RP:Three's Company

Part of the Sauriangate Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Lionel and Krice, two of the realm's longest-journeying swordsmen, have never met. Their fateful first encounter is told at last -- and a monstrous saurian, one of many fielding farther east of late than is normal -- is the beast they must work together to fell. This, it appears, is how two storied warriors say hello.

Xalious: Rough Range

Lionel has had quite enough of all this. The stonemasons were expected to have completed their repairs a fortnight ago and the political pressures back at the castle are bordering on the extreme. As he stands here now, all dressed in casual winter-suitable leathers and a regal enough Frostmawian cloak, his arms are crossed and his ever-expressive azure eyes lack their usual sparkle. A troupe of dwarves a dozen in number is frantically emerging from their temporary encampment and the Catalian cannot help noticing that the brickwork in their workman’s abode is of a higher caliber than any of the things they have thus far done to improve the road itself. At Lionel’s side is the woman known as Briar Ku Risu, his personal advisor and a distinguished knight in the service of the queen. For all of Lionel’s evidential disappointment, Ku Risu herself has magnified it tenfold. Her scowl is thick and she rushes the dwarves even as their gazes dart sideways in the world’s poorest attempt at pretending not to notice. “This gold doesn’t grow on trees,” she declares, “and there are plenty enough scheming merchants dogging Queen Hildegarde’s side without our lack of progress down south for them to prattle on about!” The dwarves clear their throats -- it’s a true wonder, seeing twelve dwarves simultaneously clear their throats -- and set to their tasks, disgruntled. Of Lionel himself, there is only a sigh. This was not how he’d anticipated approaching the age of thirty. Slaying a dragon, sure. Making big bold claims of a unified and peaceful Lithrydel, maybe. But sighing at dwarves was not on the bucket list. He excuses himself and trots down the path, whistling some jolly tune or another. In short: he needs a break.

Krice emerged from the north and stepped toward Lionel, unwittingly almost interrupting the man clad in Frostmawian garb. Deft as he was, and with as much space around them as could be expected of a main thoroughfare, the silver-haired man simply changed his trajectory before either male could near the other enough to collide. While Lionel was seeking a break, Krice was simply on the move. Dressed in his usual black attire with the collar of his shirt open and the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the enigmatic swordsman wore no brand or emblem denoting allegiance to any town or city, nor did the lacquered sheath of his back-mounted katana. He was an unaffiliated warrior, by all accounts. Krice glanced briefly at the Catalian male and only in passing. Sooner than later, his crimson eyes drifted to the crowds of dwarves as they dispersed to fulfill orders barked at them by a stern woman, also Frostmawian as told by her garb. The silver-haired swordsman did not recognize her, but as he came upon the flurry of activity, he slowed to ensure that no dwarf was interrupted - that -he- was not an obstacle for unwitting shorter people to collide into - and observed them all on his unhurried way by.

Lionel is clad in irony, then -- on most occasions, it is thin and loose-fitting black silks that he wears, and only a brooch as symbol of his affiliation, and only that much because Briar might chide him otherwise. The man is an agile sort, and seldom leaves home in such dress, but it had been ‘politely’ suggested to him that the unruly southron workers might respond more positively to all the pomp of his position. What a complete and utter bore, this. On his back are a pair of sheathed short swords, slivers of steel as far removed from fabled Hellfire as can be. It’s good of the stranger to alter course, because Lionel is lost in thought just now. Yet there is something distantly familiar about the passing swordsman, something he can’t place that feels as though one of few fixtures of his travels. In Lionel’s perception, the more things change, the more they stay the same, but only Mesthak and a few choice others have filled his perspective for as far back as he can recall. The swordman, somehow, feels like one of those fixtures. He tilts his head and stops in his tracks, but Krice has already made good speed further on toward those dwarves. Briar calls out, “careful, good ser -- there are reports of strange creatures down-pass today.”

Krice perhaps was lost in thoughts all his own, for even as Briar directly engaged him with a warning of monsters over yonder, his response was a distracted one--polite, but a little less-direct than usual. " It's fine," he called back, smoothly, even lifting his right hand to gesture noncommittally. " I got it." He projected full confidence without arrogance, that should he happen upon said 'strange creatures', he would know how to handle them and would do so in short order. The warrior slowed to a complete stop as a four-strong train of dwarves shuffled across his path, carrying all sorts of materials to tend to the day's tasks. The silver-haired enigma was a patient man, waiting quietly for them to pass.

Lionel hears Briar’s words of warning and it dawns upon him that it might have done for him to have been the one to say them. That’s what knight-commanders do, right? Tell people to watch out for nasties? That’s bound to be one of their tasks. It’s probably scribbled down somewhere in the tomes he never bothered reading. With a short sigh, he turns and trots, the spring in his step betraying his considerable speed despite the heavy attire. In fact, the attire is too heavy, Lionel decides, and it’s high time he removes his heavy cloak and coat and drops them down unceremoniously upon a nearby patch of unfinished brick. “Good grief,” he mutters. “People go their whole lives dressed up like sea otters. Can you imagine?” His question is directed at one of those dwarves on that four-strong train, and the fellow is quick to let go of his claim on the materials in order to reply in earnest. “Right, and then they complain it’s warm! Well, no wonder it’s warm. They’re veritable Frostmawian foxes. Or a muskox, if it please his majesty.” The muskox is native to Catal, as this dwarf plainly knows: this dwarf, too, is a refugee of that land. But Lionel chafes at those last words, that announcement of royalty in a bloodline that no longer matters. He bristles, and then he realizes the silver-haired lad still patiently awaiting. “Hey, uh, get back to work,” he awkwardly commands. Then, to Krice: “You do look like the sort who has little to worry about what with those hobgoblins up yonder. You also look familiar. And I have no idea why.” He squints, hmms, and watches as the dwarves move out of the way.

Krice was more than waiting. The commotion of Lionel partially disrobing, followed by familiarity in conversation with surrounding dwarves, ensured that the warrior paid attention. He glanced past his right shoulder to observe the interaction between human and smaller-hairier-human (essentially) without need to interrupt or ask questions, an impassive but otherwise pleasant expression holding the contours of his face. It was Lionel's talk of familiarity between -them-, the two -tall- humans, that caught and held Krice's gaze. He stared in unabashed scrutiny of the other male for only the span of a full breath before commenting, " You must be thinking of someone else." There was no recognition in the warrior's gold-streaked eyes for Lionel as he stood before him.

Lionel shrugs the most heedless of shrugs, scratching his head absentmindedly. “Weird.” His own features are noncommittal, his eyes shifting from their shimmer into a more passive -- and passing -- tone. Dwarven subordinates are scurrying about in their duties, paying both warriors a wide berth in so doing. There are occasional whispers between them, but nothing unsavory, nor do they sound any more conspiratorial than a gossiping fishwife. “Well, don’t let me keep you, then,” Lionel continues, although the potential farewell moment is punctuated by a loud, bellowing roar in the distance between Krice and wherever it appears he is heading. Briar tenses and shoots her commander a look; Lionel averts his focus on Krice and twists his lips into a knowing grimace. “Another saurian?” he asks himself in a mutter, and then he tilts his head ever so slightly in a wordless order to the woman, who cracks her knuckles -- loudly enough to be heard from here -- and joins him. “It seems we’ll be sharing the road,” Lionel tells the stranger.

Krice was well aware of the dwarves around him, perhaps why he didn't move. Or maybe he was paying Lionel the courtesy of full attention through the short duration of their interaction. As soon as dwarves cleared from his path, the silver-haired man turned to proceed, though the sound of that distant roar stopped him before he could take a step. He listened, turned his ear to the beast's cry as it reverberated off trees and nearby mountains, and seemed momentarily introverted whilst doing so. Lionel's statement was greeted with seconds of silence before the enigmatic swordsman spoke again. " Is that so?" It was rhetorical more than actual, followed by the warrior stepping forward at a brisk pace, his gait relaxed.

Lionel bites his lip at Krice’s reaction. He is unaccustomed to such nonchalance. He is equally unaccustomed to being the one to propose introductions. In fact, it could be said that Lionel O’Connor is wholly unaccustomed to recognizing that introductions might come in handy. Throughout his life, it’s been the seemingly autonomic duty of the strangers he has met to broach the issue of referring to one-another by some designated name, and it’s been Lionel’s stance to systematically forget idle pleasantries until they are upon him. Could it be that this lithe enigmatic is even more clueless than he is? No, there’s something else at play. The fellow just does not seem to care. Well, far be it for Lionel to be the first to care. The stranger will keep on being strange, then, and they’ll make good clip down the path toward imminent danger. Whoever Krice is, it matters not -- what matters is that the fiend ahead is pushed back or otherwise incapacitated before it causes trouble for the roadside hovels. Through silence, they march, but then Briar interjects -- she’s standing between them, as it were -- with precisely the thing neither man was in any apparent rush to do. “I am Briar Ku Risu,” she greets Krice with an amicable opening. “And this is my commander, Lionel. To whom do we have the pleasure of meeting?

Krice walked at his own pace; whether or not Briar and Lionel matched it remained to be seen. If he ended up behind them, or in front of them - so be it. As they walked, he searched the path ahead, north and south -and- east, for sign of the creature's presence on the road. Kelay's inhabitants were still out and about doing their various things for the day, but they were more hurried, and some were jogging home to avoid whatever scene was ready to unfold. In response to Briar's introduction, the silver-haired man offered simple, " Krice," to the woman, though his eyes didn't drift her way. Turning south, he broke away from the trio's mutual trajectory to take on his own, arriving at the side of an elderly resident who seemed a little older in the wake of that distant roar. The warrior lay a hand upon his senior's shoulder, gentle and supportive, and was greeted with familiarity in the aging man's cloudy eyes. A short conversation bridged silence between them, the warrior still -appearing- nonchalant despite the warmth from the frail citizen, before he moved alongside the elderly toward his small house on the south side of the road.

Lionel couldn’t tell a jury what it is about this man that seems to offend him so, but it’s in there somewhere. He scoffs softly as the man offers a single word to his aide before exiting stage left -- when did Lionel begin to care how folks responded to Briar? Why is this a thing? Curious, but not half as curious as Krice’s own action. Something sticks in Lionel’s heart for bothering to be bothered by a pointedly direct swordsman who thinks to assist where he himself had not even considered. He sighs, glances at Briar, and shakes his head in silence. The pair will continue moving forward, essentially leaving Krice behind unless he opts to return to the road. They might have stopped to help, though, if it weren’t for the sudden appearance of a thick-scaled bipedal beast emerging from the treeline some fifty meters straight ahead. It screams a feral cry, more of a screech than its appearance might suggest, and licks a narrow tongue over sharp fangs in recognition of a food source. Its body is thin -- too thin. “Another saurian,” Lionel reiterates his earlier appraisal, sounding more resigned than resolved. “They’re moving in too quickly,” Briar notes, and as the Catalian draws his pair of blades and the Lithrydelian native draws her own two-handed.

Krice did return to the road, roughly three metres behind the Frostmawian pair and half a metre south of Lionel - with Briar even further north. His concern was not the two ranked people on the road but the civilians who were in direct danger of the... 'Saurian', was it? With that elderly gentleman in his house, and the bipedal creature in a space between homes where civilian casualties would be at the least tragic, Krice reached up over his left shoulder and curled long fingers around the threaded hilt of his katana. He moved not to undermine what was likely considerable skill in the pair of Frostmawians, but simply to at least incapacitate the bipedal creature before it could move into a less-favourable position. On his next step, the warrior broke into an effortless sprint past Lionel's right shoulder, as agile and as swift as the supernatural creatures of the night, arriving at the Saurian's feet with his curved blade drawn. Into a diagonal swing he unsheathed the weapon, efficient in his attempt to sever vital arteries in the creature's right ankle. Arms rigid but fluid, the swordsman followed through with his attack and moved away, fleet of foot to a position just inside the Saurian's reach and east behind it.

Lionel remains in place at the start of Krice’s jaunt, left leg bent at the knee and both hands mere inches from his hips. His fingers clutch the modest hilts of his swords in a loose and limber hold, steel sliding gently against steel when those swords catch tip-over-tip. “Be careful,” Briar admonishes, she in her more knightly stance of a straightened back and a chest-defensive positioning of her claymore, but only the first word is heard when Lionel speeds forth in an alacrity to rival Krice’s. His movements are curved -- he takes slightly diagonal steps with each brief touch of foot to land so that his breakneck approach is difficult to predict. It appears fate has blessed the day with two quick defenders, because even as Krice cuts into powerful ankle flesh, Lionel is scant seconds behind, skewering his swords in an ‘x’ cross through the creature’s left ankle. Unplanned as it is, they’ve collectively debilitated the beast before it can so much as jog forth to reap a bit of destruction in the field. The saurian is suitably stunned; it wails, thrashes its arms in an effort to catch the warriors, and begins to plummet ahead into the earth at the cruel pain sparks in its legs. Even on its chest, it is a mighty savage beast, and it thrashes its tail toward them and snaps its jaws. Lionel kicks hard into the loamy soil and veritably jettisons himself away from the thing, not yet sure of his next move. It’s down, perhaps for the count, but still deadly.

Krice focused primarily on his own placement in the battle, and on the falling, flailing beast. Blood scattered grains of dirt as it spilled from the beast's dually-injured ankles, and beneath its right arm the silver-haired warrior ducked, though not without sliding his katana overhead to cleave open the Saurian's meaty forearm. More liquid crimson splashed free of the beast and fell across the warrior, though he paid the mess little mind; being covered in blood was an accepted side-effect of battle. Across the hulking back of the fallen creature, Kice took note of Lionel's location but he wasted no time gawking. Whilst it was down, before it could recover, the enigma moved in swiftly and twisted at the abdomen to angle his katana's curved edge against the Saurian's right side, between two large ribs and into softer lung-flesh. Against his back the beast flung its injured arm, knocking the warrior into the very ribs he attacked. With a grunt, he was pinned between the limb and the torso but he percevered, jerking his katana free to slice upward through as much flesh and skin as possible on its way out of the body. Large, knotted fingers flailed for purchase on the warrior, but trapped as he was between the Saurian's forearm and ribs, the very structure of its bones prevented it from reaching him. Driving his right elbow back into that large reptilian arm, Krice gave an almight push to shove the limb away just enough that he could duck under it and clear the Saurian's bleeding body - his turn to step aside and evaluate the situation.

Lionel presses his full weight into his left foot and curves his sole upright, opposing leg rising and pivoting at the knee. In this acrobatic act, the Catalian springs into a full-fledged leap, one sword held horizontally ahead of his face and the other vertical in tandem with his body. The leap comes just as Krice is caught, and Lionel’s own positioning takes him to the saurian’s other side, so that once again the men operate in a forced mimicry efficient in splitting a single target’s attention. As he descends from a full-metered jump, Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander flicks his right wrist forward so that the vertically-positioned blade skewers flesh with surgical precision. The impalation serves a gruesome dual purpose, for its sturdy stab assists in softening Lionel’s fall. No sooner has he stabbed it, in fact, than he stabs again, and again, each time with the same blade and each time a deeper cut. His left arm is given workout, however, when the death-rattling saurian swings its head upon Krice’s retreat and moves with startling haste in hopes to devour this repeating thorn in its blood-oozing side. Jaws open wide, then jaws chomp down in search of meat, but jaws instead are given a sharp sword which Lionel has nimbly tucked inside the thing’s mouth. As it attempts to consume this unforeseen metal, the pointed edge fires blasts of blood from the roof of its gums, and it screams in protest. But the sword has shattered. Lionel blinks in genuine surprise. There’s no need to chart a new course, however -- Briar has arrived at last, and in one clean swoop of a serrated blade too large by half, she cleaves so heavily into the saurian’s neck that it immediately ceases all motion and collapses, half-headless, there to rest.

Krice felt the apex of a large nostril brush his right elbow mid-retreat, indicating to the warrior the very near-miss of the Saurian's teeth to -his- flesh. He stepped back, watched Lionel at the cusp of his own maneuvers, and then observed the creature with something akin to apprehension in his eyes. A twitch of the wrist readied his katana once more, but Briar rendered future movement from the warrior irrelevant, for she felled the beast at last and laid it to rest. No more wounds, no more suffering. The warrior's katana trembled in his left hand, energy transferred from an unstable arm, but he steadied it as he considered the killed beast. " A preferrable death," murmured the silver-haired warrior as he glanced over at Briar, gratitude marking a blood-freckled face.

Lionel has two sheaths and just one sword. It is unfortunate, but the smallest of prices paid for the continued safety of the realm and her people. Something not unlike sorrow flickers in his eyes at the half-tattered corpse at the center of their gathering. Then it’s gone, as quick as it came, as quick as Lionel himself -- and Krice for that matter, or so it would seem. “Yeah,” he agrees in an utterance too clipped even for just that one lone word, and he returns his weapon to storage and nods at Briar in real appreciation. “Sometimes I wonder,” he starts, but she interrupts him cheekily. “How you lasted a week before I came along?” She’ll smirk at him and smirk again at Krice, but her statement to the silver-haired man is less jest and more appraisal. “Your help was vital, Krice. Not only in the battle, but before it. Thank you for protecting these good folk. Today, Lithrydel is in your debt.” Lionel winces, scratches his neck, takes a few steps back from the saurian and shrugs. “What she said.”

Krice flexed his left hand's fingers around the hilt of his katana, and whilst doing so, recognized that Lionel was without a second sword of his own. Memory rushed in to the forefront of his conscious thought and he acknowledged that, during the battle, his second weapon had shattered. A shame. Giving the katana a flick, Krice rid its curved blade of excess blood - unlike anything he could do for himself, covered as he was - and grudgingly sheathed it against his back. -Everything- would need to be cleaned. It was just another accepted side-effect of battle. Briar's interplay of words with Lionel saw the silver-haired enigma turning to proceed eastward, though he got two steps away before the woman's voiced gratitude halted him. He turned to regard her along his right shoulder and accepted her words with an incomplete nod - his head not rising after the subtle downward bob. " I would've done it, regardless." If he received praise or not, gratitude or not, the warrior was of a type to help. The people of Kelay knew him for that. Krice glanced briefly at Lionel, acknowledging the man's reiteration of Briar's statement. A simple nod was given.

Lionel still isn’t sure what it is about the man Krice, but previous frustration flares up in him like a drum despite no outward demonstration of it. Truly, the lad has near-mastered the art of cloaked irritation -- not exactly a skill his younger self knew in the slightest. As Briar bows respectfully, Lionel is already in motion, twelve very startled dwarves a ways down the road, all in their makeshift house, slacking. Maybe this was just cause for slacking, though. Maybe Lionel would go easy on them. Either way, a nod in return is all Krice will receive from the Catalian on this particularly brisk afternoon, and it’s for Briar Ku Risu to conclude her bow and say farewell. “May your journeys bring good fortune and your heart know the wisdom of the ages.” An odd sort of farewell, that, but then, Briar wasn’t one to say goodbye without courtly flavor. She catches up to Lionel and they’re soon out of sight, plans to be made for safe disposal of a very large body. Just another day in Kelay, as far as Lionel O’Connor is concerned, but Krice has left an impression on him which will be difficult to shake off.

Krice bowed his head toward Briar, reciprocating her respectful farewell, but before she could turn and depart the scene, he hoped to keep her with a question: " What's going on with these things?" The warrior nodded to the Saurian corpse to indicate his meaning, and after a brief glance sent Lionel's way to let him know that he was asking -both- of them, the enigma's focus returned to Briar. She was closer, and hopefully inclined to answer. " What are they doing in Kelay?"

Lionel is surprised when Krice moves to converse further. In that momentary lapse, Briar is ever-humble and dignified to respond, and she'd have done so no matter the proximity between these three roadside travelers. "We have... theories, ser," she says with the vaguest hint of a stumble, her usual grace crumbling at the edges when uncertainty fills her voice. "Of late, there have been an alarming number of creatures, mostly saurian, moving in from the realm's far west reaches. Near as I am aware, they're native to that blighted land, but food can be scarce in a place so desolate as the canyons beyond Venturil. Even those jungles don't have much by way of fauna -- besides the saurians themselves, that is." She and Lionel both look to Krice, now, neither of them willing to speak further until they can gauge his reply.

Krice listened attentively to Briar's explanatory reply, his expression shifting just enough to show that he was interested in what she has to say. By the time she concluded, he had narrowed one eye slightly in a contemplative scowl, and mused, " They're not wandering out this far so suddenly just for food..." -Surely- not. After his gaze drifted across Briar's face simply as he mulled over various unspoken thoughts, the warrior flicked a brief look in the direction of Lionel, though whomever spoke next would ultimately take back his attention. Though he was covered in saurian blood and smelling of diced flesh, the warrior lingered to learn more.

Lionel's eyes flash with recognition. He and Briar exchange the briefest of knowing glances; something happens in that shortest of spans and the woman gives way to the man. She takes a single calculated step sideways, smooth enough that it appears only natural for Lionel to step forward in reply. "No," he answers, and there's more weight to the one word than in anything else he's said. "We suspect someone -- or something -- of orchestrating this." Briar fixes Krice with a rather serious look and takes up where Lionel has left off. "The attacks are senseless by any other cause. Despite their considerable strength, even creatures such as these are not prone to approaching civilization when easier prey lurks elsewhere. Even for him," she gestures to the carcass, "it is more customary to hunt elk and bison." Now, again, it's Lionel's turn to speak. "I'll soon be leading an expedition into the Northern Sage Forest where a large gathering of the beasts has been sighted. Warrior's Guild leadership affords me the opportunity. I seek answers. I have a sinking suspicion someone out there doesn't like 'peace' very much."

Krice was watchful of Briar's deference to Lionel, and naturally, as the other man stepped forward, the warrior's crimson eyes returned to him. He listened attentively as he had done since his first inquiry after the dinosaur's presence, nodding just once by the conclusion of the pair's joint reply. " Good idea. It's definitely not normal for them to be so far east," he said, before turning his attention back to the carcass that lay only metres away. After a few seconds, the enigmatic man returned his attention to Briar and Lionel and nodded for them both. " Take care," he said, his attention lingering on the other male before he turned to move eastward. It wouldn't do well to continue on his way covered in blood as he was; he needed to get clean.

Lionel nods deeply enough to indicate something like the slightest bow. Briar's own motion is, unsurprisingly, more elegant. "You as well, Krice," Lionel says, and he regains his trek toward the dwarven assembly. "Be well, that our paths cross again," Briar says with a formal Frostmawian salute. Ever the diplomat, this one. Somewhere in his heart, the Catalian is tremendously indebted to her. Neither warrior is half so blood-filthy as the enigma, but nor are they clean by any textbook definition. There will be much bathing in the immediate future.