RP:The More Things Change

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

Synopsis: Amarrah's arrival in Vailkrin has decimated its outskirts. Lionel has remained behind to clean up the mess. Requesting Rorin to be his backup, the Catalian scours the City of Always-Night to defeat Amarrah's foul creations, all-the-while facing the land's unyielding hatred of him.

Vailkrin: Hanging Corpse Tavern

Lionel can only trust in the ravens now. Vailkrin is too dangerous a place to have dispatched them from within the city's walls; there are too many residents here who perceive him in too negative a light. He sent the messenger bird from outside city limits, through an agent in one of the border shanties of the region's poorest districts. Over the past two nights, more than a dozen incidents have unfolded involving the creature Amarrah and its thralls, and while Lionel's investigation suggests the head of this undead horde has gone into temporary hiding, there's plenty else he can do. If Vailkrin's population is so convinced he's a monster, they won't blink twice to see Rorin in whatever form he now takes, and if a good old-fashioned monster-slaying takes the paladin's mind off of his own affliction for a short while then all the better. Shrouded in dark attire, hood tucked over his head, Lionel waits at the Hanging Corpse for his friend.

Rorin didn't trust so much as the insects that crawled the city streets in Vailkrin. The dark land was full of familiars and those with shadowed eyes who saw more than they shared. He had been kept little up to date on the fiend known as Amarrah; such to his chagrin

Rorin didn't trust so much as the insects that crawled the city streets in Vailkrin. The dark land was full of familiars and those with shadowed eyes who saw more than they shared. He had been kept little up to date on the fiend known as Amarrah; such to his chagrin despite knowing Khitti held little belief in his abilities as a paladin. This was exactly what he was meant to do and be so why the devil had anyone tried to keep him from it? Never mind half his face had gone to the curse eating its way throughout his body or the constant need for the medicine that treated it. He had much more of a need to destroy the dark abominations that walked this cities streets. Although it did him no favors he came in his usual equipment of shining helmet, pauldrons, chestplate, gauntlets, and grieves; all over the long surcoat that proudly desplayed his religious inclinations. Some would believe him a fool for showing the symbol of Arkhen in the sunless world. Others knew to stay far away from the gleaming silver that shone in the darkest of dark. As such Rorin drug his medicated half mad self out of a black carriage and into the tavern to meet with his commander. He had much to listen too with effort to muster mind for hearing it.

Lionel could be forgiven for failing to immediately recognize his friend. In here, humanity is the most alien form of life there is. A lanky scaled beast of a quadrupedal man positively oinks with delight as the bartender fills his milky beverage into a stone bowl. Two sisterly creatures, blue with green facial markings and hair that shimmers chromatically, trade whispers in a back corner. Vampires sulk and stalk and feed at every second table. Lithrydelians will never find another hive of such profound scum and villainy. Lionel, however, does indeed recognize Rorin immediately. He pulls back the hood of his cloak and gestures for the lad to take a seat; at Rorin's approach, several denizens will gape and guffaw, but only half of them are looking at the boy. The rest regard Lionel as if he were as ugly and unapproachable as an Iriveini saber tusk. "I'm glad you could make it," Lionel says, ignoring it all. He's gotten grand at ignorance. "Not all of Vailkrin's undead are permanent residents. A few -- perhaps more than a few -- are recent arrivals. Creations of the Shadow Plane. Creations of a thing called Amarrah. They need to be dealt with swiftly. I wouldn't ask for anyone else."

Rorin didn't see any fighters among the bar patrons. Perhaps a good omen as the pair could certainly do with as little attention paid to them as possible. He slumps across from Lionel and listens to the opening bits. "How long has this creature been enthralling the innocent?" Enthral might not be the most accurate word, it could easily be ressurecting them, polymorphing them, there really was no shortage of terrible fates a shade like Amarrah could give someone. Then again to say it only attacked the innocent would be presumptious. Innocence was beginning to be a rather skewed term in half of Rorins mind. Behind the closed face of his helm his right eye swiveled freely to peer at the souls and soullesss who doured the strangely comfortable bar. "Does it have a lair? Or any living witness to its acts?" The more he learned about its magics and its nature the faster he could arrive at a solution that wasn't- Tear Its Heart Out Through Its Eyes And Feast On Its Tender Flesh! As the somewhat deteriorated part of his brain would have him do. Any plan that wasn't suicide seemed like it would be a step forward.

Lionel shakes his head, tired. "It's only been here tow nights and already its creations have terrorized the land." He doesn't bother mentioning that the elsewhere Amarrah was in prior to her arrival is in fact the very throes of death itself, and a parallel dimension to boot. Too much minutia, however insightful, in a time of action. "We need concern ourselves with the creature itself. I'm aware of how counterproductive this sounds, but for once it is true. We will need Khitti. I don't know how to subdue it alone. I helped kill it once previously, and, like Corruption, it has returned. Our order of the hour is the scout Vailkrin for further signs of the dread beasts which follow it." Abruptly, he rides. "Need a drink for the road? Because we're hitting the road."

Rorin grumbles over it. Two nights and its made enough undead to become a problem. "If you believe she is able to control herself and counteract the creature I will trust in your judgement. There is likely some source that we will need to purge- some core of its being necessary to destroy with holy magics." He rose after him and dismayed a drink. "What do you know of the creatures its created? Or perhaps a last area it was sighted?" Rorin had talent in tracking beasts and a literal eye for evil. Finding the particular kind of trail among the many undead here in Vailkrin would either be a breeze or turn into the chasing of a hundred wild geese.

Lionel fails to administer the necessary degree of concealment in his facial expression. He's too tired. It should be clear in his haunted sideways stare that he has lost partial faith in Khitti's abilities to contain the situation. But upon that haunted visage is rather a large amount of guilt. Lionel is the one who urged her down this path, ensured her the journey toward her cure would be worth every risk and every bit successful. The doubt he now holds tortures him for the role he has played. Once again, there is blood on the scales here in Vailkrin. And once again, the fault is his to share. Swinging open the door and lurching forward into the foggy mid-morning shade of the Dark Land, the Catalian's hair is tinted golden from the few stray beads of sunlight capable of penetrating the continent's most oppressively bleak atmosphere. It isn't nearly enough sunlight to help him with his troubled thoughts; this land is too cold in ways Halycanos cannot assist with. It's a different form of cold, something which does not snow but leaves him chilled. Lionel opens his mouth to speak, but a piercing shriek cuts him off from due east. Overhead, a wyvern soars, but it's not like any wyvern of natural birth. Its wings are obsidian, its scales crusted off like stale baked bread, its skeletal form is on full display. Its eyes are red like blood, its howl is deathly, and its claws are serrated hooks for slicing meat to pieces. The shriek, however, was from the elderly man who is now in its clutches, and before either Rorin or Lionel can so much as move, the man has become gore to scatter the grass and sirloin to satiate the beast. Yet the beast is scarcely satiated. As it screeches so unnaturally that nearby glass clicks with the sounds of protest, it swoops in hard for rushing, wailing townsfolk, directly into the path of heroes. At its call, a smattering of zombified beings with similarly-shaded eyes appear from alleys and vault inward with murderous purpose. "Nevermind clues, we've found our first batch," Lionel states dryly. Hellfire ignites at his will. The man enters the horde.

Rorin wondered if perhaps there was any actual tactical information to be had? Perhaps there was and Lionel had glanced over it in exhaustion. Or perhaps there wasn't and it only furthered Lionels exhaustion. "Much seems to be waring on you commander. Consider taking it easy once in a while," Rorin settled his hand on Lionels shoulder and let it usher forth a warming calm. The gesture is likely ruined in its midst by a piercing shriek that seems to cut through Vailkrins shadowed mists. The shadow is the thunder of the beast! Rorin nearly flinches as he witnesses some pour soul split in its grasp before its predatory descent. His sword had been drawn before it had even been hear and now a wavery light of white and blue spread over its blade as he took to the street. As the citizens cry in terror and spread Rorin plants himself directly into the dive of the deathwings reaping claws. With his blade towards the ground and his right hand on the symbol of Arkhen around his neck holy power begins to build. At the critical moment the apex of his divinity swelled before his blade swept up. The light of the gods crested in a wave that would arc up towards the beasts unerside. He knew the strike would not kill it- but he prayed it would drive it from the streets.

Lionel is bolstered by Rorin's spell, silently slicing through the horde with fearless resolve, inches from strikes that would kill him or maim him or worse. One such strike does take him in the sleeve, and it's all he can do to jump without grace into a nearby plank, crashing with enough force to knock various potted plants into the oblivion Amarrah has wrought. It's enough of a ruckus to keep the bastards from the fleeing citizenry, at least. Yet not all of Vailkrin's men and women are so fleeting. The assault is short-lived; vampires with knives stab into the zombies with malice, ending them but for a few stray stragglers which Lionel destroys effortlessly. The vampires hiss and spit at the Catalian as he rises. "As if I needed further reason to take my leave of you," Lionel snarks back. "Then why do you persist? Why do you stay, unwanted?" Lionel smirks in cold defiance. "Because I'm not unneeded." Down the road, a wyvern's abdomen is broiled with white light, its bones burning brightly. Its screech is one of anger, not pain. It narrows red eyes like a point of trajectory, cascading Rorin and enveloping him with it, and -- if his magics cannot counter the intensity -- melting him with it. In likelihood, his abilities will be up to the task, but the pain should prove vivid. Yet the wyvern will depart, flapping its wings with enough gust to bring down two rooftops.

Rorin put a great amount of his available energy into that strike. He would be glad after it to see that Lionel had managed to keep most people safe and most enemies away from the street. He would not be able to give notice to the short dialogue between Lionel and the natives as he was forced to take a defensive stance to the beasts raging glare. His right arm went up as he roared himself out of the red hot pain. His armor glowed with it brightly as he struggled to form a point of defense. The blue light spread over his body like fire and changed it with the curse to endure the pain. The shell of his armor and clothing dissapeared for a moment as the attack broke and he howled out at the departing wyvern. Rorin stood as a monster among a city of monsters and looked all the less human for it. Despite winning the encounter he would need time to recover his more humane form. He stood in heaving breaths as he embedded the structure of the beasts magic into his mind. He could track it now. And when they found its lair there would not be a third battle.

Lionel | Even in a city of monsters, all eyes are on the men as if they are the only two devils in the realm. Vampires stalk back into the shadows, muttering to one-another in sharp, discordant sounds. All the other creatures, in all their many-splendored ugliness, slowly but surely follow suit. A pessimistic din carries through Vailkrin, and more than once, someone spits upon the cold stone ground. Amarrah's undead lay sprawled, mangled. The wyvern's superficial structural damage brings piles of smoke and ash. The scent of death litters the land. None of it seems to have fazed the denizens. Lionel and his companion are the unwelcome guests here; Amarrah is mere inconvenience. His false smirk faded, the Catalian turns and leans his back against the wall of a blacksmith's shed. Arms crossed, he seems half asleep until a low, irritable sigh is overheard. "Let's check the outskirts first. Have to make sure the villagers are alright." The words are delivered less as a command and more as a reminder to himself, as if Lionel is off in some dream and carrying through with his actions by impulse and not by choice. He saunters down the road, keeping tabs on his partner to ensure he's being followed. Vailkrin's shantytown outskirts are all second-rate timber and dilapidated roofing. Children cough to sickness that richer districts would not abide. A small girl is collecting Widow's Hail, an indigenous flower red like bloody death, from a patch of shrubbery. The ever-darkness lends the flower an eerie shimmer. She smiles, places it in her hair, and curtsies to the travelers. Even Rorin's monstrous form does not seem to faze her. "Blessings, sers," she speaks. "Blessings to you as well, Elsgra." Lionel hands the girl a silver. She continues smiling, observing Rorin expectantly.

Rorin looked on as the shadow of the dread saurian tapered into the horizon. Only as his eyes fell on the streets did he snarl and gaze hungrily with his piercing eyes. Rorins turn to Lionel would be slow and deliberate as he worked to control himself. Rorin grunts to confirm he has heard Lionels near muttered orders. He would follow somewhat clankingly as the medicine present counteracted most dexterous movements of his curse covered muscles. By the time they reach the first village he knows he has half recovered and could resume his human form with a bit of struggle so he would forego it for now. The children do not deserve this. They do not deserve their sickness nore a life in these darkened lands. Still his affected mind cannot withhold growling at her before replying, "bless," and holding his clawed appendage to her. Truly his touch could bless her and wipe any sickness she may have away. However as one who Lionel seems to know a part of Rorin doubted that was necessary.

Lionel | Elsgra seems a bit disappointed. One silver piece can afford her siblings meals for over a week, but two silver pieces could have been stretched a fortnight. Still, she can’t argue with results. Lionel will always be a welcome sight to Elsgra and the toddlers Malbur and Ostwick. Perhaps they are the only Vailkrinites with this outlook, although some of their child-peers have been offered enough coinage not to argue. Where adults view Lionel as a painful reminder of a massacre he might have prevented, children know only tales of war, and children without parents must eke a living through begging. Such is the state of things at the distant edges of most of Lithrydel’s cities, and Vailkrin -- wracked by multiple sweeping tragedies over the past two decades -- is no exception. “The copper honey-wing flaps thrice per season,” the girl informs the men dutifully, as if stating something with great purpose. “Look to the skies when the owl marches east-by-northeast. There, a treasure is hidden.” Lionel nods. “Gems?” Elsgra shakes her head, giggling. “Opals and diamonds. And…” The girl seems lost for a brief moment; her codewords can only get her so far. “It’s alright,” Lionel tells her. “Rorin is a friend. You can speak freely.” She studies Rorin thoughtfully, though there isn’t a hint of disgust with his gruesome features. It’s just plain childhood curiosity. “Okay. Misterorin, ser, there’s a m-maw in the woods east-by-northeast. It’s where all the… um, the zombie people came from. The bad lady put them there. If you destroy the maw, they’re finished.” Leoxander’s stroll takes place now; Elsgra stares at him, then at Lionel, and he shrugs noncommitally. “Hey there,” the Catalian calls out. Rorin stared at the other two through his own head with his less attached eye. He was quiet- and steadily seeming less grumpy. As his fanged maw smacks shut he listens dutifully to Lionels little informant. Part of his mind is impressed and horrified that a child should be so easy with him now. He stands over seven feet, rippling muscles covered in scaled blue flesh, twisted and mottled over his right half. His left is instead covered in webbbing of blue and white that connects to the white scars designating lines of power over his right limbs and fully draconic face. From it grumbles simple words in quiet gravels sound, "good. Bring-" he points a clawed digit towards her siblings and exudes an aura of calm. He would give her something much greater than silver and gold.

Leoxander shouldn't damn well be in that land, but he had a few reasons for breaking his cardinal rule. A secret underground, and a mansion called Dragana's. He scented nothing of the latter in that area but hadn't gotten so far, because he was 'dragging ass' as one might say in more crude, pirate terms. Not so much in wolf terms, mind you. Leo had very little left to sweat, and had still taken on some voyage to find some answer, some relief. And the last curse that he had been handed was from Vailkrin, so naturally, or perhaps foolishly, he was looking for the last woman who had cursed him. He didn't get far into those dark limits though, when the fatigue hit him full force, no bow on his back but an arsenal of knives on his person. "#^@&..." One might guess exactly what the pirate had to say as he heard a call, and bleary eyes showing obvious signs of dehydration, even so far away, lifted toward those present. There was barely any bestial glow in the light. "What the --" Yeah, there was that pirate worthy word again, as he looked ready to - nope, Leoxander collapsed right onto the street. Unintentionally interrupting this meeting unless they chose to entirely ignore him.

Lionel watches Rorin make his offering. A genuine smile hits his lips; he has a thought as to what his friend is intending, and he approves. Elsgra’s own smile returns, and she calls her siblings as ordered. “Malbur! Get off of the sharp wall! I told you not to climb it, or you’ll end up like One-Armed Arry! Ostwick! Stop tormenting Old Gretchen, she’s very old for a cat, she’s almost as old as me!” The boys grumble but do not dare defy her. Elsgra’s de facto parenthood has gone uncontested since the time a passing trader taught her the basics behind the spear. There they are, then, all lined up and waiting for Rorin’s gift, when suddenly Leoxander collapses into a puddle of mud and distracts them. The children gape, their jaws slack with wonder. Lionel rubs his tired eyes and leans over beside the pirate. “Fancy meeting you here,” he mumbles, grabbing his canteen and leaning the man up against a tree. “Rorin, give those kids whatever you had in mind, but see if there’s anything you can do for this guy, too. He’s a friendly. Ish.”

Rorin vaguely regestered Leoxander against the backdrop of blackness that he was half accustomed to through his inhuman right eye. What was more important was keeping his focus on the wonderful little children who gathered here. Rorin dropped his tall monstrous form to its knees as he holds out his clawed hands. The cursed paladin would close his eyes and pray as all of their tiny fingers would gather in his beastly palms. It took little thought for a light to usher forth from him, glowing, soft, and warm, one that would sparkle and waver over their bodies as its soft touch shone into their tiny forms. The pure light would touch every ounce of sickness in their bodies and purify them while it waxed and waned. Afer it was done each child would be clean and healthy, purged of sickness and perhaps feeling more well than they had a chance to before in their tiny lives. "Bless. Follow the Path of Arkhens Light." With that he would turn from the children- surely he could do little more for them this day than end the blight of Amarrah [ooc did I spell that right] and save these horrid lands. Upon approach Rorins monstrous form would he little recognizable to the pirate. That hardly mattered to him though. "Pirate thief." The personality of this form was certainly unrecognizable from Rorin as he snarled and lightly kicked him- though a shed of healing light would meet him too. This form was scanning the mans very soul and weighing his sins from its gifted eye to see if he was worth the effort though.

Leoxander 's form bumped from the kick. He didn't move to react. But what he did react to was the canteen that touched his lips as he sat up. He grabbed it at first, started to drink, then pushed it away with a murmured, "No..." It wouldn't help. He could hardly open his eyes at that point, but managed to the point of a squint toward Lionel. Great. Of course it would be the Lion. He let his head fall back against the wall of whatever building he might have been throught up against. No... a tree. "Lionel...? Something's wrong." Blue eyes moved through blond, grungy hair toward Rorin, with a bit of a glare. "Don't you both feel it?”

Lionel | The children squeal in delight. Freedom from sickness is a sensation they have not experienced in conscious memory, and it shows. Malbur in particular has probably never been so happy; the small boy has struggled so much that he’s sought increasingly dangerous tasks to preoccupy himself, living for the thrill of the great unspeakable ‘what-if’. He’s recently taken to climbing great heights, and though none present will ever know it, had Rorin not granted the children this boon, Malbur would have climbed too great a height three weeks from today and tumbled to his doom moments later. Children lash out in a myriad of ways, and children without parents nor their health are rather likely to do so in the most terrible ways of all. Now, free of the poisons of the shantytown lifestyle, free of Amarrah’s machinations, Malbur and Elsgra and Ostwick prance back from whence they came, giggling and toying about as Lionel has never seen. They leave the stone road in good cheer. That cheer cannot remain where Lionel and Rorin still stand; Leoxander’s musings are too bleak. “Of course we do,” Lionel answers. “Vailkrin is a stark place on the best of days, and just now, an undead horde prowls the night seeking prey whilst a deadly wyvern stalks the skies. All the product of a sycophantic she-devil from the Shadow Plane. Rorin and I are off to clean up her mess.”

Rorin spent little time absorbing the childrens delight. Perhaps he had done enough or perhaps he had not- he would never know. "Sloshed." Rorin adds to his observations. "With us redeem your soul. Without be on your own." The ultimatum was simple, plain, to the point. If nothing else this part of him was certainly laconic if nothing else. He would just as easily turn his back if Lionel would not deign to carry the menging were into battle.

Leoxander furrowed his brow at Lionel, doing his best to avoid the children. "You're dealing with bloody dragons?" Wyvern, dragons, all the same to Leo. He was dying slowly from thirst. "You gotta do something, Lion..." He called his nemesis the same name he had inherited, trying to program the situation into his head in some way. "This is the last place I had a curse... and... I can't... bloody... move..." His voice was getting weaker as he spoke, his position still upright on the tree. So he tried a glance at Rorin. "I gotta find the sin eater..." Tenebrae. His long lost curse and lover. Someone who might assist in this mess. "But I can't... bloody... move." His eyes sank a bit at those words, betraying his weakness. Leo was running out of steam. He was more and more dehydrated. Leoxander just closed his eyes.

Lionel grimaces at Rorin. “It’s alright,” he soothes his friend. In the back of Lionel’s mind, however, he wonders if he’ll be successful. Whatever Rorin is becoming, whatever Mulgrew hinted at, it’s been gnawing at the both of them. Lionel mentally; Rorin physically. “We need to get him to my room at the Hanging Corpse. Come on, Leo. Up you go.” Lionel’s strength can only get him so far -- he’s lithe, after all -- but he does what he can to hoist the pirate upright, hoping Rorin will aid him. Whether or not he does, Lionel will move, albeit wobbly, back toward the tavern. “Sin eaters all around us, man; we’re in Vailkrin.” It’s wry, but the ghost of a smirk pops up to accompany it. He and Rorin will follow Elsgra’s lead just as soon as the lycan is looked-after. The vampires and their kin return to their baleful stares as Lionel draws near; he will never, ever be welcome here, and he doesn’t give the vaguest damn.

To Be Continued . . .