RP:The Wars of Our Youth

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: To say that Rorin is distraught over the peace accords would give a tense situation entirely too little credit; the young man is bursting with animosity and one step from breaking. At least, that's Lionel's interpretation, and he should know -- Rorin, he is discovering, is in some key ways his own spitting image of bygone adolescence. Raphaline, however, is the one who attempts to drive the most reason into the boy, even asking him to attend the looming wedding as her escort.

Frostmaw Fort: Walled Courtyard

Raphaline is just sitting out in the courtyard, enjoying the snowfall of the early afternoon. Her mind is on quite a few things, some personal and others not so much. A line of worry creases across her forehead as her brows furrow in thought. With a deep sigh, she shakes her head, red braids dancing about her shoulders. For the moment, peace is evident, but for how long? Tomorrow, she can get a better idea of how things are falling out in Larket, especially when she takes time to mingle and meet all those involved.

Raphaline : After another moment of allowing her thoughts to ebb and flow, she draws her attention once more to the area surrounding her. Emerald eyes peer up and around the courtyard until they discover she has some company. Rather surprised, she hesitates before finally choosing to rise from the bench and make her way over to the familiar knight. “Shouldn’t you be running drills?” Her dulcet voice calls over the courtyard as steps within his line of sight. “Or at least, I’ve never known a fighter of Frostmaw to take a day off.” This is meant as a jest, and her voice displays as much with the playful tone.

Rorin taps his armored foot clankily against the hewn stone ground. He was frustrated. What to do. Someone approached? "Lady Raphaline," he chuckled at her jest, "no that's not quite it. I am not a commander, and though I could be training..." he sighed. "I don't honesty have anything to do. Soldiers are handling reconstruction and nobles are moving towards Larket. Everyone who can take a moment to breathe, is," he shuffled as if he was caged.

Raphaline raises a brow to the young knight, confused as to what he means. “Bored, or is what you can do not what you want to exactly?” She crosses her arms across her chest as her hands tuck into the crook of her arms. “Maybe you need a task to keep you preoccupied. How is your combat skill right now when it comes to facing a magic user?” The corner of her lips turns upward in a slight smirk as she mulls over a few spells she could use to teach him how to combat magic, especially elemental magic.

rin huffed as he looked about. "What I want to do..." he trailed off, "magic combat?" He laughed, "that's my speciality. The thing is," he tried to relax, "I hate this. I hate this supposed peace and I hate sitting here while we could be avenging our men. Avenging should not be my purpose, but," he didn't feel right. The guilt weighed on him terribly and he simply wanted something else to think about. To ignore the pain.

Raphaline knew there had to be something that was bothering him and now that it is in the open, the bard cannot help but shake her head. When she chooses to speak, she offers the knight a look of compassion, before she moves closer, reaching out to set a hand a top his shoulder. “I know the guilt is bothering you. Loss is very painful, and if this is the first time you’ve been a part of such a huge loss, I am not surprised vengeance is on your mind, but,” she says, emerald eyes looking up at him, “you have a choice. Either you can sit at the same table as those you wish to destroy or you can rise above them and sit at the table of fairness and true justice.” Her features light up with a soft, gentle smile as she adds, “I believe in you, and I believe that you want to be better than them.”

Rorin tensed as she lay a hand on his shoulder. He looked away. Fairness? Justice? A hand grinded against the pommel of his lance. Justice was the death of Macon and every member of his kingsgaurd. "Thank you," he managed to reply. "Do tell though. What has brought you to the courtyard?" It was a practical question. Why would a bard soldier be in the courtyard when there was 'so much' to do.

Lionel sets the last box upon the stack, pausing as he peers around the circumference of his Knight-Commander’s office quarters. This is it. This is reality now. Briar’s belongings have been packed at long last; the only things left of her here are a portrait atop the fireplace and the memories Lionel and his soldiers will carry with them. He bites his lip, breathing in deeply. The room feels dry. Too dry. He’s sure it’s just psychological, but that doesn’t dull the sting of it. So he walks. And through the halls he goes, using this time between informal greetings to his troops to gather his thoughts for the remainder of the day. Lionel is trying very hard to treat this as a normal task, but packing up memoirs for a dear departed friend is anything but normal. It hurts, vividly. This is the pain that’s evident on his face as he enters the courtyard, quickly recognizing Rorin and Raphaline from afar. For a change, the Catalian needn’t don any ‘masks’ -- his features light up gladly at the sight of the woman, although heavy in his heart is a worry over his squire. “Rorin,” he greets, a tad briskly, and then he smiles to Raphaline

Rorin half listened to her go on. "Neither am I. As a paladin one can not swear under banner and name of king and queen. We bow down to no others but the gods." Rorin was not invited to the wedding as far as he knew nor was he wanting to make an appearance. Especially considering his throwing arm had improved and the tip of his lance got nice and shiny. Rorin was watching the same direction that Lionel was coming from and under his full helm part of him pulled a smile before settling back into a grimace. "Sir Lionel," he greeted plainly if not with officiation.

Raphaline raises a brow to this admission of position before answering, “And I am only a servant of music, but, we still have a choice when it comes to what we stake our names on.” She catches the sound of a familiar voice drawing nearer, and regards the knight commander with a soft smile. Before either of the men gets a chance to speak to one another, she chooses to regale the commander with the direction with which the conversation was preparing to move towards. “We were discussing the wedding tomorrow,” she begins to say as she turns her attention back to Rorin, “and I was just about to ask if I could enlist your squire for tomorrow as an escort.”

Lionel nods pleasantly to them both, catching Raphaline’s smile and fixing her with his own. They’ve been spending a rather fair amount of time together of late, after all, and none of it troubling. Rorin’s defensive posturing does not go unnoticed, nor does the Catalian say anything over it just yet. He would have -- most assuredly -- were it not for Raphaline’s declaration. “Oh, really?” Lionel’s tone is in jest, but he smirks to his squire and feigns a more appreciable glance. “Well, what do you say to that, Rorin? Escort a lady? You’ll have to be on your best behavior, though.” A beat. “...because she might not be.” He grins to his friend. Inwardly, he’s gauging his next reply, be it soft or stern or anywhere in-between, on this pivotal moment.

Rorin had nodded to the lady as she spoke on her position. He looked towards the commander and found himself ill at ease at mention of the wedding. Then he was shocked. Him? An escort? To that? Emotions swirled at the thought. Hate was the majority and it burned inside him. Then Lionel asked him the same and what exactly was he supposed to say? He shuffled once more and seemed upset in his posture, "er, sure," he managed to speak as more of a surrender than anything. On his best behavior? Would he really have to put up with this? "Neither of us seem to have anything appreciable to a wedding however." Maybe there was a way or two out of this, "neither do we have a coach," what else did they not have? Anything for him to be able to stay in Frostmaw instead of Larket.

Raphaline knows excuses when she hears them, so with a quirk of a brow she answers the squire with a, “Oh I have clothing back at my home. If you need some more appropriate clothing for such an event, I know a tailor or two who might be able to help you out.” As for the mention of coach, she makes another brushing off gesture. “I am pretty sure I know a certain commander of yours who will be happy to help out with that.” The bard has a dislike of horses, but coaches put enough space between her and those large creatures to make it alright. “You will be the envy of the night, I promise it won’t be half as frustrating as you might think.”

Lionel eases a tension in his neck, shrugging and then nodding at the idea of providing a coach. “Yeah, it’s no problem at all,” he agrees, although he will need to keep steady tabs on just how many horses are available for this little operation. There’s been quite a bit of hubbub in the previous week as the wedding preparations push into overdrive. The queen’s safety is paramount; the safety of her advisors, nearly as much. Lionel’s friends, too, ought to be watched-over, especially all those who were present on the battlefield. So much to do. So much to be careful in doing. Secretly, Lionel is aware that Rorin will never fully relax at this event -- all the better. “I know you’ll be on your guard, just in case,” he tells Rorin. “I know you’ll hate it, but trust that Raphaline is excellent company. Whether in peace or war, she has proven her worth exceedingly. For now, peace.” He resists the urge to stiffen, convincing his body instead to remain relaxed. “I know you’re angry. I know you’re confused. But Rorin, I’ve spoken with the queen. She knows a bitter truth that we have to accept: Frostmaw -needs- this time to build and to study what’s -really- going on in Larket. And we have to do it discretely. No outbursts jeopardizing this imperative time we’ve accrued. We need to know what’s -really- going on, and we have plans in motion to do that. Macon is probably still plotting, and we are going to be ready for it. Truly ready for it. So enjoy the evening, or loathe it but enjoy her company.” He points to the bard. “I promise you, we are doing this for good reason.”

Lionel thanks Rorin politely at that remark, then watches as he leaves. That same heavy heart returns once the paladin is out of sight. “I don’t know,” the Hero of Hellfire admits. “He’s a good lad. Entirely too much like myself at his age. It’s when I first came here, you know. It’s when I first threw myself into fight after fight after fight. That’s what he’s trying to do, because he’s angry, because he’s a lot like I was. But Lithrydel has changed. It was closer to anarchy just 13 years ago. Now there are rules and he doesn’t know what to do with them. I don’t know.”

Raphaline also had sensed much of the same thing in the young squire. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she watches him retreat from her’s and the commander’s sight. “Yes but,” she says as she turns her eyes once more to Lionel, a soft smile crossing her features as she reaches out to touch his shoulder, “the difference is that he has someone like you to show him the right way to handle that anger. Here is the future and a way for you to learn but no longer be looking into your past.” At least this is her hope for both the men, she does not want either to suffer anymore but the anger she had felt off of Rorin is very palpable and suffocating.

Lionel said to Raphaline, “You always know what to say. It’s probably what I’ve come to admire most about you. I should be off -- too many wedding preparations to even count. I’ll be around later, though. Thank you for speaking with him.”