RP:Waltz for Venus

Summary: Lionel and Raphaline reminisce. Thoughts of war and freedom are joined by a backdrop of song and wine. Lionel continues to live primarily in the past, although his evening with Alvina weighs heavily on his mind. Raphaline inspires hope.

Xalious: Bardic Hunting Lodge

Raphaline :: On this chilly afternoon, as the sun hangs low among the mountain peaks, a song can be heard coming from the mountains. As a wander draws closer, their eyes upon the tree lines, the lodge will appear to those seeking solace. Spells seem to shimmer along the stone and wood as if to ward off any who would come here to do harm to the resident or her guests. A lodge, large in structure seems to almost appear between the trees, a swirl of smoke coming from the chimney. The closer you get the more you can pick up on the undertones of the song: enchanting, beguiling, inviting. The front door is not very ornate but made of solid wood with a large, iron handle that seems to unlock with one turn of it. Inside, Raphaline is sitting at her black, grand piano her eyes closed as she allows her hands to play over the keys. Instead of the normal, heavy leathers of travel, she wears a whimsical, muslin dress while her feet are bare, playing at the pedals on her instrument. Her wild curls which she has grown used to tying back while in Frostmaw are now freshly washed and spiraling down her back. It is obvious that this place is her safe place where she feels no need to be anyone than herself.

Lionel || Catal’s last prince requires extensive healing. His physical wounds, first tended by Raphaline and more recently by Alvina, are healing reasonably well. Residual scarring will be minimal; the prognosis is good. His emotional scarring is considerable. First, the battle. The loss of Briar and hundreds more. Then, the natural hardship which has followed. Now, the previous night with Alvina. It is all too much and the man’s desperate stubborn clings to hope can only take him so far. Chance has brought him down Xalious way with the horse he’s rode in on, but once he espies the pleasant lodge and its swirling smoke, remembrance tugs him toward it. “Stay,” he commands the horse, although his voice is cracked as he ties her to a tree. He feeds her, heartily, but she balks at his trembling hand. “Why the hell not?” he asks the air, sighing as he approaches the house. Musical notes, hauntingly familiar but he cannot seem to place them, compel Lionel closer and closer until he is knocking. He is dressed simply, in his usual blacks, and he is very clearly uncertain. He almost appears lost.

Raphaline never expects guests, but is not surprised by the simple knock. She removes her fingers from the keys and donning a smile, she rises from the bench and makes her way to the front door. With a simple twist, she opens it to reveal a broken man she has not seen in a few days. She can almost sense his pain, given she saw the loss given she was a part of the battle. It seems, like her, maybe he needs a moment away from the responsibilities of life, or better yet just people and their places in their life. Emerald eyes fill with warmth as she steps aside, still holding the door, and allows for him to step in. “Welcome to my home,” she says, gesturing for him to enter, “I have a bottle of elderberry wine in the kitchen if you’d like, and you are welcome to join me in the living room for a bit of music.” When he enters, the bard carefully shuts the door behind him before turning to return to the living room allowing him a bit of space to take in where he is.

Lionel isn’t sure how to respond at first, so a few seconds pass before he does. His lips quiver to acknowledge the woman’s kindness, but no words come out. Instead he cants his head, awkwardly, in an effort to at least offer modest appreciation. As he enters, his muscles stiffen even more so, and he clears his throat. “That would be nice,” he agrees, before blinking at himself. “Ah, and thanks.” For months, the man looked tired wherever he went; the rigors of Knight-Commander have that effect on people. Now he simply appears forlorn. He takes in the sights, nervously, and shakes a bit as he continues inward. “I was in the area,” he explains, needlessly. “Tell me about that song you were playing. I recognize it… but I don’t know why.”

Raphaline catches his tone of voice so she pauses in her step and turns to view the knight over her shoulder. She spots the tremor to his voice and body, so rather than leave him to his own devices, she moves closer to him once more. A calloused hand moves to gently press against his shoulder as she answers him, “I am not sure. You may have heard me playing it sometime before. I wrote it to inspire a sense of familiarity in people when they hear it to help bring them comfort.” She nods towards the kitchen as she finishes speaking, “But, I can play you some more of it after we get you something to drink m’dear. Come along, this is a place for resting and rejuvenation. Speak whatever you need at any point, and stay for as long as you need. The spells on this place will remember you and allow you to come and go as you please.” The bard removes her hand from his shoulder and moves towards the kitchen, humming the song she had just been playing as she finds two crystal glasses and uncorks the wine, pouring a decent amount into both glasses.

Lionel is surprised by the hand, but composes himself in acceptance of it. His muscles are already tense; he won’t be getting any tenser. Instead, he pictures himself in a serene and verdant forest to calm his breaths -- though he quickly realizes, he is in fact in a pleasing environment as-is. No mental gymnastics necessary. With his minor epiphany, Lionel is able to respond positively to the hand, and relaxes slightly. Soon, he will follow Raphaline toward the kitchen, his expression only changing from one of total sorrow to something vaguely resembling gratefulness. “Nostalgia in music form, eh?” He’s comfortable enough now to speak a bit more plainly, it would seem. “I guess it works. Is that, um… does your magic help instill these feelings? Or is it purely the songwriting? Or is songwriting magic in and of itself?” What the heck are you even asking the poor lady, Lionel? He shakes his head at his own ridiculousness. “Um, sorry. Dumb question, probably.” Anything to take his mind off of things he ought to be confronting.

Raphaline turns to offer him one of the glasses as she answers his question first with a soft chuckle and then a real answer. “Both. Magic can only enhance, but it takes a real gift for song writing and reading people to know what kind of melodies might inspire in people nostalgia. I’ve spent a hundred years or so getting to know people and seeing what kind of music usually makes them relive their favorite moments. What little magic I might use is merely to encourage the feeling.” She never wanted to create feelings, it seemed to much like coercion but to inspire and encourage, now that is a lovely sight to behold. Shrugging, she lifts her glass to her lips and gingerly sips at the sweet wine as she moves towards the wicker table and chairs in the bay window to sit. “I could talk for days about magic and what I have learned it about it but, you are here and I am here to listen Lionel.” She gestures to the opposite chair as she settles back into her, hair falling over her shoulders as she sips at the wine again.

Lionel || As glass is offered, Lionel sips, some of his tension fading away at the explanation. Lionel is enough a man of action that it seems explanations help to heal him. Understanding is a matter of utmost importance; to learn is to ease one’s mind. He would say something in earnest, too, were Raphaline not so quick to jostle his guard. “Ah,” he answers plainly instead, heading toward the suggested chair and taking a seat. It’s a lovely setting, by any accord, but it seems unlikely any warmth of light will cast much joy upon the man’s countenance today. In fact, a bit of tension returns from its fade at the prompting. But that’s all for the better. Lionel has to face this. “Didn’t realize that was how this worked. You probably said something to that effect at some point, though. Selective memory, maybe. I’m not very good at talking about myself. Ironic, maybe. I can certainly talk.” Suddenly conscientious of this, he takes another hurried sip. “Everything’s gone upside-down again. I’m used to upside-down. Accustomed to it. Grimdark thing to say, but it’s true. And yet this time it all seems to sting so much more.”

Raphaline downs a bit more wine before she leans across the table, her features becoming a bit more serious as her thoughts collect and construct into her next sentence. Her timbre is still musical, but something deeper and older seems to ring among the musical notes as she says, “Many people who come here are running from something. Usually their life which has turned upside-down in a manner with which they cannot seem to handle alone.” The bard folds her hands together as she sets them a top the table, her gaze shifting to gaze at the callouses that speckle themselves along her fingertips. “That includes me. So, Lionel, what are you running from in Frostmaw?” There is tenderness in her gaze as she looks up at him, canting her head to the side as she studies his features for an answer of sorts. She notices the lines, the dark hues beneath tired eyes and wonders what else could be keeping him awake at night. “I promise, you share what you are running from and I will do much the same. It would be unfair of me to ask you to unburden your troubles when I have my own I am trying to hide from you.” She unfolds her hand and rests them, one on each side, of the crystal glass before taking a hold of it again, downing the liquid and then rising to retrieve the bottle.

Lionel audibly gasps at the question. He’s genuinely taken aback by it. He places his glass down at the conclusion of the bard’s words and looks straight back at her. The tiredness is there, the loneliness is there, the remorse is there in spades, but he’s attentive, studious. Thoughtful. “Paradoxically, it could be said that Frostmaw’s the only time I -haven’t- run,” he begins, his own tone now richer with slight cynical notes gracing an otherwise-introspective. “I first came to Lithrydel while I was still a boy. I was quickly famed for slaying unsavories with a sword that did most of the work for me. I survived as much from luck as skill, if not more so, and the fights got bigger. I ran toward them, and in so running, I ran wayward of my own inadequacies. I had a wife. Several years my elder. Beautiful. Kind.” He reaches for that glass again and downs half its contents. “Killed in the Second Immortal War.” He’s only just placed that glass down again, but it’s back up to his lips, and he speaks into it, steaming the cup with his breath. “Elazul possessed my body but left my mind intact. She was heavily with child. Twins, even.” His eyes are a million leagues away, as if staring into the sun. “And then she was gone.” The wine is, too. “After that, I couldn’t stay. The war ended, but… I just couldn’t stay. So I left. Back to Catal, where I’d run as a child. You knew that part already. I led a resistance. Restored the throne. Slew Tyr. Happy ending, ‘til it wasn’t. So I ran…” He chuckles mirthlessly. “...back through dark spaces, back to Lithrydel, back to the rest of it. I’d been gone nearly eight years. Things changed. What few of my allies still drew breath after the end of that war, well, they’d mostly left, too. Greener pastures, maybe.” He pauses. “Hopefully.” He peers to Raphaline now, still through the stained glass goblet. “I came here to die. I felt atonement was mandatory. People read books and said, ‘hark, there’s the Hero of Hellfire. There he is. A good man.’” He sneers. “Hellfire. It’s apt.” His azure eyes shut and he leans back into the chair, withdrawing the glass. “I figured someone would finally ax that luck spell I had going on. Instead, I ran into a rebel queen. Hildegarde was… is… the striking image of a fellow I used to fight alongside. Donovan. If you’d told me Donovan Keane was dead, it’d make more sense. Puzzlingly, he’s one of the few who lived. She’s got a fierceness to her. I decided to follow her. And so, in Frostmaw, in a sense, I stopped running. And yet… you aren’t wrong. Because I still mask this pain nearly every waking minute of my life.”

Raphaline listens attentively, at no point does she interrupt him or move her gaze from the warrior as he speaks. Her glass, still half full sits untouched before her until he finishes his own and she carefully slides the glass over to him as he speaks. To say her heart breaks with each bit of new knowledge about him would do a disservice to the surge of emotions that seem to accumulate within her as she sees all the effects of the past etch their way across his handsome features. When he begins to conclude his story, the bard makes up her mind about her next choice of action. Quietly, she pushes back the wicker chair, still watching him as she rises to her full height and moves to his side of the table. With only a moments worth of hesitation, she leans down and embraces the warrior in the same manner as she has in the past except this time she has both her arms to comfort him with. Whether he lets her or not, she still chooses to speak at that moment voicing in a warm voice, “No matter what mistakes you have made in this life Lionel, they are not a debt that must be paid with your life.” She pauses, her lips pursing together as she forms her next words carefully, “You have suffered greatly in your time, and most undeservedly but some day out of love for yourself, you will have to find a way to forgive yourself for all of the transgressions you hold against yourself because you deserve that much, to be forgiven and allowed to be free.”

Lionel is aware of at least some of what Raphaline feels stirring within her. A warrior’s attunement of the senses compels a man to situation readiness -- and, in turn, recognition of a person’s concern. Then again, he’s no mind-reader. Lionel never would have predicted Raphaline’s forwardness -- a curious failure in perception, considering she’s been open with him before. Thus, the rigors of a man who has spent too much of his life living from within. Lionel does not move to prevent the woman’s full-fledged hug, although his heart slows, not speeds, from the warmth of human (or, perhaps should it be said, half-elven) touch. His muscles relax again, quietly, methodically. The rigidness in his shoulders gives way to small relief. Absentmindedly, he wraps his lower left arm about Raphaline’s own, and then he pats it, because he doesn’t know what to do, because he is Lionel. “Briar’s death feels like another Alexia. I’ve lost count. I see my late wife perish every time. I sent five hundred seventy-six Alexias to die. I know that’s not true, of course, but it doesn’t have to be. I tell myself, ‘they slowed Macon’s advance. They curbed his power. Who knows what could have happened otherwise?’” He reaches for the glass that’s been slid before him, grasps it, but then retracts. “That’s what I tell myself.”

Raphaline remains only long enough for him to calm before she moves to pull away from him. Her own heart is racing, her own memories tugging at her mind for attention; not yet she tells them. Her arms slides out of his hand until he is only left with her fingertips gingerly touching his own. “You have never forgiven yourself for her disappearance, at the root of all this, that is the one thing you cannot let go of, can you?” The bard gently sighs, her hand removing his as she moves once more back to her own seat, reaching for the bottle of wine and pouring herself another glass in his empty one. She twirls the crystal glass between her fingers a few times, watching the purple liquid dance before she lifts the glass to her lips and tips all the liquid back. There, the sweetness sinks into her being and she finds her steady place to stand once more. As the glass is set back town with a clink, she centers her emerald gaze once more on him, studying with a careful eye before asking one final question, “What now do you truly want as just Lionel?”

Lionel hears the word ‘disappearance’ and enjoys it, albeit too briefly. The horror itself, the action taken, through his hands, his blade, by a Dark Immortal’s will, is ever-vivid. It’s shaking him, snaking around him, strangling him internally. “I haven’t,” he concedes her point -- he has never forgiven herself for Alexia Isis’... ‘disappearance.’ He places his hand to his forehead as Raphaline returns to her seat. “World peace.” He laughs, stiffly. Evade, evade, evade. “Actually… it’s true. With leaders like the queen, who knows, maybe someday if we all work hard enough it can happen. I’ve dedicated my life to ending threats like the Dark Immortals wherever they begin. But…” Something catches in his throat and he stutters and pauses. “Ah, I never know how to answer that question. I want peace, too. I want a home. It’s a strange thing to say, maybe, but I’ve never known what that means. I haven’t the vaguest, damnedest, most elusive clue what that means.” He reaches for what’s left of Raphaline’s original glass of wine and takes a small sip before placing it back down. Catal’s last prince examines the woman now almost as if for the very first time. He seems interested in her expression. He has sensed her racing heart. “Forget all that.” His tone is decisive. “Table it for now.” Incidentally, his hand slides to the table set between them. “I want to know what -you- want. I want to know about -you.- I’ve just told you something I wouldn’t even let the scribes jot down after the war with Khasad. Now I want to hear -your- memories.” He leans forth lightly. “Please.”

Raphaline cannot deny the man a reprieve from his thoughts, even if she knows her memories will be a distraction to him. Somewhere, in the depth of her heart, she will always grant someone the kindness of using her for a distraction from the past. The smile that comes to her lips is faint, barely a half smile as she reaches for the bottle and tips more of the wine into the crystal glass. What is there for her to say? Does she know what she wants? Yes and no. She begins the conversation with a, “I did promise to share something if you did, and it would only be fair.” Those emerald eyes, pools of so many thoughts, looks up to meet with his azure gaze. Such strength, such sadness they both carried. So she reaches across the table with her left hand as if she might take a hold of his, but instead she turns her hand over, revealing the old scar on her wrist. “I always desire to be free. When you have been a slave even for a short period of time, freedom is one thing you put before all else. It is at the core of every desire you will ever have after an experience like that, but it will also be your undoing.” She turns her hand back over and allows for the briefest of moments for their fingers to touch before she withdraws them once more. “The more the years have moved on though, the less I see the wildness and freedom as the most desirably, most likely because in such constant movement, loneliness is your only companion. But that is the life of someone who travels. No one stays in your life long, no one wants to accept that part of yourself.” She could remember the same sort of loneliness in her mother who too could not stay rooted anywhere and because of that, never really set up anything stable when it came to purpose or people. “I think after so many years of trying to find something stable in someone, be it family, friends or otherwise, I think I just want to have a stable purpose to my life again.” A path she could see, a path she could walk and a path she could eventually find an ending to as well.

Lionel || Raphaline’s tale turns a singular page in Lionel’s life; as she speaks, this is no longer about him running away. This becomes something else, something greater -- his caring, deeply. As a rule, Lionel does care. If he didn’t, he would not have been forged, however haphazardly, in his own flawed way, into heroism. Yet few are they who compel in him a more personal, personable caring. Raphaline’s scar, and the like-minded truth of two travelers who can recognize this longing, this incompletion, this goal… well, it’s almost more than he can take. It is in this very moment that Lionel subconsciously decides that Raphaline is a very important aspect of his life. “I’m sorry someone did that to you.” His azure eyes flicker to her upturned palm for a shadow of a second. His voice is resolute as if tinged in brave anger at whoever or whatever harmed her so. His torture at Khasad’s bidding reverberates, yet only briefly. The myriad of scars on Lionel’s back do not seem relevant in this moment of altruistic compassion. What matters is that Raphaline endured and Raphaline survived. Does she sing so well because of all the tumult she harbors from such perilous times? Or was it indeed her very singing what compelled her capture? Questions too insensitive, Lionel decides. Instead, he smiles. “I’m glad you’re free. I don’t know much about stability.” He might know nothing. “But I hope you find it. Seems… like a nice thing to have.”

Raphaline she shakes her head, no, no apologies are needed for this confession. “It happened, more than once but it taught me a strong lesson about how and where to find the strength within myself. I rise, everyday from the ashes, I forgive and I seek to be a light for those who are captured by the shadow of life.” She looks at him with this knowing look as if to say, here, this is the reason I founded this house but also why I chose to step into your life and be steadfast in my resolution to help you. “Kindness was for so long absent in my life, but I will not allow it to corrupt me, to cost me my own light. This is how I move forward, each day, even in the harshest, most tumultuous moments.” To the lovely thought of her finding stability, the bard chuckles softly, her right hand pressing the back of it to her lips to try and stifle it. “Maybe. I’ve lived so long knee deep in chaos that it seems almost obscene to try and imagine a life without it. And maybe, life cannot be lived without it but,” she pauses to sigh deeply, a smile grand and hopeful crosses her feature as her right hand draws through her curls, “maybe someday, life will deem me ready for an extended hand and a true understanding of who I am.” At that moment, her mind creates an image, but with a brisk shake, she tosses that away. “Let us try our hand at something a bit lighter, less traumatic than the dark past that has created us. Let us talk of something more. Let us speak of hope. Where is your hope Lionel?” She pours a bit more wine in both glasses before she rises, glass in one hand and bottle in the other. “Come, you think on my question and I shall show you what hope can sound like when you really listen.” She props her right arm out for him to take as she leads them to her most beloved piano.

Lionel’s hope is the hope for a free and peaceful Lithrydel, the closest thing to a home he will ever know. But more than that, the object of his desire -- his first desire in ten years since his wife’s terrible end! -- is a woman he should not love. Not only because he has never trusted himself -to- love, and -with- love, and -for- love, but because she is a new mother who stands alongside the father. As far as Lionel is aware, their standing is good and true and just, too, even if in truth it’s a fair bit shakier. It is precisely this sort of drama Lionel has been fortunate to avoid for so very long, but life has a way of catching up to us all. “My hope,” he repeats, catching his fresh-poured glass as she whisks him wayward, but then he glances off contemplatively and shows gladness at her invitation. Once they’ve arrived at her piano, he will stand, perhaps with her arm still in his, and he will listen. “Tell me my hope,” he finishes his reply. It’s a daring tone. It’s almost like a challenge. Let Raphaline show him the hope she so regales. Let it blanket him, perhaps to wash away some pain of heartbreak and love that cannot be.

Raphaline quirks a brow in curious interest to the challenge, but rather than rebuff him for such a request she merely slips her arm free of his and seats herself at the piano. Both wine bottle and glass are set a top the lid of the piano while the bard places her hands precariously above the keys. For a moment it looks like she is only studying the keys, but closer observation would note her deep, calming breaths and her emerald eyes closed to the world around her. Internally she stills her mind, ridding it of all her own thoughts and feelings and instead focusing on him. It is then that her emerald eyes open and her hands fly over the keys as if in a wild frenzy inspired by what she believes is the hope he needs. The melody rings strong and true, but rather than it move with the lulls of something romantic, drawing upon obtaining the love we desire, it instead speaks of something deeper and much more lasting—understanding. Her choice melody derives from a place where all people desire to be understood deeply for who they are not in spite of their flaws but because they are flawed and knowingly acknowledging such things. And it is only then with such understanding can unconditional love occur between two people. That is the hope that she hopes she can give him as she parts her lips and elven words slip from them, joining in a marriage of piano and vocal prowess to reveal a raw but strong and deeply wrought melody. When the song comes to its end, the bard leaves the song to echo through the chambers of the house until all becomes silent and she waits for a response from him.

Lionel is entranced by Raphaline’s poise. With little knowledge of the craft, it has always seemed rather curious to the Catalian, but she makes it seem downright mystical. It is perhaps cliche, but the man is slowly consumed by the woman’s melodic writing, and in turn, he does indeed feel a fresh, rich comprehension. It is as these notes of Raphaline’s soar that Lionel, too, seems to rise, an open-hearted reaction to the action that she takes. Delighting in the noise, his foot begins to affirm, tapping the floor in quiet, harmonious unison. His smile does not deepen, nor must it; for instead it merely fulfills with greater genuinity. Compassion, kindness, clarity, these things will themselves upon the man, all in a surge, but in a brilliant, hopeful surge that refines his willpower into something more solid again at a time he needs this most. Once she sings, the circle of song feels complete, as if he has been transposed, rearranged, into a stronger self. Then it ends, and he is cleanly and clearly a princely image. Lionel can only lift his glass and swallow its contents to catch his breath. “Someone once told me understanding is a three-edged sword,” he remarks. “I never knew what that meant. I still don’t. But I’m beginning to wonder if one of those edges is verse and anthem and ballad. I’ve found hope.” He looks at her, bewildered.

Raphaline allows her hands to come to a rest a top the keys as she finds her own stable ground once more. When playing in such an ecstasy and wild release it always takes her a moment to regain her thoughts and remember where and with whom she might be with at the time. Her thoughts filter in and his words, oh his words echo across her senses in such a manner that her emerald eyes flicker to him in earnest. She peers upon him with a renewed sense of observation as her lips form into a soft smile as she answers, “Then, as a bard and friend, I have done my best.” She reaches for her own glass and holds it up in salute to the knight before tipping the lip of the crystal her own lips and downing a bit of wine before finding herself falling into a fall of smiles and silver-belled laughter. Joy it seems, has risen her own spirits as well. “Why do you look so bewildered?” She finally finds a way to inquire with him as she calms her bits of echoing joy and fills the glass and his if he wants with more wine. “I find that maybe I should be filled with pride for rendering you so speechless and full of wonder. I guess my reputation is not just a gaggle of whispers and gossips. It may be more true than I originally gave myself credit for.” She moves down the bench just enough to provide room for another and pats the open seat with her free hand, inviting him to enter the terrain of the bardic.

Lionel is caught-up in contagious jubilation. Raphaline’s tipped glass is met with his own glass tipped. Raphaline’s laughter is met with his own laughing answer. Raphaline’s joy is met and welcomed. He -does- want more wine; he gladly accepts. “I look bewildered, lass, because I am bewildered,” he says, and the latter half of his sentence is spoken with good-natured bafflement. “Revel in the pride. It’s not often I’m speechless, and rarer still for it to be congenial.” He’ll sip his wine as he settles beside her, but then he’ll widen his eyes at all these keys. His hands no longer shake, thanks to the conversation and certainly the song, but there is an obvious trepidation in tandem with a sense of overwhelming. “To learn where to put one’s hands…” He speaks plainly, a bit dumbly, but his jaw is slack. “Swords are easier than this.”

Raphaline sips at her own wine as she watches him seat himself and gaze down at her beloved piano. It seems, like most non-musically inclined, the piano is always the most overwhelming of instruments to gaze upon. “Well, I have little clue as to how to handle a sword, so I could say much the same thing in return.” Chuckling, she downs the rest of her glass, sets the crystal a top the piano and wipes at the corners of her lips. Gently, the bard nudges him with her free right hand, “No need to call me lass. I, with a lot of assumption, am pretty sure I am more than merely a lass to you Lionel.” Another small chuckle as she turns to face the piano, looking upon it with the look of a loving parent as her hands glide over the ivory and black keys. “This piano has been with me longer than any lover I’ve had. True and steady, it is always willing to accept whatever I bring to the table.” With a small shake of her head she withdraws her hands, setting them in her lap as she peers from behind long lashes and fiery curls at the warrior, “I imagine battle and the sword may have the same place in your heart.”

Lionel has never been one to realize when the word ‘lass’ leaves his lips; it’s ingrained, it’s cultural, it’s positively Catalian. It is the second time he grins like an idiot this passage -- the first, of course, is Raphaline’s counter to his sword comment. Lionel reaches out to the piano at her prompting words, delicately placing his left index finger upon G-Flat. The sound is light, airy, and slight, for the man does not quite know what he is doing. But when he puts his ring finger to a nearby key, two sounds blend and become minor melody. Lionel appears awestruck, that he should be so fortunate as to take two fingers and create. “It’s a rare thing, being the creator with a sword. Too often, I must destroy. I do so for the betterment of those around me, or because, quite simply, something is trying to kill me, but this…” He stares into the piano, tilting his ring finger toward another key, a softer key. “This is gorgeous.” He says it shocked.

Raphaline is quite happy to be able to share so freely one of her most precious and probably one of her most personal things in her life. Her piano has seen melodies created across decades and places in her life, and now, as she watches his features change into those of pure joy, she cannot resist the feeling of joy that overcomes her. With a tender touch, she reaches for the hand playing and takes a hold of it with her own and moves it a bit further down so it extends across her body. “I want you to play this key and this one together.” The keys are in the lower range towards the left side of the piano. “When you hear me hit this key,” she says as she hits a higher A on the right side of the piano, “Hit one just left of your ring finger along with the other two, alright?” She reaches out, her arm crossing a bit across the front of him while the left finds a place between his hand her right hand as she counts down and then plays. She sticks to a few simple notes of the melody, but, if she finds him relaxing into the exercise, she allows her fingers travel a bit more, flittering around and near his in a bit of a show-off moment. All the while, her features display a relaxed but jovial manner that has not touched her features in quite a long time.

Lionel does as bid. In objective, he feels satisfied; in mission, he is pleased. Yet this is more than mere mission. This is a wondrous invention. He relaxes into the exercise, giving Raphaline clearance to embellish, and in embellishing, Lionel is impressed. And, in that impression, he looks to her in thirst for knowledge and finds instead a half-elf with a positively singular presence. “You seem to be enjoying this, too,” he comments, but he’s still following along, helping in his meager way to craft a masterwork.

Raphaline does not fault him whatever tiny mistakes he makes in rhythm—he is no master. Instead, she playfully nudges his hands when he misses a beat or note, looking up to him in a manner with which is meant to encourage him to continue rather than to abandon the music. She quips back, “Oh I do, but it is the company that makes this moment even more splendid.” Another playful nudge, but this time she bumps him with her shoulder as she finishes their simple melody with one last flourish. “Well now, what are we do with ourselves Lionel?” Her hands slip from the keys to rest in her lap once more as she turns, her full gaze upon him as she makes her aforementioned inquiry.

Lionel is suitably encouraged. Raphaline is an expert in this, it seems, and it is suddenly no small wonder to the man that she is so adept at bringing light to those around her. If he were at the bay window now, he would not appear vexed, nor hexed; he’d be bathed in warm glow and glad for it. Then she has bumped him, and he hardly seems to notice, which is not to say this is a bad thing, but rather it is an uncommon thing for Lionel not to tense. At her inquiry, he is lost in the heat of the moment and for a heartbeat he is tempted to ask her to dance. Shutters close in his mind’s eye as he feels a certain pang in his chest. Not for the lost, not for Alexia or Briar or all the rest he feels he’s failed, but for… her. It is not delicate. It is not decent. It is not something the man can even understand. For all the understanding Raphaline’s song has instilled in him, love is its own language, and right now, his heart beats ‘Alvina.’ He must look the fool, sitting there viewing his benefactor as she views him back happily. He’s in love with someone who cannot be his, but his spirit seems convinced that he is hers. And it is a crush of guilt which clings to Lionel now, as if simple friendly discourse is worth fretting over. He must quickly recover, lest Raphaline wonder. Lest her happiness turn to confusion. He does not want that. Not after all she has done for him. She is very attractive, too, and this is the wine talking, or is it? Utterly incongruous, this entire subject matter. Alvina. “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” he returns. He takes a deep, merry breath and smiles further. Rising from his seat, he offers the woman a hand, and then he leads them to wander off a tad. “I’m… ah.” A save. A thought, brought to the surface. “It’s a dour note, but tomorrow evening, I’m hosting a funeral for the fallen. All are welcome.” His azure gaze seems to focus on her even more. “It would be delightful if you attended. Sang, if you would. Anything you could do to help. I’d appreciate it.”

Raphaline notices the change, but rather than pry she allows him the space to seek out his own feelings and discover how he feels about them. Instead, when that hand is offered to her she slips her own hand into his with ease as she rises from the bench, her muslin dress swimming about her as if clouds curve against her tall, but curvaceous form. “I will come and sing and lift spirits as I have done in the past. Funerals are not unfamiliar, and if I can lift the spirits of those of a city of which has welcomed me over and over, I cannot say no.” Grinning, she slips her free hand to the mirroring shoulder of his. “How about a dance? I have just earned back the use of both my arms and I feel it is only right to allow my body the enjoyment of a dance, and even more so with a particularly handsome partner.” Playfully, the bard winks at the knight as her left hand slips to shoulder while her right takes a hold of his. “A simple dance, I will hum the melody so you can keep beat with me a bit better.” She presses her lips together as her throat begins to hum something similar to a waltz, leaving him room to lead without worrying about stepping upon her bare feet.

Lionel nods, gratified. “Thank you. Although, it would seem there is never any reason for me to say so. You really do care to help others as best you can. And your best is -considerable.-” It’s serendipity that Raphaline should offer dance when the thought has only just flittered through and past the man’s mind. He cannot deny such happenstance. “In celebration of your arms,” he jests, before adding, “or perhaps, the elegant way in which you soothe.” Lionel, in turn, leads, as their dance takes them through simple but amiable steps. He beams at their joint success; she’s very, very good at giving him the necessary know-how to carry forward. He even adds in a little bit of zest to his motions as she continues -- not too much to throw either of them, but an ornamentation with which to accentuate the jig. As they finish, he grins full-on.

Raphaline beams with an openness that even for her is rare. When the dance comes to an end, she is a bit disappointed to be honest to be letting him go so quickly. So she lingers for only a second more before she loosens her grip upon shoulder and hand and allows him to step away from her. Her gaze rests upon him as she allows silence to fall between for the smallest of moments. “Will you be staying the night?” She finally prompts after such time. Her gaze flickers to the large, spiraling stairwell that lead upward. “I have plenty of guest rooms, and it has grown late. It is not safe to be traveling through the mountains when the sun is not at its fullest height.” Part of her wants the company, but part of her can respect whatever decision he makes either way. At such an offer, she decides to step back just enough to allow him his space once more.

Lionel is tempted to stay. Raphaline’s concerns are warranted; Xalious is no easy ride at this hour. Fiends, creatures, bandits, anarchists -- they’re all so plentiful and Lionel is only one man. His consideration is plainly evident upon his face, adding another layer of momentary silence. “I would be grateful.” He leaves it for a couple of seconds but alas he must follow through with more. “But I can’t. So many preparations for tomorrow. I need a very early start and closer to the city than this.” Also, he is an emotional maelstrom at the thought of staying here with her. He is still haunted by Alvina’s kiss, and even a guest room feels out-of-phase. If it is folly, then it will not be the first time Lionel O’Connor has expressed folly. “Plus, I have a kitten now. I know, I know -- weird, right? But I do. And she is very demanding. So I’d best be safe getting back to Síocháin!” He forces a laugh, not because it is false, but because he is somewhat nervous. “You have helped me so brilliantly today in the span of just a few scant hours. I can’t repay you, but I’ll be happy to give you my company again, and soon.”

Raphaline notices the nerves, so to calm as much, she moves to embrace the warrior one last time before he leaves. “I would have accepted a no very easily, but, be careful on your trek, alright?” She embraces him warmly for a few moments before she steps back, hands clasped before her. “But, I shall hold you to such an offer though Lionel. I am not a girl of a whimsical and coy nature, I will be prompt about such a visit to your home and those quite enjoyable dwarves.” She dons such a statement with her infamous grin as she moves to slip a hand in the crook of his left elbow while she nods towards her foray. “Come, before it grows so dark and I worry all night about your safety. Expect me tomorrow at the funeral, dressed appropriately. And expect I inquire about your safe return up there as well, now.” She leads them to the front door, and with her free hand upon the iron handle, she releases her hold on his elbow and turns to him, “Ride safe, stay out of trouble and I shall see you tomorrow.” Out of playful ploy, the bard steals a quick upon the warrior’s cheek before ushering him out into the cold highlands.