RP:Profit Motive

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary Emelyan seeks Lionel, hoping to strike a deal. Several miscalculations ensue, but a tentative financial arrangement is brokered, and the businessman invites the Catalian to a fighting ring. Lionel is disinterested, but follows along anyway, leading to a bizarre encounter with the dragon called Memodrix.

Rynvale: Broken Barrel Inn

Lionel | Whereas in some towns, business would slow to a halt in the days and weeks following a battle, Rynvale seems to be thriving. Shopkeepers hawk their wares at the edges of bustling streets filled with the sweet scents of honeyed breads and savory fresh fishes. In fact, business may have even picked up since the assault. Leather workers can hardly keep their newly-minted jerkins on the shelves, nor can blacksmiths blurt out so much as six words on the quality of their cutlasses and pauldrons before they’re purchased. Eager citizens, ready and willing to stand in defense of their homes, are sweeping aside trinkets and treasures in favor of good iron. The Broken Barrel Inn has become a microcosm of this city-wide transformation. Nearly every seat is taken, and on most tables there are thrice as many emptied mugs as there are patrons to tend them. Men and women showcase their sharp new pieces. Laughter rolls down the halls. Save for a few choice denizens who have taken to tables in corners, most faces are jolly, and on occasion, those jolly faces glance over at their remorseful corner-sat brethren with sympathy. “She lost her husband,” someone will mumble. “He lost his mother,” another someone says. Life goes on in Rynvale, land of rogues and devil-may-cries, but the victims of the insectoid menace will need more time. With one leg over the other and his black silk shirt buttoned to the collar to mask a recent, ugly cut sustained at sea, Lionel O’Connor lays perched in a plush chair with a hand to his chin. He’s gripping a book with his other wrist -- “Beyond the Rim” is its vague title -- and a glass of wine is beside him. A woman of the Guild, Grace Valerii, keeps watch nearby, occasionally whispering to him.

Emelyan had heard somewhat of Rynvale's woes, but had been surprised by the economic boom it experienced in the aftermath. Nothing he would complain about, mind... pointed as he was in the direction of the head of the warrior's guild, he smelled quite the opportunity... perhaps the biggest since he had quit his more illicit trade to take up more legal ventures with his alchemy. After all, he'd had the money to start up this business, as well as the connection to find many large clients, and more than a few reasons to leave the criminal industries. Emelyan was still in the form of a young boy, but with the scowling, taciturn expression and carriage of a grown, and grumpy man. He would come to stand before Lionel with his hands in his pockets, and a doberman pup at his side, panting and excited at the press of bodies around them. "Are you the one called Lionel?" He had to struggle a bit to make himself heard over the din of the tavern. Ah, the annoyances of society. Far and better than living in a wasteland bereft of life, no matter how much the presence of so many people would eternally gall him.

Lionel hasn’t so much as twitched yet when Grace Valerii, at a better angle to intercept, rises from her seat in a swift but casual manner and eyes the arrival. Before she can speak, her commander has tilted his head lazily in Emelyan’s direction. He places his book down beside the wine slowly, his muscles seemingly relaxed after a fair bit of lounging. Lionel’s gaze, however, betrays a look of mild shock at the child who has come seeking him. “I am the one called Lionel,” he repeats in a chipper tone. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Grace blinks at him; something must be off in Lionel’s chosen style of speech.

Emelyan spares Grace a glance, but little more. It wasn't an intentional slight, he was just terrible with people, in general. "The warrior's guild is busy of late, if tavern tales are to believed. I'm running something of an up and coming business. I manufacture many things, through alchemy... the classic defensive items, such as choking powder, alchemist's fire, tanglefoot bags, invisibility dusts, traps magical and mundane, hopping caltrops, acid flasks, poisons, and the like. And most importantly, I make potions of healing, of every grade and value, the best of which are stored in small flasks far better suited to such adventurous lifestyles as your guild no doubt enjoys than glass beakers and bottles. I approach you now in the hopes that the warrior's guild might enjoy some exclusive business arrangements. Good prices, bulk sale opportunities, the like. Warrior's are often in need of healing, and just as often without those skilled in the arts at their sides."

Lionel is silent for a time, mulling over the stranger’s words. He appears passive. Only a short glint in his eye suggests critical thought of any fashion. Then, with a small sigh, the Catalian unfurls himself from his chair like a cat that has decided dinner is enough just cause to wake from a pleasurable nap. “Grace, would you do me a favor and check up on the repairs to the Tranquility?” The woman bows. “Of course, Commander.” She takes an initial step past him, but he continues. “And see if you can get an estimate this time. I don’t like being in the dark on this stuff.” Again, her response is to bow. Soon, she’s vanished into the boisterous crowd. “Ancient sea gods,” Lionel says to Emelyan, as if speaking of the weather. “Or near enough to it, at any rate. Massive. You could fit this city in the bastard we pissed off. Didn’t mean to, mind you. Whole thing was one great big misunderstanding. The important part is that we’re going forward. Not letting it get to us.” He nods, pacing. If Lionel is attempting to come across as aloof, there’s a good chance his gamble is working. “Anyway, ah, look, ah.” He examines Emelyan, then realizes the boy hasn’t given his name. “Look, ah… kid.” Lionel winces. “That all sounds wonderful. Truly. I wish you the very best in your entrepreneurial gumption. But the thing is, we’ve already got a pretty nifty working relationship with the Healer’s Guild. You know, we scratch their back, they scratch ours. We get some pretty cool stuff out of that arrangement. Granted, you’ve listed some pretty cool stuff, yourself, but… um.” Another wince. “I don’t know how to put this. I’m not… really… in the business of… uh, doing… business… with children.”

Emelyan quirks a brow at Lionel's final words. "Do I come across as a child to you, ser?" He shook his head. "If that is the case, then I wish you good fortune in your dealings with the healer's guild." Emelyan was an alchemist... haggling and bartering weren't his strong suits. Nothing involving other people was, truly. "Well and so. I'll be reaching out to governing bodies to outfit their militaries soon, clienteles too large for the healers guild. Starting with Larket. They've great need of it in the aftermath of the terrible tragedies that have occurred there, I believe." He seemed to be lost in thought, already. "Come, Sam. There are many mercenary companies in Rynvale to visit before we can set off again." The pup at his side barked, and followed close on his heels as he turned to leave.

Lionel snickers. “Listen. I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time. Demon children scouring the countryside. Millennia-old women who looked like they just got their equestrian’s licenses. Lithrydel’s the most impressive collection of eccentricities there ever was. Me? I prefer to call a spade a spade until I’m seeing diamonds.” It needn’t be said that Lionel O’Connor has, in the span of two seconds, shifted duties subconsciously. He’s been Champion of the Warrior’s Guild for the bulk of his days since the Insectoid War commenced, but he will always be Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander. This talk of strengthening Larket is not a thing Queen Hildegarde would wish to hear. And Emelyan has just proven his true age for it. “I didn’t say no, you know. But if you -are- off, there’s a gold mark in it for you if you’d be so kind as to tell those merc groups to let Ranok know ‘the threat will be dealt with once and for all within a fortnight.’ Those exact words.” He pauses, reaching into his pocket and revealing a shining coin with a dragon’s symbol etched upon its top. “On the other hand, if you’re staying, there’s a steady stream of marks should a deal be struck.”

Emelyan turns, and quirks a brow. His abilities in negotiating and business are minimal, but he can crunch numbers well enough. Of course, his apparent ignorance of Lionel's political loyalties might not help his case, much. "You seem a worldly man." He had paused in his stride, and turned. "I've no need of your gold, ser. Not unless it is in larger business terms." Emelyan was ridiculously wealthy... that was why he could afford to mass produce healing and alchemical supplies to outfit entire armies... and better goods for small bands of truly capable adventurers. "I must admit to some confusion. You mention a deal can be made, yet you have already refused my aid for your guild. Pray tell, of what business do you speak?" He'd file away the word of the threat and Lionel's promise for later. He didn't generally have the time to be a messenger, but one never knew.

Lionel chuckles dryly. “I’m speaking of aid to the Guild. You struck me as a child of roughly seven to nine years of age the moment you stepped up, but -- and this is a curious expression, one which I admit I don’t quite understand -- you really ‘stepped up to the plate’ and quickly made me aware you aren’t one. And if you’re no child, and if the Guild’s own alchemically-inclined fellows are permitted to scan your product thoroughly on first shipment to ensure no foul play is afoot, then suddenly larger business terms are on the table.”

Emelyan had quirked his brow so hard, it was starting to ache. He just couldn't read this man. He was aware of a tinge of hostility, or so he thought. "If you are concerned about foul play, you may have my goods investigated to your satisfaction. I'll promise none of my secrets, however." And once they'd been looked over, and seen for how effective the best of them were, there were almost always those who wanted to know his secrets. He did all the manufacturing for his highest price items personally, as well... trusting his secrets to none. "Tell me, of your guilds needs. I can give you a catalog, or help you fill your needs personally." He was curious to find out just what needs Lionel might have, when he had his dealings with the healer's guild.

Lionel has often found that the best tool in any formal meeting is unpredictability. He contemplates the effectiveness of keeping strangers on their toes, reminiscing fondly upon the time he and Krice met a certain uyeer king for diplomatic negotiations, as he reaches for his wine. Sipping deeply, the Hero of Hellfire decides it is time to warm things up a little bit. “Aah, I’m sure they’d ask,” he answers amicably at the suggestion of secrets untold. “But I give the orders, and frankly, I prefer a little mystery in my life. No one’s gonna bother you on that front, and if they do, I’ll talk them down. You have my assurances.” Lionel sticks a thumb to his chin contemplatively. “We don’t need more pyrotechnics. We have plenty enough and more. Invisibility dusts are covered, too.” He whispers the next bit, as if they’re both in on some cosmic joke. “Got a guy who can swing his cloak and blanket folks entirely from prying eyes. -Really- comes in handy sometimes.” A few tables over, two dwarves are engaged in an arm-wrestling match. It’s a stalemate. “And of course, we have potions aplenty. Now, choking powder? Caltrops? Acid flasks? I’m planning a little shindig sometime in the next two weeks. And I daresay it’s a doozy. Name your price for an initial batch. I don’t mind paying tons. I understand long-term arrangements are more favorable, after all. If I like how many house-sized bugs your product keeps from breathing, I’ll be back for more on the regular.”

Emelyan tapped his chin a moment. "House sized bugs, you say?" He quirked a brow at that. "Thunderstones might also be of especial interest to you. Sudden noise and light tend to make bugs panic, after all." Emelyan started listing off crate sizes and prices, all set at more than reasonable prices (another concession to his disdain and lack of talent for haggling). "I can also make custom products and traps for this particular query of yours. I won't presume to speak to you of tactical advantages, but with some information on your enemy, I can create weapons to counter them." Emelyan had extensive experience as a soldier, himself... his crowning achievement being of outwitting and defeating an aether shade general, Morbius, the incarnation of Pestilence, when he really was just a young boy. That was many centuries past, though, and he had little taste for the battlefield now. He preferred to do business, profit, and care for those few close and dear to him.

Lionel nods. “Aye, aye, that all sounds fabulous. Tell you what. You give me your name and whereabouts you’ll be staying over the next couple of days, and I’ll have a chat with Rorin. Wily fellow, that Rorin, but the best man I’ve ever met in the field of bestiary analysis. I don’t know if that’s a real field, but it should be. Because he embodies it. We’ll come up with a proverbial laundry list and send for you, either with a memo by bird or a summons for an in-person meeting. Either way, we’ll get something started.”

Emelyan gives Lionel a nod. "I'm Emelyan, and I'll be staying, for the time being…” He looked up. "Around the Broken Barrel Inn. As it happens, I've enjoyed great success in my business ventures, and have a pocket dimension, where I stay during traveling. There'll be my dog, Sam here, laying about while I'm resting." As rarely as that happened... "Just let him know when you need me, and he'll fetch me." The puppy barked happily, and chewed on a ham bone he'd procured from... somewhere. He stood, and rubbed his hands, then cracked his knuckles. Emelyan took something off his belt, and put it on his hands... them, as it turned out. They were gauntlets, or so it seemed, though their function was decidedly more offensive. "There is a Rynvale street fighting circuit. Mostly sailors. If you wish, you can come along. I'm sure you see enough fighting in your line of work, but there's often some very interesting things and people to see at these fights."

Lionel maintains a face of modest passivity as Emelyan speaks of interdimensional travel. He’s seen too much, suffered from too many spells, overcome too many peculiar adversities, to call anyone’s bluff on just about anything. “Well, that must be very handy,” he chimes in with a slight smirk, “and I’ll be sure Sam has a stalwart supply of ham bones while he’s here. As for this street fighting circuit…” He hesitates. Lionel may have an immutable destiny with battle, but it’s far from his favorite thing. Oh, to be sure, essays could be written on the psychological troubles of a man who loves reading, and drinking, and traveling, and other such leisure, but who never quite seems alive unless he’s fighting. But the fighting that Lionel does is always for some cause, some purpose. He has always been able to ensure that. Even in his youth at Kelay Tavern, barroom brawls gave him an endless supply of renegade mages and scheming warlords to conquer before they could rampage the hillside. A fighting circuit, on the other hand… “What sorts of things and people, pray-tell?” He rises, taking a few brisk steps toward the door and flicking a weighty silver mark to the table to cover his tab -- and everyone else’s, by the look of that silver -- although he seems clueless to the two thin coppers his beverage actually required. “Ahh, heck, why not? But I’ll be spectating, and I can’t say I’ll do so for long. Fighting’s hardly my thing, really.” Somehow.

Emelyan was a bit surprised that fighting 'wasn't his thing', but didn't question it. The pocket dimension was a favorite sort of retreat among powerful magi... very powerful magi. To obtain one generally cost a king's ransom, unless one had the archmage level prowess to make their own. Though no student of the arcane, Emelyan did have money. A lot of money, and having a laboratory available on demand was very good for business, when he did so much of it in person. "One of the most interesting aspects of these street fighting circuits are the variation of people that attend them. There's one in every major city in Hollow, and many in small towns in the countrysides as well, always looking for the next champion. Many of those mercenaries I intend to deal with come to these things, and many bored nobles. In a land so saturated with magic and the supernatural as Hollow, you find all sorts of variety in the fights, and they rarely get dull. Therefore, they keep a large and regular fan base. More relevantly to yourself, there are often men fallen on their luck, still skilled warriors and honorable men, who know nothing but fighting, and have few other ways to earn their living. You wouldn't believe the loyal and capable men I've found without the means to put bread on the table for their children, trying to make their fortune in these fights... and all too willing to enlist in with a merchant in need of bodyguards or the like." Emelyan led him a few streets away, and off into a side alley. There was a section of stone street with a large gathering of people, surrounded by buildings on three sides, cut off from the regular traffic of the nearby markets. There were many people gathered in a circle, and two large men fighting bareknuckle in the middle, to a chorus of cheers and howling. Emelyan stripped off his trenchcoat and undershirt, revealing something far and different from the child's body one might expect. He had a muscled body... and a horrifically scarred one. There were slashes, cuts, burns all over his body. His body was so disfigured, it hinted that his right arm hadn't always been there, most of his bones had been broken, and most of his skin had been shredded or burned away, then grafted back. Emelyan had many scars upon him that hinted at fatal wounds. He caught a man's attention, and traded a few words. "I'll be fighting next, Lionel. If you wish to place a bet, you may be able to make some coin."

Lionel purses his lips as they pass loudmouthed hawkers and tanners working the hides of half a dozen native animals. From his peripheral, he believes he can identify a ver’en fox, a three-striped cow, and a curiously-spotted large cat with black blotches on tea rose fur. Huddled together in corners near narrow alleyways and on wooden boxes stacked ten high, the living victims of the attack on Rynvale are visible, too. Their faces are a mixture of sorrow and scorn. Children cling to their mothers’ skirts, and old men who have lost loves or limbs stare toward the fighting pit with heavy irritation. Rynvale has moved on quickly, as any city of rogues and distanced high elven overlords might, but something has changed -- whether the rest of the citizenry care to acknowledge it or not. Lionel notes the number of men in the crowd who are dressed in silver-embroidered overcoats with puffy cloth cuffs. ‘Entertainment for every social status,’ he thinks bitterly, resisting a disgusting curl of the lip at the boastful cheers from these men who have found fresh coin in the betting pool. Mulling over the shirtless combatants, he finds them to be of average stock for this line of work, but memories of a Frostmawian investigation into a similar ring flood back to him. Indeed, Emelyan isn’t mistaken; there are leagues like this one all across Lithrydel, and some are less savory than others. Cracking open the case on a hidden slavery pen was one of Lionel’s early successes upon accepting a position within Frostmaw’s council, and should he find reason to suspect a similar setup here in Rynvale, the beleaguered populace will have one less distraction from the threat of impending insectoid attack. “I’m not a coin-seeking sort,” he tells Emelyan with an easy tone and accompanying smile. Catal’s Last Prince has the coffers on an eight-hundred-year dynasty in his coffers -- his dynasty, if fate had spun in an opposing direction -- but his simple lifestyle often suggests a middle-class existence. As for the man’s scars, Lionel does not appear to have noticed. Not unless he’s been looked-upon by someone who is very, very good at noticing subtle shifts in ocular direction and pupil dilation, at least. In truth, he’s looked, and he’s reflected on the plethora of scars upon his own back, but he’ll not pry. Rather, he’ll watch. “Go for it, though. I’ll be over here, with the well-to-do ne’er-do-wells.” He struts between a flock of those wealthy nobles overseeing the operation, much to their chagrin.

Memodrix slinks along as only a dragon can, examining the occupants of this....erm.....'Cheerful' city as they go about thier every day lives. Some cursing as he nearly steps on them. Yes, in truth, dragons slink along the way angry bulls tip toe. But that's neither here nor there. His attention is grabbed - no small feat, mind you. He can't keep his own attention half the time - by the delightful smell of blood and what mixed cries of pain and joy. 'Oh my, Have I wandered into the darker side of a brothel district?' He catches sight of a crowd of people, and immediately goes to investigate. 'A battle? How lovely! Does the winner get to eat the loser?' He accidentally bumps into a rather sour looking noble-type thing. 'pardon. I try not to step on people, but sometimes i do anyway. Are you alright?'

Emelyan had died before…. he’d suffered pain most of his childhood that had made him wish he were dead. Often, he still couldn’t fathom what had drove him to survive the wasteland of his birth. But there was one woman who made it all worthwhile… all the pain, all the misery. He’d loved her until she’d died… and had sailed across oceans of stars to find her again, here, in Hollow. That was why he stayed, despite his raw hatred for meddlesome gods. The scars upon his little body were a testament to the decades of horror he’d endured. As the last bout was brought to a close, Emelyan, eying the crowd as thoroughly as Lionel, though looking for something a bit different, found himself in the center, face to face the announcer. “Look, lad. You’ve got a reputation, you’ve won some high stakes, in Gualon and Larket, so we’re told. We’ll be pulling in a tough customer for you, see? A certain noble has lent this one to us.” He smiled and waved the crowd aside, yelling for them to make way. A golem came shambling out, no less than nine feet tall, the ground rumbling beneath it. Emelyan scoffed, but beat his power fists together. “Very well, then. Give us room, I won’t be held responsible for those caught in the crossfire. The golem laughed, a deep, grating sound, and Emelyan narrowed his eyes. It must be a very advanced construct, though it seemed to be made of stone. There was cheering and jeering, calls for and against Emeylan, and bets being collected from all around. Then, the fight started. Emelyan kept footloose, and hopped side to side, hands before him in a boxing style. The golem had obvious advantages… reach being first among those, but Emelyan didn’t expect it to have speed. It flashed at him, obviously magically enhanced, and he didn’t have time to yelp before it pounded him into the ground, bringing a huge arm down like a club upon him. Emelyan looked to be crushed beneath that arm as dust flew up around them, but he held, in a crouch, arms crossed above him. He had a head wound, bleeding, hinting that he hadn’t perfectly caught the attack, but his gauntlets radiated heat and steam, and held the trembling arm above him. Emelyan dashed in, and started landing a flurry of blows on the knees and groin of the terrible adversary, dodging hastily made kicks, and swatting aside heavy punches. He pushed the thing back, his every punch making a heavy impact and a small explosion, shards of stone and fire flying with his movements. He seemed to have the advantage, for all of a few moments. The golem grew, though, as they fought, until he was doubled in size, and seemed no longer affected by Emelyan’s attacks, forcing him to back off and re evaluate. Emelyan wasn’t sure what to do. The creature was laughing, mocking him… and he wasn’t sure he could survive its attacks. Who had made this mammothian thing, anyway? He could melt it down with a flask of acid… but that wouldn’t hardly be sporting. This thing wasn’t either…. But he had a code to follow, this ‘thing’ didn’t. Emelyan had a moment to notice the dragon in his dragonic form slinking along within the city… oh, but that wouldn’t be tolerated, long. He wondered when the guard and their magi would show up to chase off or charge the creature. He turned his attention back to the golem, gritting his teeth. What could he do against this opponent?

Lionel lofts a brow but dons a grin. Deft maneuvers and fanciful footwork find him well out-of-sight of the approaching dragon, Memodrix, but a few of the overdressed and pompously-stanced aristocrats are not so lucky. Watching them tumble, seeing the likelihood that the passerby is none-the-wiser and certainly not acting in malevolence, Lionel can only snort. If any of the offended parties had sustained serious injury, he’d jump to their aid, but all told, their pride is the only thing lost in the shuffle. Well, that and a few gold-trimmed buttons worth more money than half the city’s population will see in a month. Or rather, -would have- seen in a month, under more conventional circumstances. A few of the nearby browbeaten peasants hop down from their piles of stacked wooden boxes, swing their arms wide with the skill of practiced fishermen at nets, and scoop up the buttons before the elven nobles can seize them. “Guards!” One particularly plump red-coated man cries out. “Arrest these ruffians! Arrest the dragon! Arrest them all!” But he’s knocked aside by another noble, a woman in a silken dress the color of pearls, in her own bid to apprehend the peasantry. Suddenly, the smattering of nobles all come tumbling down to the stone road in a confused bundle, drawing laughter and cheers from the rest of the crowd so loud, they almost rival the excited yelps over Emelyan’s ongoing struggle with the golem. The entire sector is alive now, capricious poor folk sacking buttons and other trinkets, talented cutpurses sacking some of it from them in turn, and mercenary guards and mages moving in from every direction to control the chaos. At the center of it all, Lionel moves like a snake through the ruckus, drowning out the cacophony by focusing on a void within his mind. In plain black silks and with the grace of a circus performer, few among the audience suspect him of any higher station in life than mere wandering, and wander he does -- silently knocking unconscious any and all opportunistic cutpurses he espies stealing from the poor folk, but doing nothing to hinder the poor folk thieves themselves -- and tossing valuable goods back to the men and women most in need of them.

Memodrix watches like a joyful child as yet more fights break out. Yes, yes, the golem is nice, and the other horribly mangled thing squaring off with it is fine, but something about the retched poor making fools of the pompus bastards is rather....cathartic. he has no clue he is the start of it, nor does he care, He's just enjoying the show. Right up to the point that the sour faced noble, enraged at being ignored, tries to plant a dagger into him. The dagger, it seems, is mainly for show, so it doesnt really do much other than alert him that someone is in need of a time out. It is a splended thing to see the arrogant realize they have made a mistake. Reaching down and daintily plucking the thing from the now decidedly less haughty noble, He looks at it thoughtfully. 'Your Lordship, you are very, very stupid. So stupid, in fact that I cannot in good conscience let you run around with such a sharp thing. You'll hurt yourself. And for your lordship to be harmed in any way is intolerable.' He squeezes the blade in his palm, ruining the blade, and promptly hands it back to him. 'There now, run along before we see how well you fly.'

Emelyan saw chaos breaking out around him, and attention quickly fading from the fight. Moreover, the golem sagged... and went inert. Emelyan frowned. Someone must have been directly controlling the thing... and their concentration was broken by the dragon, and the looting. He glanced around, and took notice of Lionel's actions. Some people used their strength for small acts of good, and it seemed Lionel was so inclined. Emelyan had always been a bigger picture sort of person himself... helping a few of the poor was good, but didn't change much overall. Making a merchant empire that could work hundreds and donate great deals of money to charity made a real difference. He looked around, watching how different people handled the situation. Only one caught his attention, however. A homeless man on the side of the street, laying down, huddled in upon himself, uncaring for all the madness erupting around him. Emelyan found himself standing by the old man, Sam inexplicably by his side, barking at people who got too close. He'd sit next to the old man, and their words would be lost to the din of the crowd.

Lionel spends the bulk of his time focusing on big pictures. Ancient evils intent on the subjugation or annihilation of all the realm’s people -- aye, now -those- are the consistent, fruitful study of Lionel O’Connor’s most famous, and at times, infamous, exploits. But he detests the limelight. There are enough tomes in more than enough libraries for his wars against Khasad and Elazul, against the Eternally Damned, against Vyrick and Immanuel and Xaden and Aniket and all the rest of them, to speak on his behalf. And would that the world were a brighter place, he’d prefer none of these things were written in the first place. Small, simple acts of decency are his escapism from the full rigors of storied steel which have more thoroughly defined his life. And so, with a wink to a poverty-stricken but sharp-eyed lad who seems to have caught him tossing a coin his way, Lionel calls out to Emelyan that they’ll be in touch. A few who had gone hungry will eat tonight, and again for weeks to come. There may come a day Lionel falls, failing utterly in his self-inflicted duty to defend Lithrydel against the lingering wickedness that still pervades her. Until then, he will content himself on the smiling face of the sharp-eyed lad and others like him. “Nice knife,” Lionel snarks, passing a terrified noble who is standing beside a dragon with the most misshapen blade within fifty leagues of Rynvale. Lionel fades into the sea of people, satisfied with the day’s achievements.