RP:Ser Perigon's Thirteen Ways

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Synopsis: The former barbarian Octavius seeks entry into the Warrior's Guild. Lionel tests him accordingly.

Frostmaw Tavern

Lionel | Three dwarves toss rings into a cedar plank of wood from several meters, spilling ale from tankards too full and foaming. They laugh, slam tankard against tankard, and challenge one-another to increasingly absurd distances. Along the way, they crash into Frost Giants overlooking an unlikely sight: an elf and an orc, fists locked, arm wrestling for the affections of a strapping young bard with hair the color auburn and a cheshire smile. She watches, feigning fanciful interest, but in truth they’re both dullards and she’ll do well to excuse herself for the evening posthaste. The orc wins -- a predictable outcome -- and the bard apologizes for her untimely exit, explaining that her grandmother is ever so sick with traveler’s bite, an uncommon ailment cured only through a certain spell. None of this is true, of course, but her suitors are none the wiser. Laughter echoes from one corner of the tavern to the next as merchants peddle wares to a packed, rambunctious crowd. Business is booming in light of the marked decrease in ice spice addiction; a measure of normalcy is returning to the City of War. Lionel sits by the fireplace, nursing a hot cider and studying from Ser Perigon’s Thirteen Ways, a philosophical treatise dating back to the Late Erlethian Period in faraway Ashval. Beside him stands Esche, a shaven-headed elf with curious green eyes and a visible discomfort toward all the clamor.

Octavius enters quietly through the door. The reformed barbarian stands about 6 foot tall with dark brown, back length hair, and snow colored skin. He is dress in a vest, and wears comfortable pants that allow him freedom of movement. Making his way to the counter top he asks the barkeep about any leads on the Warrior's Guild, he asks loudly over the ruckus in the tavern.

Lionel | Drargon eyes the newcomer briefly before returning to his pouring. “Too many mouths to feed,” he mumbles, topping off the brown ale and passing it to a nearby bar wench. “So much hunger tonight.” Another ale is poured; another wench retrieves it. “You’re looking for Lionel, I assume. You’re in luck, then, unless your goal was to get away from him. In which case, you’re out of luck.” The old barkeep shrugs, tilting his head toward the Catalian in his perch upon a chair. Lionel is on the opposite end of the room, so Octavius will need to brave a large gathering of loudmouthed and argumentative Frost Giants as well as a medley of inhabitants from half a dozen other races. There’s barely room to stand, let alone meander, and musicians are strumming their lutes too loudly for quiet conversation, either.

Octavius scans the room for Lionel as the barkeep suggested, finally spotting him and grins as he makes his way over to the man. A large crowd was between him and his goal and looked to be a lot of fun to get through. Holding his hands up and palms out in a way he, with a mere light touch and a guide in a small direction the persons Octavius moved aside allowed him to flow through the crowd like water. So far he made it half-way through without incident.

Lionel leans toward Esche as the elf whispers something into his ear. He nods almost imperceptibly and places his book upon a nearby stone table. The embers in the fireplace shimmer reflectively as the man Octavius comes closer, and Esche takes a single graceful stride ahead of Lionel with both hands gripping his staff purposefully. “That’s close enough, ser,” Esche opens a dialog, but Lionel waves him off and pries himself out of his seat like a cat stretching from a midday nap. “Forgive him, but Esche has gotten a tad overzealous lately.” The elf narrows his emerald eyes for a heartbeat’s passing before stepping aside to allow Octavius clear passage. “Still, my friend and I have an opinion that you seek my counsel. For good or ill, I cannot say. The name’s Lionel, as I suspect Drargon already informed you. Is this about Frostmaw? The Warrior’s Guild, maybe? Or perhaps demons are infesting Lithrydel again and you need my help. Just tell me it isn’t giant bugs. I’ve had it up to here with giant bugs.” Lionel gestures toward his forehead, crudely.

Octavius extends his hand in greeting. "I am looking for information on the Warrior's Guild actually. Oh, and my name is Octavius." The vampire takes note to not get on the bad side of the body guard. "May i sit with you and talk business?"

Lionel extends his arm toward a vacant seat. “By all means.” Seating himself back down, he reaches for his cider -- and then pauses, thoughtfully. “Although I must ask: are you approaching as a client with a job proposition? Or are you a prospective applicant? Because if it’s the latter, I suggest you just come to Aramoth Academy tomorrow eve. We’ll spar, you and I, and I’ll get a good read on you. Then, and only then, I’ll ask you a couple of questions and we’ll… see what we see.” He winks, polishes off his cider, and then leans back into his chair. Lionel is slender, dressed in soft black slacks, and altogether not what someone might be inclined to expect from a leader of warriors. He has a rogue’s swagger and such a carefree countenance. “Ah, but if it’s the former, then I’ll need more cider, and Esche will need to fetch ink and quill for accounting purposes. Truth be told, I hope you’re an applicant. We’ve got so many damned clients right now I can’t even see straight sober.”

Octavius let's out a laugh, "You're you in luck then. I come as an applicant for the Guild. I will need a map to get to your academy, and will certainly look forward to a good spar with someone."

Lionel doesn’t bother hiding his over-the-top exhalation. “Thank the gods,” he admits, no longer in need of a refill. “Well met, then. I’ll see you there, just after sunset. The spar will be quicker than you might like, and the questions will be dull, but fight hard and answer well and we’ll get you a commemorative bronze torc for joining by night’s end.” He smirks, holds his hand out for a shake, and -- after a moment’s passing -- exits the tavern, Esche in quiet pursuit.

Snowless Training Yard

Lionel | The sun’s last red rays cast a warm glow upon the yard. The wind howls, leafless trees yawn and stretch in response, and a lone fox prowls for grub worms and icy strawberries around the perimeter. The Royal Academy of Aramoth is a quiet place this evening, but its guardian statues stand imposing and its numerous weaponry racks are vast and well-stocked. Lionel stands alone at the center of the yard, dressed in his customary loose-fitting thin black silks and wielding a thin wooden wushu training sword in his left grip. He holds it out a half a meter from his person with the tip shoved into the frosty dirt beneath him. His hair sways with the gusts, his azure eyes study the wrought iron gateway the applicant Octavius will presumably arrive through. He has practically become a fifth member of the guardian statue pantheon. Only two possibilities now exist: the recruit will arrive or the recruit will not arrive. Lionel will stand at the ready, regardless.

Octavius quickly makes his dismount off the Wyvern, and makes his way to through the gates to the training ground. The snow drifts across the ground and swirling around the vampire. He approaches Lionel with a friendly smile, "So this is where we will be sparring at? Looks great." The once barbarian takes his vest off allowing more freedom of movement for his upper body. Runic tattoos of his former tribe glow faintly with magic. "Anything formal we must do before we start?"

Lionel eases his muscles and assumes a more casual stance, yet he keeps his wushu training sword firmly lodged inside the earth. “Nah. I’m not much for standing on ceremony. Just take a glance at the weapon racks. Pick something you like and come at me. This spar’s either short or lengthy; the choice is up to you. Or rather, it’s up to your degree of skill. See,” he carries on, rubbing a sore spot in his neck, “there’s only one rule. You’ve got to hit me. Just once. In the meantime, I gauge your abilities and make a crude determination of your preferred fighting style. I use that information to get you the proper training afterward, assuming you answer my questions afterward to a satisfactory level. Which should be easy unless you’re planning something nefarious like world domination or kitten-kicking.” Lionel narrows his eyes. “Especially kitten kicking.” Twenty meters behind him, the racks are filled with wooden axes, wooden swords of various styles, wooden mauls, wooden maces, wooden daggers -- wooden everything. Octavius need only grab what he likes and then attack Lionel. It’s as simple as that.

Octavius clenches his fists hunching over, the normally pale skin of his turns pink then what a human would look like without a tan as the vampire's eyes glow red and a feral roar sounds off from him. His muscles bulge out and he grows slightly taller as he rages. Stepping down hard, cracking the stonework, the vampire launches at Lionel one fist pulled back and ready to land a mighty blow if it connects. His other fist was ready to hook if his first attack missed.

Lionel blinks. He’d prepared for all manner of one-handed and two-handed weaponry, but he hadn’t anticipated the fist. Given Octavius’ chiseled form, he supposes -- in hindsight -- he ought to have seen this coming. It’s an off-kilter start for the Catalian, who’d been banking on the considerable distance he’d have been afforded from which to launch his preferred fighting style had Octavius instead traversed the twenty-odd meters to fetch a weapon. Now there is precious little distance between the two men, and Lionel must count on every inch of it if he hopes to outwit the foe. Twisting his right leg almost unnaturally, he vaults himself backwards at an alarming pace. His back nearly crashes down hard upon the ground, but with his leg in such unusual form, he’s able to pivot sharply to the east and catapult himself like a corkscrew out of harm’s way. The consequence of this acrobatic escape effort: his left arm is held out awkwardly to yank his wooden training sword out and drag it with him. Octavius’ fist collides with the cedar blade, cracking it such that it’s nearly split in twain. Indeed, a large portion of the wood is ripped clean off, but enough of it remains that the hilt can be held. Slender and clever, Lionel kicks himself up from where he propelled, then kicks again and leaps into the air to fall behind Octavius. “You’re strong,” he commends. “But are you fast?” He swings his sword dead ahead to the vampire’s neck, but at the last second he pulls back, feigning and then sending the sword instead to the abdomen.

Octavius bellows in a deeper throatier voice. "My former sire wanted a seige machine. He pointed and i went straight for his target." The raged Vamp raises a hand up to block the feint to the neck only to be jabbed in the gut. He oofs, but that was about it, and he showers Lionel with a barrage of punches. The force of each one feeling like a hit from a series of balista one a castle wall.

Lionel keeps his knees loose enough to launch himself back a full meter, holding what’s left of his sword defensively to take the carnage Octavius has on offer. Yet the sword is broken to splinters and sawdust, a small cyclone of it dusting the windy air between the combatants as it’s shredded almost comically. The Catalian leans forward on his left leg, then uses the gathered momentum to slide himself across the ground. The dust of his blade has formed a momentary cloud of stealthy subterfuge, which Lionel hopes to use in order to escape behind one of the great stone statues near his present location. He’s out-of-sight by the time that dust settles, albeit weaponless. “Your fists, at least, are undeniably hasty. You’ve disarmed me. An impressive feat for a man who’s barely stretched his legs. Were this a life-or-death encounter, I’d be desperately seeking something to hit you with right about now. As it happens, the spar is over.” A bronze torc, dangling from a stony medallion, is suddenly tossed from behind the statue. Engraved upon it is the warrior’s crest, a hawk taking flight from a green field atop a mountain. Lionel emerges, his black silk shirt torn at the chest. “One of your haughty blows took me clear in the… nipple.” He frowns. “Hurts like hell, man.”

Octavius Slows himself down to the point the red glow leaves his eyes, and his skin turns back to be the pale color it normally is. As Octavius shrinks down to his normal size he goes to pick up the medallion, "Pain is always temporary. Sorry about hitting you there though. You said you needed to ask me a few questions?" The vampire goes to retrieve his vest and put that back on, then returns to sit in front of Lionel>

Lionel briefly tilts his head to mask his face from the man, ruminating on Octavius’ outlook. “If only,” he mutters a whisper at the claim of transient pain, his mind racing through what feels like half a hundred distinctively life-changing tragedies. Well, the vampire’s right about the nipple shock, at least. It’ll be healed by morning. Lionel approaches the applicant and sits cross-legged in front of him, nodding. “Aye. Just one, really. I need to know why you’re here.” He pauses, then shrugs. “Why you’re -really- here. If it’s about a lust for power, then that’s all well and good, I suppose, but I’d prefer that lust weren’t satiated by way of harming the innocents. The Warrior’s Guild takes jobs from one end of Lithrydel to the next. We’ve stopped a saurian incursion, ended a primeval insectoid threat from devouring the land, and we’re just getting started. The point is, the world’s never gonna be black-and-white, good-versus-evil, or any of that simple fare your grandma might have told you about, but we try to err on the side of -decency-, at least.”

Octavius ponders the question, "I don't want take over the world. I want to put my skills to use for good. And also belong to a tribe again. Fellows in arms that can cause as much destruction as I can, but for good purposes instead." He nods affirming that to himself, "Also I can be good at any orders you point me to."

Lionel rises from his short-lived perch, then reaches his hand out to grasp Octavius’ own. “Then welcome to the Warrior’s Guild. That’s all I needed to know.”

Octavius extends his hand and pulls Lionel into a hug, "Ah, thank you brother." With a great pat on the back he lets him go. "I need to head for the in, the dawn comes soon."