. A quick movement that is kept out of sight precedes the maleficar pressing his bare hand against the cold ground, thin lines of red trickling into the gaps between the stones and quickly spider-webbing out from the contact point, in a display of blood magic that is oddly public for one normally so cagey about its existence. Perhaps it is because he views Ayras as a colleague now, rather than a mere annoyance - this is a secret he would have discovered eventually. Most walking by barely see the macabre display, for the blood retracts quickly and Lyros puts his thumb to his mouth, idly licking the wound he made while eyeing his handiwork. Where previously those veins of red had navigated across the ground, fingers of ice are spreading inch by inch, and soon the entire paved area is coated with ice, turning the space into a makeshift skating rink. Lyros hums softly with pleasure at the sight of it, before stepping on.

Ayras found himself rolling his eyes as Lyros gave his response. Of course the drow was going to be difficult. He had been difficult since their first meeting in the alley. He turned to keep the drow in his field of vision, watched as he pressed that dark hand to the ground. That dark hand. Silver eyes lowered to regard a limb of similar color, mithril fingers flexing as the elf regarded his left hand. It was the only part of the arm that was visible, the only part not shielded by armor. It was a stark reminder of his past failures. And so it was while he was absorbed in his own musings that he missed the beginnings of the spell, of the red vitae that spread out into the cracks of the walkway before turning to white-blue and blue-black ice. As Lyros stepped forward so, too, did Ayras, though the elf did not step out onto the slippery surface. He eyed the drow's back as a frown formed on those pale lips of his. He supposed one of them would have to say it eventually. "I'm sorry." He sighed and ran his mithril hand through his ruby-red hair. "For the way I treated you when we met."

Lyros glides a little further and faster than he expected, and the surface is different from what he likely imagined, made evident in the way his arms are quickly thrust out to either side of him in an attempt to hold his balance. With his focus on his body and how it reacts to the ice, he only pays half attention to Ayras at first, figuring out how to move on the slippery ground - but when the other speaks, his words appear to startle the drow, who spins around to face him as a look of surprise crosses his features. He continues to slide slowly backwards away from Ayras, as though he can't stop himself (which is probably true), and blinks at him in slight confusion. If that was not unexpected enough, Lyros' reply certainly is. "I was not particularly friendly, myself." Long legs bend slightly at the knee, pushing him further across the ice before he executes an awkward turn and makes his way back, pseudo-skating his way towards Ayras. "I was stressed, weak - still in shock, likely. I took it out on you because you followed me." It is not an outright apology but the sentiment is heard in the maleficar's voice, speaking quietly and barely audible over the sound of his boots scraping over ice. For a drow, however, it is quite an accomplishment to even attempt expressing such a thing.

Ayras gave what could effectively be called a smile, awkward though it was. He had lived among the drow, had been a slave to them. He had seen how they were towards their own, let alone their slaves. The fact that Lyros said what he said, the implications behind it, it was not lost on the elf. His gaze lowered for a moment - one hell of a sign of trust with Lyros being a drow, no matter that they're both in the Order - for a moment, silver eyes closed as he began to chuckle. The chuckle grew to a full-fledged laugh before his eyes opened again and the vampire turned his gaze to the rest of the fort and where Hildegarde lay recovering. "I suppose you don't have to worry about being hungry and weak now, at least. Can't promise you about the stressed part."

Lyros can play nice if he wants to. Were they not set to work together for the foreseeable future, he mightn't have bothered with an apology, but for the sake of his job and the public image he may have to craft, the drow would much rather smooth things over now and start afresh in time for any official announcements. The last thing anyone needs is these two kicking at each other during a ceremony. Ayras' laugh earns him an almost quizzical look from the maleficar, who pauses in his motions— or tries to, but the ice is apparently unwilling to let him go and Lyros slips away again, twisting his body to avoid crashing into the wall. "Indeed." His tone is calm and civil, though he at least seems to be lacking his usual prickly exterior, all his harsh glares and scowls absent in favour of a look closer to genuine emotion - intrigue plagued with a touch of wariness. "So?" Those gold eyes lift and flick to Ayras as Lyros' skating picks up in speed, the mage skimming smoothly back and forth before turning to retrace his steps. "It must be nice, getting your position back." The fact he's making conversation says enough of his more open demeanor - or perhaps he is feigning interest. It's really a bit hard to tell with him.

Ayras watched the drow skate around on his summoned ice. Leave it to the dark elf to showboat. Ayras stepped up to the edge of the ice and crouched down, poking at where it met the stone. What he was doing was anyone's guess. At least, until he pulled a chunk of ice off the ground. He straightened up and examined the chip he held in his hand, looking it over as best he could before the stuff melted. It was probably a good thing that he was holding it in his mithril hand. Less body heat. He cast the shard aside when he was done and looked down to the sheet that the maleficar was skating on. "I didn't know you were a cryomancer."

Lyros keeps to perfectly cordial tones and a certain amount of distance, not too friendly, nor particularly rude. "I'm not," he answers evenly, disguising an accidental slip by turning it into a daring second or so of skating on one leg, aided perhaps by his natural sense of grace...or luck, for a mere moment later he overbalances and goes tumbling over. Hopping back to his feet just as quickly, he casts Ayras a sharp sidelong glance as if to warn him against laughing, before slowly making his way over to the vampire once again. This time he stops and manages to hold his position, gaze flicking down to the shard of ice he'd snapped away - it is darker than it maybe should be, but it lacks any hint of the malevolent magic which crawled across the ground like devilish fingers and caused it to form, given Lyros withdrew the blood back into his body. "I'm a maleficar," the drow states with a slight huff of chilly breath, enunciating the word clearly in his euphonious voice. "A blood mage, in the common tongue."

Ayras did his best to not laugh. It was such a hard thing to do, the way the vampire liked to pick on people. Somehow, he managed it. It was perhaps the greatest feat Ayras had ever pulled off. Even if he had laughed, it would have died away as Lyros explained what he was. The warrior-mage had heard of such magecraft, but he had never anticipated meeting such a being. There was surely taboo behind being a maleficar. His master, back in his youth, had told him as much. But then, there was taboo in letting yourself be turned into an undead creature, as well. Especially one who had done the sort of things he had. "A fascinating craft, surely. Though I imagine prolonged casting can be detrimental to your health."

"Fascinating is...not how I'd put it." The way Lyros' voice lowers as he draws back, a soft frown crossing his face, is indicative of the fact that Ayras probably said something wrong. "Truthfully, that's the last word I'd use to describe it." An unexpected manouevre follows on the tail end of those words - the drow puts his hands to the vampire's shoulders, using his weight to push off and shove himself away, returning to his contemplative circling on the ice. Slight adjustments in the way he moves or carries his body seem to make a world of difference, and Lyros is intent on working this out. A hand lifts to trail along the wall as he skates back smoothly, facing Ayras but moving in the opposite direction. "Of course it's detrimental, but— but that's how things have to be." His expression is downcast, edged with hints of bitterness and suppressed anger.

Ayras saw that hardened gaze. A single ruby eyebrow lofted upon the elf's forehead as Lyros went about skating backwards, working at perfecting the art. "Had I a better term," he said in response to Lyros' words on the matter of blood magic being fascinating, "I would have used it." And so the civility was starting to break down. Go figure. The elf and the drow, they just couldn't seem to get along. In the end, Ayras just shrugged and turned to wander off.