RP:Not Most Cases

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Syrri Darkfoot has big plans. The preceding sentence was a trite though irresistible play on her size. Lionel pops out from a basement no one knew existed, cider in hand, and makes good on those plans.

The Royal Academy of Aramoth

'Syrri was riding that wyvern like her life depending on it! Saddled astride it, she clutched at it with unyielding resolve, her dichromatic eyes wide with a mixture of terror and absolute glee. The wyvern of course was enduring a very different experience as the shrieking halfling insisted on smacking it on the flank in glee. Halflings did not fly, but here she was! And Syrri was having so much stinking fun, she barely noticed that the wyvern was perhaps the oldest one in the stables available at the time, with ragged wings and trying its damnedest to ignore the pint-sized warrior’s ice boots constantly digging into its sides. Each well-intended prod caused the wings to flail and falter, and they were soon plummeting at an alarming speed toward the Snowless Training Yard. It was only Syrri Darkfoot’s second flight ever, and it was even better than the first she decided! That was, until she released there were no flipping brakes on this thing. Pull up, pull up! Instincts were of little use to the Lilliputian axe-wielder when it came to steering herself to safety, and as the ancient flyer dropped into the famed fighting arena, Syrri made sure Fate and Luck were still secure at her sides and jumped ship onto the arcane-marked ground. It was with monumental relief that the wyvern crashed to the ground, at last free of its rider who landed lightly on her feet nearby. “Oh boy!” she yelled at it, impressed with herself for making thus far unscathed - the same couldn’t be said for the poor creature, however, who hobbled off to recover before it could make the journey back home. Syrri decided it would be polite to tip the wyvern, but as she started to make her way after it, it freaked out, flapping its fatigued wings as it attempted to put as much distance between itself and the far-too-feisty customer. “Wait, no, come back--” she cried out earnestly, chasing after it across the yard and ignoring any spectacle she created.

Lionel | Esche is enjoying a mid-morning cup of angel’s barb tea when quite suddenly there is a right fine commotion out in the yard. The elf straightens his pastel green robe and permits himself a dignified sigh, rising from his chair and making to investigate. He’s graceful in his stride, which is to say, slow, and several heavily-clad trainers and blacksmiths -- and one wee lad of a bright-eyed and literally bushy-tailed feline recruit -- haste past him. By the time Esche has found his slippers and crossed the dimly-lit halls and exited into the yard, the halfling guest is begging her ride to return. One of the trainers, thick-armed and thickly-bearded and other such stereotypes, is barking orders at the rest of them to clean up the bit of a mess this has made while he fetches a handler to calm the startled wyvern. Esche clears his throat, purses his lips, and takes calculated steps toward Syrri. “Greetings. I am Esche. Welcome to the Warrior’s G --” Lionel cracks open the hidden, dirt-encrusted door to the academy’s basement, climbs up from under the ground in the small amount of space separating Esche from Syrri, and chugs the rest of his cider. “What in seven hells was that? I’m down here doing good work for the betterment of the realm and don’t give me that look, Esche, I know that look, and then there’s a blast that sounds like an explosion, and who are you talking to? Who are you even looking at?” Lionel turns and lowers his gaze. “Oh. Begging your pardon, then. I’m Lionel. This is Esche. Welcome to the Warrior’s Guild. I’ve got more cider?”

Syrri was huffing and puffing as she chased the poor wyvern around the yard, but soon a whole gaggle of Tall People were stumbling from the nearby academy, and she was spinning around like a deer caught in headlights, or a thief caught red-handed. “I was just-- I was just trying-- you see, here’s the thing--” the silver-haired young woman stammered, raking a hand through the half of her hair that was longer than the other, but paused it at the back of her head. It occurred to her mid-sentence that Esche was not in fact chastising her as expected, and she gave the towering elf a very slow glance that started near his knees and finally found his face - oh god it was so high up there. Why are elves so high. A question for another time. “Yeah, hi--” The greeting had come too late, there was already someone else barrelling into the yard, and oh gods-- it was -him-. She’d heard of -him-, everyone knew of him. Only idiots didn’t know of the Steward. Ser Lionel. There was obvious awe in those chestnut-and-azure eyes that now swung toward Hellfire’s hand, who hadn’t yet even noticed her very existence. She was wrong to assume she couldn’t feel smaller, but as the well-known warrior turned to address her at last, Syrri’s previously apologetic expression seemed to grow moreso. “Oh. Oh jeez,” the halfling laughed on a breath, more than a little starstruck. “Yes, hi, hello, I think I’m in the right place.” Fate and Luck were finally returned to their bands on her belt, and the nightstone-wearing axeling bowed at the waist before announcing with a cheeky grin, “Syrri Darkfoot, Ser, at your service.”

Lionel smirks pleasantly. “Well, would you look at this, Esche? She’s only just arrived and she’s already calling me ‘ser’. You know, I think Syrri Darkfoot is a model citizen.” Esche’s eyes roll in that manner that only elves can achieve. “I believe it’s almost time for lunch,” the elf states. “I would caution against further bottles of cider in the meantime. Ser.” Lionel watches Esche’s delicate bow, and then he watches him leave to confer with all the other Tall People gathered throughout the yard. “Yes, mum,” the Catalian snarks before addressing Syrri in earnest. Perhaps Lionel’s name is larger-than-life, but the truth of the man is in many ways rather close to the earth’s surface. “Sorry about Esche. He’s just no fun at all. What brings you to the Academy of Aramoth today? I’m also expected to offer you food and drink. Er, I mean, it’d be great to have you for lunch. Damn it, that’s terrible. Would you care to dine with us? We’re eating pheasant. It’s probably grilled. I don’t know the rest.”

Syrri beamed crookedly, oblivious to Esche’s attitude as she had only dual-colored eyes for Lionel. “Oh-- well, I was hoping-- that is to say, I was really thinking-- well. Warrior’s Guild.” That grin grew as she reached for her axes, but then thought better of it and positioned her hands on her hips in what she hoped was a cool stance. “You’re with the guild, yes? I’d like to sign up. How do I sign up? I can fight. I’ve fought before,” she continued to stammer, lifting her chin in bravado. His own halting offers amused the halfling, and she chewed on her lip, bobbing her head in a nod. “Lunch sounds good, but I can’t say I’ve ever had pheasant.” And then, she flicked her gaze past him - or rather, around his legs - toward the academy, and back again. “I mean, if it’s alright. I don’t want to be intruding on anything.” They probably didn’t even have forks small enough, or a chair-table combo, it would be rude to think otherwise. “Well … maybe another time, but I would love to ask about the guild. I can-- I can definitely come back-- that is to say, if it’s a bad time ...,” the silver-haired axeling trailed off with a weak, sheepish half-shrug.

Lionel finds this all terribly amusing. He’s admitted a flamboyant vampire into the Warrior’s Guild, and a draconian with curious taste in… well, everything, really. He’s been there when offer was extended to a rebellious werewolf. That one was perhaps a bit of a misstep. He’s watched an undead barbarian Frost Giant pound the ground and knock politely at the gates of this very academy, inquiring most elegantly about sponsorship. Hell, there was even that time Khitti was really nice. But this is the first time a stammering and visibly starstruck -- no, wait, there was Rorin. Okay, but Rorin isn’t this cute. “It’s no trouble at all,” he reassures Syrri, tilting his head toward the ancient building’s door and leading on. He gives Syrri a few seconds to catch up, just in case she’s still back there stammering where he’d left her. “Pheasant’s pleasant enough. Bit plain without the right herbs and spices, but you’ve never seen Esche with an apron. That elf can bump oils with the best of them. We’ll eat good food and talk about what the Warrior’s Guild can do for you. One word of warning, though: it gets a little dangerous around here.” Dangerous, like saving the realm from a long-forgotten subterranean race hellbent on consuming every last living being. Little things.

Syrri may or may not have released a small squeak, then cleared her throat as a flush found her pale, freckled cheeks and she donned a very serious expression - at least, excluding those shining bright eyes that soaked up every word the warrior delivered. She’d been eating inn slop for months now despite her winnings in last year’s tournament still collecting dust in the bank, so pheasant -did indeed- sound quite pleasant. “Oh-- well, in that case-- Oh--” Lionel was already headed toward the door and she was quick skip a few steps to keep pace, taking one or two steps more for each time his foot fell. “That’s good, this is good, this is very good. See, I’ve always wanted to join, every since I heard about it. It just makes sense. I’m a fighter. I’ll fight. I’ll fight all the things. Every single one of them, Ser, you’ll see.” His warning shot both of her silver brows up, and she found herself smirking crookedly. “Oh, I think I can handle a little dangerous, Ser,” she assured him with confidence. “It’s my speciality.” It might have been a Small Person joke by the way she grinned, but then the savory aromas of their lunch came wafting from the academy, and Syrri could feel herself salivating, soon raking her hands through her mane of mercurial tresses again and hoping she wasn’t making a -complete- fool of herself as she let herself into the place. Or rather, she waited for Lionel to open any doors she couldn’t quite reach the knobs of.

Lionel | The dining room looks more mead hall than fine culture, with its plethora of candles casting a warm glow through an otherwise-dreary expanse. Various trophies, most in the form of exotic animal skulls, are interspersed between ornate carvings from a bygone era. The Academy of Aramoth was here long before Hildegarde saw its potential, and it will likely remain here long after she and Lionel are dust. The tapestry which covers one end of the western wall to the other is proof enough: the riders on their dracolisk mounts are all garbed in attire that is entirely foreign to present-day culture anywhere in Lithrydel. Their hooked blades, with unique engravings and bizarre clouds of mist -- magical enchantments? -- are similarly strange. They’re hunting something farther down the mountain pass, in a land of shadowy blacks and vivid reds. Back in the real world, the tables are all set and the pheasant is served. It is in fact fried, not grilled, and it’s served alongside a medley of seasonal vegetables and mouthwateringly fresh baked bread. Trainers and recruits and various merchant guests all gather at tables chosen seemingly at random, passing water and juice and all to one-another and talking of the day’s events. Lionel invites Syrri to seat across from him at a smaller table with a highly-raised stool and grooves in the wood for climbing. Esche has been busy, it seems. Syrri should have little trouble taking her place. “Well, good.” Lionel smiles, digging into his meal. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, really. Only, well, there’s still -everything- to worry about, because I don’t like it when the men and women under my command go getting themselves killed, so I’ll make sure we’ve all got your back along the way. Which isn’t to say I doubt your abilities!” The bread is ridiculously good. “It’s just, where we go, we have each other’s backs. If we don’t, bad stuff happens.”

Syrri ‘s steps slowed as they entered the guild hall, and she was slack jawed as she glanced around. Her lips formed a small ‘oh’ as she took in the sight before a grumbling in her stomach and gods, she was going to eat as much pheasant as she could get her hands on! It smelled amazing, and she was learning she was more ravenous than previously thought as she kept at the steward’s side. It seemed safer that way, and definitely not because it was -Ser flipping Lionel-, to whom she stole frequently looks toward as he led her to the table. “Oohhhh damn,” she cursed beneath her breath as she set her dual-colored eyes upon the special stool, and she had to smother a goofy grin behind her hand. Another side-eye in Lionel’s directly before she pulled herself up into her designated seat upon which time she revealed that great big smile. The halfling assumed it would be safe to drink any water, but she avoided anything alcoholic for now - she was sure she was making half an ass of herself anyway, with the grinning fool she kept representing. “Oh yes, Ser Lionel, it makes perfect sense,” she agreed amicably, nodding her head as she slurped down her drink. The fried pheasant was soon practically inhaled, and in between hefty bites, she got down to the important questions. “So what do I have to do to be one of those people?” Bite. “Do I have to fill out one o’ those … curlycue vitum things? I’ve got references. Good references. You’d believe them. They’re truthful.” She was stammering again, and flashed Lionel another of those starstruck grins. “I mean, of course you’d figure that out. You’re smart. Maybe the smartest.” At least next to Hildegarde and Leone. They were her Aramoth-loving secret crushes though so there was really no comparison. “I’m happy to fill out any applications, if that’s your thing, but I can also just fight you.” Wait did she just challenge him? As soon as the boastful words escaped her lips, the halfling was mortified, and she was shaking her head. “I mean, not you obviously. A … a lesser person. A trainer person. A trainer, who … fights. For training. I’d never ask someone like you--” Gods, she was making it worse, and promptly shoveled more food into her mouth to shut herself up.

Lionel has to wonder how devastated the land would be if ever there were a spy with Syrri’s disposition. There’s an earnest charm at play here, and the quietest and most solemn nuns could not hope to seem less suspicious. He devours the pheasant, too, because it’s just really great and he’s hungry, but he still can’t match Syrri’s speed. Lionel is typically the one to keep his conversation partner on-edge, the man to be relied-upon for ridiculous sweeping statements and commentary. Lionel revels in it, but he’s more than met his match; all he thinks to do is nod wholeheartedly whenever the halfling carries on. Except, he does have a few counters in mind once she’s finished. “First of all, it’s not about lesser people. I’m never going to lord my station over you, because we’re all just flesh and bone in the end, right? Some of us do some things. Others do others.” Well, he’s no poet. “We’ll fight together, you and me, and I only have one condition. Well, besides the bit about us using wooden weaponry and trying not to obliterate one-another. But I digress. One condition. I can’t tell you what it is, though, or it rather defeats the purpose.” He wiggles his hands to emphasize the crypticism. “The really excellent news is… that’s it. You see, I do two things first before admitting new recruits into the Warrior’s Guild. I spar ‘em, and I get a read for ‘em. I’ve gotten my read on you, and I’m fond.” The last bits of pheasant are licked clean off of his plate.

Syrri washed down the remaining pheasant on her plate and started to dig into a hunk of bread, tearing it into pieces and shoveling bits into her mouth as she considered all that the commander had to say. “Wooden weapons? I mean, … I guess I can do that,” she conceded with a lopsided and definitively wry smile. It wasn’t unfamiliar for her to use weapons other than Luck and Fate attached at her hips, but it would still be a bit strange. “Oh?” Her mercurial brows shot up and her feeding frenzy came to a halt. “That’s it? Fight you and you … get a read-- Well, um, that is, well, what I mean is--” Flustered yet again by his words, Syrri was reminded of why she preferred fighting to social scenarios - she was clearly terrible at them. “Well, that’s good - that’s good, right? So um … I mean, I don’t want to seem too anxious or anything--” Failing. “--but when would we do this fight with fake swords?” A beat and then she added in a cocky but obviously playful tone, "At least enough time for you to digest your food yeah?"

Lionel snorts. Syrri would clearly be happier with the axes at her sides, and who can blame her? But after a certain incident between a drunken diplomat and an ogre whose name Lionel tried and failed to pronounce no less than six times while filing an official report with Queen Hildegarde, wooden weaponry has been the standard. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and stretches his arms. Leaning into his chair, he downs the rest of his beverage. It wasn’t water. “No need to get excited,” said the joker to the thief? “Let’s reconvene for our spar in two days’ time, if that works for you? In the meanwhile, you’re welcome to stay here. You’re also free to stay at Frostmaw’s major tavern, which I believe is still being referred to as ‘Frostmaw Tavern’ despite Esche’s repeat efforts to give it something more… what was the word, Esche?” The elf turns from his table with a flustered glance. “Creative.” Lionel nods.

Syrri finished off her bread and nodded. The vegetables had been untouched, and would remain that way for now. “Sure, sure, two days, I can totally do that.” Sending a sidelong gaze toward Esche before smothering a giggle behind the back of her hand, the halfling’s azure-and-chestnut twins returned to the commander. “Ah, yeah, I think I know the place.” It was in fact her usual haunt, but again, she was attempting to reel in her personality just a smidge. Wiping her hands on the thighs of her simple cotton pants, Syrri rubbed at the the deformed tip of her right ear to quell an itch before helping herself to some of the nearest mead pitcher. “So, um, can I ask you a question? If I -- if I lose this fight … what happens?” she asked before taking a few sips. Cupping her glass between both hands, she found herself asking, “Will I get a do-over, or is that it? I take my dreams elsewhere?”

Lionel | In most cases, Lionel would answer that question deceptively. He’d find some way to twist it into something vague yet satisfactory, and if he failed in ushering satisfaction? Well, at least he was suitably vague. Syrri, Lionel has decided, is not ‘most cases’. “Truth is, Syrri, the only way to lose is not to play. The spar is about checking your abilities when you come into the Warrior’s Guild. I make note of your strengths, so that the trainers know where to begin. See, when we’re not out on big, honking adventures, there’s training to be had. And I think, in their version of an ideal world, they’d be the ones sparring you in the first place. But I’d rather folks were more than just names, you know? You’ll probably be seeing a fair bit of me, so I ought to be the one to find out.” He rises from his chair, holding his hand for a shake. Many of the lunch-eaters around them are wrapping up their meals and heading back out into the day now. “Your dreams are secure here, Syrri. I can’t say ‘welcome to the Guild’ ‘til two days from today, but I can say that much.”

Syrri ‘s heterochromic gaze was unwavering once it was fixed on Lionel’s features, committing them to memory as she held onto every word. She bobbed her chin in a nod, setting her cup down and wiping her hands on her thighs again so that when she took his hand in both of hers to shake it eagerly, at least most of the fatty juices from her pheasant weren’t still clinging to her gloves. “Great, that’s just great, Ser, I’m really grateful for this opportunity.” She scrambled down from the stool so that she could address him properly and respectfully. “Thank you, I really look forward to it. Will I-- will I just come back here? Or do you usually meet somewhere for the fights? Is there anything I should bring? Do I have to bring my own wooden weapons? Will it be … judged? Watched? Recorded?” She shuddered, hugging her arms to herself, then lowered her hands to her hips. “I’ll be there, wherever it is, in two days. And we’ll fight. And then--” Syrri was practically squirming in her excitement, her hands balling into fists. “I’ll be there, Ser,” she repeated enthusiastically.