RP:Nymphs, Night-mares and Boredom
Summary:Krice come across a damned avian.
Spring of Vitality
The contrast here - for the present, in comparison to what lay before - is stunning. No longer does the stark, barren landscape lie void of life. Now the works of the denizens of the forest and the powers of the Pixie Druids have restored it to the full glory it deserves. A thick carpet of grass lies underfoot, moss and shrubbery making it soft and spongy. You almost feel tempted to remove your shoes if only to run through this lush blanket of greenery as no thorns or briars are visible, but decide against it as unsure who may come across you. This small patch of forest harbours a new feature than before, a glistening pool encircled by trees. The harsh destruction wrecked from the fires split the very earth here but the final effect has been far from detrimental. From the very ground has sprung a clear spring, filling the small crevice with its natural fluids as if the blood of the earth. Walking slowly over to the water's edge, you spot several tiny creatures flitting on ethereal wings about the radiant water, water Nymphs that guard this haven of life and nourishment with their Druidic magic. You cautiously lower a hand to scoop up some of the blessed water, the Nymphs paying little attention as you mean them little harm and upon drinking it down you feel a sudden rush of vitality. It's truly a wondrous act of nature and once again showing its unwillingness to give up. To your north, east and west lay the other patches of new forest whilst the southern route leads to the Old Forest.
Irenic sits at the water’s edge in a pair of simple black slacks with pieces of a full armor set next to him which reek of unholy proportions. The sun dappling through the trees play shapes on his tattooed, tawny, and scarred skin. None of the random scars draw much attention because the two on his back steal the show running along his spine from his shoulder blades to the middle of his back where his wings used to be. All the while cursing under his breath causing the cigarette dangling on his lips to wiggle while was trying to scrub free his titanium armor pieces one by one of the smell of decay. Haunched over the way he was and his head tilted to focus down causes the long hairs in the fringe area to hang a little too closely to that lit cigarette.
Krice was just passing through, a man dressed in simple black attire with a high-crafted katana strapped to his back with footfalls as quiet as those dropped by an elf; his stealthiness was natural, as told by the relaxed stance of his body. Coming in from behind the seated male, it wasn't difficult for the warrior to note the large scarring on his back. It was these scars, not the armour saturated in the smell of death, or the fact that the taller male was nearly singing his hair with his cigarette, that drew the enigma's attention. "Sorry about your wings," he said in passing, a comment of sympathy delivered on a casual tone - but spoken honestly.
Irenic has quite decent hearing, I mean, what are those ridiculous pointed ears for? Upon being distracted by the filth stuck on his armor by the undead ‘night-mares’ he helped fight a couple weeks back, one of those annoying nymphs made a game out of swinging on one of his earrings and exclaiming, ‘weee!’ so close to his ear. That went ignored for now, but the man’s voice behind him causing a jump sent the nymph flying away when the avian pulled up his raven hilted sword. Surprisingly able to stand up at the ready so quick for his near seven foot stature and the words that were actually spoken set in, allowing him to lower his weapon. Taking a drag of his cigarette before pulling it from his lips with his free hand and exhaling the smoke away from the stranger when he responds in a low gruff timbre, “yeah… me too.” All the while through the annoyance of the nymph, the surprise of this stranger and the hollow pit that opens up within him when he’s reminded he’s a joke to his race; his expression remained even, bored, brooding. The helmet he was cleaning had fallen between them and he gently kicked it over towards the smelly pile, “I shouldn’t be too much longer. Then the spring is all yours.” Being a man comfortable in his sexuality he shrugs, “or just go for it, I don’t care.” He motions to the empty spring behind him.
Krice's expression wasn't bored, per se, or even particularly brooding, but it remained relatively unchanged even as Irenic rose with weapon in hand. The warrior slowed, offering respect enough to the wingless avian to acknowledge the potential threat, but continued on his way once a reply was given - and the sword lowered. Somewhere in the air he could hear an exclamation of surprise--or excitement?--from a tiny voice but his interest in searching for the origin was vague at best; a passing glance helped him locate the launched nymph before too long. The stoic warrior shrugged up a shoulder in response to Irenic's offering of the springs. "Don't need it," he said, proceeding through the forest at the same pace he employed when he had first encountered Irenic. The wind caught his face and he lifted his chin, detecting the scent of that death-saturated armour. At last slowing to a complete halt, the silver-haired man turned to regard the avian past his right shoulder, noting the armour with a nod. "You encounter undead horses, recently?"
Irenic smirks at Krice’s mention of not needing a soak, “luckily.” He started to go back to his armor scrubbing and setting his sword down, but hesitated when the man addressed him once more, “you’d be right on that one… That was quite the sight,” needless to say quite the smell too. A short and low chuckle, “after that night I needed a stiff drink and a soak in the Cenril baths.” He was quiet a moment, “in my near hundred and fifty years I’ve not seen something like that.” Avians live as long as dragons and do not age as quickly as it seems this man has, but maybe it’s true when someone says age is shown by wear. Judging by that sentiment he must lead a hard life.
Krice lifted his chin this time in a subconscious show of attentiveness, and he turned to face Irenic as an expected brief answer turned into a slightly longer one. Pocketing his hands in his slacks and assuming a relaxed stance, the warrior continued the conversation by inquiring after the incident of which Irenic spoke. "What happened?" His left brow twitched inward slightly, the barest frown of contemplation evident on his chiseled features.
Irenic relaxed as well when he lowered back down to his armor and continued scrubbing the death off it. “All I remember is that there was a group of us following a ghost that looked a lot like Dragana and all of the sudden this undead harras come charging us.” He was done with the helmet and moved onto a gauntlet piece, pulling a tuft of matted dark horse hair from a fold of it. “I had six coming at me and I ended up mounting one while slicing this sword through it’s skull. Jumped from the back of that one to the next and sort of steered it to stop another two of the mares.” He realizes that the man probably wasn’t asking what Irenic was doing, but how it came to an end, “I’m not entirely sure, but I think that Dragana ghost ultimately gained enough power with the help of that Pilar lady in order to overpower the evil responsible.” A scoff, “odd thinking Dragana saving us… Even in spectral form.”
Krice intermittently glanced across Irenic's hands to the armour that he cleaned, noting the residual evidence of his battle with the undead horses. His attention remained unwavering on the avian overall, however, intrigue vaguely evident in the depths of his crimson stare. Dragana? He arched a brow upon hearing 'Pilar's' name in the mix and, rather than inquiring about the ghost who had helped them, he asked, "D'you know what evil was responsible?" Was it possible that the Nightmares were acting on their own?
Irenic was letting the rest of his cigarette burn from the corner of his mouth and sure enough his hair was dangling too closely to the ember. The smoke lingering on his features like a loving caress and he continues, “from the sounds of it, it was a necromancer. We were trying to stop the harras from stampeding further into Kelay and causing any read damage. Once the Dragana ghost was able to take over ‘the reins’ they stopped and I was left to pull myself out of a heap of horse body parts.” His bangs catch fire and the cigarette drops from his lips to his slacks, “marde!” He successfully puts out the tiny fire by smashing his damp hand to his forehead before brushing the cigarette butt off his pants and putting that out as well… Idiot.
Krice considered Irenic's concluding words of the story with a slight furrow to his brow, but his features turned a shade amused as the avian's hair lit up with the tiny embers from his cigarette. It wasn't unexpected. Still, the mostly neutral expression of the warrior shifted again to a calmer state once the fire was extinguished and, after a final glance across the armour yet to be cleaned, he said to the avian, "It's a good thing people were on hand to stop the Nightmares." He hadn't been present at the time, not even soon enough before or after to catch a whiff of the battle.
Irenic guffawed looking up to Krice with mismatched eyes, one brown, one silver and looked slightly surprised, “was that a pun?” The gauntlet he had was done and he moves onto it’s twin with a grimace as it seems this one held a little more than just some horse hair. He works at picking some undead flesh out of the hand area of it and only gags once at the wretched smell mixed with the mushy feel of it.
Krice arched a brow, this time of Irenic's perception of his 'pun'. "Not really," he answered, blandly, before releasing a quiet but mirthless scoff at the avian's reaction to the undead mess on his second gauntlet. It was no laughing matter and the warrior's exclamation of sound did not come from a place of humour. It was quite a situation to be in, having to scrub the sludge of a once-living creature--or once -unliving-?--off your armour. Dipping his head, the warrior saw fit to take his leave. "Take it easy," was his farewell remark as he turned to continue.
Irenic waved goodbye to Krice with the gauntlet like some amputated hand, “you as well, merry part.” He returns to his grunt work.