RP:To Punch an Ice Genasi
Part of the Two If By Sea Arc
Synopsis: Xersom and Sargaso meet on the beach and where Xersom reveals the mermaid Zirael wants to drown Cenril, to Sargaso’s ire. The paladin of Selene determines to kill the sea cow Zirael and prematurely end her villainous plan!
Xersom’s wife and Sargaso’s clan mate Emilia sneaks up behind Sargaso and startles him, and the kayaker punches her in the face! Luckily her face, like the rest of her, is made of ice and he ends up hurting himself more than her. He agrees to make it up to the couple by offering her something she direly needs.
Coastal Breeze
Xersom detested Cenril; it wasn't so much that the city itself grated his patience, but rather that it had a distinct location that bore reminiscent visions of his past, and stood where other cities that once opposed his Master stood, as well as the proximity to the location of the ultimate goal of his creation. It was an unreachable goal, and those past cities were now replaced by Cenril, but that was of no matter; it was the memories that were haunting. It could have been for that reason that the ancient creature stood with his back toward the city and facing the infinite blue sky, water, and sandy beach that introduced the tapestry of a backdrop. Clad in old, fraying, faded, and gray hermit's robes, the man might have appeared as any homeless wanderer or roving madman in self-proclaimed prophecy, but there were several distinct differences between him and someone so easily dismissed. The first, and most noticeable, was that there was an arcane sort of aura that was around him that resonated a certain sacrilegious and damned power; it literally subtly darkened the area around the man, and distorted his visage as if a flickering reception. Jet black hair looked clean, well-groomed, and whatever skin could be seen was covered in tiny script that might've looked like tattoos at cursory glance -closer revealed these to be scars of some infernal litany and literally carved into his flesh. That is, except his face; it was eerily flawless and youthful, with vivid, almost luminous green eyes -again, closer-than-cursory stare would bring one to the conclusion that his face was a fleshy, very realistic mask. Both scarred hands were clasped behind the small of his back, and that stare was pinned upon the glimmering crests of the sea's rebellious waves.
Sargaso arrives from the sea in a brindle sealskin kayak. No doubt Xersom’s spooky presence has cleared the shore to make room for his bad vibes, but from Sargaso’s distance, the face-masking creep looks like nothing more than a beggar. As the kayaker nears the shore, he’s too focused on reading and riding the crashing waves to give Xersom due inspection or respect. His kayak is just finding purchase in the wet sand when Xersom’s foul aura tugs at some Selene-given, innate, theological radar set to detect bad jujus. He eyes Xersom warily from his seat in the kayak, but ignores the heebie-jeebies and disembarks in one fluid motion. When his bare feet hit the sand, he crosses himself in the sign of a fish to give thanks to Selene for another safe voyage. He lifts the front of the kayak and begins to drag it southbound along the shore, passing Xersom on the way a little too close to sate his curiosity. Eyes pick apart those wicked scars, and should their eyes meets, Sargaso will offer an over confident, “Yo.”
Xersom 's intense, pulse-like green gaze slid in pace with the approach of the Paladin, but he neither greeted nor moved; at least not initially. Instead it was with a silent sort of scrutiny that such a stare picked apart at Sargaso; there were contradictions there, insofar as the seemingly goddess-blessed man held the favor of the goddess of the things he seemed to bear. It was the over-confident and unusual greeting that instigated the confusion voiced -but perhaps it wasn't so much the content of the words, but rather, their delivery that added to this malevolent man's unnatural presence. The sound was simultaneously sinister and soothing, like a madman's lullaby; a terrible tone that was intoxicating, and yet dangerous all the same, like poisoned wine. "Your vessel is made from the creatures created by your goddess, yet she shows you favor?" A slight 'tsk' was offered between that question and its successor, "Gods and their infantile fickleness, like toddlers with toys." A delay of the inevitable discerning of whether Sargaso was mermaid-enthralled, or defiant.
Sargaso shivers as Xersom speaks. Surely it’s the effect of the wind chilled by the setting sun and nothing more ominous than that. This same effect keeps Sargaso engaged. Had Xersom sounded more common, the sea-man would have dismissed him. As it stands now, he searches himself for the object of Xersom’s disapproval. “...W-what? Oh. The kayak. Oh. Yes. Uh…” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to point at the kayak. “Been in the family for generations. Mother’s side.” Sargaso doesn’t know his father, but who says that to strangers? Weak. “It’s not like her forefathers clubbed a baby seal, if that’s what’s got your britches in a twist.” Suddenly his guts quiver. Perhaps this isn’t the audience to be flippant with. He adds a dutiful, “Sir.” Fixed it. “Tribal tradition dictates that the remains of sea creatures can only be used when the creature is found already dead. Save for food, but,” His hand flattens mid-air and dips side-to-side in the universal symbol for ‘so-so.’ “That’s complicated. Not all creatures can be eaten.” With nothing more to share with the spooktastic stranger, he blinks then starts south again. “So. Yep. Take care.” After just one pace he stops short. It isn’t very neighborly of him to judge this bone-chilling book by its cover. Sargaso is now a self-appointed man of the community, and a lifetime servant of Selene. He wills himself to turn back around and say, “Actually, if you have a minute…” He circles around to the side of his kayak and pulls out a waterproof hard-leather bag with a twice-sealed cork lid. He opens the bag and pulls out a rolled up piece of parchment and shows Xersom. “I’d like to talk to you about a mermaid siren if you’ve a moment to spare. Could save your life.”
Emilia was like a fisherman’s worst nightmare in visage as she traveled across the sea to arrive back on the beach of Cenril. After a rather crazed adventure with Crisien the Genasi was not fond of traveling by ship again. Instead, the frail woman traveled across the rising and falling waves moving inland. Beneath the bare feet of the ice woman the woman would churn with the deathly chill that emanated from the lady turning water into ice and fog. Behind the traveling ghostly figure the ice would melt away into the sea leaving nothing harmed in her wake, but there was never a moment when the Genasi was not hovering over the constant forming ice beneath, like a surf-board of ever shifting ice. With skin white as snow and curls of tangled white blustering around the female in a tattered white gown amidst the encroaching fog the vision of a sea ghost crossed the ocean. Upon reaching the shore line those blue tinted toes crossed out from the misty air landing the Genasi on the damp sand of the beach. All this was an arrival sometime after Sargo had arrived, greeted her husband, and returned back to his boat to fetch something. She’d be sighted by him and Xersom without a doubt before she landed. However, as she set foot to the sand her attention was turned toward Xersom with a loving grin of a smile across those blue lips. A wave of pink stained fingers in a silent greeting before a finger fell to her lips in a ‘shhh’ motion. To spook Sargo was the goal.
Xersom 's gaze remained fixed to Sargaso, his disapproving amusement relatively taken for genuine concern; the remark was promptly answered with a flippant sort of grace, made 'better' by the dutiful 'sir' tacked on the end of it. In truth, it hardly bothered the ancient if Sargaso desired to be dismissive or reverent of him -that wasn't the point of this meeting, or rather, the meeting of whomever approached the former General of Arrecation; the paladin just so happened to be that person. That viridian stare being attached to the wandering form of the kayak-approached man was made apparent -and eerily so- when the other male opted to turn back around, which would in turn reveal that the ancient did not yet remove his eyesight. Emilia's approach was known, but it was due to her insistence that her husband did nothing to greet or acknowledge her for the sake of her attempt to spook Sargaso. Inwardly, Sacrilus was confused at how the two might know one another -if they did, but outwardly he retained his understanding of what was being said to him. "A mermaid siren," that terrible voice said, woven like the threads of fate and their intricate patterns of good and evil, "Zirael? She is... amusing. Wants to drown all of Cenril."
Sargaso remains oblivious to Emilia’s approach. The sun sets behind the city, and their shadows cast towards the sea. And so, with his back to the sea, not even Emilia’s shadow gives her away. “Yes, a mermaid siren, to warn port workers of an atta-” Xersom continues, Sargaso cuts in after the name “Who?” and then the general lays on the final reveal. “WHAT?! F^*%ing mermaids, man. You got a harpoon? I can lend you one. We’re going mermaid hunting for this Zirael sea cow. Right. NOW.” He rolls up the parchment he was going to show Xersom. This business of Zirael has dwarfed the quaint siren alarm system. His back remains to Emilia, who may need to touch him to get his attention. He continues working himself up, in a way only Hudson and Ansel have witnessed so far. Although he’s standing still, there is something about his demeanor that fidgets and squirms like a dolphin trapped in a net. His hatred for the mermaids is rabid. “You got a boat? You ever been out to sea? We’re doing this. Right now.” Most paladins inspire with sermons and man-to-man appeals to integrity. Sargaso has a tendency to all but gang-press his recruits and doesn’t even realize this about himself, his vision is so tunneled and will so extreme when provoked as Xersom has done.
Emilia had never met this man babbling away to her husband before, but she was in a playful mood on this evening. Standing behind the man the little woman mimicked his actions behind him as he rambled and panic’d over the news revealed by Xersom to him. Silent as she moved with the chilled air of the sea, ever more chilled from her icy presence. Perhaps it was him being worked up from the information that cost him dearly in not noticing the air behind his very presence turning ever colder suddenly. After a show for her love, a miming of Sargo, the woman was bored with it. Reaching forward she moved to tap him on the shoulder with a digit that would transfer a bit of frost onto him with the physical contact, “Excuse me, Sir?” The voice of the small genasi was smooth like polished ice, yet held a sharp bitter twist like a snow brewing.
Xersom 's faux lips curled at one corner in a display of the amusement that the ancient felt, not only for Sargaso's sudden attempt to gang-press the former demon general into going off on an impromptu adventure to smite the siren of a mermaid, but also for the playful antics of his diminutive-statured ice-aligned wife who mimicked the panick and mannerisms. "I don't think it'll work quite like that-" After all, the creature did not want Zirael dead. This was his entertainment. He remained quiet, however, as Emi opted to tap Sargaso on the shouldeer.
Sargaso whips around with eel-fast reflexes to (try to) land a haymaker on Emilia’s face. Freeze frame and let us digress. Sargaso, thanks to a childhood dotted with frequent and extended famines, never grew into a very large man, but despite the lack of protein in his youth, his labor-intensive life conditioned his muscles to pack a lot of punch in very little fiber. As an adult, he’s afforded for himself multiple meals a day thanks to a colored ‘career’ as a day-laborer on the docks. He’s frequently picked first from the throngs of the marginally-employed thanks to the oldest resumé in history: a good reputation, and above average strength. What more, 14 hours of grueling physical work 6 days a week leaves little room for cooking, and he takes his meals at The Whaler’s Bar where pub brawls break out with gladiatorial frequency and intensity. All of this is to say that when it comes to haymakers, Sargaso packs a lot of heat. And so that calloused, salt-chapped fist soars through the air at the stranger (mermaid?! or so he feared) at his back! Hopefully the ice genasi avoids this, but whether or not the punch lands, Sargaso is quick to recognize his mistake and pull back his fist and stand down. “Sweet Selene’s submarine! Are you alright?” he asks, whether or not his punch landed. It’s a reflexive remark every bit as regretful as it is genuine. If Xersom and Emilia haven’t already retaliated by now, he’ll apologize profusely and try to ‘help’ aka fuss.
Emilia partakes in this moment of freeze frame. The woman although ghostly in her appearance from the ever lack of color to her skin-and-bone frame spends nearly every waking moment of her life doing tasks that one her size should not be capable of. Before the sun rises she is up to run not only her farm in Gualon, but tend to multiple farms scattered across the lands all the way up to a greenhouse in Frostmaw. These daily tasks of running a farm to delivering the goods from said business are not the only occupation the little ice-woman partakes in daily. Chasing children, triplets to be exact that were roughly over a year in age and half dragon. Needless to say the Genasi packs her own speed and strength with the tasks that she handles on the daily. But, unfreeze the frame back to the swift moving fist of Sargo. Emilia is not a ghost, thus his hand doesn’t pass through her face. Emilia is not human, thus doesn’t squish and stumble like a punching bag. Emilia is a Genasi made of the element of ice first and foremost. Those knuckles of his fist would strike into a solid, very solid, cheek as if he’d just punched a block of ice. Her face turned a gentle bit with the force in the motion, but otherwise the woman seemed barely phased. Had Xersom not just taken off to tend to those little buggers of theirs, Sargo would be dead. No playing around, dead by her husband’s hand. However, he has left and the ice woman is there, standing barefooted in the frozen sand. Ice? You bet. The moisture in the ground was turning into a solid as the chill of the woman spread away from her. Tilting her head to one side then the other a gentle popping sound could be heard, “Is that how one greets a Lady?”
Sargaso bites down to groan in pain against the back of his teeth as his knuckles collide against ice and slip just enough to keep his hand from fracturing. His joints pop in and out of place and the hand starts to swell rapidly. He’ll be fine in the long run, but right now is in a world of hurt. His initial apologies were only permissible in the flood of adrenaline, which now subsides and is replaced with throbbing pain (sobbing pain, if he were alone, but he’s in front of a total bonafide babe, so, he keeps it together). He bites down on his opposite fist, shaking his head tightly to Emilia but unable to speak for a moment. Deep inhale. Deep exhale. He finally finds his pinched voice and says, again, “I am so sorry. I didn’t… I thought you were a mermaid. I am…” Finally her uniquely pale look registers at the counter of recognition in the back of his mind and he guesses, “...Emilia?”
Emilia was rather intrigued that this man knew her name, after he’d smashed his fist into her face. Luckily, for his sake more so than anyone else’s there would be no mark left behind on her freckled flesh. While he was inhaling to conceal his throbbing world of hurt in his hand Em was running a hand over her cheek, rubbing it as if she was actually hurt. The sad look was lost with a sparkle in those ever blue eyes when finished talking. Ice-blue lips curled into a genuine smile as she took a half bow, as if she was some famous person that was being noticed. “The one and only,” spoken with a softer tone, like snow falling on a light wind. Looking over the male the Genasi tilted her head to the side with a brow partly raised, “And you are?”
Sargaso offers his good hand, which is his left hand, making the handshake awkward and clumsy. “Sargaso Mar. Joined The Compass a few months ago. Ansel recruited me, gave me a run down of members.” His eyes quickly roam over Emilia’s frame. Yep, as described. He eyes the snow and ice but politely refrains from comment. His left hand scratches his opposite brow as she glances at the ground, cheeks puffing slightly and deflating as he exhales, thoroughly embarrassed by his first introduction to Emilia. “So… that was your husband?” Small talk is insufferable now. The quest to kill mermaids delayed by the injury to his hand. Drowning away his embarrassment in ale sounds preferable to putzing his way out of this with idle chatter.
Emilia used her left hand to accept his hand, aiding in a slightly less clumsy handshake. However, her hand was cold to the point she transferred traces of frost onto his bare hand. A spark of light danced across those bright eyes, “Ansel? Compass?” Emilia knew what the compass was, of course. One of her good friends roped her into it when it first rose out of no-where. “I run with the same crew.” A faint flicker of a smile, “Ansel is an alright fella from what I have learned of him. Slight better company than Mr. Buzzed Foamstache over on the island,” A laugh like ice clinking glass left those blue lips before she followed his subject change, “Aye, that man whom left is indeed my husband. And you may find that mermaids are your least worries. He’ll kill you for hitting me.”
Sargaso glances towards the east, at ‘the island’ she presumes Emilia refers to. “Mr. Buzzed what?” He scratches the back of his neck, then rubs his day-stubble at the thought that he’s made a new enemy out of that creepy husband of hers. “Not if he doesn’t find out. It was an accident. Maybe it can be our secret accident? I’ll owe you one.”
Emilia tilted her head to the side, “I hide nothing from my husband. Your best bet to life with all parts intact is to find something to offer both him and myself that is useful enough to spare your life.” A small shrug as she fell back to the former questioned named, “Ah, right, right. He does have a real name, I suppose. What was it? He told me once, but he always has a foam mustache from his drinking when I see him.” Tapping her foot while in through the woman finally exclaimed his name, “Hudson! That is his name.”
Sargaso grimaces at Emilia’s reply. Great. Unreasonably blood-thirsty couple with little regard for mortal life = greatest enemies Sargaso has ever made, accidentally or otherwise. As Emilia searches her mind for Hudson’s name, the sailor racks his mind for escape plans, new cities to settle in, etc. etc. By the time Emilia exclaims Hudson’s name, the man is looking pretty gaunt and grim. “Oh. He’s my roommate.” Normally this unlikely coincidence would be met with a smile and greater enthusiasm, but unfortunately presently the sailor is too caught up in his own mortality. “Well.. I should get home… have uh… things to do.” 1. Pack essentials into a knapsack. 2. Run on the lam.
Emilia was, if he asked Ansel or Hudson, not only one pretty thing to look at, but rather more friendly than dangerous. The husband however, he was the more dangerous one. Watching the fear settle into his bones brought a laugh and a smile. “Hudson is your roommate?” Another laugh followed, “Well, since you should get home make sure to ask Mr. Buzzed Foamstache about me. He’ll keep you going for hours I am sure.” A shake of her head, “I won’t tell Xersom, yet. I’ll give you a chance to offer me something worthwhile first so that I can then keep you alive when it comes to Xersom finding out.” With a grin, “I’m part of the Compass, friends of Ansel’s and of Hudson’s so don’t think I can’t find you if you choose to be a wimp and run.”
Sargaso perks up at the notion that Hudson has hours worth of stories to tell about Emilia. While Emilia has surely never strayed from her husband, in Sargaso’s gutter mind, the only way Hudson has a lot to say about Emilia is if he lured her into his bed or vice versa. Hudson, the dog. The sailor’s brows jump at this totally erroneous assumption. Emilia’s second offer of striking a deal is met with genuine relief and a lazy smile. “Great. I’ll think of something. Put word in at Compass HQ.” It goes unspoken that this cloak-and-dagger method of communication is to avoid detection by a scarred, green-eyed, fleshy-masked hubby. His smile widens to a genuine farewell and he waves lazily. “I’ll be in touch. Take care, Emilia.” With one last head-to-toe appraisal, her turns south and drags the kayak behind him in the sand.