RP:Never Even Met

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: As Frostmaw's Titans of Winter Tournament brings war-weary travelers from across the realm, Kanna spills Lionel's wine and earns herself a monologue. She asks the leading questions; he supplies her with information on his enemies. The strangers share a certain passionate remembrance of Valrae, a woman neither met but both were moved by.

Frostmaw Tavern

Lionel | If one were to see only their faces, the dwarves would appear to be locked in mortal combat. A life for a life; blades must surely be drawn, or hammers or axes or shattered beer bottles. Their teeth are gritted, their eyes are malice, and their muscles are tight. They’ve forgotten to draw breath. But all around them, a crowd cheers and leers, and a lass laughs heartily not ten paces to the left. The dwarves’ hands wrap ‘round one-another furiously, and the more one seems to falter the louder their fellow patrons’ howls become. This one’s on top, then that one’s on top, and on and on it goes, until finally, in a desperate bid to overwhelm her foe, the shorter dwarf feigns defeat for a fraction of a second and then pushes back with all her might. The gambit pays off and the humans and elves and Frost Giants around them all hoot and offer drink to the victor, a Warrior’s Guild initiate named Bailey. She finally exhales, and eyes the man she just bested. He grumbles something about witches coming up in every sentient race just now and leaves the table behind to avoid the haughty grins of his peers. The Titans of Winter Tournament has brought travelers far and wide to Frostmaw, fabled City of War, even as Lithrydel is besieged by Kahran’s dark forces. After all, even in the darkest days, there always seems to be someplace, somewhere, where absolutely nothing dire is going on. Lionel reflects on this from beside the fireplace, setting aside his book and leaning his lithe body in a sprawl across his chair. He reaches for his wine and tries to forget the battles and the bloodshed and the calamity and the eldritch horrors for one night, if only just the one.

Kanna happens to be one of those multitudes of travelers brought to Frostmaw. Still recovering from her own fight, it may have been difficult for some of the patrons to identify that a mass of quilts left on one of the winter-wolf pelted sofas was actually a bundled human sleeping in front of the fireplace. There is a room upstairs for her, yes, but it does not offer nearly enough warmth that a human requires. It is only when the hollers of the patrons reach a sudden swell that the figure abruptly rises out from under the fabric. "Who's-- who, I'm armed!" She tries to say before breaking into a yawn. In her arms, whose bruises are covered in layers of clothing, is a rather odd looking hand-drum with rope coils holding the two heads together. In her awakening state, it is only a moment later that she realizes that she has knocked one of her arms against the wooden side table and spilled a drink. "Oh! I am so sorry sir!" The freckled human apologizes to the stranger, looking around and grabbing discarded rags left on tables here and there to clean the spilled wine with.

Lionel was really looking forward to his wine. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he mumbles, adjusting himself from his sprawl back into something not so terribly far from how other men might sit in chairs. A barmaid -- no, wait, it’s a soldier -- swoops in and assists with the cleanup. The woman, with short blonde hair and a cynical smirk, mock-salutes Lionel and fetches him another cup. “This isn’t merlot, Kara,” he says upon her return. “This isn’t even red.” She shrugs and forces the pewter goblet on him anyway. “Nevertheless, it’s wine, ser, and I’m off-duty so be thankful for what you have.” Lionel snorts as Guard Captain Kara Thrace returns to her myriad debauchery alongside the rest of her squadron. Some of the dances those people are engaging in seem less about the moves and more about the mood, and the mood between them seems less about camaraderie and more about sensuality. Lionel’s thoughts wander from the stranger who spilled his wine; he finds it all rather obnoxious, really, but whatever keeps them satisfied. “People,” he says with a start. “They’re something else.” It’s only then that he eyes Kanna, blanket-dwelling person that she is, for the first time. “What brings you and half of Larket’s textile industry to warm and sunny Frostmaw?”

Kanna feels guilty when the man is returned with a drink that is not his own, and watches the exchange as the soldier saunters off to resume the festivities. While he speaks to Kara, she turns to the barkeep and waves him over, asking for a merlot. "Fighters are not to be served during the tournaments." Drargon grumbles without raising his eyes from the mule mug that he is currently preoccupied with extracting the blood of a draconian patron of. Only then remembering the telltale bruising on what skin is visible, she raises the blanket into a mock hood. "Oh no, it is not for me, it..." She trails off as he thunders back down the counter to serve another. With a huff of resignation, she instead lays down two silver pieces for one of the cooks. She returns and places a glass of the hot drink on the table that once served Lionel's wine. It was a lovely dark red, similar to that of merlot, but it was surprisingly sweet. Winter berry juice was a favorite of the bardess. When he regards her, she looks over at him, finally regarding him not as the person she has disserviced, but as another patron of the bar. "I will have you know this is half of Cenril's textile industry, sir." She replies with a smile, attempting not to laugh at how clever she was to have thought of that on the spot. "I am one of the contestants for the winter duels. Are you not here to spectate?"

Lionel is deeply appreciative of the woman’s efforts to procure him something more to his mood this evening, his azure eyes lighting up as he hastes to sip the drink, but more than a little side-eye’s been afforded toward Drargon for sticking to outlandish tradition in a town like this one. “Cenril’s the right answer. Larket’s a mess. I should have cleaved Macon’s head clean off that night, but the problem with thousands of troops on either side of us is that there were -thousands of troops on either side of us.-” He shrugs mock-indifferently. He’s slender and his build is unassuming, and he’s dressed in scarlet silks, but he talks about this as if it’s weather, not war. “Be careful, though. The witches erected a magical barrier over Cenril, but it’s fading. Kahran, that bastard who’s razing Lithrydel from one end to the next, will invade if we aren’t quick to patch things up. And patching things up, well…” He drifts for a moment, taking another sip of the winter berry juice. “It’s fraught. It’s all fraught. Nah, I’m not here to spectate. I’m the steward of this city if you can believe it, but I’m also out there.” Lionel waves his free hand nebulously. “There. The beyond. Everywhere that isn’t here. I fought Kahran’s predecessors in the Second Immortal War. I know what he’s capable of if not stopped. Hell, Cenril and Chartsend and Larket and all those dozens of ravaged and slaughtered little villages peppering the land know it now, too.” He sighs, staring into the fireplace. “I’m not here to spectate,” he repeats, “but the world needs distractions like these. Go out there and keep giving them hell. It’s a good deed you’re doing. And if you run into a kid named Rorin, smack him around a little bit for me, will ya?”

Kanna covers her mouth with one hand to hide an amused smile. "Apologies, but I have only been in Lithrydel for a short while. I know not much of what you speak of, however I was in Larket for... a rather unsettling event; the king and queen had sentenced a witch to execution." She pauses for a moment and raises her eyebrows. "Come to think of it, I believe I may have seen you there. Of course, before the fire broke out." News of Kahran's doing were whispered here and there, but as the bardess was a far better student than conversationalist, she was dismayed to find texts of the ominous name rather scarce. "And I feel like I must inform you, Rorin was my first opponent. I did not smack him around, but I did somehow wind up as the victor. He is the one that did this." A hand with a long purple bruise gestures to her face, where a discolored bump protrudes from her temple, and another on her collarbone.

Lionel’s casual demeanor freezes and seems almost to glitch. His lips quiver and his easy smile recedes. For a moment, the sparkle of flames reflected in his blue eyes goes grey and cold. “They murdered her.” The flames keep crackling and the Catalian’s eyes shimmer anew. His smile returns, a little weaker but still trying. His tone reverts to lilting. “The witch -- the execution. I was there. Up in the finest seats of the house. Macon and Josleen tried to appease Queen Hildegarde and I. Instead they enraged us. The treaty Hildegarde burned that night was a hard thing to come by after our two kingdoms went to war not so terribly long ago. My heart belongs to Lithrydel, not any one city, but I was never prouder to have become an honorary Frostmawian than the moment I watched her do that. They murdered Valrae and I won’t forgive them.” He takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts. “This isn’t exactly fluffy prose we’re having. I may seem a bit gloomy, but the truth is… well, the truth is I’m -a lot- gloomy. As for Rorin, good show, I say; he’s no easy feat, and I bet you gave as good as you got if you came out on top.”

Kanna watches him with a serious expression when he declares the witch murdered. "That day, I was forced by the royal guard to watch the execution from the anti-mage area. I do not know if they had a spellfiltcher, but my occupation has been referred to in Larket as being one step below a full-fledged witch. It is why I left that city right after." Eyes the color of blooming bachelors' buttons shifted over to the fireplace. The amber light reflected in them gave the illusion that the cornflower blooms in her eyes were ablaze, tinting a dusky lavender where the light moved. "I do not need nor want for idle prattle. The way that others mourned for her death... I want others to know of it. Tell me, what really happened?"

Lionel | “I couldn’t tell you for sure. I never even met her.” Lionel chuckles dryly at his own incredulity. “After Frostmaw’s fight with Larket, I steered clear of that damnable place as best I could. And then my suspicions were confirmed, bit by bit -- Khasad and Elazul were the end of the Dark Immortals, but someone who served them still remained, and he’d torch Lithrydel just as surely as he torched my native Catal.” Kanna’s student insight will surely have brought her to copious texts on Khasad and Elazul; of Kahran, there are only passing references to their then-anonymous battle commanders. “Then Cenril happened. Thousands died and the war began. Before I knew it he was striking helter-skelter. His forces are everywhere now. I wasn’t in Larket when he sent them into the heart of the city, but one way or another he -knew- it was the opportune moment. Valrae had dared incite hope among her witches. And while I turned a blind eye to their plight in favor of a broader view,” he says with more than a hint of distaste, “she and hers fought underground, they fought without provisions, they fought for freedom and independence and a chance to live. All the things I’m out there fighting for, too, but I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. That night, she launched a bid to do… something.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what. I think she wanted to save the witches in that… camp.” The word is snarled. “Instead, Kahran set a battalion upon the city, and a three-way battle flew up in the blink of an eye. It exposed Valrae and led to her capture. The king and queen killed her on trumped-up charges thereafter.” Lionel sneers. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure she did some questionable things along the way. I blew up Vailkrin once -- don’t ask about a ‘Lionel O’Connor’ over there; it never ends well.” Something about his countenance here suggests it’s a more bitter subject than tavern talk could ever tell. “But she was on the right side of history, such as history can ever be said to have such things. And in death she’s reminded me of my own cause. To rid this world of demon men like Kahran and protect it from lesser evils like Macon too. She showed me the forest, I guess,” he finishes wistfully, “and I’d do anything to bring her back. The world needs people like her.”

Kanna listens with wide eyes at his retelling. At the names Khasad and Elazul, she sits up straighter; a few pages in her notes are simply of their actions. Sore hands grip the steel mug tighter, until the bruises on her fingers fade from violet to a sickly yellow. The action hurts her, but it keeps her grounded to the moment instead of taking her back to that day, of seeing her first public execution by burning. "You are human too, are you not?" She asks, forcing herself to ignore the remembered smells of burnt flesh that left a horrifyingly familiar taste of pork on the back of her tongue. "She sounds like a real hero to lead the persecuted through such conditions... I wish I had met her." Kanna says solemnly. "If I knew more, I would love to sing of her on my travels so that the story retold by the king and queen does not become the only story remembered."

Lionel resists the impulse to mention a certain strange artifact left by a madwoman at the conclusion of his allies’ recent expedition to the Ouroboros tribe in the far northern wastes. He resists, too, the urge to tell this stranger his conversation with Uma, Cenrili witch and mayor and friend, regarding how best that artifact might be utilized. A certain giddiness almost overwhelms him, but Lionel has seen too many vaulting ambitions laid bare in his time to let it spread without due course. An elven lass whispers sweet nothings to an elven lad closer to the fire. Bailey, the victorious dwarf, is clearing out for the evening and all her supporters -- including a few fresh faces -- are clearing out with her. The tavern smells of ale and sweat and mutton. It’s enough to bring Lionel back down to earth. “I’m human, yeah.” More or less. “And I think that’s a right fine sentiment. With all my heart I do believe her songs will yet be sung.” He looks down upon his scarlet-silken slacks. His smile transforms -- into what? He seems contemplative. He even seems refreshed. “I should go. Good luck out there, competitor. It was a pleasure.”