RP:The Gods And Their Jokes

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: Lionel finds about about Khitti's new sentient sword, Tenbatsu Kaji, and Brand learns that Lionel wants Khitti on the next recon mission on the path to defeating Kahran.

The Tranquility, Cenril Wharf

The morning after the Redskull fight sure was a weird one. Khitti had dreamt of a blinding light; a light so bright and warm and yet, it still hurt her. It weakened her, as all holy magic does with those that wield darkness. She kept trying to get away from it, but alas, it wouldn’t leave her. Well, that was because it wasn’t going to. That sword, or the holy sprite within it rather, had been trying to talk to her in her sleep, even coming so close as to hovering next to her. Her name had been clear as a bell any time the creature said it, but everything else was a jumbled mess, like trying to find a voice hidden in layers of static--the kind of noise that left a ringing in your ears. But, despite all that, it still kept giving off that warmth and a weird sort of… support… like no matter what, it’d be there right along with her.

The Tranquility had headed back to Cenril over night, and word sent to Lionel about the crazy frakked up things had happened in Craughmoyle. By the time he’d show up, they’d be waiting in the situation room for him, that sword floating happily next to Khitti like a faithful, eager puppy and Khitti looking a bit ragged, with her head down on the table in typical faceplant formation--a lack of sleep thanks to that magic tinnitus.

Brand was getting an early start on his drinking today. Very early. You would too, had a strange sentient sword spent all night in bed with you and your woman. He’d tried to touch it once, fingers cautiously grazing the flat of the blade, and for it the damned thing had given him a nasty shock. Well, that’d been enough. Why would it tie itself to a necromancer, and yet take issue with him? Brand didn’t trust the thing, and sure as frak didn’t want it hanging around everywhere they went. It was, unfortunately, immune to his scornful looks.

Lennier was here too, his mobile kit of poultices and such brought along with him, performing Khitti’s morning check-up here in the situation room. He fretted about, assessing her vitals, scribbling things down in a notepad and periodically muttering to himself.

“Someone died. Multiple someones, but one of them will strike a chord and I’ll be glum the whole frakking week. Kahran’s portals can now emerge beneath the earth, which, in fairness, we never really had reason to suspect otherwise. The Shadow Plane’s got subterranean parts, too, right? Well, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t know. Neither do I. But it’s a safe assumption. And that’s exactly what I’m doing right now, Esche. I’m assuming. Safely. Don’t give me that look. This is fine. I am fine.”

Lionel O’Connor isn’t fine. He’s had difficulties with the buttons of his red silk shirt, namely the fact that no matter how hard he doth protest, they keep getting buttoned in an incorrect order. He’s sworn up and down to Esche, ever his faithful elven confidant, that the shirt must be mistaken and punishment will be severe. He’s also tripped on his shoes -- both before and after putting them on -- and most damningly of all, he’s even attempted to comb his hair for once. This, as one might imagine, ends terribly and all affected parties offer their condolences. “I can’t do it again so soon, Esche, I really can’t. A Meri a month: that’s my new motto. The moon’s gotta go up and down on the old sky a full thirty times before another Meri happens.”

Lionel doesn’t get to stipulate the requisite number of monthly Meris, and he knows it. That doesn’t stop him from biting his lip like a lycan with a cold sore the entire time one of the Cenrili Warrior’s Guild recruits fixes his shirt and addresses his follicle nightmare. “What did you say your name was? Killy?”She winces. “It’s Tilly.” Lionel shrugs his shoulders into his better-buttoned shirt. “Keep your head up and speak the words that come to you, Tilly. Never be afraid to speak up. You’ll make captain one day.” Tilly smiles but then she stares. “We don’t have those in the Warrior’s Guild. Captains, I mean. I don’t think that’s a thing that can ever happen because we don’t actually… have those… in your guild. Ser.” Lionel is already halfway out the door, but he wants Tilly to understand she has his confidence, so he reiterates: “Captain, Tilly. Think about it.” The trek through barrier-laden and steadily-recovering Cenril is honestly not worth detailing. A woman dumps day-old fish on the rude directly in front of Lionel, which, rude. He also has a bit of a migraine, but it’s probably from all the salt in the air. All this fish and the air chooses to be salty. “Maybe it’s for the best,” Lionel says, amid a spurt of pain.

Lionel climbs the ladder to the situation room, pondering who’s gone and Meri’d his week, when instead of grim faces he gets a full view of Lennier, who probably just stares straight on back at him as he pulls himself up off that ladder. “Hello,” Lionel mumbles, having never really said anything to Lennier before and not having the best time making small talk with any of Brand’s subordinates sans Sundance in light of the gate that is Onyx. He glances past Lennier, eager for it too, and sees a floating sword pretty as can be. Immediately, Lionel is filled with Hellfire’s warnings, not so much words as feelings of trepidation. “Oh no,” he offers to Khitti and Brand by way of greeting. “No, no, no, no, no. Nothing good ever comes of this. Just look at me for crying out loud.”

With her face still firmly planted on the table, Khitti raised an arm, her index finger pointing at Lionel, “Hey, guess what? I got a sword. Wasn’t really paying much attention to things during that fight in Craughmoyle besides the fight itself. Got to looking at it when we got here. It’s Cyris’. As in the frakking god of Freedom and Independence, himself.” She made a ‘pew’ noise and pretended to shoot at Lionel. Bam! You’re dead. Also, the gods are real. Don’t mind Khitti. She’s in a weird mood right now. “This is… not quite what I’d hoped for though in all of my begging for their help. I, uh… can’t really use it. Saps the hell out of my energy just being around me because, you know, necromancer and all that. On top of that, it’s not stopped talking to me since yesterday and it’s nothing but horrid noise that I can’t understand besides my own name.” Khitti finally turned her head to the side, looked at both Catalians and then Lennier. “Besides that, things are fine though, right?”, she inquired of the ship’s healer.

Lennier was all business, silver-blue eyes only giving Lionel the briefest glance before returning to his ward. “Other than your obvious exhaustion and the sword nearly dislocating your shoulder as it hauled you up here, I see no cause for concern. I’d like to run a few more tests, however. I wonder if I might be able to block the sword from your mind at least long enough for you to get some quality rest tonight.”

Brand eyed Lionel from over the edge of his whiskey glass. He was drinking for two now, you know, and he took up his task with great seriousness. Poor Khitti -- she’d gone from not being able to get drunk due to vampirism, to not being able to drink at all due to her pregnancy, and hardly a gap in between. “You don’t have to tell me twice the thing’s no frakkin’ good. But we can’t have one gorram day without some god or messenger of a god or somethin’ tryin’ to interfere, can we?”

Lionel curls his lips like bad milk and takes a few steps closer but keeps his head up and he won’t be afraid to speak his mind. That’s what he told Killy, after all, and it’s what he’ll tell Khitti, too. Three things occur to Lionel in rapid succession: ‘Killy’ sounds like a nickname specifically tailored to Khitti, Khitti is damned near foaming at the mouth in literal glee, and Killy said her name was Tilly, thus nullifying the first thing corkscrewing through his aching head. In the end, it’s that second thing that really sticks with Lionel. Her energy’s being sapped though and she can’t even use it. Lionel straightens his posture before letting himself fall backward into a spectacularly-timed lean against the wall, scratching at his properly-messy hair with one hand and running the other over his chin. “A talking sword.” Halycanos used to talk to Lionel, back in those not-so-halcyon days when each valiant and altogether-inadvisable duel to the death Lionel sprang himself into brought the Ishaarite spirit of fire one step closer to conquering the boy’s body for his own. Thankfully, their relationship improved. Now it’s all raw emotions and flares of caution when something powerful or profound lurks nearby. Halycanos, ever the observer, appears to have assessed Cyris’ sword as either powerful or profound. It’s probably both, really, but Lionel files that away and settles on ‘powerful’; he isn’t going to give some trumped-up so-called god the satisfaction of the other word.

Lionel sighs through Brand’s admittedly accurate estimation of their lives. “Welcome to Lithrydel,” he mutters, pouring himself a glass of whiskey without asking and taking a swig so big to impress even the highest priestess. He peers at Lennier, who seems diligent enough. It’s just been a bad time for recurring trust issues lately, is all, damn it, so all he can do is nod curtly in shared appreciation for the man’s medical expertise. It appears Lionel will not in fact speak his mind, for his mind is slowly shifting into strained acquiescence. “Well, look. This is all very weird, even for us. Khitti, I love you, sister, but you’ve always been more gothic than a dumped chick at the Hanging Corpse. I mean that in a good way, but I struggle with words that don’t express cynicism or regret; it’s a character flaw. If Cyris’ sword chose you,” jazz hands, “then we’d best ask Cyris,” jazz hands redux, “to get a translator.”

Khitti pushed herself up off the table and sat in her chair all proper-like, which was the say that she was still slouching somewhat--but at least she was upright now! She nodded at the healer with a smile, “I think that’ll definitely be needed. Thank you, Lennier.” There was a bit of narrowing her eyes at both Brand and Lionel, a smirk forming. “You are two peas in a pod.” By that she meant the fact that they’re both cynical as hell and likely to never change. “Okay, so. Look. It could be worse. Could you imagine if Delisha had been the one to send something? What would she have given me? A magic pair of lacy talking underwear?” Sorry, Lionel, for that visual. “It’s something that we -can- use once I figure it out. Plus, there’s Zahrani. The paladin that’s going with us on the recon mission. I imagine she can help too.” She paused, crossing her arms over her chest before continuing, “I think it wants to help. I can feel it. I had this same problem with Amarrah for years before I got here. I wasn’t able to talk to her until that seal on my magic had wore off. Just… don’t write this off as nonsense yet, please.” Khitti frowned. “I’m tired of being useless right now. I know I don’t have much choice, with this--” she motioned to her stomach “--but this is something I can do… and maybe it’ll help.”

“And it’s doin’ a grand job of it now, isn’t it?” snarked Brand, ducking. The sword was unmoved by his words, as it turned out, but better safe than beheaded. Brand squinted sidelong at the thing and, when it did nothing, carried on. “Maybe you can tell it to go take care of Facilier for us. Open up a portal n’ send it on its way? Besides, they say if you let somethin’ go and it comes back, it’s really yours. Dunno what it wants with you, though.” Lennier, meanwhile, had some sort of strap wrapped around Khitti’s skull and was… taking measurements? Divining her aura? Who could say. He disappeared a moment later, strap in hand, in search of some item he hadn’t already brought with him. Still muttering.

Lionel exerts just enough control over his muscles to keep them loose despite prying himself back off of the wall. His right cheek pivots into dimpled distaste when he hears the name Delisha; further description of such tomfrakkery only furthers his grim countenance. “I hear you,” Lionel says, moments later when the combination of the rest of Khitti’s sentences and the remainder of his whiskey is the one-two punch he desperately needs to eliminate that mental picture. He pauses long enough to let Brand duck from a sword he’s pretty sure won’t move to dislodge neck from shoulders. Once that matter’s settled, the original Catalian continues. (Side note: Lionel is aware Brand is older.) “I don’t know. Swords flung stage left that come back stage right sound like a dangerous prospect for any actor. Let’s keep it close for now and see what can be done of it. And on the off chance it turns out the thing wants to kill you, well, we won’t let it.” Lionel doesn’t duck. Screw you, Cyris; Lionel is free and independent of your nonsense. Even so, he does happen to -- casually -- walk around the sword and happen to -- casually -- wind up on its edge’s blind side.

Khitti had about all she could stand when it came to the pessimism from these two. Lionel had barely gotten the last of his words out when Khitti slammed a fist down onto the table, the glasses and bottle bouncing a little on top of it. “That’s -enough-!” That quiet smolder that usually came with Brand’s anger was present now in Khitti’s own, a not-at-all-pleased look clearly written on her features. “You know, there was a time when I’d be right there frakking with you. I’d be right there, saying these things, assuming the worst, but you know what happened then? I frakking -died-. I died… and I came back. Yeah, things have not been great. -Some- of the gods have royally frakked things to hell and back for me, for us… but not all of them.” The top heavy woman pushed herself up out of her chair to stand, glowering at the two of them, “I get it. I get why you’re like this. I was too, but I don’t want to be anymore. Because I -did- get help. Then and now, and I won’t have you two looking down your nose at it anymore.” Khitti grabbed the sword from where it’d been and thrust the floating weapon into the air between the three of them, “There is a living being in there and it is -trying- to help. Because it -wants- to. If either of you screw this up for me, so help me, I will make you regret it.” It probably wasn’t as severe as it sounded, but she was angry and it sounded like a good thing to say right then.

Do not piss off the pregnant lady. Brand had been presented with this lesson repeatedly over the last few months, but he was a slow learner. “Still think you oughta send it at Facilier. It’s not like it can die, right? Probably? I don’t think they’d even be able to touch it, bein’ followers of Vakmathras n’ all. That’s… how that works, right? Frak, maybe it takes down Kahran himself. Imagine that.”

Lionel blinks twice and takes a seat. There isn’t much about his face that suggests shock or remorse, though, and his hands are neatly folded in front of him. “Frankly, I thought my answer was perfectly reasonable, and that’s rarity enough for me to repeat even for my own ears. I’m not being a pessimist about this. I’m being a realist. I’ve never had a pleasant encounter with any ‘god’, whether they wore black or they wore white or they wore barely anything at all. I’m all for this working out and I’m all for doing what I can to help ensure that it does. I’ve also been cut apart, had things put in me, and made to endure the charming sensation of my own neck snapping multiple times thanks to these frakkers. I don’t know what it’s like to die, Khitti, but I know what it’s like to hope the gods aren’t cruel and then see their own work done through dark forces. I’m never going to be completely at-ease with this, and I hope you can respect that. In return, I won’t think twice about respecting that you need this, and that -we- could really -use- this, and that chucking the thing at Kahran might just save the world. And for all that,” Lionel finally takes a breath, “I will do my best to be happy about this.”

Khitti’s rage subsided a little, for now. She settled back into her seat, that scowl of hers shifting into a slightly less angry frown. “I would love to use it on Facilier, but like I said, it weakens me. I’m already less than what I could be when it comes to fighting thanks to this kid and adding more disadvantages on top of that isn’t good. If he -is- truly a lich, it won’t entirely work anyway. At least to my knowledge.” Khitti side-eyed Brand, “You remember what happened in that dream. You set me on fire and then I came back. Holy magic’s as new to me as any other type of magic would be besides necromancy, so I’ve no clue if it’s a one-hit knockout or not. Plus--” she sighed, turning her attention to the table, “--I don’t want to hurt Onyx. We don’t know if they’re doing this willingly or unwilling and despite the betrayal, I don’t want to make the wrong decision. They -did- have a failsafe in place for that gem and I’m still here and not probably dead and you raising a kid on your own because of it.” Finally, she nodded at Lionel, “I know. It’s just frustrating. I’ve been trying so hard not to think like that anymore. To move on, if not for me then for this kid. I’m determined to be happy and be thankful for what I’ve got, one way or another.”

Not seeing Onyx’s betrayal before it happened had been Brand’s own failure. He tried to shrug the weight of it off his shoulders, yet stubbornly it lingered. “Alright. It’s your sword, I guess. You decide what happens with it.” He reached for the decanter and topped off his whiskey glass, thereafter taking another heavy swig. Lennier returned to the room just then, shining kitchen foil in his hands. Brand nearly choked on his drink as the elf pressed it around Khitti’s head. Somehow, he’d fashioned her quite the nightcap, complete with a tinsel bob at the tip. And despite the ridiculousness of the look, Lennier appeared quite serious. “Is it working? I’ve read of the protective properties of certain common household items and proven the effectiveness of several in my time, but I’ve never had the chance to dabble at this one.”

Lionel is distantly conscious of the fact that this might not be the best time to bring up his decision to let Khitti come along for the mission northwest of Frostmaw, but he’s also eminently aware of the opposing fact: there might not be another opportunity to bring it up until it’s already happening. At that point, there won’t be much he or Khitti can say to calm the fire that will be Brand. The whiskey is settling in Lionel’s system now, and his relative calmness in referencing his own torture at the hands of Khasad and Elazul has imbued him with an eerie sense of perfect composure. While Khitti and Brand carry on about Onyx, Lionel holds silent. It’s not that he doesn’t have opinions of his own therein; he does, but they’re currently half-baked and altogether secondary. It’s just that if he doesn’t say the words clanking on his tongue now, he’s liable to leave the room without saying them. And that would be a right fine mess. “I want Khitti to come with us to Ouroboros.” Revelations in crisp monotone. He swallows and keeps his head up, just like he told Killy. Tilly. Whatever. “Brand, I will echo your concerns before you say them. I know she’s pregnant; heavily, at that. And I know these missions have a nasty habit of going south, too.” He doesn’t say the name most recently buzzing through his tired brain, but the sudden shift in his eyes from focused to wandering says it for him. But then they’re back, honed like lightning. “But we’re staying on the very fringes of Ouroboros’ territory. We’re sending scouts forward to lurk through the shadows, briefly observe, and return. If mistakes are made, we’ll already be on our way out. Khitti’s skills won’t just be vital, they’ll be downright mandatory. I’m sorry. Hit me, or set my hand on fire, or make me pay for that drink, but please don’t stop this. If we don’t turn the tide in this war, there might not be a world left for -any- of us.” His eyes, still lightning, tilt toward Khitti’s swollen belly with purpose. And that is when, out of the corner of those lightning’d eyes, he espies tinfoil on the tip of Khitti’s head. The lightning dissipates, which is going to be awkward now that Brand’s heard him out and might hit him, or set his hand on fire, or… “Lennier, toss me some of that tinfoil.” He’ll preemptively protect these hands of his.

Whatever fire Khitti had with regards to that sword and the Catalians’ combined hatred of the gods has died. It died because Lionel brought up that mission that Khitti’d failed to tell Brand she’d been invited to. She opened her mouth to back up Lionel, but her soul died a little more, as that tinfoil hat was placed on her head. “Lennier, what the--” She wanted to tear it off her head, to throw it at him, but she didn’t. Instead she-- “Whoa. What the frak. The voice is gone.” A few blinks were awarded to the ship’s healer, that glorious miracle worker that’d been aiding her for some time now. “Lennier, I’m sorry this might be a private question but are you a god? I could’ve used this frakking thing two years ago with Amarrah… and with Brand when he saw fit to nag me over our bloodlink. Yeah,” she said triumphantly, pulling the hat down further on to her head. “Oh man. I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight.” Then she remembered the sword and took the hat off, “Oh, right. Uh. Sorry. I promise it’s just for at night, okay?” For a second there, the sprite inside it seemed a little sad and she just couldn’t deal with it.

Lennier blinked, perplexed. Didn’t Lionel know tinfoil wouldn’t protect against flames? And in any case, “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve only brought just enough for the hat.” Brand, however, showed no fiery intent just yet, so maybe it wouldn’t be necessary. “Ouroboros? Fill me in. What exactly is it you want her to do?”

Lionel almost growls at the thought of Lennier being a god. That would alter his newfound gratitude in a fever pitch. Lennier’s odds of survival would take a marked downturn if he happens to confirm Khitti’s bizarre suspicion, which is really rather ironic considering godhood tends to improve one’s chances at a long and healthy life. ‘Not this time, bitch,’ Lionel thinks to himself, shortly before remembering that Lennier is not a god. Probably. By the way, Lionel definitely thinks tinfoil will protect him against flames. “Ouroboros, yep. Those bastards who gave our favorite ill-fated dwarf his ridiculous armor back in Craughmoyle.” Popular place lately, that Craughmoyle. “They’ve turned up in one too many conversations lately for my liking. They’ve got this weird shaman, too, by the name of Mulgrew, who I summoned to help Rorin a few months past. Supposedly, she’s the best in the land. Healed a ton of fellow Frost Giants on her way in to Frostmaw. Didn’t do a damned thing for Rorin, though. It seems they’ve begun outfitting some of Kahran’s orcs with that armor, so… you know.” Hands in the air like he just doesn’t care. “We’re all going to die. Anyway, I decided enough was enough. We need to figure out why they’ve got such sympathy for the devil, and either sabotage their facility outright or get them to make that armor for us instead. We’re gonna get some eyes on that place and make our determination.”

Khitti would probably backhand Lionel if he was rude to Lennier. The elf had been nothing but kind to her. How many times had he helped save her from near death experiences? The answer is: too many to count. Lionel’s lucky, though, because he kept those thoughts to himself. Instead, she carried on with giving the information. “Lionel wants to go in on wyverns, but I’m opting to stay on the ground. Besides just wanting to keep my feet--or the Tikifhlee’s rather--firmly planted in the earth, it’s not bad to have a set of eyes there as well. I’d been meaning to bring it up to you, but I figured it’d be better to have Lionel here too.” In case you got angry. “Between the Tikifhlee’s shadowmelding ability and my own, I think I’d be fine. I’d like to have you with me, of course, if your schedule allows for it. I’d rather not be down there on my own, but with this sword now, I think it’d be alright if I was.”

Brand leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. He was certainly one of the most stubborn folks in existence, but he was outnumbered by two who could give him a run for his money. And was this really the hill he wanted to die on? “I’ll go. Cuz Khitti’s not goin’ without me, that’s for damn sure. And we’ve had so many of our own problems, I’m afraid we’ve not been as active as I’d like in helpin’ with this Kahran business.”

Lionel shakes his head solemnly. “You’ve been every bit as active as any sane people could. More so, even.” Whether or not he’s aware he basically just called them both crazy is inconclusive. “Besides, most of your problems are my problems too -- now more than ever.” Another one-or-the-other: Lionel could be referring to Facilier’s newfound loyalties or the unborn baby in the room. He rises from his seat, releasing a breath he’d been holding for reasons unknown even to himself. “I’d best be off. I’ve got to meet with Uma about the magical barrier around this city. Esche says it’s starting to buckle, because he’s just a fount of good news.”

Khitti smirked at Brand. She was glad he was going with them, but damn it all, she wasn’t some breakable doll. Both of them needed to stop acting like she was, unborn child or not. She was surprised though that he didn’t put up any fight about it at all. Weird. She shrugged it off and nodded to Lionel, “We’ll see you soon then.” Good, she needed a nap. That tinfoil hat was going to be her best friend for the next little while until she could get things sorted out with that sword.