RP:Sauriangate

Part of the Sauriangate Arc

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Synopsis: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Saurians, ferocious lizard-like beasts native to the far west reaches of the realm, have begun descending upon the northern and eastern countrysides in droves. Never before have they ventured beyond Venturil. A particularly large herd has moved in on the Northern Sage, a forest directly bordering Larket, and begun ravaging hovels and farms and shacks. The death toll is rising. With war on the horizon between Frostmaw and Larket, Lionel recognizes that Hildegarde cannot abide their troops marching beside Usurper-King Macon's doorstep. Cornered into a political deadlock, the Knight-Commander calls instead upon the Warrior's Guild he and the Queen both lead. Assembling them at the fort, he explains the situation and requests their aid. Others, such as the silver-haired enigma Krice and the High Priestess Leone, offer their own services in the pending bloodbath...

Frostmaw: War Room

Krice came to the fort dressed in his usual black attire, with a heavy-robe addition; the hood resting low between his shoulder blades. Katana strapped to his back, the warrior stepped forward through the courtyard and into the hall beyond, his gait slowing once he was inside. Crimson eyes searched his surroundings but he knew where he was going, feet already turning him toward the quarters of the High Priestess.

Lionel isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Or maybe he is, but he keeps telling himself he isn’t. That’s where she comes in -- Briar Ku Risu. She still hasn’t told him her full story, but as she dutifully fixes the bow on his Frostmawian Knight-Commander’s crimson dress regalia (streaked with blue, because Briar insisted), the Catalian finds himself wondering if there’s more to this tan-skinned and ever-graceful woman than meets the eye. She’s from Rynvale, she says, and turned away from a life of wanton piracy when she met some regal fellow who took her in as an apprentice. The rest of this story, she’s less enthusiastic to tell. The mind wanders when a man is forced to stare into the mirror and peer upon his own tired reflection. At twenty-nine, Lionel may have many more years in him, but these twenty-nine years have seen so many twists and turns that it’s difficult to say he won’t drop dead tomorrow. Today, the man is fastening the pin of the Warrior’s Guild to his left chest pocket, there to sit beside his political brooch to the right of it. Today, the man has business of the saurian kind. When at last he is ready -- and not before Briar straightens his posture with a thinly-veiled sigh -- the two will depart his quarters and head through the halls, thus arriving at the fort’s main room. “No one here yet?” he asks his aide, who shrugs in reply and yet even her shrug is a stately confident motion.

Emrith knows that serious dealings will soon be afoot, but in the brief caesura before the next wave, he decides to make just a little mischief. The spell-blade is possessed of a cloak which essentially allows him to be invisible to the naked eye if he wishes, and the cloak's enchantment is fully engaged as he glides soundlessly across the floor toward Lionel, who has just arrived via one of the many passageways which lead away from this main room of Frostmaw's fort. Just as the man makes his comment about no one arriving yet, Emrith reaches up, taps the jade clasp nestled at the juncture of his collarbones, and pops quite abruptly into view. "Well," he says, his voice a soft yet somewhat melodious rasp, "I am here, but I can forgive you for overlooking me. I am seen when I wish to be, that is all." He gives the nearby man and woman a brief, formal half-bow, then shifts his stance and waits quietly, to see what happens next. Here, it would seem, is an elf used to playing by some semblance of his own rules.

Krice was only a few steps away from entering the corridor of rooms that housed his destination when a familiar voice reverberated in his ears. He slowed, turned, and then halted upon sighting Lionel with his ever-present companion. Briar, was it? And a shimmer of something not quite seeable... The warrior was not as surprised by Emrith's sudden appearance as one perhaps should have been, but there he was, staring at the trio gathered all the way across the opposite side of the vast main room with nary a hint of curiosity on his face. Perhaps before they would see him, the silver-haired enigma turned to continue westward, toward the corridor of rooms.

Leone is uninivited to Lionel's meeting. The blacksmith is not a warrior, though she does serve them well. The High Priestess emerges from the western hallway, her normal smithing leathers eschewed for more comfortable attire: a priestly robe, linen trousers, and fur-lined moccasins. Still, the aroma of hot iron and coke mark the priest's presence.Just a couple of steps behind her, the hulking mass of a man known around the Fort as Bertram (Paladin and personal assistant to the sacred smith), shadow the priestess with a wary but genial air about him. The paladin is lacking his customary suit of armor today. The pair of Aramothian faithfuls are without regalia, lacking both symbol and sigil that mark them as Frostmaw officers. Like twin ponds rife with microscopic life, the holy farrier's teeming, chartreuse sights flitter about the Hall, marking each of the faces in turn. The raven-haired woman halts, the soft soles of her mukluks sliding just a fraction more, causing her to wheel her arms in order to maintain balance. A moment of terror streaks across the aged smith's already lined face before she regains her footing. A subtle nod is offered to Emrith, along with a gentle, warm smile. The subtle gesture morphs into a wide grin as the silver-haired swordsman is subjected next to the phosphorescent gaze. The other two - Lionel and Briar - a each presented with a cordial, friendly nod as well, though the smith has not yet made either acquaintance.

Rorin had entered quietly among the early comers to the meeting. As one of Lionels army and a more personal friend, as well as a Warrior's Guild initiate, he felt whatever they would discuss here to be of some importance. He would look at those assembled, the usual rag tag band of not quite heroic adventurers, and kept his opinions to himself. Rorin looked somewhat imposing, a full soldiers helm that covered his face, an out of place green scarf with a bright blue design, an armored coat that shuffled with him quieter and lighter than full plate but half as protective, ending in full greaves that seemed magically enhanced, and thick pants tucked into armor boots, with equipment on his waist suiting his pilgrim life. An odd looking battle lance glinted across from a magical looking shield, and a crossbow waited next to it's quiver of bolts. it seems he let go of any large packs or unnecessary items, in favor of speed and ability. He was an odd rag tag kind of knight himself it would seem, and he cut a large figure smongst the handful of people gathered here. He seemed most fixated on the tapestry of the room and it's trophies, the art holding a battle scene he could only hope to create some day.

Lionel is, in a word, stunned. Hellfire is probably pulsing its old familiar red on the far end of the fort as the flame spirit Halycanos does its best to notify its human partner of Emrith’s mischief, but that’s about as useful as a clock to tell time in the middle of a lifeless snowfield. When the elf makes his presence known, the Catalian will jump back -- what a thing to see, an ex-prince so well-dressed leaping nimble as a frog. But his azure gaze, ever-expressive, is one of mere melancholy, and his lips fashion into a twisted smile before his feet even touch the polished floor. “Nice,” he mumbles playfully, and it’s all Briar can do to remove her open palm from her mouth and blink enough times to remove the stain of shock from her eyes. That shock flickers into a warmer recognition at the sight of a certain enigma. “Ser Krice!” she calls, waving her hand to insist he approach. That wave is all poise, though. It’s the most practiced wave in the land. Lionel clears his throat and steps toward his private war table. He detests the term, it should be said, but with a model map of Lithrydel and all these little colored pieces for the moving, it’s apt enough. “Something stirs in the forests near Larket and Frostmaw herself cannot interfere. Saurians, lizard-like beasts of varying sizes and an oft-insatiable appetite, have migrated in from the far west reaches and they’re wreaking havoc on the countryside. The queen can’t send troops this close to Larket and I can’t attend in any official capacity as Knight-Commander.” He turns to Briar, who speaks in pleasant tones. “Total war may be on the horizon between our two countries, but this isn’t a battle the queen would have us fight. It’s not…” she pauses, and for a single stitch in time appears flustered -- likely at herself for succumbing to distraction during matters most courtly. It is to the High Priestess she now bows, her arrival not to go without proper form. Lionel is immediately reminded he’s served here for months now without the chance to make Leone’s acquaintance, and he cants his head in her direction. By now, Rorin, too, has arrived, and both officers of the state take a moment to smile in his direction, but the show must, as they say, go on. “I digress,” Lionel picks up where Briar left off, “and as you can tell, our options are limited. That’s why I’m turning to you.” His gaze goes to Emrith, then to Rorin, then to Krice -- curious, that -- and then back again to Emrith. “The Warrior’s Guild isn’t tied to any country. We’re not a political organization. The actions we take, we take in the name of peace and justice for the land. But we do this without borders. We do this without the Usurper-King’s inconvenient ire. We do this because we can.” He pauses. “We’re going to that forest and we’re kicking some dino tail.” Briar silently, subtly, facepalms.

Emrith lets a beat of quiet spin out after Lionel and Briar have finished speaking. He has been at least briefly made aware of the happenings in the forest, the strange dinosaur-like creatures wreaking havoc, and has had time to think. Still, a bit of dramatic effect never went amiss. "Not all battles need be fought with flags raised and trumpets blaring," Emrith says at last, then taps the jade at his throat to re-activate his cloak's enchantment. A brief pulse of mana causes his boots to lift him off the ground half an inch or so, and further force lets him skate to and fro amid the gathered populace. "Strike from the shadows." This phrase seems to come from directly behind Rorin. "Move quickly, silently and without being noticed." This time, the voice is to Leone's left, less than an arm's length away. "Stealth took the Larketian crown, and there need be no honour ni vanquishing a threat loudly if bravado makes war the greater." This time, the voice issues from directly in front of Krice, and Emrith pops into view again. He is not winded, and not a single blond lock appears out of place. "Have we members of the guild particularly skilled in covert tactics? If not, I may be able to fashion cloaks similar to mine for those who will be involved. Mine took a long time to fashion, but I was much less skilled with runes then than I am now, and I believe I could replicate the effect, to some extent at least. Boots to let them glide, as I was gliding seconds ago...that would be harder. But this is what I offer. Have any of you differing thoughts? I would hear them. One mind may put forward a strong idea, but a group decides the course of action best suited to its whole.”

Krice didn't get to see Leone's startled response to the abrupt appearance of Emrith, for he was looking at -Emrith- instead; if he had been facing the Priestess, he actually might have guffawed in amusement. As it was, when he turned to enter the corridor, his steps were cut short as the woman herself stepped into view, staying his need to venture deeper. He offered Bertram a respectful nod, followed by the softening of his expression for the Priestess herself, which only she and her assistant would see, with his back to the others. The clank and rattle of armour against weaponry alerted him to the arrival of another, though such sounds were commonplace in and around the fort. After greeting Leone with just a look, the silver-haired man turned once more toward the quartet gathered opposite him. It was at Briar's poised gesture that he pressed his lips into a thin line denoting contemplation. It wasn't his place, standing in the middle of large battle rooms discussing war strategies between cities, or even listening in for that matter, but he went presumably with Leone at his side. Her status as High Priestess demanded that she herself pay -some- attention to the words shared. Little time did he have to mull over these thoughts when Emrith disappeared again, and the warrior's shoulders visibly stiffened. Though the elf's voice floated about the room in a near-disembodied manner, Krice tracked it only with his sensitive hearing, his gold-freckled gaze fixated on the trio standing still, left in Emrith's absence. In response to the invisible man's battle tips and strategies, the enigma mumbled an incredulous, " I know this, already." Emrith's appearance before -him- earned the elf a rigid stare, crimson eyes -now- diverting to watch the man so near him. When silence followed the trickster's advice, the warrior leaned offered toward Briar and Lionel, " I have intel. It seems credible, and it's valuable, but I need to confirm it."

Leone has stumbled upon something that is above her paygrade - perhaps. The farrier listens intently to each of the speakers in turn: Lionel, Briar and Emerith all passing without so much as a peep from the petite plover. Pensively, the holy woman shoves the tip of her tongue into her cheek, her head listing to one side, causing the brilliant blue-white sheen on her crown to shift accordingly, almost as if she possessed a halo. Stepping forward alongside Krice, she joins the discussion properly and, after the mercenary's mention of his impending intel, the blacksmith lofts a single, black-tipped digit into the air. "I might be able to help, though I do not know if it would fall under your wishing to keep matters of state separate. Surely the fewer Frostmaw officials that are involved, the better," the sacred smith interjects, her voice like peppered honey. "I am possessed of a talent," the blacksmith continues on unbidden, her diametric lilt echoing through the hall, "To open a bridge between points in this world. We could introduce a small force, take care of the saurians, and then extract said force without the need to actually travel through the forest or along the road."

orin raised an unseeable brow under his helm as something actually surprised Lionel, to the point of making him jump. It was almost worth a laugh but perhaps his knight had been emberrasses enough. Rorin catches all the eyes and movement going about, a studious an quiet man, arms and ever reasy in the most dignified of military sanction. He would follow Lionel as their leadee began to speak, taking a place to overlook the table on the other end. Rorin was familiar with certain kinds of reptilian men, and began to gauge the possible countermeasures those gathered could provide. Rorin would smile under his helm, as he was caught in the attentive gaze of his commander, before returning to the map of their current Theater of War. "We're to be sent as a mercenary troupe then?" The pilgrim asked quietly, gruffly, from beneath the metallic sheen of the closed mask. "I suspect we aren't to fly banners save for the guilds badge?" A stealthy political move, Rorin approved silently. But is Larket truly so set against them that they would not accept Frostmaws aid? Meanwhile Rorin was concerned with the idea he knew none of what seemed to be the important figures gathered here, and felt himself required to keep a stiff person against the antics and banter.

Lionel is all sorts of brow raises when Emrith goes dark again and floats about as he fancies. The demonstration is duly noted; the Catalian nods approvingly as his Rynvalian confidant smiles. Krice's own comparably icy reception isn't lost on Lionel, but Briar is too busy mouthing a response to notice. "Your cloaks would be of great aid, Ser Emrith. Quiet interception is preferable in many cases. I don't see a reason this would be any different." Lionel is, by now, busy hearing the silver-haired warrior's proposal. "That would be aces," the Knight-Commander says with a cordial and diplomatic delivery wholly unbefitting slang. "I'd hear it now, even unconfirmed, if you'd tell it." Thus, the High Priestess speaks, and it's the man's first impulse to grimace in agreement at the notion of further Frostmawian involvement. Yet her offer intrigues him; his eyes light up with unabashed curiosity. "Could you do this for us and then remain safely wayward of the operation?" His thoughts are on her well-being; her position is of utmost importance within the government. But he has a free ride to cite something else instead. "If Larketian patrols are within range and they see the High Priestess, things'll go to inferno in a horse carriage." That's not the term, Lionel. "No banners," Briar mutters to Rorin's inquiry, even as her superior officer is still showing signs of intrigue at Krice's offer. Is there something else he wishes to hear from the man? "I wouldn't label you a mercenary troupe, per se, Ser Rorin." Briar's composure is quickly regained and she's all swet pleasantries to the initiate. "You're to be heroes." She pauses. "Of myself, I cannot come along. I have ten thousand papers to be filed and I'm not on the guild's payroll besides which." She grins.

Emrith turns more squarely to face Leone, excitement evident in his green eyes. "Such a talent is one I would hear more of, would you be so kind. The ability to get into and then back out of hostile territory that way is something that many would probably pay dearly for. And I tend to agree that those well-known to be in league with Frostmaw suddenly appearing in the area would cause discord, at the very least. This--" He turns his gaze on Krice, and now excitement has turned a little frosty, "is the reason for my demonstration and proclamations. It might seem elementary, but much is at play here. It is better to risk insulting intelligence than to hold one's tongue and potentially overlook a fatal flaw, I daresay. I, at least, will not be the reason this endeavour fails, if it fails, because I chose not to speak." He shrugs then, as if to suggest with body language that he is done his little harangue, and that business should resume as usual. The vampiric elf begins to pace, adopting a casual stride as he moves about, always well within earshot, eyes flicking to and fro to make sure no wayward soul strays too close. When first he nears Rorin, in his armour, the spell-blade slows, then addresses the man quietly. "And who might you be? Your voice is passing familiar to my ear, but I have heard many a thousand, and might be mistaken."

Krice shot Leone a discreet sideways look that harboured an expression only she would be able to decipher; others might see it as grumpiness, slight as it was. When Lionel expressed interest in the Priestess' offer, and then Emrith proposed the same eagerness to learn more, the warrior moved from his place to approach the war table, his stride strong but unhurried. If he saw logic or ill-thought in the vampiric elf's explanation, he didn't stress as much. Yet still, after Rorin offered his own opinion on the matter, the warrior interjected as if to prevent Leone from doing so. She would understand the reason why. " The forest near Larket probably isn't the biggest issue, if this intel is anything to go by." A brief pause; his gaze shifted from Lionel to Briar - and then briefly at the passerby Orikahn - before returning to Lionel anew. " Large crab-creatures, led by their King, using saurians as war mounts. It's possible that the leader of the Crab-Beasts has set saurians into the forest to try and weaken Larket before launching a larger, more direct assault. I don't know." He shrugged up his right shoulder and his jaw stiffened, a fleeting moment of discomfort forgotten in an instant. " I haven't scouted the area, myself. I can't confirm any of it, but it seems plausible." A beat. " A few months ago, I encountered a crab-like biped who fancied himself a King. Perhaps they're one in the same." He turned to glance toward the blacksmith, then, his expression guarded but softening for her sake. " I can confirm this rumour in half a day - less, if the High Priestess wishes to help me." In a moment of chivalrous respect, Krice dipped his head low in a deferring bow to the woman.

Leone nods to Lionel and Emrith in turn, as each express their interest in the expressed skill. Krice's silent disapproval is summarily ignored. The farrier flexes her fingers, the staltwart digits fanned through the air while blistered, coal-colored tips cut a skewed line. The smith's attention then abruptly returns to Krice. "Whatever you need, you know I'm in," the sterling-and-onyx haired woman affirms, before the luminous, peridot sights again swing back to Lionel and Emrith "Perhaps a little demonstration, then?" The query is rhetorical, and the blacksmith almost immediately draws her hand back into knife position. The stacked digits are drawn from high to low along a vertical line through the air. A trace, a barely perceptible line of azure blue light tracks along with the gesture. Like a bowstring, the radiant radial is then strummed, plucked with two of the iron-kissed digits. A sonorous clap sounds throughout the hall and the world is rent in two - sort of. Edged in the same cerulean hue, a elliptical of all monochromatic grey appears where before there had been colorized reality. A conjured portal, an otherworldly doorway into an expanse of nothing but a flat, hoary landscape has been pulled into existence between the plane of the living and the dead. A brief jog of the silvery scene spans the distance to another blue-trimmed diaphragm that encompasses color. Different colors appear there: the reds, yellows and oranges that mark the forgotten desert, just outside of the city of Gualon. The smith is not without effect, however, and already the petite priestess is sweating. Crystalline beads dapple her face and neck, weeping from her hairline and pooling into the hollow of her throat. The hand used to trace the line is otherwise afflicted, and the flesh there has begun to bubble, as if it were being boiled.

Beldur walks in, if not for his complaining drake, rather quietly dispite his heavy armor. The hatchling sat accross his shoulders. As if she was a better armor than the scale half cloak that he had. The guards at the main gate had delayed his arrival due to him being an errant still. His drake being of little help in the issue as she was still enjoying her new found ability to breath ice. Finally enough was enough as his armored hand held her mussle gently closed. Causing the drake to complain more and realize that she was now in trouble with her master. Nodding to Lionel, he sighs as he released Shela's mussle after she calmed down a bit. Moving from his shoulders to his satchel. "I apologize for being late." He would say softly to Lionel before nodding respectfully to the others as he rubbed his neck. The heavy, well polished, armor rested easily on his shoulders. His sword, equally well tended to, on his hip and the great shield upon his back provided more protection and kept his cloak from bellowing out as he walked.

Lionel is inclined to agree with the elf, Emrith; all things here are worth mention, everything is permitted. But he’s too busy waiting for Krice’s reply to say as much. It is Briar, instead, who takes up the mantle, and when she speaks, it is in a warm and inviting tone meant for Emrith and Emrith alone. “Your abilities will be pivotal in this operation. My suggestion is that we strike soon; I would not want it said that innocent lives were lost because we acted slowly. With yours and the High Priestess’ technique combined, I am confident the Warrior’s Guild can swoop in and eliminate the targets quickly, cleanly, efficiently.” This she says as she turns to look upon the crowd, and there’s a determination in her countenance so full and rich as to seem altogether contagious. Lionel’s eyes follow Krice as the warrior moves to the table. He remains in a fixed, commanding position, but he shifts his weight to his left to accommodate the moment. And when the silver-haired man begins to speak, the Catalian’s features seem to soften, then harden, into a knowing stare. “Uyeer,” he utters in unsheathed dread, and he and Briar fix one-another with a seriously cautious glimpse. Lionel readjusts himself so as to appear calm, collected, and other things he is not. “Saurians? With Kreekitaka…?” He pauses, swallowing. “Krice, when we fought that beast on the road the other day and I told you some shadowy force -might- be behind several recent events, I didn’t think it was him. I didn’t -want- to think it was him. I’m familiar with the man you mention -- I’d bet good money on that. If it’s a plot to attack Larket, Frostmaw needs to know, and fast. This mission just got a whole lot more complicated.” His attention would tilt to High Priestess Leone next even without this demonstration, there to ask her to aid Krice in his venture. But she’s already confirmed participation, and… suddenly, Gualonese desert. Well, ain’t that a walk in the park. Lionel’s seen many things, but it’s not since the height of the Second Immortal War eleven years past that he has seen anything quite like this. If he were another man, a real thinking man with a sensitive streak, it’d probably be too much and he’d be flashing back to the Battle of Larket and the thousands of lives lost in that bloodbath. But he’s too damned stubborn for all that, so instead he mouths a flat and simple, “huh.” Before Briar can so much as take a single step toward the injured Leone, though, Lionel, wide-eyed, crosses the hall at an unnatural speed to stop scant meters beside her. “It’s a neat trick, I’ll give you that,” he starts, not fatigued by his swiftness, “but I can’t help noticing more than a bit of a lump there.” He gestures to her hand, mindful enough of her paladin companion to maintain a wide berth. “We haven’t met -- not really, anyway -- and that’s on me. But as Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander, I cannot abide by the concern that you’d risk serious harm in doing this. Tell me there’s a way to do…” ...he cants his head to the portal… “this…” and then again to Leone… “without -that.-” Too much has transpired for the man to so much as recognize Beldur’s arrival. It falls to Briar to greet him instead. And so she does. “Ser Beldur, we are gladdened by your arrival, late or no.”

Emrith moves toward the table near which Lionel, Krice and Briar are standing, giving Leone a brief, awed look in passing. He notes the damage done to her hand, and speaks aloud in response to it. "A useful boon, but a costly one." Once he has reached the table, thus able to speak much more softly, Emrith bends closer still and all but whispers what he wishes to make known. "Kreekitaka. I know him, and he seemed harmless enough. Fearsome, but harmless enough. Yet...if he is meddling, he may need dealing with. I have many talents. Would you perhaps wish it to fall to me to deal with him personally, should I catch him alone? If luck is on my side, he can be made to die without anyone knowing who slew him. It is not a task I would relish, but if needs must..." He trails off, raising one hand to run through his hair; this is a fairly obvious sign of stress, as Emrith has tangled with this particular uyeer once before, and he does not take life without great need.

Krice lifted his head out of that respectful bow as Leone spoke of a demonstration, and he expressed to her - through yet another wordless look - a sharp disapproval. Regardless, the woman continued with her display and he watched apprehensively, his gilded eyes following the movements of her hands, and the rippling appearance of an apparent doorway into the other realm. The picture unwrapped for all to see did not seem to surprise the warrior, who harboured familiarity for it, but his attention continually flicked back to the sorceress herself. As sweat freckled her skin and divine strain caused blisters to bubble in her flesh, the warrior stepped forward to cease her exhibition - but Lionel blew past him and he halted, watching the ensuing interaction from mere metres away. His concern was clear for the High Priestess, and on the cusp of Lionel's bid to harness her ability without the side-effects, Krice's eagerness to protect her caused him to speak a little sooner than intended; he overlapped the Knight-Commander's words with a cool, " Somewhere in the plains in the southwest Gualonian region. I'll go myself, right now - and I'll be back before this time tomorrow." He lifted his right hand to direct an index finger at the blacksmith. " Don't let her help me." Helping the group, however, was something over which he had even less control - hence he did not ask. " I don't need it, or want it." The warrior's eyes were icy and sharp as steel. He had barely given a glimpse of acknowledgment to talk of 'Uyeer' or 'Kreekitaka', and he pivoted following Emrith's words to walk briskly for the door. " I'll scout their camp and return with numbers."

Leone 's brow furrows. She would acknowledge Beldur, were it not for the slow burn creeping through her. The portal crackles and sizzles like water in a greasy skillet, and the farrier shakes the smoldering hand. Steam rises from her head and shoulders into the air as she shakes her head at Lionel. "Being a conduit for divine power has it's drawbacks. This is one of them. It never takes terribly long to heal, and I wouldn't need to be on site of the battle, just the staging area to open and close the portal," the woman says through heavy, panted breaths. Emerith's awed expression is missed, unfortunately, and instead the metallurgist gives the swordsman a hard, cool stare. "At least use the bloody portal, now that I've got it open," she shouts to the silver-haired enigma, a huff of frustration following the dressing-down. The batam blacksmith grunts and shakes her head again, this time to usher stray strands of sterling out of her face. "I've only been in the presence of the crab-man once or twice," the smith admits, her tawny colored lips curling downward at the corners, "but I know this about him: If there's a fight, he'll find a way in. If he has already set his mind to participating in this, you have two choices as I see it: court his friendship and use this to secure an ally, or stay far, far away from it. Frostmaw will most likely be blamed somehow, no matter what action you take. But if you court his friendship as a steward of the Warrior's Guild, you may succeed in distancing the nation while still taking action. A delicate balancing act, to be sure."

Beldur would nod to Brair as she greeted him. The young knight looked up to her, and Lionel, since they were full knights. Not errants like him. But now it didn't matter. He would move to one side. Noticing the demonstration, and any other signs of what the plan was. Asking questions to Brair, if she'd allowed, to try and catch up on the meeting he missed so far. Writing his own notes to ensure he didn't misunderstand anything. Though his hatchling still complained, but it was softer as if she was starting to fall asleep in his satchel.

Lionel is taken aback by Emrith’s offer; it’s enough to temporarily retract him from his soulful gaze upon the High Priestess. At first he cranes his neck to gain a better angle on the elf’s position beside the table, but then, deciding that a craned neck isn’t enough for sporting response to suggestion of assassination, he spins around in full. He opens his mouth to speak, noting Briar’s silent glare upon him. There’s something like a plea in those hazel eyes of hers. A willful plea. Seconds pass but feel like eternity. “No,” he says at last. “Please… Emrith, we need more intel. It might be that Kreekitaka’s actions are unrelated. It might be, that…” For all this passage of time, Krice’s actions have gone unregistered to the man. Then, like a sudden wind, the Catalian recognizes what the enigma has proposed -- no, not proposed, -insisted.- He sees the brisk steps Krice takes and all at once it hits him why the nomadic swordsman’s demeanor has been gnawing at him since they met. ‘He’s you, gone down some other path,’ a little voice rings in Lionel’s mind. ‘Still the nomad. Still the loner. But is he the hero, too? Were you? Are you, still?’ “That’d be swell,” Lionel mumbles, all he can say to avoid coming unhinged as he trains his look upon the group’s self-titled forward scout. Leone addresses the Knight-Commander, now, so Lionel turns around mid-explanation. “Alright.” He sounds hesitant. That simple word seems to harbor a twofold acknowledgement: one, for the statement of her safety; two, for her subsequent wisdom. Briar uses the brief lull first to inform Beldur, her practiced speech and etiquette transmitting copious data for the errant, and next to respectfully approach the High Priestess, standing beside her supervisor with a contemplative expression. “If there is to be a vote, Lionel, I vote the latter.” He looks at her, then at Emrith, then -- after a time -- at Krice and the High Priestess. Then, exhaling softly, he looks to the throne room beyond their view. ‘What would Donovan have done?’ That little voice is at it again. ‘And if not him, then what will the queen’s peace desire?’ He furrows his brow in frustration and he sighs. “The Warrior’s Guild,” he pauses, “will speak with the Uyeer.”

Emrith nods his head in quiet acceptance of this decision. There is wisdom in it, and the spell-blade would be a liar were he to deny the relief he feels. "There is little left for me to do then, it would seem," he says into the quiet, "save to begin outfitting cloaks with some rudimentary light-bending enchantments. I would hate for these to get spread about, mind you; this is not precisely secret information, but the more who possess it, the lesser its effect. It is...something of a novelty still to go unseen." Emrith folds his hands beneath his breastbone and falls quiet, looking at each of those present in their turn.

Krice 's eyes passed briefly over the unfamiliar face of Beldur as he halted and turned to face the shouting blacksmith. To say that he was angry with the woman was an understatement, though by his standards he was still in control, simmering rather than boiling over; this was perhaps the most 'emotional' that he had been in Lionel and Briar's company. It was only seconds between Leone's shouted command and the theorizing of everyone else before Krice stepped forward. Well aware that the portal was a conduit for injury to the Priestess, the enigmatic swordsman wasted no time returning to that portal, his walk swift and measured. He paused before the quivering doorway to regard Leone with a lingering stare before directing his attention to Emrith. If the invisibility effect of those cloaks was weakened the more were in use, then... " Don't make one for me." And on the next step, he leapt into the portal a blur of black and silver; his robe's trailing fabric snapping against the shifting environments as he disappeared from Frostmaw's fort to land unceremoniously atop a mound of hot sand in Gualon's desert. From one extreme to the next. At least there, on his own, he could cool down. So to speak.

Leone confirms Lionel's decision with a nod of her head, the gesture then transferred to Emrith's assertion. "Actually," the farrier speaks up, focused on the elf until Krice steps into her field of view. She stares back at the silver-tressed swordsman, jet-hued brows knitting in frosty ire. The farrier's jadite stare follows Krice through the portal, until he's safely on the other side. Then, with a wave of the same broiling, blistering hand, the magical doorway snaps shut. The afflicted arm is immediately pulled into her chest, and cradled there by it's mate. Once more, the smoldering, lime green orbs fall upon Emrith, and the sacred smith clears her throat. "If you'd like to undertake some more intelligence gathering, I do believe the crab-man has a business based in Cenril. Certainly talking to the locals and his shopkeep would provide us with a bit more insight, even if it's just speaking to his character," the blacksmith recommends to the elf in particular.

Beldur ::Having gotten what he can from Brair, he nods in thanks to her, though Krice jumping into the portal still surprised him a bit. His drake, perhaps thinking it was fun leap from his satchel. Causing the heavy armored errant to try and catch the nimble thing. However, she just barely missed the portal. Her mussle landing hard where the portal use to be before Beldur scooped her up. A deep sigh escaping his lips as he shook his head. Backing up again so he wasn't interrupting the planning process as he put the hatchling back in his satchel. "My apologies." He would say as he sat down, the drake poked her head out and it seemed the pair was reviewing notes he took from questioning Brair. Making notes on the side at what seemed like a good idea or bad with what they had so far.

Lionel watches Krice swiftly advance to the portal, spout his five-word final line, and streak through to the far side of the continent. He blinks. This is going to take some acclimation. “I agree, Emrith,” the man says with a nod. “Thank you. And I agree with the High Priestess, too. If you have the time to spare, a trip to Cenril wouldn’t be unwise. But only if you have the time.” He looks to Briar, who then looks around the room and offers him her silent confirmation. “We make for Larket’s Northern Sage Forest in four days time. Let them talk of Frostmaw,” he declares, fixing Leone with a brave face, “but first they’ll see it was the Warrior’s Guild who saved the forest villages -- and I’ll not have it said we were slow.” All this is said whilst Beldur fetches his -- let’s be honest -- straight-up adorable pet. It makes for good narrative dissonance, the Knight-Commander’s bravado and the Knight-Errant’s apology. This is some kind of team they’ve got going on. Briar, startled by her own self-perceived failure, clears her throat and addresses Leone. “High Priestess,” she bows deeply, “Is there a place most opportune for staging the…” She plays with the words, trying to find the right term for so magical a thing. “...the, um, forgive me -- the jump through your portal? If so, please tell us, and I will see to it equipment is readied on time.”

Emrith :: "I can make the time," Emrith says tersely. "It should not take long to acquire the knowledge we seek. I can be many things to many people. He need not even know it was I who was doing the asking. I will see to the planning of that little escapade, and will let you of any intelligence I glean from it." Turning away, the spell-blade fastens his cloak again, disappearing from sight. He moves away from the table, not leaving the area yet but clearly withdrawing for the nonce, waiting to see if anything else of serious import will occur.

Beldur watches the others leave as he sighs. From what he heard, it was mostly a good plan and he agreed that they needed more intel before finalizing anything. But the lizard-folk creatures were a major threat. Luckily Bel wasn't sworn to any nation yet. But that's also his curse. Being a Frostmawian human the deserts wasn't his favorite place. Luckily they were near Larket. Sunny, yes, foresty, even moreso. Still, till they know more, best he can do is speculate. The adorable drake would watch Leone with awe at least till she sneezed over Bel's notes. Causing shards of ice from the knights hand let it drop. Thankfully he got what he needed before the dangers of a frost hatchling sneeze took them. "What am I going to do with you?" He would ask as he pets the drakes head who cooed as if she was being rewarded.

Leone flexes her fingers as they rest against her stomach, blood dotting the ombre white to black robe covering her. A smirk twists one corner of her rose-taupe mouth upward, tucking the torqued peak beneath the apple of one cheek. A minimal nod is shaken toward Lionel, another gesture of confirmation and agreement to him. Once Briar has approached, the farrier extends her one uninjured hand toward the Commander's assistant. "We have few requirements, mostly somewhere that is seculded enough that I will be safe while holding the portal open," the holy woman informs Briar. The extended hand swings backward, beckoning the silent but still present Bertram forward. "My assistant will answer all of your questions," the High Priestess offers, thereafter introducing her Paladin companion, "Bertram." A brief moment, a pause of contemplation before a curt nod issues from the metallurgist's obsidian crown, and turns toward Lionel. "If you need anything else, please let me know. I am at your disposal, for Frostmaw and for the Warrior's Guild."

Lionel fixes Emrith with an appreciative glance just as the elf vanishes from view. Not one to allow conversation to conclude without kindness, Briar flails her hand -- in a most dignified manner! -- toward the absence in which Emrith just dwelled. “Thank you,” she says, a little awkwardly, never having offered gratitude to an invisible man. By the time her hand is lowered, Leone’s words to her are given, and she bows a smaller bow and smiles to the one known as Bertram. “I will see to it all of these requirements are met, milady,” she tells the High Priestess. “And Ser Bertram, ‘tis a pleasure. I am Briar Ku Risu and this is my Lord Lionel.” Her ‘Lord’ Lionel flinches at the term he so despises but offers a thumbs-up and a jagged little smile to the paladin. How awkward. “And I am at yours, High Priestess,” he quickly recovers with something kind of, sort of, not entirely unlike Briar’s? Points for effort? “Alrighty then,” Frostmaw’s highest-ranking man of questionable vocabulary says with a flourish, exchanging looks with all those still accounted-for. “I’ll go ahead and call this a wrap. We’ve all got plans and we’ll meet again in four days time. Anything else?”

Emrith trusts for his silence and lack of visibility to speak for themselves; he will only show himself again, or speak, if there is more to discuss. This man seems to come and go on his own initiative more often than not.

Leone supposes that comment is directed to her and Beldur, the others having left already. As Bertram and Briar sort out details, the holy woman addresses Lionel. "That's all from me," she confirms to the Knight-Commander. Without further ado, the High Priestess pivots on heel to face the western hallway from which she originally emerged. Departing from whence she came, the farrier lofts a hand in farewell to those still present, and disappears down the darkened corridor.

Beldur nods simply before looking to the Knight Commander. "Am I to be on the frontline this time, or guarding the portal?" The drake perked her head up at the question. Looking to Leone a moment before curling into the satchel to sleep. Maybe she's getting ready to torment the guard at the gate that delayed them?

Lionel and Briar watch Leone depart until Beldur asks a question that makes the Knight-Commander wince. ‘You should probably let him in on the fight this time,’ that little voice hums, and the Catalian chuckles. “The frontline,” he replies. “Wouldn’t want you to miss -all- the excitement.”