RP:Never Fight A Land War In Crustacea

Part of the Sauriangate Arc

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Synopsis: Krice returns to Frostmaw from an imperative scouting mission with urgent news of Kreekitaka's pending political intentions.

Frostmaw: War Room

Lionel appears almost transfixed in his soulful gaze to the flickering flames of the fireplace. His quarters are orderly and minimal of content, not because he’s a neat man but because he carries little and the fortress cleaning staff is the best in the realm. Back at his desk, there are two piles of parchment stacked at opposing corners. One is full of ink; the other remains blank. The inked pile is now far higher. This is how the Catalian charts the third day of the second week of every month -- he keeps time by the lowering of one pile and the rising of the other. ‘It’s no way to live,’ he thinks, but at last he’s beginning to respect its relevance, even if by a bit. Thoughts of the looming mission ring in his mind. Thoughts of that Uyeer and the worrying patterns beginning to emerge at the forefront. If Kreekitaka is responsible for the deaths of his recruits this past autumn, there won’t be a sea he can swim safely. But it feels off. So off. All of this, every facet, is a veil Lionel is desperate to shred.

Krice returned to Frostmaw as he said he would, albeit a little later than intended. He strode through the main hall entrance with sweat on his brow and strength in every step, slowing to a halt in the middle of the floor to send his astute senses in all directions around him. Who was nearest to him? Leone? Lionel? Briar? The warrior blinked back a moment's tiredness and turned his gold-freckled gaze to a nearby guard, gesturing with a wave of his right arm. " Urgent news. Get the High Priestess." Though it probably wasn't customary for the people in Frostmaw to listen to an outsider, they knew the warrior well enough - and knew of his connection to their all-important High Priestess - to listen when he interrupted their normal operations. The guard disappeared down the hall, and if he didn't find Leone, he'd search for the next available official. Krice waited stiffly in the main hall, his chin lifted subtly as if in defiance against some invisible enemy.

Lionel is still by the fire when he hears the quick one-two rap at his sturdy wooden door. “Come,” he says, barely in his room mentally. His back is still turned when the door swings open at a loud creak; if the door brought trouble, Hellfire would have long since alerted its mortal partner to the truth. “My lord.” The guard dares not enter further. He casts his glance downward until Lionel tilts around and studies him expectedly, then he looks the Knight-Commander head-on. “The silver-haired warrior wishes a word.” Krice. Good news? Or bad? Either is preferable to none. The course of Lionel’s next action hangs in the balance. “Thanks.” The Catalian doesn’t bother changing from his simple black silks, loose fitting and trendy. He attaches the broach of office to his right chest pocket and straps his fabled blade for good measure. It’s a quick, sharp pace to the man requesting audience. When he arrives, he appears intent, his azure eyes flickering with mild patience. “You’ve returned.”

Krice turned away from the hallway and paced a few steps in the opposite direction, toward the fort's smithy where once he visited the High Priestess before her ascension. He halted with his back square to Lionel's arrival, on the cusp of searching the entire fort on his own for the High Priestess in question. A familiar voice broke through his clouded thoughts and he turned back to the corridor of rooms, spying the Knight-Commander at the forefront. The warrior was for all intents and purposes his usual stoic self, but lethargy hindered what otherwise was a strong stride to bridge the distance between himself and the other male. He reached across his taut midriff to take hold of his left elbow, squeezing the joint briefly before squaring himself to Lionel once more. Sweat beaded along his left brow and trickled around the inside line of his temple, grazing an eyelash on its way down. " The Uyeer King has made plans to visit Frostmaw - not to attack, but to talk."

Lionel makes silent note of Krice’s perspiration. The man has made haste to return in good time; he’s fulfilled his volunteered duty amicably. Krice’s words come like a volt. Nefarious deeds would have surprised him less. But then, in the hero’s brief interactions with the creature, turnabout has always been fair play. “To talk…?” He repeats it, mystified. “Did you see him? Did he see you?” A nearby scribe, summoned with the subtle twirl of the Catalian’s finger, shuffles forth in long emerald robes and readies his quill for documentation. “Kreekitaka arrives,” Lionel tells the balding fellow to jot, and awaits further word from the enigma. Krice also cast a deadpan stare at the scroll summoned by the Catalian. Yep.

Krice himself came like a volt, and he stood before Lionel seemingly tired from the trip itself. Gualon to Frostmaw was a hefty trek for anyone. He nodded to the Knight-Commander in the affirmative. " Yeah. We spoke and he's ridiculously friendly." Here he paused to press his lips together, casting his gaze from Lionel to look at the corridor where-in stood Leone's room. " Is the High Priestess alright?" He asked, briefly forgetting the intel he came to impart on Frostmaw's officials.

Lionel furrows his brow at both remarks, such that he appears almost troubled by the end of the warrior’s responses. “His friendliness is… renowned,” he says with a sigh, and the scribe moves his pen but Lionel waves his hand frantically. “No, no. Don’t write that. It’s weird. Just… hold on. Do scribe things.” The balding man twists his lips begrudgingly. To Krice, Lionel continues: “I saw her a few hours ago. Said she had business with Briar. That was the last I saw of Briar, too, come to think. They’re choosing the, uh,” he snaps his fingers, looking for the term, “launchpad, I think someone said, for the mission. So, what’d the high-heralded King Among Uyeer have to say? Did you get the impression he’s making this up?” The scribe clears his throat; the Knight-Commander tilts. “Oh, I don’t know, just… write down what is needed to host an Uyeer.” The scribe demands, “I don’t know what’s needed to host an Uyeer.” The hero abides, “well, go find someone who does!” And so the balding man departs with a puff of chin. This is a hard job, friends.

Krice was preoccupied with thoughts of Leone's well-being; after all, they had parted company on ugly terms and she was injured. He distantly heard Lionel's response that the High Priestess was off with Briar, something that settled him enough to ask no further questions, but not so that he didn't still gaze around the fort for a glimpse of either woman. The man seemed troubled beyond the trials of traveling great distances over so short a span of time. As he returned his focus to Lionel, in time for the scribe to hurry off in search of... whatever it was--he hadn't paid attention--Krice broke his silence to murmur, " I think he's sincere. He wants to rid Larket of Imposter King Macon and insert himself into the role. He believes he'll be a good King because he knows Larket well - because of his businesses." The warrior swallowed, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. " He gave me a whole shpiel about it and he was believable. He wants to battle Macon's forces outside of the city so as not to harm the citizens, or damage the city itself." The silver-haired enigma looked past Lionel again, just briefly scrutinizing the corridor from whence the Knight-Commander had come. " Problem is, I think that he so -strongly- believes himself suited to the task, that if anyone opposes him, he would react forcefully. If the people of Larket welcomed the removal of Macon but didn't welcome the Uyeer, he wouldn't just step down and let them vote for a new leader." He shook his head, squinting in thought. " He means to take Larket by force under the guise of removing Macon." A beat. " Who has been attacking Frostmaw citizens, apparently?" Lifting a hand, the enigma scratched at the side of his chin. " He's delusional, I think. Polite probably until you cross him, but delusional just the same."

Lionel detects from Krice what seems like consternation. In another scene, he’d likely dare to ask what ails the man, but he reckons that can wait. He listens to the warrior’s full report in a stance that shifts from casual to increasingly formal. He remains silent all throughout, measuring every word as best he can. In the final telling, one thing dominates the Catalian’s mind above all: the queen must be informed posthaste. “Kreekitaka’s delusions are the least of my surprises,” he cordially agrees. “But to the best of my most current knowledge it’s not in Frostmaw’s interests -- or Larket’s, -- for a delusional Uyeer to subjugate a city.” He pauses. “I need to consult Queen Hildegarde. You don’t need me saying this, of course, but… you’ve done well, Krice. Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

Krice shook his head and answered Lionel's question with an immediate, " I don't need anything." He was on the verge of saying something further, of rescinding that reply, but opted against it. Nodding to indicate that this meeting was over, the warrior requested - in no uncertain terms - of the Knight-Commander, " Don't let him know that -you- know any of this. Don't tell anyone who doesn't need to know. If he sees this as some kind of betrayal, it might set him off." The warrior turned from Lionel then, moving past him to venture down the corridor of rooms in search of Leone - or in confirmation that she wasn't present.

Lionel stands poised for a time, upper muscles taut with the rigid decorum of rising anxiety from Krice’s report. In this stance, he all but forgets how to breathe. It was one thing chasing bad guys directly with a big sword and a cocksure attitude. This latest dance may be the greater challenge. With a tremendous exhale, he calls out in realization. “Thank you. I’ll be cautious, Krice.” Suddenly, he’s grateful he sent away that scribe. Evil peers with many eyes, even here. Even now.

Krice called over a shoulder, " On your guard, always," before he returned to his business.