RP:The Right Thing to Do
This is a Warrior's Guild RP.
Part of the Dissonance Theory Arc
Summary: Krice, Lionel, and Syrri set out to Southern Sage in search a group of elves known as The Requital, hoping they can form an alliance in their plight against Xicotl. Not everyone is in favor of such an allegiance, however, and tensions flare between the would-be diplomatic parties until the smallest source of bravery stepped up to span the divide.
Vigilanti Semper
Lionel had always known the period of time between four o’clock and five o’clock in the morning as “the hour of the wolf.” It was a Catalian religious belief that pervaded his mind: that the world was at its most ruthless at this hour. That most people were in their deepest sleep at this hour, a slumber so deep that death came effortlessly; and by proxy, it was the hour when the sleepless were haunted by their deepest fears. Ghosts and demons were at their most powerful, and the wolves knew this all to be true, and they hunted in packs in the dimness of night not only to outwit their prey but to be awake, and be together, and be safe. Lionel wasn’t sure how much he believed any of it – he’d fought ghosts and demons that had nearly ripped him to shreds even in broad daylight, and he’d seen people die at dawn, and dusk, and everyplace in-between. But he always awoke just before four, and it was from four until five that he was haunted by his deepest fears. Whether that was a product of cultural conditioning or legitimate evidence, he did not know, but in any case it made him feel the hour of the wolf for true.
He stood on the battlements now, nursing a cup of morning coffee, watching the wind gently beat against the Warrior’s Guild flag above him. Two soldiers were up here with him, archers at the ready in case some vengeful enemy or other – there were so many potential candidates for it – happened to mount an assault. Here, Lionel waited for the hour of the wolf to pass, and when it had passed without incident, he descended the spiral staircase and emerged at the exact center of Vigilanti Semper, where the courtyard filed with flowers and crops was fresh with morning dew.
Lionel had requested that Krice and Syrri join him shortly after five, ready to set out on an expedition into the Southern Sage. He’d pulled a favor in Frostmaw to secure a wyvern for travel, and informed Syrri ahead of time that it might be best for the halfling to join him for the ride. He trusted that Krice would have his own aerial mount along for the trip. If the three of them were to make good time, it would only be a matter of hours before they would descend into the forest in search of the elven war band whom Lionel desperately hoped his silver-haired friend could help coax into at least a truce with the guild, if not outright alliance. And so Lionel waited, the hour of the wolf having passed, the promise of a new day upon the leaves and stalks around him, the sky purpling to the east. Whenever his companions arrived, he would be ready to say a few words and lead them.
Krice arrived a few minutes early in the distance, a figure hidden by the diamond-shaped silhouette marking his wyvern's head to tail - and the outstretched wings between. He landed well short of Headquarters to clear his head walking the remaining distance, because the flight down from Frostmaw clearly hadn't done it. His expression was its usual measure of reservation by the time he came into view where Lionel waited, dressed in his usual garb with that mythril katana strapped to his back. He was at once a vision of strength and - hopefully - diplomacy, carrying just enough apparent weaponry to defend himself should things turn sideways.
As he walked into the courtyard, he lifted gilded eyes to find the face of his waiting comrade, calling casually into the quiet, " Early start." Not a complaint, just an observation.
When Syrri arrived in the courtyard, she was just perfecting the tail of one of her long braids, twisting a skinny leather lace around the mercurial wisps before tucking the plait and its companion around her mostly-pointed ears and across the front of either clavicle. Symmetry seemed to balance the asymmetry of her scarred features, both shoulders padded in her familiar Nightstone leathers, bands of the same girdling her petite but muscled frame and arms, with well-fitting greaves and cuisses of the same dark blue hide keeping her lower half equally safe. Her karmic dwarven axes, recently renamed Ham and Eggs, were absent from their fasteners on her thin leather belt; however, they were each carefully secured to a holster on her back should she need them in an emergency. The straps of the harness crisscrossed her torso and offered two more small sheathes, each carrying a dagger, and three larger pouches were near her hips, each packed to the brim with unknown materials. Like her companions, Syrri had been up before the sun to sprint around and scout; it was a ritual she'd maintained since she first boarded at the keep. As such, there was a hale rosiness to her features as she spanned the court and raised a hand to wriggle her little fingers in a friendly wave. "G' morning," she greeted them, punctuating the address with a few eager nods. Without her axes or braids to occupy her idle fingers, the halfling hooked her thumbs into her belt and rocked back on the heels of her flat-soled boots. "So, uh," she started as her azure-and-chestnut eyes shifted curiously between Lionel, Krice, around the courtyard, and back again. "Are we all ready? Is there anyone else we needed to wait for? I mean, it's okay if we do. The more, the merrier, right?" Truth be told, the usually-fearless Lilliput was hesitant about this trip—diplomatic missions weren't exactly the awkward half-pint's forte. Despite that, the look she gave both of her male comrades was one of earnest excitement.
He might not have been the most emotionally perceptive man in the realm, but Lionel could still detect at least a hint of nervousness on Syrri's part. He found it oddly endearing; having seen what the woman was capable of, he knew this mission would benefit from her presence, even if she feared otherwise. If combat erupted, Syrri would be invaluable. If it didn't -- which, of course, Lionel desperately hoped would be the case -- the half-pint had a more becalming countenance about herself than the Imperator suspected she realized. By now, Lionel had addressed Krice with a confirmatory nod and customary smirk-for-no-real-reason, and he was lugging what few supplies the team might need onto the borrowed Frostmawian wyvern's back between little pets to the creature's head. The wyvern seemed relaxed; more relaxed than most of the Queen's rides. It was a stroke of dumb luck -- after all, the louder the mount, the less convincing a "We come in peace." "In this particular case," Lionel told Syrri gently, "I think it's a matter of the fewer, the merrier. We need to send the right message. Namely, that while we're capable of defending ourselves, we'd prefer to chat over tea. Or whatever it is that renegade elves like to ingest around mid-morning. Unless it's poison. In which case, we politely decline." He paused for a moment before boarding the wyvern, offering to help hoist Syrri up to her saddle behind him if necessary. He paused, as well, for any inquiries from either of his companions. If there were any, he would soon answer to the best of his ability, and regardless, the three would soon ascend into the cool, crisp skies, leaving behind the vast plains and canyons of Venturil and edging closer and closer to the Xalious range.
Krice, by contrast, was not the most emotionally portraying man in the realm, but highly receptive to the moods of others. Still, even though he had just regarded Lionel with a statement left wide open for an answer, he appeared otherwise occupied in his head. Still, he was aware enough to assist with the transfer of supplies from ground to cart, sparing the wyvern a brief glance of acknowledgment. Would she smell the scent of his own? Whatever the case, he snapped to attention as Lionel addressed the halfling, who would earn a nod from the enigmatic swordsman if she looked his way; one of few words, he hoped to offer her encouragement with the gesture alone. If she was able to mount the wyvern with Lionel's help alone, then the warrior would turn to depart the courtyard. "I'll join you soon." He had to rendezvous with his own wyvern waiting just a few metres away from the Headquarters. She'd ascend with her rider in the saddle just a few seconds after the Queen's mount took to the skies, releasing a trill to announce her glee. Krice shrugged and called out to the other two, through a wry smirk," She loves flying."
Syrri ducked her chin down at Ser Lionel's words. "Ah, yes, that would make sense," she agreed. "We wouldn't want to take the poison—but what if turning down the mid-morning poison was seen as rude? Wouldn't that be just as disastrous?" The question was delivered seriously, but her dual-hued eyes sparkled as Lionel helped to lift her into the wyvern's saddle. As Krice turned to mount his own beast, she waved to him and called out for luck. Syrri didn't have many questions—she felt the details were a bit above her paygrade anyway—and with a giddiness bubbling up in her, she was just as excited as Krice's wyvern to get flying! Her writer isn't sure if this thing comes with a seatbelt, but the halfling is probably holding onto something or someone to keep from falling off.
Lionel seemed momentarily taken aback by Syrri’s earnest counter, his game face having shattered beneath the weight of her poisonous concern. It wasn’t enough to truly daunt him, but it added an extra dimension of analysis toward his belief in etiquette. Most people so highly affiliated with paramilitary organizations would not have taken such talk seriously for a second, but Lionel’s grasp of the basics was, as ever, as loose as loose could be without losing grip entirely. “We’ll hope for the best,” he recovered in a voice full of steely determination. And that sentiment seemed to be the journey’s very cue. Syrri and Krice’s wyvern were enthralled; Lionel believed in the cause; and even Krice was smirking. It was enough. The hours passed them by without incident; the fair winds of mid-spring were comforting and the slowly-bluing skies were devoid of hostile sorts. As the immensity of the Southern Sage came into view, the first thing that Lionel noticed was the great chasm on its outskirts where he and Krice – and numerous others – had sought clues to the mysteries of Xicotl. It was there that they had met this elven war band they now sought. ‘The Requital,’ they had called themselves, and they’d launched an ambush against the expeditionary team with certain undeniable cunning. Whether or not it was truly a case of mistaken identity, Lionel wasn’t sure; the chief, Tuvoc, had claimed as much but only after blood had been spilled on both sides. What mattered most was Krice’s role in the ordeal. It was his quick thinking that turned the tide of that skirmish, but moreover, it was his apparent notoriety among elves which prompted Tuvoc to call off the attack. They revered Krice, or at least it seemed that way to Lionel, and he’d even wondered if that elven lass Annika’s gaze upon the silver-haired enigma was entirely platonic. In short, Lionel needed Krice today.
Lionel brought his and Syrri’s wyvern into a descent in a small clearing several kilometers into the forest. It had been near here that scouts Lionel had dispatched reported signs of The Requital in the days following the chasm expedition. The grass was still damp with dew and stubborn birds continued to sing upon chosen branches even in the wyvern’s wake. It was a serene landscape – save for the single wooden, bronze-tipped arrow broken into the earth at dead center of the clearing. “Stay alert,” Lionel spoke the obvious. Had Krice descended here as well? Once the three of them were rejoined, their traipse would begin.
Krice couldn't care less if the elves took offense to them denying a poisoned welcome. After all, poison was poison, regardless of the application, and that tended to make a person unwell - if not deathly altogether. Anyway, he bid the little halfling good luck with a simple nod, mounted his wyvern, and flew alongside his two comrades in relative silence. The journey was uneventful and even Gylworliath settled into a quiet that hid her joy, though her deep-green eyes shone with delight just the same. After a time, Krice took cue from Lionel and gave his wyvern a gentle pat to let her know to follow. They landed before the others, several metres back, and the warrior moved with a natural stealth toward his comrades after bidding the green-scaled reptile to entertain herself with adventures further north; she was intelligent - he could tell her these things. Once rejoining Lionel and Syrri, the silver-haired enigma offered a nod to both, acknowledging the former's directive, and repositioned his katana against his right hip for... reasons. His right hand rested over the hilt in a casual way that belied his readiness, but hopefully also showed the elves in the area that he was not here for hostile purposes. Attuning his acute senses to the world around them, he listened for hearts beating in the chests of sentries, the creak of leather with the movement of limbs - and in general, remained poised to respond to any aggression that might greet their small party as they traveled inward.
Syrri typically might have enjoyed their journey more was she allowed to hoot and holler all the way to their destination, but by taking her leads from Krice and Lionel, the sober shroud of diplomacy dictated that she compose herself with a modicum of respect. That modicum was all she could offer, having not precisely been raised as a delicate female (having no mother to speak of) or with knowledge of social etiquette; nevertheless, she had ample awkwardness to spare and found it easy enough to keep quiet. Once they arrived, that silence bled over, pregnant as it was now, pervading the air with foreboding tension. The arrow stuck out of the ground, drawing attention to the scene like a bleeding wound in the earth. Swallowing, Syrri shifted her weight from one foot to the other, before nodding to the Imperator. "After you, Ser." She didn't possess any preternatural senses, and her legs weren't as long as her companions, but Syrri Darkfoot did her best to keep pace, her dual-hued eyes regularly sweeping around. And every once in a while, she knelt down, plucking up a tiny rock and stuffing it into one of her pouches.
Southern Sage
Lionel led the way into the forest, setting a pace that was deliberate enough not to give the inaccurate impression of sneaking. He had to be conscious of this, as he was too soft-footed by nature to avoid some measure of suspicion wherever he roamed. The clearing’s cool breeze gradually gave way to something more stale and the morning humidity began to swelter around the party. Insects scattered in the dirt and red-tailed foxes gave chase – the foxes showed no signs of fear toward Krice, Syrri, and Lionel, and would sooner catch their breakfasts in loud, yipping peace. Before long, there seemed to be more foxes than insects, and the animals became increasingly curious of these strange interlopers upon their land. “We must be close,” Lionel declared. In that self-same moment, Krice would no doubt detect magic not far to the east from where they stood. It wasn’t of a harmful sort. It seemed benign, and it gave the impression of a sort of magic custom-tailored by talented mages more for use in weaving and farming procedures than for the purposes of war. It was time magic, of a sort which hastened a needle to its thread or slowed the rate of decay among the vegetation. Somehow, even Lionel could sense it now, as the three of them walked nearer to its source. A few steps farther and Syrri could sense it too. She and Lionel felt something akin to a static discharge, and smelled ozone in the air, as they crossed into the outskirts of the magic’s effects. For his part, at least, Lionel had no idea what had happened. “Anyone else’s skin get all prickly all of a sudden?” Before either of his companions could answer, an elf with an aged yet imposing face, dressed in a white robe with magically-imbued pins and crests, emerged from behind a nearby tree. It was Tuvoc, grandfather of Annika and the very leader of The Requital. He was the one who had negotiated with Krice for Annika’s safety, and he seemed as gladdened to see the warrior now as he was before. “You came,” he spoke directly to Krice. “I did not think you would. You are a friend to my people, even if some do not yet realize. If these two are with you,” he gestured passively toward Syrri and Lionel, “then they may enter.”
Krice intermittently observed Syrri's rock-hoarding with distant interest, drawn to her movements on the odd occasion when she stooped to retrieve one from the ground. That was kind of cute--kind of because Krice is a stoic and they don't find anything cute. Except maybe their girlfriends. Anyway, before the foxes even finished their hunts enough to notice the trio, the warrior was aware of a tingling in the air - not the kind that directly touched him, but the kind that told of magics nearby. A precursor atmosphere, of sorts. Still walking slightly to the right of Syrri and behind she and Lionel both, Krice slowed and flicked his right thumb against the guard of his katana, freeing a couple inches of blade from its scabbard. He moved his hand to the hilt just to hold it and left the weapon semi-drawn, though reasons for this were not stated. Lionel's query drew the warrior's focus but not his gaze, which fell to the face of the revealed Requital leader. Krice slowed to a halt just in front of Syrri and to her right, not obscuring her but still placing himself between the halfling and the elf. The forest would have whispered of his compassion toward its trees and animals, stoic as he was, and perhaps the elves he had saved from the Underdark would have told the leader of his protection of them despite his own grievous injuries all those years ago, ensuring that they escaped when he himself struggled to. An elf in white robes, conversing with a superhuman in black attire. A strange combination but one that the warrior hoped would lead to cooperation and at least knowledge-sharing, if not assistance with the problem of Xicotl. " As you say, I'm a friend to your people," the enigma replied, lifting his chin to volley confidence in the truth of his statement. " I had to come." He would step forward once invited to do so by Tuvoc, his hand still around his hilt but in such a way that he hoped would not be perceived as threatening.
Syrri managed to secure quite a few pebbles in one of her pouches, and eventually seemed to bind the top of the bag to hold them in; however, the halfling was careful to guarantee she could still reach them quickly if needed. Especially as the foxes seemed a trifle more curious than she'd like them to be; they were almost as large as she was, after all! She wouldn't want to get into a scuffle with them right now, but she'd prefer to be prepared. Giving the bag a little pat, she held her chin high and skipped ahead to make sure she wasn't left behind, flashing Krice a cheeky grin when he was caught spying on her stone-collecting.
Syrri wasn't sensitive to magic like other folks might be. Quite the opposite, in fact, as most magical spells had zero effect on the cursed halfling. It wasn't until the ripples of its influence were practically upon her that she found herself rubbing her upper arms, almost in response to Lionel's question. She could easily count the number of times she'd ever experienced such a thing, but it took her a moment to recognize the sensation. "Ohh," she breathed, dual-colored eyes growing wide with wonder. She took an instinctive half-step backward when the towering elf presented himself, and she had to really crane her head back just to see all the way up to him—this made Tuvoc seem all the more majestic to Syrri, and her eyes were like shining saucers of reverence as she soaked him in. When she could finally take her gaze away from the elf, she bent stiffly at the waist in a courteous bow—it seemed like the thing people did at events like this—while her attention bounced between Lionel to Krice and back again through silver-tipped lashes; either warrior could present a cue, and she would dutifully follow.
Lionel had hardly finished delivering his question before the white-robed elf had appeared in front of them. His mouth was agape for several seconds thereafter. If only he still had Halycanos, he’d have sensed this man’s approach. But he was human now, skin-to-bone, and Tuvoc had arrived with such grace and softest presence. The elder surveyed Krice’s companions in one short cant of his head and then, evidently, determined that they were acceptable to his sensibilities. It was difficult to tell whether his eyes had lingered on Lionel or Syrri for longer, but in fact it was Syrri who garnered the bulk of Tuvoc’s attention – perhaps she struck him as more courteous than the Catalian, or simply more entertaining. “There is much to discuss.” With those five, simple words, Tuvoc turned his back to the group and began to walk from whence he came. Lionel gave Syrri a shrug and followed the elf, trusting she and Krice would do the same.
It wasn’t a long stroll to Requital’s encampment but it was far from a smooth one. Huge branches from ancient trees littered the landscape and thick brambles snaked their way over, under, around and even through those branches. The ground, covered in grassy shrubs and lined with moss fit enough to trip even seasoned travelers, seemed to ebb and flow like the sea; taller grass and wider moss obscured patches where the dirt had given way to meter-deep holes in the earth. Tuvoc meandered his way through nature’s obstacle course with ease despite his age, no doubt knowing the area as well as he knew his own feet. For the second time in fewer than ten minutes, Lionel was reminded just how human he now was. ‘Then again,’ he thought in silence, ‘blazing an inferno through this place in a bid not to scrape my knees on something might have sent the wrong message.’ Swallowing hard, he stepped gingerly and tried his best to keep to Tuvoc precised movements. “Take my hand if you need to,” the Imperator offered his soldier, Syrri. “This can’t be any easier for you than for me.” He had half a mind to expect Krice to do something spectacular right about now, whisking Syrri away on his shoulders amid zigzagging leaps across the canopy. He even looked up at the canopy briefly in amusement, which cost him a step and nearly sent Catal’s last prince plunging face-first into sticky vegetation. “Ahem,” Lionel cleared his throat. “Yes, definitely take my hand, what could possibly go wrong?”
The encampment was in full view soon enough. The magic was stronger here, emanating from a pair of tents toward the back of the site which looked quite like all the other ones. There were nine tents in total, forming a loosely circular perimeter. At the center was a hodgepodge display of tribal normalcy – stone bowls filled with soups and stews, held aloft above campfires; sewers and weavers hard at work, focused on their craft; a few children playing with sticks and small gemstones. Members of the Requital emerged from numerous tents and eyed Tuvoc’s guests with keen interest. Some seemed merely curious; others did a poor job masking contempt. A well-built elf in his mid-twenties did not bother concealing his ire in the least. One of the party’s many watchers had striking red hair down nearly to her hips, and upon seeing Krice her cheeks went nearly as red. Lionel recognized her immediately – Annika, Tuvoc’s granddaughter and the reckless lass whose life Krice had ensured was spared during the guild’s deadly prior encounter with this war band. Smoke wafted lazily from the open points atop some of the tents, the smells of food from within blending with the fresh, clean air. By the looks of this clan, there were several able-bodied fighters, but not so many that Krice and Lionel hadn’t already met them all in battle. The rest were elderly, or not yet grown, or otherwise predisposed to lives of greater domesticity. “The Requital welcomes you,” Tuvoc said, stretching his arms wide. A woman at least as old as he cleared some space on handcrafted quilts near a well-tended fire and impatiently gestured for the new arrivals to make themselves comfortable upon them. Lionel took a deep breath and sat down cross-legged, hoping for the best.
Krice wasn't one to wish for anything in particular, but if he did, he might have hoped that what Tuvoc had to speak about would not lead to some kind of battle. Skilled and superhuman in his own way, the warrior was not afraid of death or even injury, but reticent to harm the elves - or any living thing in the forest, for that matter. He stepped forward, sparing a glance toward Syrri and Lionel to ensure that they understood the directive as did he. Though not as knowledgable of this area as Tuvoc, Krice was possessed of enough skill and deftness of foot that he could cross the uneven terrain without much effort. He paused at first, however, to ensure that their little halfling companion was tended to. If she chose to walk with Lionel's guidance, the warrior would press on. If it was more practical for her to come with him, he would extend an arm to lift her up against his chest, much like a child might be held behind her thighs. Regardless, once Syrri was sorted, Krice pressed on.
He followed Tuvoc's guidance into and through the encampment, his senses attuned to their surroundings - and locking into memory the location of Requital's sentries and other warriors in particular. He came not with aggression or animosity toward the pointy-eared people--his girlfriend was one, after all--but with an obvious sense of preparedness. His hand was still around his katana hilt, the blade still just a breath clear of its sheath, and though he appeared outwardly relaxed, he was at once watchful. If he thought anything of the presence of magic, Krice did not show as much. Instead, he slowed to a halt once close enough to be welcomed into the Requital's central camp, inhaling the scent of food at the same time that he caught the eyes of one infatuated female. Expression softening, he bowed his head in respectful greeting before taking a knee upon the cleared fabric, his back to the exit - not pleasant, but he was supposedly among friends.
Syrri may be small, but she possessed a dragon-sized spirit for adventure. As the party began its trek through the unfamiliar and harrowing terrain, neither Lionel nor Krice was initially taken up on any offers of assistance. Quite the contrary, in fact, as the halfling warrior insisted on taking scope of her surroundings with a bright grin and literally dove right in. In-between the brambles and roots, pulling herself up over falling trees and becoming a veritable monkey with the vines and branches, Syrri Darkfoot was like a child on a jungle gym, making quick work of the terrain. By the time Lionel made that second offer of help (wry and rhetorical though it may have been), Syrri was carefully skipping along the top of a log abreast of him. All things considered, the halfling appeared to be keeping pace with the Imperator just fine. Although — and maybe it was only for his benefit — she did rest a hand on Lionel's shoulder and used him for support as she leapt off the fallen tree with a grunt, and landed one-kneed on the soft earth waiting at the edge of the encampment.
As she rose to her full height of three-foot-three, something about the place gave Syrri a sobering headache, and she couldn't positively pinpoint what it was. It could be the overwhelming ripples of magic (surely the most she's ever witnessed), or the underlying currents of tension. Either way, her brows knit over her dichromatic stare, and she kept close to Lionel's side. Syrri probably recognized some of the troupe present at previous encounters, but the majority of her azure-and-chestnut focus was fixed on Tuvoc. Before taking her own seat (if she had her way, somewhere between Lionel and Krice), her hands moved around her harness, as if double-checking all pouches were still present, secured, all weapons accounted for. As she finally knelt down, she sent a worrying glance sidelong in Lionel's direction. "I have a bad feeling, Ser," she whispered to him.
Lionel bit his lower lip and leaned closer to Syrri’s nearest ear to whisper back, “I wish I could tell you that makes one of us.” His frown filled in unspoken details. If Tuvoc had noticed Syrri and Lionel’s quiet concern he gave no indication of it, though keen elven hearing suggested the distinct possibility therein. The elder sat down uneasily, his old bones creaking in protest. A younger elf offered to help, but Tuvoc waved his hand dismissively and grumbled. It was the first time this politically powerful individual appeared to Lionel less like a mouthpiece and more like a real person. It put him at ease, if only a little, to know that this man was stubborn – it showed character, and characters could often be reasoned with. But it wasn’t toward Lionel, or Syrri for that matter, that Tuvoc uttered his first words once he was relatively comfortable upon the quilts. It was, quite expectedly, Krice. “Tell me, silver warrior, when you look upon this place, what is it that you see?” An oddly open-ended query, and one which caused Lionel to raise an eyebrow. He wasn’t alone; several nearby elves did the same. Annika, for her part, appeared impatient. She was tapping a booted foot upon the ground and her hands were clasped together tightly. If Annika was impatient, the male elf in his mid-twenties beside her was downright villainous; his open contempt had transformed into a cold gaze. It was no longer directed toward the new arrivals, however, but rather Tuvoc himself. “And Lacan,” Tuvoc said to the man without ever taking his own eyes off of Krice, “you will behave with civility while our guests are here or you will leave.” Lacan scoffed, but he blanched at the elder’s words all the same.
Krice was hearing the interaction between Syrri and Lionel but his attention remained on Tuvoc; It wouldn't do them any favours to give off the appearance of disrespect. Gilded eyes noted the unsettled elf beyond Tuvoc but only in peripheral vision. The question asked of him thereafter inspired the subtle lift of his chin, as he answered without hesitation or flare - succinct and honest. " Warriors, families... Suspicion." A beat. " Can't say I blame them. I'd be suspicious, too." With his hand resting idly on his sword, still just a couple inches clear of its scabbard secured to his hip, he seemed poised to respond to any aggression that might have been shown by the elves. Perhaps he was equally as suspicious, even if his overall demeanor was relaxed.
Syrri supposed she should be consoled by the frankness behind Lionel's admission, but her frown deepened a subtle degree. Nevertheless, she found herself nodding in acknowledgment before politely turning her dual-colored gaze toward the elderly elven patriarch. The halfling wasn't usually very good at sitting still for long periods, nor did she really know what to do with her hands. It took her a few times of clasping and unclasping them, fidgeting with her tunic, her belt, and her harness again, before she folded her hands in her lap. Straightening her back, she surreptitiously glanced around, sizing up the other elves and taking special note of Annika and the angry-looking elf beside her. When Tuvoc spoke to the 'silver warrior,' though, Syrri was confident she'd just been singled out for her wandering attention. The girl opened her mouth instinctively to reply, blood rushing from her cheeks— but she so, so very happy when she looked back at the patriarch and saw his gaze fixed on Krice instead. Color returning to her features, Syrri angled her chin down, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth despite herself. However, the smile was brief, for Krice's answer was grave and earnest, and it earned him a nod of agreement from her. They had come here to help, to ask for help, that much she knew. But, suspicions aside, she kept her hand away from the pouch of pebbles, refusing to give in to whatever tension boiled under the surface. Pulling her azure-and-chestnut stare away from the similarly-haired warrior, toward Tuvoc, and then toward Lionel, she trusted they would come to an agreement.
Lionel || Tuvoc seemed pleased with Krice’s reply. “Yes,” he said after a pause. In the midst of that pause, the old elf had flicked his gaze almost imperceptibly toward Syrri for no longer than a second, and when he did so, his face was filled with mirth. The mirth vanished when the second passed. Perhaps the elder knew his role here was to appear as frank and forthright as Krice, lest his clan sprout more than one dissenter as visibly irritated as Lacan. “The suspicion curbs both ways, I would think, as well it should.” Tuvoc took a breath before continuing, closing his eyes in the breathing and then reopening them after a full exhale. “For over twenty centuries, our clan has been made witness to dreadful things in this forest. At first, the evils were loud and blanketed the skies. They came as gods, with names like Kaizer and Arrecation.” Lionel had until now maintained a rather stoic countenance, but that stoicism cracked and he bit his lower lip at the mention of Arrecation. Tuvoc blatantly noticed the Catalian’s reaction but merely spoke on. “Over time, the evils were quieter and the skies seemed more peaceful. But peace was a fleeting dream. Is it telling, I should think, that particularly long-lived elves such as ourselves look to our beloved trees and cannot recall a time when the peace was full and blooming. From the gods to the dark immortals, and then again to countless ruinous creatures whose sins stained the earth. And then to the drow, and with the drow even our more well-known cousins – the elves of Kelay who walk among men – were drawn into the bloodshed. From the drow, a curse upon the trees, and thereafter a chasm which sundered the ground beneath.” By now, Tuvoc’s granddaughter Annika had gone from pensiveness to a face nearly as red with fury as Lacan’s. Other elves, old and young alike, stirred with distrust. “Yet I have received your letter, from the so-called Guild of Warriors. I read --” Lionel cleared his throat, raising his finger. “It’s, ah, the Warrior’s Guild.” An awkward and altogether unnecessary silence followed. One of the older women in the crowd coughed. “Right, whatever,” Tuvoc said hurriedly, “and I read your letter about Xicotl, and the menace therein, and I will admit there are passages in our earliest writings which seem to suggest validity.” Annika suddenly intervened: “Must we turn to musty old books for verification, grandfather? We saw signs of the truth beneath the chasm. We have seen the truth with our own eyes.” Lionel had anticipated that the Requital would have gone back to the chasm before this meeting, which was why he made sure to leave the majority of the jewels and other riches his party had found right where they’d left them, so as to make clear that they weren’t thieves but private investigators – who happened to carry a great deal of steel. “Our eyes have oft deceived us,” Tuvoc advised Annika with a hint of impatience in his otherwise-stalwart tone. “Which brings me to the heart of the matter. Silver one, you and these guild representatives are being given a degree of trust that many here believe is an error on my part. Not only have you been allowed to sit with us, but you will also be told of our own present plight. And I shall ask two among you to fight alongside us in a certain engagement, and if the two of you should accept, and prove your mettle, then it will be made clear that my trust in you was not misguided.” Lionel nodded slowly and added, “Alright, but I’d prefer to bring both of them with me wherever it is that we’re going.” Tuvoc burst into laughter before cynically snorting it away. “What an ego on this one,” he said. “You’re the one who stays behind.” Lionel blinked. “Oh.”
Krice was mostly unmoving while Tuvoc directed his gaze to Syrri, even as the elf's expressions shifted in response to that which he looked upon. The warrior wanted to keep the group focused, on task, as undoubtedly his two comrades did. When Lionel interjected to correct the term of their band as misspoken by Tuvoc, the warrior turned his chin and responded in kind to his blonde-haired ally, quietly, " Actually, I kinda like 'Guild of Warriors'." Back to the topic at hand, Krice directed crimson eyes to Elvish ones and listened to the remainder of the conversation, his senses attuned to their surroundings - and most specifically, the warriors and members who grew restless. It was without flare in his reaction that he seemed accepting of the revelation that two of their trio would be invited into a 'real life' test, or sorts, though his brow twitched subtly at Tuvoc's laughter. Dismissing Lionel's interjection--right as it was--with a casual, " He can't help it," the warrior went on to address the Elvish people by directly addressing Tuvoc. " You need only look to the trees to quench your suspicions." He had been here for years, helping not only Kelay citizens and other elves, but acting respectfully of the forest itself - having protected it against a pack of hybrid lycanthrope-drows at the cost of his freedom - which ultimately led to his assistance of the elves who had been captured underground just as he. " But rest assured, we will meet your terms. -Whoever's- left behind"--Poor Lionel--"will be treated with civility." His gaze drifted toward Annika briefly and something in those gold-streaked eyes softened, though maybe too subtly to be discerned. Once more regarding her grandfather, the enigma added, " We will trust you, and you will learn that you can trust us - in part because it is true, and otherwise because of the threat posed by Xicotl."
Syrri chewed on her lip, returning dichromatic eyes toward Tuvoc as he waxed historical. Most of the local lore was news to the halfling, having not been raised in Lithrydel. Still, she understood the meaning behind the elder elf's story, realized why there was so much pain writhing under the skin of the uneasy elves nearby. But the room's temper shifted into a palpable discomfort with Lionel's interjection, and Syrri side-eyed him with disbelief before quickly looking around to gauge everyone else's reactions too. Although she was visibly relieved by the laughter coming from Tuvoc, she found Krice's addition to the point of the guild's name no better than Lionel's. She quickly decided that being caught between the two soldiers in spirit and opinion was not pleasant. It didn't sit well with her to nitpick over nuances or undermine the company they kept even if it meant agreeing with their potential new allies. Her gaze shifted between Lionel, Krice, and back again before she drew in a deep breath and gently started to rise. Before Syrri could stand to her full height, though (which really wasn't much), she took a knee and bent low before the elf, sincerely professing, "I would be honored, Ser Tuvoc, to fight at your side."
Lionel twitched and confirmed Krice’s appraisal. “I honestly cannot help it at all,” he admitted. At least he had the good graces to refrain from folding his arms – though when he gave his surroundings a cursory glance again and noticed Lacan, cross-armed, eyes staring into him like daggers, he almost gave in and threw a rock at the grim elf. “Which is why you’re staying,” Tuvoc told the Imperator. Lionel, for his part, was briefly flummoxed; by his own admission he could be petulantly exacting and overly concerned with irrelevant things, but surely the elves didn’t think that warranted babysitting practices. “Worry not over his treatment, silver one,” the elder carried on. “The would-be prince will not stand idly by. Your heart is far darker and more deeply unsettled than your middling japes and eccentricities try to hide.” Lionel’s face was a patchwork of surprise now, so caught off-guard by such a successful peering into his psyche by a man he had only just met. “You will train with the sorceresses three.” Tuvoc’s words were given not as a suggestion but as a command, and Lionel – though he found the term ‘sorceresses three’ a bit unintentionally funny – felt compelled to oblige. He nodded pensively; like Krice, he was willing to undergo whatever he must in order to secure allies against Xicotl. Lacan looked on the verge of bursting into a fit of hellfire over the arrangement – he took several swift strides toward the elder, his mouth shaking as he summoned up the words to protest – but Tuvoc silenced him with the raising of his forefinger. “Look, Lacan,” he said with a gesture. Syrri, knee bent low in solemn reprieve, quieted not only the young dissenter but every other elf in the tribe. Even Annika was put at-ease now. Lacan mumbled something incoherent and stepped away, but not before silently admiring Syrri’s conviction. Tuvoc, in turn, knelt down low before the halfling and smiled. “The honor shall be mine, brave soul.” In this way, the men and women of Requiem were becalmed. It wasn’t Krice’s historical fame that was winning them over in the final telling, although the warrior’s presence had given right-of-prologue and set the course for peace. It certainly wasn’t Lionel who was making fast friends here today, and it remained to be seen how well he would get along with a triad of magical whomevers he had waiting for him. It was the plain, simple sincerity of the woman who had trekked alongside the fabled pair. Syrri, more than her companions, felt natural. Rising, Tuvoc cleared his throat and gave his granddaughter a glance. “Return to us in one week. You three. No others. At that time, I will tell the two of your mission,” he nodded to Krice and then Syrri in turn, “and the sorceresses will be ready to admit you,” he said to Lionel. “Pray believe me that you will soon understand at that time why I dare not explain your mission now.” The old elf bowed deeply, though he ached a bit to do so. “While at first you’ve come as strangers, next you shall arrive as friends.” With that promise made, he turned his back to his guests and waved his wand. Every elf thus returned to their tents, or their cookfires, or wherever it was that they’d been previously – every elf save for Annika, who eyed Krice more than a bit appreciably before doing the same. “I guess that’s that,” Lionel said. “I’d call this one a win… I think.”
Krice was intrigued by the depth to which Tuvoc seemed able to peer into Lionel, and would have 'thanked his lucky stars' that he was perhaps more possessing of steel and stoicism than the blonde man, were he the type to be superstitious. Syrri's pledge and kneel drew the warrior's eye briefly, enough to acknowledge the sacrifice that he would not echo. The warrior knelt before no one, however he did make sure to rise only once Tuvoc did; he wasn't disrespectful. Dipping his chin, he accepted the old elf's directions without question or complaint and turned toward his companions once Tuvoc turned away. " Not a win yet, but we're closer than we were before." His gilded eyes shifted to fall upon Syrri, expression softening just enough to convey his appreciation for her part in their talks. " I guess we're going on a journey." Pivoting after taking note of the camp's more relaxed ambiance, Krice moved to trigger their departure, his stride relaxed but confident, eyes ahead.
Syrri felt like the moments she knelt before Tuvoc were everlasting. Beads of anxiety dotted her brow, and she really hoped the more jagged edges of her countenance would not offset her offer. Feeling the subtle vibrations of the ground as Lacan began storming toward them, the halfling drew in a sharp breath. Part of her suddenly wanted to reach for the pebble-pouch, and the sling tucked inside its partner. Tuvoc's words pierced the air, stopping the elf in his tracks, and Syrri dared a glance up through silvered lashes to watch the exchange. As the elder lowered himself before her, the axeling's dichromatic eyes widened with reverence. Syrri lifted her chin, craning her neck to meet Tuvoc's gaze. A new flush settled deep into the halfling freckled skin, and she tried mirroring the elf's fathomlessly kind smile. With his nearness, Tuvoc seemed even more imposing than before! Her smile's depth faltered with her shyness, but its earnestness did not. She hadn't thought of her vow as being brave so much as it was the right thing to do, and she would do so again if she thought it would make a difference. Thankfully, that didn't seem necessary, and she could feel the weight of the room evaporating from her shoulders. "Of course, whatever you need," she would reply in regards to their next adventures. With the attention removed from herself, tensions dissipating, and elves going about their business, Syrri released what was perhaps the biggest sigh — far more significant than her little lungs seemed capable of. It was only afterward that she turned her attention up to Lionel; she wasn't sure whether to laugh or shake her head and ended up merely scratching hers and tugging on a braid. To Krice, she simply nodded, before she too moved to leave the campsite, albeit at a quicker pace than her taller counterpart. It would be a long journey back through challenging terrain before they even made it to their mounts, and the halfling's stomach was far too empty.