RP:Oathkeepers

Summary: Queen Hildegarde returns Lionel to prominence. By her oath and his, Frostmaw will continually stand strong. Thoughts of the looming wedding between Macon and Josleen fill the conversation thereafter.

Frostmaw: Frozen Throne

Lionel has not departed from the city proper since last night’s funeral services. Surely, he checked with the guards to confirm that he was permitted to sleep in a guest room here in the fort. And of course, few guards had qualms about the matter, and so he slept. Dreaming did not come easily after so much mourn and drink, but it did come, and in those dreams he was right here in Frostmaw, deliberating with scheming merchants and scolding them when they got out of line. What folly, to dream a dream so mediocre and not call it ‘nightmare.’ Perhaps it is simply subconscious desire to return to something the Catalian had grown accustomed with. In any case, his white funeral dress regalia is suitably exchanged for the more signature black silks -- one of the scullions at the kitchen just so happened to scour his old Knight-Commander’s quarters for them. Clean-shaven and dutifully caffeinated, Lionel almost leaves the fort, but thinks better of it. He zips back around, exchanging pleasantries with men and women formerly under his command, and makes for the throne room. He enters, thoughts of apt report on his mind as he approaches Hildegarde and then bows. “My queen,” he says. Well, of course he does. It’s kind of his thing to say, really.

Hildegarde has a face like thunder, just like the battle-scarred giant who stands by the door ready to exit just as Lionel enters. Her face remains set in anger before it finally softens and she looks to Lionel. “Lionel,” she greets in turn, offering him a small and polite smile. It’s a thin one. Her patience has been tested this day. “I apologise that I could not attend the funeral but… other matters pulled me away,” she admitted somewhat sadly. “Balgruuf seeks to cause unrest. He thinks himself sly and thinks that I am stupid,” she tells him with a little shrug of her shoulder. “I honestly do not know how my predecessor coped!” the knight admits playfully, rising from the icy throne to approach Lionel. “I have something for you, though, if you have the time.”

Lionel also rises, head bowed slightly until the queen stands and approaches. “The High Priestess did a remarkable job, as is to be expected,” he notes, his tone one to suggest there is no need for apology in his mind. He’d thought to report on matters of stonemasonry, but for now those ideas are shelved. “Balgruuf might count his blessings he still has a head, but I suppose that’s just the thing with egos. Skull still attached and the mind wanders.” He smirks. “If he thinks to do harm to your people in any way, tell me what to do and it will be done.” They’re her people -- possibly theirs, for that matter -- and he won’t let serious cases of unrest go unchecked. But in his phrasing, another meaning. He won’t do a thing without her express permission. “And of course. I’d be happy to receive anything you offer.” He glances to her weapon. “Almost anything.”

Hildegarde chortled slightly when Lionel glanced at her halberd, “Ah, no gifts from Stormbringer this day,” she tells him, setting the halberd down across the arms of the throne so it would balance there. “Wait there,” she instructs him. The Queen disappears behind the throne for a few moments, appearing with one long item wrapped in cloth and a smaller package. “I had this made for you, when you were Knight Commander. And although I demoted you to appease Larket, I think we can move on from that. I would give these gifts to you in exchange for an oath. An oath for an oath,” she tells him, passing him the longer item first to unwrap and examine. Hildegarde gave Lionel 1 ornate greatsword scabbard.

Lionel is humbled. In receiving this item, he unwraps, and in unwrapping it, he gasps. It is, frankly, gorgeous. With all these gems inlaid, it looks to shimmer a multicolor radiance even here. Beneath the sun, or when casting off pale moonlight, this scabbard will be positively classic. Engraved upon it, the sigil of Frostmaw. Azure eyes water slightly, then his brow furrows and Lionel looks to Hildegarde. He is clearly grateful, somewhat wistful, but also curious beyond reckoning. “I would give oath to you, and gladly, no matter the gifts, no need for gifts. This is… exquisite,” he says, catching his breath and placing the scabbard beside his left leg for now.

Hildegarde , with Lionel distracted by the scabbard, steps toward the warrior and clasps something around his forearm. It could be manacle, it could be anything. But it is a gift nonetheless. “The Knight Commander must have something befitting his station.”

Hildegarde gave Lionel 1 Frostmawian Vambrace.

Lionel is suitably distracted. The ploy is a complete success; the Hero of Hellfire is too enamored with said sword’s new companion piece to realize at first just what exactly it is the queen is doing. Few in number are they who can step toward the man without him tensing in any discernible way; Hildegarde is, of course, one of them. Thus, he is fitted with Frostmawian design, a vambrace of obvious import but his furrowed brow turns to full-fledged confusion. Lionel’s eyes slowly trace the master craftwork, then past it -- to his hand, to the air between them, and lastly, to her. And she is speaking explanation even as he peers. Something catches in his throat and those misty eyes are now quite obvious. He exhales, once and then twice, and then he falls to one knee in reverent bow. “Any oath,” he repeats, with far greater meaning now. And that’s not to say there was little meaning before. Now, he is simply… moved.

Hildegarde did not mean for Lionel to fall to his knee, but she’ll accept the gesture nonetheless. “Lionel O’Connor,” she begins, drawing Oathkeeper from its leather and metal sheath and listening to the blade sing for a moment. The Silver raises the blade high before settling it gently upon Lionel’s shoulder. Inhaling briefly, she then begins her oath to him, “I vow that you will always have a place in my house, at my table, and by my side. I will ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour and I promise not to toss you thoughtlessly toward your End. I swear it, by all the world beneath our feet. This I swear if you enter my service.” Waiting for a moment, the Silver looks to him and waits for his response: a counter oath, a sign of acceptance, anything at all. Should she receive anything, she would tap his shoulder with the blade, “Arise, Ser Lionel of Frostmaw, Knight Commander of the realm and a Queen’s Man,” she bids him, withdrawing her short-sword so he might rise without it obstructing his path.

Lionel is simply elated. Yet in that elation, there is growing honor even in the spaces where honor presently resided. It feels as though, for the first time in memory, he has a home. There are no words for that sort of feeling, but words have been received -- and words will be given. He will speak, at another time, about how much this is affecting him emotionally. For now, he will speak of oaths. “Then I am yours, my queen. I will shield your back, and give my life for yours if it comes to that. I swear it by Lithrydel and Catal. I swear it… for Frostmaw.” At shoulder’s tap, he is risen. Qheen’s Man… and Knight-Commander of the Realm. In his expression, there is unflinching dedication. He cannot recall a happier moment. Somewhere in his spirit, despite all his religious ambiguity, he could swear he feels Briar’s own soul warming and pleased and departing toward whatever it is which awaits.

Hildegarde smiled at Lionel and his response, feeling as though she can clearly see the pride radiating from him. “I know at times you may feel that I am slow to act or that decisions needed to be made without me. I understand that. I trust in you, Lionel. I hope you trust in me, too,” she was hoping this was an indicator of that trust. “You are a Queen’s Man, now. My right hand, while Lisbeth is my left,” Lisbeth being the Captain of the Queensguard and an ever present shadow around the Queen. Even now, the proud giant loomed near the throne and watched the event unfold in stoic silence. “Emrith absconded Larket with this apparent rage stone, something which I had been studying in an effort to know our enemy but time was against us and we swiftly ran out of time. We are now in an awkward alliance with Larket,” she tells him this, though he likely already knows it all. “And we need to use that to our advantage. Rorin is young and angry. But I need your squire to stay his blade if we are to become the bastion of justice and good that Lithrydel needs.”

Lionel listens keenly. At Hildegarde’s mention of trust, he purses his lips and nods deeply. “I do.” It’s all he’ll say until she’s finished speaking, but he feels it needs to be said. The Knight-Commander regards Lisbeth with a similar nod, his expression still utterly humbled. “This does need to be mined for all it’s worth, this peace. I don’t enjoy saying that -- but I’m not going to abruptly believe there isn’t a darkness cast over Larket, either. Not only do I worry over that darkness spreading, but I mislike thinking of all those Larketians caught up in the shadow. The sooner this fragile peace shatters, the less time we have to plan, prepare, and be made aware. I felt something -wicked- emanate from Macon when we clashed, my queen. Whether of his own invention or he’s caught up, also, I don’t know. But I know no good comes from such things.” He sighs. “Rorin is capable. Immensely so. But brash. He... “ Lionel’s eyes widen almost comically as he continues. “He’s me at that age. But Lithrydel isn’t what it was 13 years ago. She’s changed, far for the better in many cases. I won’t let him continue with that anger unless it’s honed. I will speak with him. Posthaste.”

Hildegarde nodded at Lionel’s proclamation of trusting her. She knew he did. “Indeed, something dark and wrong is afoot in Larket. Now Josleen is caught up in it which only makes matters worse, for our involvement is now personal and everything we do might also hurt one of our own.” The Silver sighed gently, shrugging her shoulder. “But we cannot excuse Larket from justice simply due to Josleen. For now, though, we milk this alliance for all it is worth. We use it to our full advantage and we remain wary and vigilant. The wedding is on Saturday. Will you be in attendance?”

Lionel bristles visibly. He can’t, nor would he wish to, hide his distaste on that particular matter from the queen. “Well, my excuses card is starting to run thin. I was thinking I’d express concern over attending after what happened at the bridge, but then Macon went and showed up to the funeral.” He snickers quietly, but his face is obviously still remorseful. “I can’t evade the truth, though. It might be good for Frostmaw were I to attend. And…” He glances to the vambrace, nodding. “Well, I don’t think I’d be comfortable with my queen attending such a gathering without me.”

Hildegarde bristled at the thought of Macon attending the funeral. Slimy fellow. “Indeed. We will not let Larket get the better of us. We must bring them gifts, to showcase our heartfelt desire for peace,” which was not untrue, but these gifts would certainly help warm the people of Larket to Frostmaw. “Your finest wear, Ser Lionel. Mustn’t let Frostmaw down,” she tells him with a grin as if to suggest she was only pulling his leg.

Lionel smirks all over again. He’ll need to rummage through that wardrobe of his. Without Briar around, there are aspects of the position he will be learning for the first time. “Of course,” he agrees. “I wanted to tell you, by the way -- I’ll have a definitive update on terramancers and stonemasons shortly. A man called Brand, a fellow Catalian, has some sway with earth magics… and I do trust him. One of the dwarves at my estate is a particularly decent fellow at masonry trade, also, although I’m still seeking one more. I’m confident that the combined services will do amply for your needs.”

Hildegarde knew of Brand, though she didn’t quite know all his skills and talents. “I know of him,” and she knew of his counterpart, Dominic. “He’ll do. There’s a small thing we can do with our own hands, perhaps with some help from a mage or a blacksmith. But a small monument I would like to make for those we have lost. I think making it with my own hands, along with the hands of those still living, will be a greater monument than anything paid labour can provide.”

Lionel indicates gracious acknowledgement. “I think that would be a splendid thing,” he concurs. “Let Balgruuf and his like think you a fool. No citizen of Frostmaw, from the earnest priest to the meddling merchant, will see you assisting in the effort and not see a queen.”