RP:Morivanism

Summary: Mehrafarina's quest for knowledge leads her to Lionel, where a profound revelation is offered involving a dead man with deep ties to them both -- Griff Morivan, forger of Hellfire and unwitting father.

Frostmaw Tavern

Mehrafarina was not immediately visible, from the outset. The scene around her was a deluge of chuckling mercenaries in town for the various military drills that were to come, talking of ill-stable peace and the chance for money down the road. Offset that with the noise of quibbling frost giants and bickering about which swath of the mountain belonged to whom. Still more were outlanders, drawn for the promise of work and complaining about the trek up a mountain to get day's silver. From behind the bar, the wall of a retired warrior turned. At his side, hefting a tray that might have weighed as much as she, Mehrafarina emerged. Touting half a dozen pitchers of ale the size of ribs, the young woman had found a way to make a tiny bit of income while she stayed in the city. She hadn't actually noticed any new incomers, so much as she shouted in as welcoming a matter as possible, "Please, come on in! Get warm! I'll be with you in just a moment!" In the warmth of the tavern, her sleeves had been rolled up, and the warm golden glow that radiated from her forearm kept constant beacon of her location as she moved around the bar.

Lionel enters quietly, dressed in his red longcoat but with the Knight-Commander's vambrace upon his forearm. Hellfire is not present; he makes it a point not to go to bars with the thing whenever possible. The sights and sounds of the establishment are generally disregarded -- this man has a hunger tonight and he will not rest until he's satisfied it. All day, he's been in meetings, and between those meetings he's been signing papers and sighing over trade negotiations. It isn't a glamorous Monday, but it has been a productive one. It isn't what he'd anticipated, one year ago when he returned to Lithrydel seeking noble death. But this is the life he has chosen. "Aye, Commander," a nearby veteran rumbles gruffly, and offers him a mug of ale free of charge. He graciously accepts, thumbs up to the man in a very prototypically Lionelese expression of gratitude. Once he's seated, he'll wave Mehrafarina over to his location and mull over the menu. If she'll come, Catal's Last Prince will start the conversation with a request for venison stew.

Mehrafarina had delivered the last of her order before returning to the bar at Drargon's side. Before collecting the notepad for her next set of orders, the wizened (for a frost giant) warrior caught her arm, nodding to the man who'd entered. "Your Historian, lass." She looked around, her eyes shocked wide as she scanned the room. There, a convivial looking man pushing the end of his twenties. Him, she pondered, her head quietly tilting to one side before looking back to Drargon, and then once again, the man. All the same, she picked up her notepad, crossing the room. "Good evening, ser." She said in a chipper tone amidst the din. "I am Mehrafarina. Can I get you anything?" On the darker end of dusky, the woman stood out among the blue-greys of the frost giants and the flushed skin of the local soldiers. Up close, the girl could not have been older than twenty years, and even that was giving her a few to spare.

Lionel peers up, blissfully unaware that anyone might presently be seeking him. Well, that's not fair. He is well aware that somewhere, someone is certainly seeking him, because someone is always seeking him, for good or nil or to plant his head on a spike. But tonight he is ignorant. "Yeah, I'll do a big bowl of venison stew and two of those crisply little fishes. And bacon, burned black. And more ale. I didn't pay for this, because someone else did." His tone is congenial, even if his wordage is a touch strange. His azure eyes are beautifully expressive, as indeed they have always been, and just now he seems to be earnest and starving. He leans back in his seat, but a nearby crowd of soldiers urge him closer. When Lionel declines with a simple 'nah,' they make a team effort out of sounding disheartened, but quickly return to their cards.

Mehrafarina was quick to jot down the order, her eyes struggling against the impulse to rise in surprise at the mountain of food at his request. She simply smiled and nodded and jotted down everything he said before bustling off to deliver the order to the cook. Who, at the present moment, given the dinner time rush, was both a frost giant and herself. A few minutes would pass, the crowd swelling and dying down, an early party of men and women leaving after their early exodus from the mines. Mehrafarina considered her approach, debating on how to ask what she needed to ask. The crowd seemed to like him. Even Drargon would at least speak of him in hushed, if positive tones. But the giant offered her no detail on the man himself. She swallowed her nerves as she laid the last of his plates onto her serving tray, making her way out into the dining hall. Quietly, she nodded to Drargon. "I'm gonna take a little bit, if that's alright?" To which the retired warrior only nodded. Her bare feet padded across the hard wood, findings knots with her toes as she navigated the aged hall and back to the man's table. "Alright, order is up, I've got a double serving, the venison stew, a pair of hard baked fish, the bacon, blackened, and a second flagon." Her voice was calm, rattling off each item as she unloaded in front of the man before lowering the tray in front of her. "Is there anything else I can get for you? Or. Er." She hesitated. Nerves, she decided. This man knew what she was looking to know, if no one else did. She had to swallow that nerve. "Actually. May. I sit a moment?"

Lionel delights at the food, grabbing a dinner roll from a nearby platter to scoop up stew and chomping down posthaste. His gladness is almost adorable, and there is a charm to the way he digs in without much ado. Lionel is as Lionel does, and just now, he is another hungry soul come to tavern to resolve this most basic of biological issues. "Mm," he murmurs merrily, reaching out to yank a piece of bacon despite the steam oozing out from it. His hand seems unfazed and his tongue doesn't much minf, either. The Knight-Commander chews hastily and swallows even quicker, then washes it down with several sips of ale. "Eh?" He looks at Mehrafarina all over again, although it could be argued that he's only now truly noticing her. "Tired feet, I gather? Sure, take a load off. I'm not much company when I'm eating, but I don't mind sharing. This has been a heck of a day." A beat. "Week." A beat. "Month. Or even a year." A laugh. "Hell, lass, this has been a life."

You stood with the most awkward smile. On the one hand, she was glad to see her cooking enjoyed, it was always a compliment to see a good plate of food be received warmly. But still, there were her more delicate sensibilities, and his unceremonious scarfing did little to placate them. All the same, she gave a slight bow, her posture a little too rigid. "That, uhr... Yes. Tired feet. Needn't you mind about being company. Enjoy your meal." She said in the same quiet lilt as before. Her accent was distinctly foreign to the region, a certain warmth in the way she spoke that belied her more distant origin. With him noshing away at his servings, she took the time to reach for a satchel at her side, drawing from it a small, well kept book, bound in leather, a depiction of a woman wreathed in the light of the sun burned into the suede and began to read. Began, because her curiosity and nerves did little for her focus. "If, uhm. If when you're done, I was wondering, you're... Lionel, yes?"

Lionel has a bit of an ear for accents, or at least, he likes to think so, and the more Mehrafarina speaks, the greater the pulse of a distinct nagging feeling in the back of his mind. As if he ought to recognize this one, but must settle either for grasping at the truth of her origins or going ahead and asking. And he prefers not to inquire -- not because he'd deem it impolite, but rather, because it is far less fun that way. His hand plucks a fish and his fingers tear it in half, and one of those halves is gobbled in no time at all. "That I am," he answers, idly, polishing off the rest of this fish and using a growing dryness of mouth as just cause for more ale. "Did the bit about a hell of a life give it away? Or is it the vambrace? Please tell me it's the former. It almost strikes me as an inadvertent pun, in hindsight, although alas, I left my sword at home." He smiles an easy smile. Really, this man is a charmer, utilizing his bizarre segues in the most charismatic of ways, backed by a lilting tone and an extraordinarily carefree demeanor. There is far more beneath the surface, but first impression go a long way, and Lionel has long since learned the inaugural step to catching potential adversaries off-guard is to be joyous and revel in the small things. And that is precisely why he is already fetching the other fish.

Mehrafarina found herself sitting opposite a very strange man. Very polite, even charming were it not for the gobs of food she could see between his teeth every couple of chews. It made her distinctly uncomfortable, she realized, and she tried only too late to fix her expression in such a way that she didn't look utterly mortified. "Uhm. W-well, no. I don't think I know how it is a pun? You see. Drargon said you were who I was looking for?" A finger pointed past his shoulder to the man lazily rubbing down a barrel that he called a pitcher for ale. Whether Lionel looked or not was up to him, as she continued to speak. "You're actually the," She paused, counting in her head to retrace the steps of her last several months. "The fifth person? I've come to speak to. Came over from the East, through Cenril, then I stopped in the town hall in Kelay, the Clerk told me to come find you, but I found Drargon first, and then he said you come 'round every few nights for a meal." It occurred to her, once again too late to actually correct the problem, that this sounded vaguely creepy.

Lionel does not in fact look up; he knows Drargon well enough by now, and he knows all too well what it's like to be sought-after. Instead, he drinks more ale, although he appears to be slowing down with the whole shebang. He doesn't reach for more stew, nor does he pursue the remaining bacon. He simply sits. "Well, that sounds like a right-fine roundabout little journey. Clerks are sending people to me now? What kind of trouble am I in, per se? Usually it's knight-errants and townsfolk with unsolved mysteries and, you know, entire kingdoms in disarray. Those are the sorts that tend to come seek me. Well, and renegade redhead vampires. But that's a recent development." He taps a hand to his chin, as if in pondering. "Nevermind the pun. To whom do I owe the pleasure? And why did a clerk send you to Frostmaw's Knight-Commander? Or Catal's Last Prince? Or the Hero of Hellf -- you know, I hate titles, I really do."

Mehrafarina gave a notable anachronistic-to-the-setting blink. The kind of blink that one can almost hear the noise of the gears shifting with the eyelids. He spoke and her expression went to confusion, and then surprise, and then right back to an even more potent stage of bewilderment. The old man working for the Town Hall in Kelay had to have been barking mad to send her looking for a Knight-Commander in a kingdom six feet below a snowstorm up a mountain that even Sarenae probably can't get a look at with all the clouds. "N-." She began. She also, notably, stopped there for a moment. She was attempting to gather her thoughts in a process that was taking slightly longer than it ought to have. Finally, she just took a deep breath. "Mehrafarina Tsarran Sarenae. I'm from Seida. I'm certain you've not heard of it." She offered, quickly. "I... I hope this doesn't sound rude, Ser, but... I wasn't actually coming to find you, specifically. The clerk said that you might be able to tell me about someone, because near as he could tell, any deeds pertaining to him were lost when the... Preklek? Came? He wasn't clear on that point."

Lionel is nursing his ale calmly for a time. But that time comes to an unceremonious end at the mention of one very particular word. "Seida?" He repeats the word back at the girl, despite allowing her to finish her thoughts beforehand. "You've come a long way. Across the Van Astor Sea, through either Ishaara or the Abalas Wastes. Or did you cross Retonia? Either way, that was only the beginning of what have been a several-month journey. Or longer." He lofts a brow, shaking his head. "Well, whoever you're seeking, I'll be happy to help."

Mehrafarina nodded, surprised again. This time at the fact that the man could take a subject seriously when he'd managed to introduce himself in such a lackadaisical way. "Y-yes. Actually. I came through the Wastes. The guide said it was usually one of the safer routes. Though, from my experience, that may have been misguided. And you said Catal's last-" She trailed, letting him finish his thought aloud. Catal's royalty wasn't much of a concern. Doubly so, considering there isn't much left that her people would refer to as 'Catal'. "Uh, yes. Well." She reached again to her bag, this time retrieving a journal bound in paper. It looked cheap, and given how badly frayed the edges of the pulp-pressed pages were, it was likely older than she. "The Dawnfather of my Order said if I were to come here, I might be able to find out a little bit more about him. I know he lived here for most of his life. Do you know anyone named Graaf? Probably. Looked a bit like I do?" The question had a weight behind it. The pulse coming from her tattoo intensified, matching the obvious bead of sweat the peaked at her eyebrow.

Lionel scratches the stubble on his chin absentmindedly. The bar continues to clear; by now, they’re two of the last fellows left. Several soldiers pat Lionel on the shoulder in exiting, wishing him good fortunes in the wars to come. An odd farewell, but distinctly Frostmawian, and Lionel has grown to tolerate it -- although his frown increases with each passing leverage. Clearly, he’s not entirely comfortable speaking of wars as foregone things. Studying the Seidan’s paper, he hmms audibly and purses his lips. “Graaf? Can’t say as it rings a bell. Griff, though? Griff Morivan? Lifelong friend, ‘til he died anyway.” He refrains from mentioning that there was a several-month spurt not so terribly long ago in which he’d held entire conversations with the late Morivan, his frakked-up brain refusing to accept the bitter reality of his passing. That’d be awkward.

Mehrafarina watched the patrons pour out. Her discomfort at the well wishes in war time was evident, but she could tell from his expression that it was a perfectly acceptable way to greet and dismiss people. Still, she waited almost without breathing for his answer. Finally, he said the name. Her eyes grew wide, and she stammered a quick response. "M-maybe! That might be who I'm looking for. I know that he traveled through Catal and to Seida sometime about eighteen, twenty years ago. He was a smith for a short time, but he was... ehr." She realized she was getting ahead of herself. 'Morivan' didn't show up in any of her notes, and to her people, he was Graaf Vojaganto. 'Graaf the Wanderer'. "...He left my people. And every rumor said he left to come here. But when I came, I found my way to Cenril and no one had heard of him. The clerk in Kelay only vaguely recalled the name, and thought maybe." There was a pinprick behind her eyes, and a hand wandered back to her lap, to the fur lined skirt that was keeping her desert-kissed body alive in this tundra. Her fingers knotted into the leather as she blinked pass the gloss coating her eyes. "I hope I haven't wasted you time."

Lionel shakes his head. “Not at all. If we’re talking about the same guy -- and I’m getting the distinct impression we are -- then there were things about that man even I didn’t know, even at the end.” He stares into his ale now, or rather, what’s left of it. His own reflection, shaded amber, stares back. The years have given him a harder edge and some permanent dark spots below the eyes. What would Griff -- or Graaf? -- have looked like now, he wonders? What would he say, to see Lionel so ‘properly’ accomplished? Would he have understood the choices that have been made along the way? “Not at all,” he repeats, his voice a bit haunted now. A ghost stares back through the glass, but not some supernatural accord. Griff’s ghost is there purely psychologically. He sighs, downing the last of the liquid to clear the glass, and when he does, the reflection is gone, the ghost is gone, too, and merely Mehrafarina is in view. Drargon pauses from his cleanup duties to eye the Hero of Hellfire glumly. Lionel eyes him back, then returns to the matter at hand. “I’m sorry that he left you. I can’t tell you why he did, but I can tell you how he lived. And I can only say that in all my travels, for all the fantastic beasts and wicked lords and warrior women and more that I have met, he was the most… human.”

Mehrafarina watches the man before her, a lifetime catching up with him in a moment at the thought of whatever he and the man he was thinking of had been through. She felt all urge to cry fall away, her more natural role coming into play. She was a healer, after all. The journal found it's way to the table top, and she slid her chair to sit catercorner to the man, as opposed to opposite him. Her fingers went to the back of his hand. At this proximity, the unmistakable aura of one having been blessed for a divine mission could be felt pouring from her to him. "I don't." Another hesitation. "I don't know. If he was the man you are thinking of. I never met him. He was gone before my mother gave birth. His feet did not belong in Seida, and they sought their road elsewhere." She spoke of him as if he were always a thing of the past. There wasn't sadness, really, so much as there was finality to the matter. "Your, uh, 'Griff'. Can you tell me of him? Was he a smith as well? The Dawnfather said that Graaf would study the writings in our holy text for ideas, but he wasn't ever happy with what he created in those studies."

Lionel would have hesitated even at the touch of the divine had this exchange occurred a month ago or beyond. His healing process has had a lot to account for -- it has taken him near on a decade to overcome the grief of losing Alexia, and half as long to overcome Catal herself. Yet at last he is healing, and what better time, then, to slowly, bewilderingly, recognize the meaning in this girl's words? If it were said that he had looked upon Mehrafarina for the first time before, it can be said, too, that Lionel is looking upon her with far greater intent. In the span of a few stray heartbeats -- Lionel is ever-swift, after all -- he documents the shape of her nose, the contours in her cheeks, the jawline, the ocular slants, everything. He blinks, taking a deep breath before steadying himself as best he can. "He was the finest smith I've ever met. He reforged Hellfire. An Ishaarite longsword with a fire spirit dwelling within. That sword has saved this entire realm of Lithrydel several times over. I'm not kidding when I tell you that your..." He pauses. "That Griff Morivan played an intricate role in saving the world."

Mehrafarina was quiet a while, her eyes going between his face, catching the exhaustion behind those baby blue eyes, to his hands, the calluses that formed the tips of his fingers that made any experienced swordsman, the absence of which gave her inexperience away. She listened to him talk, speaking with a reverence she'd not heard any mortal use for another, save for one of a religious order. The Seidar's most capable warriors would fight in pairs, and should one fall, the other would mark their body using the edge of their sibling's sword. It sounded as though Lionel had done the same with Griff's edge. "He... It would seem that we are on the same page. I can not imagine there are too many smiths out there, studying antiquity to make weapons out of." Her voice was quieter now even than it was before. "Though. To think he could be responsible for that sort of craft is beyond me." Her fingers released his hands, and she found herself quietly leaning back, hands finding the thick rope of braided hair she let dangle over her shoulder, fingers fidgeting in the sheen of black. "...Did... Do you know if he even knew he was a father?"

Lionel breathes. It's an odd thing to note except when a man's breathing is so notably forced. His expression is reminiscence incarnate. "I very much doubt it." It's a hushed whisper. "I don't know quite how he'd have reacted, but I'm certain he'd have done something. Said something. There was nothing about his candor that ever suggested he was aware. He wasn't the sort to treat family with wanton disregard because he wasn't the sort to realize he had family in the first place. In that respect, Griff and I were not so dissimilar. I remember," he continues, rapping his fingers against the empty glass. "When my late wife and I were preparing to wed, he looked at me one day and he said, 'Lionel, I don't know the first thing about anything you're about to engage upon, and I can only assume the whole thing terrifies you. I wish you well.'" He laughs, awkwardly. "The hour grows late and the mornings are entirely too early. There's, uh, a ton more that needs to be said between us, I reckon. You should stick around awhile. We should continue this conversation as often as you like."

Mehrafarina didn't know how to respond. She'd never known to imagine whether her father knew about her, and loved her dearly even from afar, or whether she was an entirely unknown element. Either way, she found herself at a loss. Still, at his urgency, she cleared her throat, a heavy knot surprising her. "I. Agree. Yes. I hadn't planned to leave, I just... hadn't planned to find all this out, uh, so easily. There is yet much to discuss. But... till another time, then?" She found a rapid desire to be alone welling in her.

Lionel rather senses Mehrafarina's growing need, and that is in fact precisely why he's planted the suggestion that they continue this at a later date. "Absolutely." It's all he says, but then he places a hand to her arm gently, soothingly. It's not an action Lionel would have taken even a few weeks ago, but again -- he's changed. Fate has conspired to see these two meet at a pivotal point for them both. "If you need anything, anything at all, come to Fort Frostmaw. Ask for me by name and I'll see that you have it." He exits.

Mehrafarina sat quiet a moment, glancing toward the door the man had exited. "Griff Morivan." She murmured before standing and walking to Drargon. "Uhm. A wine. If you please?"