RP:The Cure is Near

Part of the Hour of Wolves Arc

Summary: Lionel summons Thamalys into the innards of the Frostmawian fort. A brief conversation reveals the Avian is closer to craft a potential Cure with respect to the Ice Spice business. Furthermore, thanks to the generosity of the Catalian, the Spellblade walks away with a much coveted permission of accessing the Library…

Frostmaw: Fort Main Room

Thamalys stepped into the Frostmawian hall without paying too much attention to the many details, partially because he collected a number of occasions where he had to walk that stony floor, but most importantly because his Avian mind had something else in mind. Pain, chiefly. Hard to think about anything else, when you have some sort of a cursed vegetable trying to grow within your flesh and bones. In all fairness, however, very little of that sorrow was visible to the average onlooker, the only hint - possibly - the fact that the Healer seemed to walk in a rather odd way. That is, more oddly than usual, given a two-meters tall winged beast trying to cope with the very act of putting one foot after the other one. Speaking of which, the Blue sported a fairly usual attire. Bare feet, blackish leathery pants, a loose white shirt covering most of his tattooed skin, were if not for the whole of his left arm, curiously enough cladded in a rather spiky piece of armour - one would have probably said black steel. The knotty mass of his dreadlocks was equally, if incidentally, distributed on his shoulders and chest alike, as silky snakes swinging slowly in the murky air. The huge shapes of those silvery wings, neatly furled, only partially managed to hide the towering presence of the Gossamer Halberd, squarely laced on the Spellblade’s back. It mattered not whether he thought himself safe in this particular occasion, following his struggle with The Lantern Bearer he - perhaps wisely - decided he would have never departed from some proper blade, never again. Right in the very middle of the ample space, stood the unmistakable figure of the Catalian, or, to put it in the Blue’s words, the one and only reason why the Avian would have cared to leave Emilia’s Greenhouse to embark in an awfully painful walking exercise. And yet, the few glimpses of the Warrior the Spellblade managed to collect at that point made the latter edging toward the side of respect. Hence, there he was, reducing the distance separating the two with long, queer strides. “Lionel” the Avian simply stated at first, soon after producing a stiff imitation of a bow. “I received your missive. What is it?” he proceeded to inquire, canting that massive cranium toward the right by the tiniest extent.

Lionel is clad in thin black silks, his only visible weapon a single serrated knife holstered to a hempen utility belt. Lithe and fair and blue-eyed, he’s far from the chiseled string of muscle and grit that forms the many Frost Giants who come and go about stately business at this time of day. Human counterparts are similarly stalwart, like moving bulwarks in the City of War. Even some of the ornately-clad merchants who have gathered to confer on matters of coin seem liable to burst through their clothing at first scare, their hammers and maces a clear indication that hired guards are not quite needed should confrontation arise. Yet here Lionel stands, leaning over the pewter-and-steel kingdom war map he spends so much time studying. Pieces for barracks, pieces for markets, pieces for every watchtower along the frontier tundras and treelines. The unknown expanse is painted black, and there’s too much of it far to the west. Lionel often wonders if the sources of Frostmaw’s -- and indeed, many of Lithrydel’s -- woes stem from these locations. Lionel often wonders, also, if there will ever be enough soldiers in his command to learn their secrets and douse potential threats. Sometimes, in the dead of night when only the hardiest of guards patrol the fort and the map is lit by candle’s flame, Lionel wonders if Lithrydel herself is an ever-unknowable expanse and the threat of war and slaughter could ever truly be stymied. Thamalys’ arrival drags him out of the thick of his thoughts before fatalism takes its toll. The Catalian rises, waving away two stocky fast-approaching female guards and nodding his head to a male elf who seems to have appeared almost out of nowhere, as if spontaneously generating next to Thamalys. All three would-be interceptors cant their heads in response and return to their duties. Lionel offers his best simple bow, then takes three steps forward and past the war table. The nimble elf, Esche, has quickly returned. He’s dragging an oversized chair -- rather loudly, really -- across the stone floor. “Please sit, ser; you appear fatigued,” the elf offers. Lionel clears his throat. “Thanks for coming. Heard-tell you’ve had adventure recently that might be of interest to Frostmaw. I’ve got little birds everywhere; they tweet me things of interest. Don’t worry, you’re just a guest and we’re just having a chat, and Frostmaw offers all her hospitalities, as ever. But yeah. Kinda curious.”

Thamalys cautiously eyed what looked more like a throne than an actual chair. He would have most likely declined, but the Catalian was right: the Winged Beast was exhausted. “Thank you…”, sort of growled between clenched teeth the Spellblade, to Warrior and Elf alike, before perching himself on the wooden support. Shortly after, the inquiry fell on him like hammer on anvil. || Keeping it our dirty little secret, aye? Well, you are just not good at this, Silly… || chuckled the Ageless black in a silent rebuke that only resulted in some more misery piling up within the Avian mind. The latter, first things first, buried his inked face into his right hand, a long sigh letting go soon after. “Little birds, aye? Well, I suppose one in your position has to rely on that sort of things…” commented the Spellbade, mildly annoyed. “Anyway, I suppose you are referring to my recent visit into Sage - and, most likely, to the outcome of it? Yes…” he pressed on, his voice raising a bit, “… I will gladly - or not - provide you all the details you’d need - if, that is, you would be so kind to honestly reveal me why exactly you need me to tell this frankly… unfortunate, shall we say, tale. Also…” he concluded, licking those grey, broken lips while peering curiously enough onto the beautiful map - oh, he absolutely loved maps… - “… do you think I could have some water, if you would be so kind? You might as well imagine I had seen better days…” and with that, he let his shapes fall onto the wooden seat back, closing those deep blue eyes as if even speaking was something he dreaded of as of then at least.

Lionel needn’t make arrangements; two servants clad in rich reds are already exiting the nearby kitchens quarter with ice water, mead, and bread-and-salt. Rather ingeniously, their tray attaches to hooks and grooves within the throne-like chair the avian is perched upon, so that he may enjoy the sustenance without much need for movement. “Thanks, Felicia,” Lionel says. “And thanks to you, too, Robar.” Felicia and Robar bow, all smiles and silence, and make their way back to the kitchens whilst whispering idle gossip. “Bye, Robar. Bye, Felicia.” Esche eyes Thamalys ever so briefly, maintaining an enigmatic stoicism in his features before interjecting. “If you’ll excuse me.” The elf saunters down the hall, approaching various guests-in-waiting. Despite meeting in the middle of a great stone chamber, this effectively leaves Lionel and Thamalys alone for their dealings. “Oh, I’d be happy to,” the Hero of Hellfire chirps, as if the two men are discussing weather. “There’s not a whole lot to it. Frostmaw’s been hard-pressed by its recent bout of… substance abuse,” he chooses his words carefully. “My scouts inform me you and your colleagues chanced upon a quest to gather the ingredients for something which might help my people. Possibly. Maybe.” He winces. “Conflicting reports, really. You never know a thing for true until you’ve seen it with your own eyes, and woe be me, but I’ve only got the two of them.” Lionel’s proclivity for strange and abrupt speechcraft has not faded with time. “Mind you, if any of this is true, you’d be well-compensated for your cooperation. And you’re welcome to walk away, too. Door’s behind you, right where you left it. But if you -could- help, in any way, well, maybe we can help each other.”

Thamalys frowned ever so slightly, adsorbing as many shades of the Warrior’s words. Maybe, that conversation was not necessarily heading toward a detailed recollection of his (Thamalys’) stupid deeds in Sage - excellent. Somehow relieved, the Spellblade shifted his weight upon the gigantic chair, forcing himself to indulge in the water so readily prepared for him - any yet not touching any food, that would have been too much for him to process, literally. “That, is easily answered, as those information are, in fact, correct. I should also add that my visit to Sage marked the end of said quest. As we speak, I do have, I believe, everything I need to try and craft a concoction that should basically not only nullify the immediate effect of the substance, or substances, you are referring to, but indeed should be enough to discourage the subtlest of the problem: addiction, that is. There are only two issues to be tackled still, I believe… ah, wait…” he had to stop mid-sentence, as his voice was fading into some sort of sickening rasp. On he went and helped himself to another mouthful of the transparent liquid, before moving on. “As I was saying, two issues: the first one is that I cannot guarantee I will actually be able to craft said potion correctly. It is an awfully complex, absolutely ancient recipe, I am afraid. Secondly, even if I succeed, I will not be obtaining pints of of it - just enough to deal with… fifty, possibly one hundred people. And finally…” he concluded, crossing his arms thus creating a bit of an odd pose, “I will - not - accept any compensation for this. The whole of this quest is well within the remit of the Healer’s Guild. It is my duty to oblige, and for Queen Hildegarde, and Frostmaw, I will gladly do so.” Quite a long statement - which took his toll, as the Blue had to bring both hands to support the mere wight of his head, as if a mighty battle was taking place within that skull.

Lionel takes a moment to process the information, peering over his shoulders as a young man approaches with ink and parchment. Biting his lip softly, the Catalian begins to jot down various accords as Thamalys explains the situation. “All fair. Especially that last part. I’m always glad when someone merrily does a thing in the name of our good Queen and Country. Even so, if you can think of anything which might be of use to you while you’re here, consider it yours. If not as recompense, then as hospitality. If you need me to escort you anywhere within Frostmaw, I’ll personally do so. If you need extra work space, it’s done. But for now, I must say you seem ever more exhausted than I’d realized. I’m sure you’re aware there’s ample rest space here in the fort, or else I could have a carriage brought forth and a room rented for you at the tavern?”

Thamalys managed to crack some sort of expression which could have righteously been interpreted as the closest thing the Blue could produce when it came down to smiling. “I can very well understand why the Queen has chosen you, of all people, to deal with the matters that matter the most. Helpfulness seems to by the hallmark of many a Frostmawian - that alone, represents quite a reward. I would only dare…” he continued, not before having been distracted by yet another elegantly dressed servant who could not avoid the ridiculous extent of the chair-that-seemed-a-throne where the Spellblade was perched upon, thus resulting in a minor spillage of some excellent wine upon the shiny feathers of the Healer’s wings. “Would you just…” snapped for a moment the Winged Beast, before taming his temper - a slow learner he was, but still… - and dismissing the incident with the most polite mannerism he could muster. “That is, Lionel, I would only dare ask you and The Crown to extend the access I was granted not so long ago to the Library. So much paramount knowledge is resting still within those countless pieces of parchments…” he noted in a vaguely dreamy voice, before coming back to business. “With respect to my accommodation and travel, however, I must decline. I shall manage - I have to, for my own wellbeing. On a separate note, what is it that you are putting in writing already?” he inquired out of mere curiosity the Pesky Blue, possibly very much more interested in the outstanding stationary he was witnessing before him.

Lionel is so absorbed in his alleged writing that he misses the bit with the wine. He doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the library request, either, although it’s typically a grave and serious matter. The amount of delicacy even Khitti required in order to obtain information from its hallowed halls involved enough paperwork to drive Lionel through a wall. Almost literally, as it happens. Yet Thamalys has been given open access to those halls previously, and besides, he’s doing a tremendous service to Frostmaw. That Lionel’s scouts informed him of a more checkered turnout to the avian’s Sage Forest quest needn’t be mentioned now. The Lionel of two years past would surely have opened with such an observation, but he’s been tempered enough by political intrigue to hold his tongue when necessary. A blessing for all parties. “On behalf of Queen Hildegarde, I decree that your library access be extended.” He glances up, meeting the tired visitor head-on, and idly passes the parchment. Upon it, there is little more than a signed statement of precisely what he has just said -- it pays to have a network of scouts and spies at one’s arsenal. There’s also an amateurish scribbling of two guards and a winged person who is very probably Thamalys himself; the figures are drawn in lines, like sticks, with a poorly-dimensioned building behind them. The guards are stepping aside -- you can tell because there are little swoosh marks behind their backs -- to permit entry for the avian. It’s… quaint.

Thamalys carefully seized hold of the parchment, fairly bewildered in noticing the Catalian’s artistic effort. Nonetheless, having access to the wealth of books within the Frostmawian halls was something to be very, very grateful for. “Thank you, this is very much appreciated indeed…” uttered the Blue, unable to hide some proper excitement in his voice, albeit sharply rebuked by yet another spike of the unwelcome pain crawling within his bones. “Now, with your permission…” he begun while already trying to hurl himself on his feet, an attempt not especially graceful and yet successful enough to allow him to stood properly in front of map and man alike. “I shall be gone. I will keep you posted on my progresses - if any at all. I hope that would be case. I really hope so…” he concluded, sort of trying to massage his left upper arm with his right hand, only to remember at the very last moment the left was clad in steel. Hence he limited himself to shake his head slowly, before proffering a bow and, if allowed by the Warrior, starting to drag himself across the hall, squarely aiming for those mighty doors while muttering something not necessarily meaningful.

This RP is linked to: RP:Cursed - The Price to Be Paid and RP:Bloody Cocktails