RP:The Nameless King and his Princeling
Hildegarde, unlike Lyros, knew the land fairly well. Her vision is not quite so impaired by the snow and wind as others might be, thanks to her saurian nature, so she is capable of seeing the bundled up man trudge along straight towards the nest. Was he trying to commit suicide via dragon? Was he a poacher who thought himself to be the best poacher in the universe? Or was he simply just insane? Probably the latter. But there was an even slimmer chance he was simply lost and wandering blindly in the snow. Either way, he did not quite deserve to walk blindly into the nest and become lunchmeat. The knight’s hand snapped out to grasp his cloak and a portion of the bundled furs, yanking him back with strength and control: “Stop!” she bade him in warning.
Lyros' stubborn pride drives him on when most others would admit defeat and turn back - he fights against the wind and cold, though luckily he does not have to trudge through the knee-deep snow, instead moving across its surface a little more gracefully than the more clumsy humanoid races. He does not think he is lost, but it is difficult to tell, and his path has been meandering naturally over time even when he believes himself to be walking in a straight line. Truthfully, the drow is not certain which direction leads back to Frostmaw, now. His head is tucked down and covered by his hood in an effort to shield his eyes from the blinding snow, and the wind is so deafening and disorientating that Lyros does not take note of the other's presence until she is upon him. There's a wince and a grunt of pain when she grabs him by his injured shoulder with such a firm hand, and he nearly stumbles straight into her chest when he turns and the wind batters against his body. He is not exactly made to withstand gales. "R-Release me at once!" the drow snaps, demanding, his hood falling back to reveal his face - patchy skin and amber-red eyes, the latter of which are hard and as cold as the northern wastes. "And stop following me."
Hildegarde lacked the grace and lightness that was afforded to Lyros, she sank in the snow and had to wade through it but she did it tirelessly. It did not bother her. “If I release you, you will walk into that nest and you will die,” she warned him bluntly, the concern evident on her face. “If you stop and stand still for a moment, slowly turn and peer, you will see the shapes in the snow; you’ll hear the roars and screams beneath the wind. Death awaits you in there. Have sense, stay still.”
He believes her to be a guard, of course, and one as stubborn as he if she's followed him all the way out here, so far beyond Frostmaw's walls. Lip curling in a mixture of disgust and annoyance, he tries to yank his arm from her grip, ignoring the twinge of pain that courses through his wound as he does so. "I will not die to any beast out here," the drow growls, but the volume of his voice has dropped and he seems intrigued by her words. "Nest?" He takes a step back but remains relatively close by, just enough to give himself a sense of space as he surveys the area and tries to spot the vague outline of creatures moving amidst the snow. The glare it gives off makes it difficult for him to see much at all; he snorts, "I see nothing." Around them it seems as if the wind is finally starting to die down, but there is something almost sinister in the silence which comes to fill the void, as though it is being controlled by whatever is still watching them. Something, Lyros realises, that is not the woman. He goes very quiet then, as the landscape mimics him and only the slightest breath of a breeze tugs at his hair, the mist slowly lifting...
Hildegarde did not mean to hurt Lyros. Never would she dare think to hurt the man, unless it did truly save his life… or the lives of others. The woman gentled her grip upon him but did not let go, not until he stepped back and released himself from her grip. “You see nothing,” she repeated, “but it sees you.” A foreboding warning to be sure. As the mist peeled back, a wyvern of immense size jerked forward; snapping its maw near Lyros before flitting back as its brethren screamed and howled at their presence. There were countless dragons, countless wyverns: flying ever higher, swooping fearlessly and snapping at one another endlessly.
Lyros frowns sidelong at the knight for her remark. He has been taught through the lethal game of drow society and a variety of related life lessons that to show weakness is to invite death; so the mage barely flinches when out of the mist a fanged maw lunges forward, jaws closing shut inches from his face and warm, rancid breath melting the thin dusting of ice on his cheeks. His entire body goes rigid with tension and the drow snaps back, snarling at the sudden rush of movement as every winged beast in the vicinity takes flight in unison. It is a sight to behold, indeed. The air is heavy with the sound of wings beating and the raucous cries of a hundred — more, maybe — dragons and wyrms of various shapes and size, all chasing one another, diving and swooping, many of them seeming as eager to take a bite out of the trespassers as they are to fight each other. Lyros stands his ground, bristling, glaring fiercely at any wyvern to fly too close. He will prove his dominance and make them learn, if need be, that he is no prey - he is a predator, the same as they are.
The dragons and wyverns seem to consistently stay away from Lyros after his initial snap. They curl around one another in graceful flight, some venture close towards Lyros only to sharply veer away suddenly; some squealing as if frightened by his dominance and predator like determination. Of course, he need not know that Hildegarde looms behind him in her silvery glory: fangs bared to force the other dragons and wyverns away from Lyros. Should Lyros begin to turn, the woman’s shape would swiftly revert to her humanoid form and he would – hopefully – be none the wiser as to why the beasts were too frightened to challenge his domineering spirit.
Lyros, a feral grin quirking his lips, believes he is winning the fight— and as he does not turn around at all, he has every reason to believe. In his arrogance, he begins to laugh, moving away from Hildegarde to walk with his arms spread wide, as if to ask, "Is this it?" Is this all Frostmaw's wild beasts have to offer; a few snaps at his heels are all they could manage before they were cowed so quickly by the mage? His eyes are alight with fierce pride as he walks deeper into the nest site. It is good to feel powerful for once in his life. Then, something odd happens - a rather scrawny wyvern lands with an earth-shaking impact before Lyros, great wings folding into its makeshift arms to support its weight as it leans out to glare at him with equal ferocity. Unlike a dragon, the two-legged wyrmkind find it more cumbersome to move on land and will rarely touch the ground during an altercation if they can help it, preferring the advantage of the skies...for this one to have come down, it is either immensely powerful, or just as misinformed as Lyros. It appears to be an adolescent, neither young or quite fully-grown, a shimmer of myriad icy hues reflected in its pearly scales, though here and there the colouration turns almost golden in patches that disrupt its silver similarly to the light patches of skin that mar Lyros' body. Even the drow can feel the spark of challenge that comes with the encounter, but Hildegarde might understand the wyvern's movements better - this is a contest for dominance, but a playful game often shared between siblings and dragons of similar age who mimic the more brutal battles for territory and mates engaged in by the adults of the flock. For Lyros, he may have to be careful all the same, considering the massive size and strength difference.
Hildegarde followed Lyros as he edged ever further into the nest, reverting back to her humanoid form as the wyvern stood before him. An odd colouration, but one she certainly recognised. One that the drow would likely recognise in a moment as a much larger and more graceful wyvern descended from the furl of flying dragons and wyverns: dropping before Lyros and Hildegarde alike. The beast was golden, but a kind of dusty gold as if he belonged in the warmer climates. His scales were bedecked with scars, memories of fights won and lost in his conquest to be a prince amongst dragons; a king amongst wyverns. The Silver so reverently dropped to a knee before the golden wyvern, “A Nameless King,” she said gently, her head dipping in utmost respect as her hand extended towards his snout and received what might be an almost affectionate nudge of acknowledgement.
Lyros and the mismatched wyvern turn their heads in unison at the arrival of the golden king, though both continue to face each other with their bodies and remain tensed for some sort of confrontation. The adolescent rumbles a vaguely disgruntled greeting to his father - upset that his appearance disrupted the intensity of his game a little, maybe. He's quick to focus on the drow again, and his lunge for Lyros comes without warning, the wyrm's legs driving his body clumsily forward through the snow and his large jaws snapping out at him, teeth as long as his fingers. It's a bit of playful sport between two saurians, but Lyros makes sure to dodge fast before he's bitten in two. Part of him is tempted to bring out a dagger and even the playing field. He's not sure what possesses him to gather a little more information before doing that; surely it would be easier to stab first and ask questions later. "Hey," he calls across to Hildegarde, stepping to the side once more as the wyvern barges by him - he takes a few seconds to right and turn himself before charging again. "Do they want to eat me or what?" Lyros has no right to assume a mere citizen of Frostmaw — because that is what he thinks she is — might know what these beasts are thinking, but...perhaps she is familiar with their kind. She certainly seems to know the alpha. The mage's mouth opens to continue but he is not given time to finish, the breath knocked out of him in a rush when the wyvern's thick tail slams into him from behind, sending him tumbling through the snow. High above, the chorus of calls and screams takes on an almost amused tone.
Hildegarde rose to her feet and laughed at the charging and general amused nature of the gathered beasts. “They’re testing you,” she said, “because you stood up to them.” The Silver watched the rambunctious shoving and snarling, the tail slamming and play. Of course, once Lyros fell over, the Silver would be quick to approach and help him up to his feet. “Pay respect to the Nameless King,” she advised him, “and perhaps you’ll find a friend in the princeling. He seems quite taken with you.”
Nameless throws Hildegarde a pointed glance after studying Lyros for a bit; his expression seems to say, "So this is the company you now keep?" His golden eyes flicker with amusement, though what exactly he finds so funny about this can only be guessed at - the answer may be easier to find if one is aware of Kirien's beloved. Spluttering, oblivious to the looks exchanged between the two, Lyros sits up, spitting snow out of his mouth and shaking it fiercely off his head. He spins around to find the young wyvern staring at him, crouched low with his tail swishing behind him like a cat ready to pounce. When the Silver's shadow falls over the drow, he beats his dangerously spiked tail in the snow impatiently, while Lyros eyes her helping hand with distrust then shrugs her off, pushing himself to his feet. "He is a prince?" He frowns at the adolescent, dubious. "His colours are...different." Yet he does not seem bothered by this or bullied by the others at all, and Lyros almost envies him. It does not look like he'll charge again with Hildegarde so close to the mage, so Lyros is confident he can look away from him without being taken by surprise. His gaze travels to the King without a name and the drow stares him down for a couple of seconds, tensing.
Hildegarde offered Nameless a knowing look and what might either be a wink or a blink, it’s a hard thing to discern of a woman who has only one eye. As Lyros spurns her help, she retracts her hand with seemingly unending patience and a champion smile. She was never defeated by sulking and poor manners; often it only made her all the more determined to be of assistance and of use. “He is a prince of gold and many other colours. A piebald prince, you might say,” she said with a deep kind of respect for the young wyvern. “His father, his king,” she said with a little nod in the direction in the much bigger and the golden coloured wyvern. “The king is of the desert. The prince is of the desert and the tundra. He is uniquely marked, as are you. Perhaps he sees a comradeship in this.”
Lyros does not know what to make of that. Comradeship? The thought is laughable. He has always been alone, an outcast, alienated within his own kin by their ignorance and false prejudice. The adolescent wyvern does not appear to mind, watching him with those bright, curious eyes, shadowed by a hint of mischief. And here is his father standing resplendent and golden, a wyvern hailing from another land, an entirely different climate and way of life; who has adapted to frozen wind and blizzards he was never made for, and done so well that he has claimed the position of alpha. Lyros finds him oddly inspiring in his nonchalant disregard for the norms of his kind and the sheer determination it must have required to be where he is today. Certainly a beast worthy of the drow's respect. So, mimicking Hildegarde's actions from before, he does something unexpected and drops to one knee, bowing his head - after a hesitant pause he'll extend his hand, too, claw-tipped fingers uncurled and his palm flat. Perhaps the Nameless King might grant him his blessing.
Hildegarde had not expected the drow to bend the knee before the Nameless King and that’s clear to see in the way both fiery brows rise up and her lips make a brief pouty formation of ‘didn’t expect that’. Nameless shot another look towards Hildegarde, as if trying to suss her reaction before deigning to respond to the kneeling drow. Unlike a king of the realm who might gently bid his subject to stand, Nameless lumbers forth ungracefully towards the kneeling drow and dips his snout towards his hand. Scales rub against soft skin, hot breath escapes in huffs and cool air escapes in loud snuffles. The wyvern then slobbers over the hand, large pinkish tongue coating the hand and clearly announcing to the world ‘this one is mine, he is under my protection, he tastes salty, he is not to be harmed’. Wyvern slobber is quite a slimy substance: it’s sticky and yucky altogether, but it’s enough to make the knight laugh loudly and heartily; seemingly echoed by the wyverns and dragons who continue to flock and fly together. “He likes you,” she asserts, having bore witness to the blessing of the Nameless King.
Eyes on the ground, Lyros fights against the instinctive urge to glare at the approaching king and meet him with a challenging gaze. He dares not look up, both hearing and feeling as Nameless moves closer, his great bulk sending soft tremors through the snow that the drow picks up in his legs. He is not shaking, he will not admit to it. Up close, the wyvern is fairly intimidating - his sharp horns glitter like black diamonds, his spines are long and wicked, and the muscles beneath his hide shift with each movement, exuding a quiet sense of immense power. Lyros, in comparison, feels a little humbled when this majestic beast deigns to press his snout against his waiting hand. Accepts him. He still pulls a face at the wyvern slobber, withdrawing his hand after a second to frown in thinly-veiled disgust at his sticky hand. "I see..." the drow answers Hildegarde, turning his focus toward the Silver while trying to wipe most of the dripping ooze off. He cants his head slightly to one side as he studies her, seeming to take her in properly for the first time - he opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the piebald adolescent flopping down behind him as Nameless moves back, the youngster shoving his head under the drow's arm and sniffing at the wyvern slobber. "...You're not a guard, are you." It is only half a question because truth be told, Lyros already knows the answer to that.
Nameless knows the language of dragons but he will rarely speak it - this is one of these few and far between instances, as the wyvern lord turns to Hildegarde and remarks, "This one is less fond of stabbing than most of his kind. He's a curious one." To Lyros, it just sounds like a series of growls and hissing syllables.
Hildegarde smiled a wry sort of smile at Lyros when he began to question whether or not she truly was a guard. “I am a guard of the realm, a knight of this land,” but there was more to her than she said. She did not lie, merely did not divulge all facets of her being and truth. With the growls and hisses, the Silver looked to the Nameless King and nodded her head slightly before retorting with a series of snarls and rumbles that could only say she was certainly not human, “Frostmaw draws the curious types.”
Lyros frowns at the unintelligible conversation exchanged between Silver and King, but ultimately focuses on the words he does understand. An exasperated huff leaves the drow as he pushes himself to his feet, his breath misting in the cold air - he dusts himself down while seemingly ignoring the young wyvern pushing at his hands and under his arms, as if trying to haul him up off the ground. "I thought you were following me..." he mutters to Hildegarde with a shake of the head. "The city guard haven't taken their eyes off me ever since I dropped into town." Literally; he tumbled out of a portal spewing blood and viscera onto the market's main road. Drawing his cloak around his body, the drow suppresses a shiver and looks away, staring out over the white-blanketed landscape and spotting the vague outline of Frostmaw's outer wall in the distance, just visible now the mist has lifted. "I would leave - this climate is...not something I'm used to. But it's not as if I have anywhere else to go." He shrugs.
Hildegarde shook her head, “I was in the area and saw you blindly heading towards the nest. It would have meant certain death for you, if you were not accompanied or stopped,” she explained finally. “I was not following you, though… my kingdom and the drow are at war currently, which will explain why the guards felt it suitable to at least keep a watchful eye upon you. They were merely doing as they were bid in an effort to ensure the safety of my people,” she answered courteously and kindly. “Stay in Frostmaw, if you wish. It is a good place, full of adventure. Full of opportunity.”
Lyros is a perceptive person by nature. There are many things in Hildegarde's speech and appearance that hint toward a person of high station - more than a mere knight, perhaps, and certainly more than a guard. Knowing so little about Frostmaw, he cannot come to a safe conclusion right now, but it is safe to say that the drow is watching the Silver much more intently, his quick mind taking note of anything he deems important. "If we're at war, why would you then suggest I remain here? You must be aware of how drow work - the guard would not be able to catch me if I truly wished to pass unseen. I could kill half the town before they noticed. Adventure, opportunity..." He shakes his head. "My kind would not care about these things, and you know it. So why bother saying it to me?"
Hildegarde shrugged her shoulder at his questions. All of it was a fair point, but the knight was not one to judge a person on the acts and deeds of his people. “Perhaps you are different. If not, then I will learn of it to my shame and it will haunt me until the end of my days,” ‘and the end of yours’ that quick glance she gave him almost said, “but like I said. Perhaps you are different. The King and Princeling think you different and I am inclined to believe them.”
The young wyvern continues nudging Lyros until the drow finally gives in and scratches along the underside of his jaw, a brief smile flickering across his features as he earns himself a pleased rumble from the Princeling. At Hildegarde's words, however, his lips purse and draw into a thin line of discontent - perhaps she unintentionally pressed a weak spot. Then he sighs, loudly, with barely-concealed anger. "You're strange, but you seem to see more than most. I do not consider myself one of their kind," he spits, the taste bitter on his tongue. "They can rot, all of them. I was not exiled - I chose to leave, for the drow are doomed, they are too focused on infighting, their silly plots and plans, and on dragging each other down. If my fate is to end my days alone on this craggy, frozen rock, then so be it. At least I will be me." Pushing away from the Prince, Lyros begins to walk away, retracing his steps slowly back towards Frostmaw; a city he never wanted to find himself in, but where it seems he may meet or change his fate.