RP:The Weight Upon Waking Thoughts

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: In the hours that follow the Alliance's massive undertaking in the Shadow Plane, Encara is alone with difficult thoughts. Krice, injured but ever the stubbornly self-sufficient warrior, exchanging tense words with the drow as she frets over Lionel's unknown fate. Drink responsibly.

Frostmaw Fort: Main Room

Encara has been locked in a state of frenetic disquietude since Lionel and his entourage embarked upon their mission, leaving Fort Frostmaw all the more empty and the injured drow stuck in a position she finds herself wholly unused to: far away from the field of battle, worrying about an outcome she can't hope to predict. The nerves didn't truly hit until everyone had left. From her perch atop the outer wall, her ruby eyes had bored into their backs with burning intensity, lingering on a certain head of ashen blond hair in particular - a man who'd made promises she wanted to believe, more than anything, before he'd headed out into places she could not follow. Would he even come back at all? Alone and struggling to process these emotions, none of which she'd want to acknowledge to anyone -ever-, Encara has resorted to attempting to drown it out in the only way she's able to in her current state. Luckily for her Lionel kept a stash of fine wine in his quarters, and the drow has helped herself to both in his absence. It's only fair, she thinks; Encara needs a place to sleep while she recovers, and who else is going to use the room? At this particular moment, however, she's taken to wandering the fort's enormous halls with an open bottle of something dark and sparkling in her hand, dressed in simple attire of pants, boots, and shirt, thick quilt draped across her shoulders to ward against the ever-present chill. She's been drinking a while, if the half-empty bottle and her slightly unsteady gait is anything to go by.

Krice moved through the fort's main hallway from the western hall, dressed in a white t-shirt, bloodied and torn up, and darker-grey slacks atop black boots. In fact, blood speckled almost every part of him. He walked calmly toward the clinic with a limp in his step, vague by the fact that he was concealing the extent of his injuries. Lifting a hand, the silver-haired male ran it through the loose strands overhanging his forehead, the bulk of his hair tied in a ponytail against his nape. Tired, sore, and generally a mess, he ignored the occasional ogling he received from people not as familiar with the signs of post-battle than others who frequented the fort. He was vaguely aware of Encara, but it was only peripheral at best. The man turned westward, seeking some assistance from the fort's healers. People came to and from the clinic, mostly gathering supplies from the storeroom and then returning northward to the Priestess' quarters. There were mumblings of her terrible condition but nothing that they wouldn't try to fix, to heal.

Encara is passing from east to west, slowly, and it's in that way that her thoughtless meandering brings her to Krice. His presence gives her reason to halt in her steps and blink, for Encara, despite her inebriated state, is still cognizant enough to recognise the telltale scent of blood. Eyes a good deal softer (and a touch glassier) than when he last encountered the ranger scan the silver-haired man's torn form, taking in his injuries and the blood spray marring so much of his body. It's not a sight that would disturb her normally, but with her thoughts roaring tumultuously through her head, it brings to mind certain things she'd prefer not to think about. "Hey—" The word comes out stumbling and the drow curses vehemently in her euphonious native tongue before trying a second time as she steps after him. "Hey, I know you, don't I? Blood n' all… what happened to you?" A pause follows as she recalls how exactly she met the man before her and Encara's brow furrows in disapproval. "Didn't go chasing after that bear yourself, did you?" The bottle is raised to her lips to sneak a quick swig.

Krice was drawn from his 'don't show weakness' focus by an abrupt syllable, breaking through the fort's usual thrum. He slowed, despite his want to clean up and -patch- up, to observe the woman in her wayward approach of him. Belatedly, he remembered their previous - and only - encounter, regarding a certain bear-monster who had been terrorizing Frostmawians. Her query confirmed as much. He lifted his chin, displaying an air of health belied by the smell of various bloods upon his person, and stared at the drow past the length of his nose. "Nope, no bear," he grunted, coolly, eyes shifting down from her face to the bottle pressed to her lips. Hrm.

Encara gives Krice a knowing look that suggests she isn't entirely convinced by the front he's putting up - a fact that slips out unintentionally, her tongue loosened by the alcohol and her mouth moving faster than her brain is able to. "You're making me -exhausted- trying to look all tough like that. Delisha's eyes, would it kill you to show a bit of emotion, sword boy?" Contradictory words from a drow who's guilty of committing the same crime and would likely try to kill anyone pointing out her weakened state so brazenly, but Encara does not seem to notice or care about her hypocrisy right now. She gnaws at her lip in a way that is neither coy or particularly gentle, teeth digging hard into ice-bitten flesh as she considers his answer, clearly perturbed by it. If not the bear, then what? "Well, what did—" Her voice trails off, ruby eyes going wide and bright with sudden clarity. "…You smell like shadows," Encara breathes out, gaze dropping to the blackened blood painted across Krice's clothing.

Krice didn't kill people who pointed out his varied idiosyncrasies, but it -did- irk him. Occasionally. This was one of those occasions. He shouldered his way past the drunken Encara only once she noted that he smelled of shadows, though assuredly the bite in his reply was due to her previous statement: "Back off, drow." He was too tired and too sore to deal with anyone's sass, least of all that of a hypocrite. The man moved ahead, seeking entry to the clinic.

Encara has tasted the energy of the Shadow Plane before, long ago when she was only a child; to this day, she still bears its mark on her palm. She -knows- what she can smell on him and the implications of it, because people don't just -go- to that realm on their own and certainly not without good reason, and Encara can only think of one person with such a need. Krice gets a hiss of pain when she shoves past her and aggravates her fresh shoulder wound, the very thing that'd gotten her stuck here in the first place. Turning sharply, Encara reaches out and grabs Krice's wrist with her free hand, uncaring of the blood that sticks to her skin like tar in the process - the drow's grip is remarkably strong, and she'll endeavour to hold on as best she can. "-No-," she snaps back, her gaze boring into him like knives. "No, you don't just get to walk away like that. Tell me what happened there. Tell me everything went to plan and—" There's a lump in her throat, a desperate plea in her next words that she'd be loathe to hear were she in her right mind - this weakness, it's sickening. "Tell me he's coming back."

Krice may or may not have noticed Encara's discomfort. It was a moot point, his intent clear: to get to the clinic, to dress his wounds, -redress- his body, clean up and go -home-. The dark-skinned woman had other plans for him though, it seemed, for her hand latched around the strong bones of his wrist and he halted in place once more, shooting her a measured glare over his left shoulder. That irritation simmered as she expressed her concern for the mission, about which she clearly knew -something-, and his features overall had a broader sense of compassion about them than previously. Injured and tired, himself, all the warrior's mannerisms were a little sharper than usual, but not to the point that he was heartless, even toward this bossy drow. "Who are you asking about?" He posed, clearly unaware of her connection to Lionel. He eased his arm away, testing her grip. She didn't need to keep hold now that he was again standing in place.

Encara holds on a moment longer, then reluctantly releases the man when it becomes clear he won't immediately turn away. "Lionel O'Connor." The usage of the Hero of Hellfire's surname is hardly necessary — everybody knows who Lionel is — but it's a subtle sign of her respect for him to anyone with knowledge of Trist'oth's chaotic society. Drow only bother to remember the names of those they consider worthy in some fashion, though most often this is someone they feel is a strong rival. Encara's eyes will allay any mistaken belief that is the case here - right now, she's an open book for Krice, and there's something close to abject terror hiding behind the anxiety. A shiver passes down her spine that is not the result of the chill in the air, but of the cold dread settling like ice in her chest. "He saved my life, so I owe him a debt. He didn't have to— he didn't have to do any of it." The concern, the kind words, the promise he made; all of it is swirling in her head in a muddled turmoil. "He told me this Alliance needed me," Encara admits. No one has ever needed a half-breed; not in her House, not in Trist'oth, and certainly not in any of the cities on the surface. "That he'd come back from this and help me find the answers I've looked my whole life for. That he wanted me to believe him." Her voice cracks. She's already lost the fight with that.

Krice arched both brows in a lazy, tired expression of surprise. Did this drow actually -care- about someone? Least of all someone so -good- as the Steward of Frostmaw? How the hell did Encara come to meet with Lionel in the -first- place? All questions that rattled around through the fog of his post-battle lethargy. Encara owed Lionel a debt, so that much made sense given her heritage, but the -terror- in her eyes was... unexpected. "He was injured," said the warrior at last, reaching up his opposite arm to casually press his hand into his abdomen. Through the light fabric of his shirt, fresh blood was visible, wetting that which had dried an hour or so prior. The line of his brow creased lightly, denoting strain, but it was fleeting and subtle. "Someone's caring for him. He'll probably be fine." Did the warrior believe it? Who knew. His tone gave little away.

Encara is too wrapped up in her own emotions, and too drunk, to take any notice of Krice's pain - it actually has yet to dawn on her that some of the blood might be his own. She stares at him expectantly, waiting for his answer to either fill her with grief or offer her a balm for the worry gnawing at her. "Injured," the drow repeats softly, even as her eyes flash with annoyance. If he ran headlong into danger again, she's going to make good on her word and kill him herself. Thankfully, Krice's final words alleviate a little of her fears, vague as they may be. It's enough for Encara in her current state. "Good. That's— that's good," she sighs, shoulders slumping with the release of some of the tension that's been building up in her since the party left. A short silence follows, then she opens her mouth to press again, "So what happened there?"

Krice won't get a chance to reply, however, as a sudden shout from further down the hall prompts a startled flinch from the drow. "Encara!" A petite human woman who can't be any taller than five foot three bustles over to the pair, blue and white skirts swirling around her like breaking waves - though her face is round and friendly, she manages to give Encara a dangerously sharp look that earns an exasperated roll of the eyes in response and a muttered, 'go away, Ella,' before her eyebrows go up when she takes in Krice's battle-worn appearance. "I am -so- sorry," the woman apparently named Ella says emphatically to Krice, yanking the bottle out of Encara's hands and shaking it with a frown towards the half-empty contents, "she's been drinking all day, I think. And she's -supposed- to be resting and recovering, but apparently harassing other injured folk is more important. I'm a nurse here - please, follow me and I'll make sure you're looked after. You as well, Encara." Catching Encara's arm, the tiny blonde stubbornly begins to drag her in the direction of the clinic too, ignoring her slurred protests and the fact that she's dragging a vicious drow heads taller than her along the hall like a petulant child.

Krice did part his lips -to- reply, though, ready to answer Encara's questions as if he had been doing so the entire time; perhaps seeing a modicum of compassion in her eyes helped him decide that she wasn't as bad as he had thought. Maybe still -bad-, just not -as- bad. When Ella showed up, his cool stare shifted over Encara's head - barely, given her height - to watch the nurse approach. He knew her well enough to recognize her, but little else. He never stayed in the clinic for long, whenever he -did- actually go. At Ella's encouragement, the man stepped forward after a moment's pause to enjoy the image of Encara being dragged away like a kid. Poetic justice, in a way, for her interference in his post-battle evening. Following slowly, he said to the healer, "I just need some gauze." And a bath, and a long, long rest. But for now, Ella could help him with the gauze.

Encara is no fan of the fort's infirmary. There are too many people, too many eyes, and neither of those things equate to an atmosphere the drow can hope to find any rest in. Busy-body nurses like Ella certainly don't help the situation, though where most are content to leave her well alone, Ella has been insistent in making sure she's taking proper care of her wound and at -least- getting the bandage changed. Encara scoffs under her breath, wondering why the former Larketian witch bothers. "You're sure?" Ella calls back to Krice as she pushes through the clinic's doors, leading Encara over to an empty bed - the drow sits with an irritated huff, quilt beginning to slip off her shoulders, and eyes the bottle Ella left on the side table when she steps away to find some gauze for the silver-haired warrior. As she returns, Ella gives her a look that reads, 'if you drink any more I'm going to knock you out,' before turning her attentions to Krice with a smile. "You definitely don't need anything else? I think a check-up would be in order, at least - you know I could lose my job for sending you off without proper care!" Encara, meanwhile, is watching the man intently.

Krice nodded. "I'm sure," he reiterated, slowing to a halt just inside the infirmary entrance. The ward was occupied by the usual suspects; drunkards, people harbouring everyday symptoms of sickness. No one from the battle had made it back to the fort, yet. The warrior frowned pensively though the expression was minimal. Unaware of Encara's attentiveness to him, he turned his gaze back to Ella and shook his head, lashes drooping slightly. "Just the gauze, thanks," he politely insisted, pressing that hand into his abdomen before lowering it once more. Only then did he spare the drow a glance, frowning in bemusement at her intensity. "What?"

Encara makes a point of drumming her nails lightly on the tabletop, right by the bottle, just because she feels like seeing how far she can push Ella. To her annoyance, the witch smartly fails to acknowledge this behaviour, as she's preoccupied with Krice instead. "All right! Come on in and I'll get you patched up." She waves him in to the clinic, hoping to get the man to take a seat so she can properly place the square of gauze. Encara matches Krice's frown with one of her own, swaying somewhat on the bed before opting to lean back on her good arm. "You didn't say what happened. In the Shadow Plane." To him, to Lionel, to anyone else. With only basic knowledge of the plan, the drow has plenty of unanswered questions - was Kahran there? Did they achieve what they set out to do?

Krice arched a brow again, this time in bemusement. Had he not communicated to Ella that he only wanted gauze? He didn't request her -help-. Rather than arguing the point and irritating the people in here trying to recover, the man reluctantly stepped forward and follow her lead, taking a seat as directed to by the woman. As he eased down, the man slowly slumped forward and rested on his thighs, forearms supporting the weight of his torso. His body was aching. Covered in blood not his own, it would be easy to miss the many superficial scratched and grazes that marred his skin. What wasn't so easy to miss, to an insistently-investigative healer, was the through-and-through stab wound above his left hip and slightly inward, along with a deeper gash below his right pectoral, and another slash across his right shoulder - all injuries sustained from the same weapon. Krice belatedly heard Encara speaking and he looked up, aligning his gold-streaked stare with her darker eyes. What happened in the Shadow Plane...? "Ask Lionel, when he gets back," he grunted, quietly. "You seem to fancy him well enough."

Encara is of the opinion that Ella is an unrepentant busy-body, and is proven right by the woman urging Krice into the chair. The witch is thorough, yet thankfully quick, in her examination of the man's many wounds, though she clucks her tongue at him upon discovering the awful puncture wound near his abdomen. "This needs more than a bit of gauze," she tells him matter-of-factly, leaving no room to argue, before she starts work on cleaning and patching up the less severe injuries. Encara, for her part, stares at Krice as if he's suddenly grown an extra head and takes a moment to parse his words. Her mouth drops open in indignant shock - Ella slaps a hand over her own to stifle the fit of giggles that threaten to bubble out of her at the look of sheer bewilderment on the drow's face, though her expression quickly darkens into a scowl. "I do not— Ella, shut -up-," she splutters, throwing the witch a knife-like glare when Ella's laughter finally escapes. "You people have some really skewed ideas up here." As if drow are any better! Encara snarls at them both as she pushes herself to her feet. "I don't have to listen to this. I'm going back to—" To Lionel's quarters. She doesn't tell them that - Krice gets a truly furious look, as if this is somehow all his fault, before she bursts through the doors and storms out of the infirmary without another word. Ella tuts at Krice again, though there's amusement in her voice. "You've gone and confused the poor thing even more now. I just think she doesn't know how to deal with people being -kind-."

Krice shrugged a shoulder following Ella's cluck of disapproval. "It happens," he mused. Indeed, injuries were par for the course when the golfer hit bad guys - not notched balls - for a living. He seemed oblivious to the ire in Encara's stare, but when she scowled forth her rude command to the healing witch, his own expression turned sharp with malice. Even as Ella giggled and attempted to care for his more superficial wounds, the warrior pushed to his feet and leaned past her to call after the drow a simmering, "Mind your tongue." She wouldn't do well on the surface if she disrespected the people who only wanted to help her. Turning his attention back to Ella, and easing into the chair once more, he added, "If she can't handle it, she should crawl back into the earth."