RP:What A Night
Summary: Several separate conversations speak of various loves lost and hopes regained in Frostmaw Tavern. Laezila seeks Krice, Lita and Anson converse, and Lionel and Raphaline get downright philosophical toward one-another. Even Xersom appears, although it doesn't keep Lionel around for long.
Frostmaw Tavern
Raphaline is worried about the knight, so she does follow despite the fact she is none of the aforementioned men. Once at the tavern, she removes her white gloves and dusts back her hood, her gaze moving all those gathered at the tables and bar counter. She separates from Lionel for a brief moment so she could approach the bar and place an order for Drargon's strongest brew in two, large mugs. The retired warrior raises a brow to the request, so she nods silently back towards Lionel. Understanding flashes across his features, so he steps to gather the mugs and pour the ale before returning and offering to the bard. With both mugs in hand, she returns to Lionel wherever he is sitting.
Lionel and Raphaline are only the first to enter. A large gathering of white-clad soldiers and mourning townsfolk bustle in all in a hurry, all thirsty after so many tears. The woman’s order is heard and processed but Drargon himself is sighing at this sight unfolding. Dozens of men and women are right behind the duo, sweeping loudness across the hall and colliding roughly in search of seating arrangements. “Hell’s bells,” Lionel says with a whistle, daring to claim a table and two chairs from the rush of denizens. Despite lacking the Knight-Commander’s badge of office, there is still enough respect for Lionel here in Frostmaw that none seem to trouble him with challenge. Thus, Raphaline’s seat is reserved, and there shan’t be any bloodied noses or jaws here tonight. A good end to a sad state of affairs. “Thanks.” He sips. “Beliefs on the afterlife. Everyone’s got ‘em. What are yours?”
Raphaline sets the mugs down on the table and happily delves into her mug as soon as she sits. Her emerald eyes rove over the many people, soldier and villager alike, who enter and order and drink heartily. Not one to be bothered by large crowds, she turns her attention once more to her companion with an answer to his question. “Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it. Maybe from living too much in the now, but, I’m not afraid of the end. I hope that there might be a pleasant place to go afterwards but, I won’t hinge all my happiness on it though. And yours?” Now with a moment to drink, she really lifts that mug and downs a bit of the hard ale. It burns its way down her throat, warming her at the pit of her stomach.
Lita had turned her story into a script to discourage people from asking questions. She didn't like thinking about it, let alone talking about it and nevermind sharing it with people she had tried to stab during previous meetings. Clearly she was a whole lot of not crazy. She was grateful the serving girl brought their drinks just then. Might have saved her from needing to clean her dagger later. The whiskey helped. She took her mug of hard cider and lifted it for a drink. She rolled her eyes, not entirely sarcastically, as a little smile reached her lips. "That's not how it works. You can't just decide that you're suddenly a part of someone's life." Maybe she -was- the crazy one. How much whiskey were they putting in these drinks? "Do you know how I met my wife? Ex-wife?" She corrected herself but wasn't sure even that was correct anymore. Who knew. She continued anyway. "She shot me. With an arrow. Right through the thigh. It might have been by accident. Not sure. We got in a yelling match, arguing about which of us was the bigger idiot." The point was it was a memory, a reason to be in each other's lives. Maybe she had that with Emilia too, in a way. She'd threatened to stab the woman, after all. Not in so many words maybe but it had happened. "The point is, those relationships, if they happen at all, take time. And if you keep calling me 'Puppet' you're gonna lose a lot of that time real quick." That last part might have been playful. She'd glance over her shoulder as Raphaline and Lionel entered. She was still waiting. She hated the waiting. Anson at least got a smile and a wave as he made that trek to a vacant seat.
Anson had caught the wave from Lita out of the corner of his eye. It made him warm as the smile spread across her lips which caused the own corner of his mouth to tug into a smirk. Being a bit of a goof with her, he had blew a kiss in her direction only before one of the new inhabiters took over the view.
Emilia might be the crazy one, yet who could really say which one was more crazy between the pair sitting at the table. The rum was taken and like a drunken man downed in one go about, just as Raphaline and Lionel entered the tavern. The empty was sat on the table as the Genasi looked directly into the eyes of the vampire, “That is the funny part, Lita~dear, that is exactly how it works. You just at some point for some reason choose that you like that some other being and say to yourself ‘hey i like that one’ and then like magic you are a part of their life. Some blossom in very pretty things and others wither and die, but that is all on how one caters to it. Never did I say over night, but now I have made up my mind, even if yours is still swirling, that ‘i like this one’ and now you will be apart of my life and in time we shall see how that goes.” Maybe she was drunk off the rum, most likely. She smirked and grinned at the other before waving her little frozen fingers her way as she slid from the booth. “Thank you for the Rum, but I have other things to tend to. Take care of yourself, Lita.” Shoving herself away from the table she ventured toward the exit, it was starting to get crowded in here.
Lionel appears to have reached an impasse. It’s rare, hearing anyone offer such response to the question. Yet this is not the culprit for his awkward bite-of-the-lip. “That’s usually my line,” he speaks, wryly. “I haven’t given it much thought, either. You’d think I would, all things considered. Death follows everywhere I waltz -- and other assorted melodramatic line deliveries. But… I don’t. I hope they’re somewhere nice.” Catal’s last prince chugs a bit of his drink, then clarifies, stammering. “The Frostmawians, I mean. -And- the Larketians. And… Briar Ku Risu. You know, there’s the damned thing of it. I really didn’t know a devil’s pass about that woman before she was assigned my aide-de-camp. Oh, I tried inquiring. But I’m terrible at it.” Another sip. “Talking, I mean. Just dreadful. That speech, for example. I don’t know. Four out of ten.” Lita’s glance does not go unnoticed, although several burly figures step between the tables, shadowing the shared vantage point momentarily. When the soldiers pass, the Catalian is reaching for a nearby pretzel.
Lita had not yet decided whether she liked Emilia or not. The ice woman was still neutral, in her book. She wrinkled her nose a little at the woman's words but she lifted a hand and wriggled her fingers in a wave when she rose to leave, turning to watch her exit from the tavern. Turning back in her seat to face the table she sighed and after a moment redirected her gaze towards Anson. She waved him closer, to join her at her table if he wished.
Raphaline is actually surprised as well, most people are pretty steadfast and minds made up on the concept of death and their feelings about their own impending death. Chuckling, the bard shakes her head, “I could say the same about myself, Sir Lion. This isn’t my first fight, or war either. I’ve been involved with more battles than I can remember.” And deaths, but then again years have taught her to move on otherwise she will just fall into a pit of despair. “What I did learn of Briar for the few times I met her was that she believed in you and she was loyal to you. That, if there is anything else you need to know about her, something you should hold onto. Loyalty and trust like that is rare.” Another lift of her mug as she downs more of the strong drink, burning her way past her own views and refocusing on consoling her friend. His put down about his ability to speak, has the bard putting her mug down and quite readily countering with a, “Give yourself more credit. When you do speak, you speak with a genuineness that is also rare. There are too many silver tongues in these lands and not enough people with integrity behind their words.” As a bard, she should know.
Lionel lets his gaze drift slightly to the side as the bard speaks her wisdom. Nearby, a group of six is boisterous about their drinking game, gulping madly and laughing about it. A robed woman at a nearby table regards them coolly, nursing her own choice beverage -- tea, by the uncommon looks of it -- from behind a green hood. “Briar did have loyalty. She had a remarkable conviction about her. She was otherwise-destined to rise through the ranks. Instead, she gave her life for what she believed in.” He raises his glass toward Raphaline’s in a toast. “To Briar -- and the rest of them.” Mugs clink. “I appreciate the kindness you display. I don’t know how it started, even. You’ve been there for me for times than I can count… and not just because I’m tired. I don’t press often enough, vividly enough, to hear more about you. ‘More battles than I can remember.’ That sounds familiar. Yet somehow I’m willing to bet you’ve got more of ‘em under that half-elven belt than I do.” He snickers. “And that, sadly, is -saying something.- But maybe you’d rather not discuss such things. Maybe you’d rather focus on the space in-between the terrible moments. Either way, my request tonight, dear bard: tell me.”
Anson had tried to ignore the rudeness of the man who had blocked his view of Lita, and tried to nicely elbow him in the ribs to make the man take the hint to move. After a cross look from the wall, he eventually stepped over just in time for Anson to spot Lita's welcoming wave. It didn't take long for him to mosey his way to her and a quick kiss to be placed against her cheek. "Hello Lita" he said in a close whisper to her ear, as he body pulled away and into the chair awaiting him.
Lita was grateful to have a drinking buddy once more and even more grateful that it was someone she liked a bit more. She relaxed a little as Anson joined her table, grinning as he pressed that kiss against her cheek. "Hey, you." she said softly as he settled into a seat. "You must've liked the snow more than you let on if you're still here." she teased.
Raphaline gladly clinks mugs with him in honor of the bright woman she had only just gotten to know. What she had not expected was his latter bit about wanting to know more about her and what she has lived through. The surprise is obvious by the way her eyes widen a bit more, her brows raise in question and it takes her a second to gather her thoughts about the whole thing. So while she thinks about exactly what she wants to answer in accord to the question, her right hand reaches up to tuck a few fiery strands behind her pointed ear. With a memory fully formed in her mind she finally contends to answer. “I know they say never ask a woman how old she is but, let’s say I’ve lived a few human lifetimes. My mother died in a war. I was eight. She was a casualty of the war rather than a figure in it. Her death is the reason I try to be a part of the process of keeping the regular folks safe. They never asked for any of this, and yet, their suffering is greater than anyone elses. They had no choice, we have a choice.” She takes a moment to pause and finish off her mug of ale, allowing the liquor to warm her thoughts and render her a bit more adept at telling him the truth of a long life. “But, I try to focus on the good. That is why I always take up the role of a healer and why as you said, I share my kindness with you. I saw that the first moment that I met you Lionel, you were alone without a hand being offered unconditionally and with no other motives other than to help. Your rank, your looks, your history, none of that mattered when I decided to help you.”
Lionel seems amused with Raphaline’s surprise. His azure gaze flickers playfulness, but turns darker as she tells her tale. His arms tense, and, becoming aware of this, he clasps his hands together in an elbow lean upon the table. He does not touch his drink, nor does he seem to move in the slightest. A warrior’s pose to hear the poet. The hooded woman at a nearby seat finishes her tea and departs with great haste; the boisterous drunkards continue their tomfoolery. Lionel remains stoic -- if someone were to look at him now, they might think him wholly oblivious to the clamor. Finally, he reaches for his mug, grabs it, and sips. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice is compassion. “I’m sorry about your mother. It’s… not easy.” Lionel would not remember the faces of his own parents, were it not for their paintings in the Emerald Hall. “You’ve moved me.” He laughs, lightly, but the laughter is a touch strained. “That’s exactly it. They -didn’t- ask for this. They -do- suffer the worst. I washed up ashore here, sixteen, I saw that… I couldn’t stand it. I just couldn’t. Not after where I came from. We have a choice. You and I, right here, right this moment, this single stitch in time, we have a -choice.- We keep at it, ‘til we can’t keep anymore.” He rises from his chair and takes several steps wayward. “I told you -- you moved me.” He smirks. “I’m getting you another ale.” And so he does.
Anson had turned to face the crowd to try and spot a maid to hopefully bring him the cider drink Lita had gave him, it was after all what had kept him warm during his days of wondering. "I detest this much snow still, but I've stayed around because the island is lonely without my honey whiskey partner.. So it's just about as cold there as it is here" as he trailed off a maid came up and was in a hurry letting it be known by tapping her foot. "Same as she has and another for her" the man's voice was a bit more gruff towards the impatient woman.
Raphaline finds that her once serious features are stirred towards a bit of amusement at the knight’s last words. Chuckling, she shakes her head as she relegates him to whatever task he need, besides another drink does sound rather splendid. Whenever he does return to the table, she helps relieve him of the large mug and a few sips of the fresh ale before finding her own words again. “Loss is never easy. The person doesn’t have to die to create a void of loss like that, all they have to do is choose to remove themselves from your life. As a traveler, I know that every time I disappear from these lands I do so at the risk of someone changing their mind about me.” Luckily, many of her friends have been forgiving of this but so much any lover. “So, I stick to just friends who understand my wandering, it’s just easier that way.” Her mug is pressed to her lips once more, downing a large among of the strong liquor as she feels her mind wander over to something that had been said to her recently. The thought stung her so much she had to set the mug down before she choked ale down the wrong tube. She reaches up and covers her mouth in a manner to try and save her dignity from being too completely overthrown. After she brushes her thumb over each corner of her lips she turns to Lionel, a grin trying to find a place on her lips. "Enough about my sad history. What about good times? There must be a few for you."
Lita managed a smile at Anson's not so subtle compliments. She did miss the island. And Simon's honeyed whiskey. The hard cider was good but it didn't taste like home. "I miss it, too." she admitted as the girl strolled away with their drink order and returned with two fresh mugs of that hard cider. "Hopefully won't be in Frostmaw too much longer. Not sure, actually. But hopefully." She was still waiting.
Lionel is tapped on the shoulder while fetching the ale. He turns to face a balding man, two meters high and barrel-chested. The fellow flips coin to cover the cost, nodding grimly. “We remember,” he speaks, “but bear in mind, there are them in Frostmaw who’s not remembering. Or remembering differently. Some were livid to see you, tonight. Livid to see her.” He tilts his chin toward Raphaline, although she might never know he’s done it. “Be saying the battle was a mistake, since you’s failed to behead the serpent. Be saying the serpent was here tonight and you’s let him free and let him talk. Surface tension, lad. But -we- remember.” The bald man leaves before Lionel can reply. With an anxious sigh, he’ll return to the table and carry on. But then she seems to choke! Lionel’s anxiety cascades! Thankfully, it’s just an issue of pipes. “Sure, there have been a few of those,” he concedes. “I was happy with Alexia, all those many years ago. Confused. Mixed-up kid, I was. Still am, in some ways. But I was happy.” He ponders. “I was happy the day my friend Donovan Keane married his wife Cailyn. Middle of the Second Immortal War. Hell of a thing, you understand? Hell of a thing. A moment’s bliss, but this entire realm was besieged and burning. I was happy when I realized I didn’t come back here to die, but rather, to live. I’m happy now, even, though my heart is stereotypically heavy.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly and downs his ale, smirking.
Krice stepped into tavern accompanied by a gust of frosty air and fresh snowfall, the floorboards dusted with already-melting ice. Dressed in his usual black attire and sporting a three-day-old shadow across his jaw, the warrior moved through the crowds of patrons quietly, one katana in each hand - held by their sheaths. He skirted the gathering en route to the stairs.
Laezila is a sight not seen in quite some time; and she sits on the curl of the banister's end, right in Krice's path.
Anson began removing the heavy coat he had been supporting since being in the wintertime hell he had come to think of Frostmaw, he couldn't help it he liked the island almost as much as he did the farm, it was home. "Well I sure know the old brute downstairs has asked me if I had seen ya around.. and A couple of men have been by the parlor after nights of drinking leading to bad choices or bets.. I say that must be bad for business" he said allowing his smirk to tug gently on his lips as he took his eyes once over the woman. "So what is keeping you up here Lita?" he asks just as their drinks arrived to be paid for, and his attention is drawn to a hand out. A smirk formed upon his lips as the maid stood obviously in a rush again which caused his eyes to darken a bit more "It's service like this.. that makes me miss the parlor" he said dropping the proper coinage for the drinks with a wave off to the woman.
Krice looked up as he neared the staircase and it didn't take him long to register the dark-skinned woman perched on the end of the banister. His features were calm and guarded, but by all accounts he wasn't nearly so composed or neat a picture as usual. The stubble offered a disheveled appearance that lent itself to the truth that, for whatever reason, he lacked the means by which to shave. Anyway, paying no mind to his appearance, the calm warrior turned to glance over a shoulder as he placed one foot on the first step, his attention drawn to Lionel's voice first, and then to Raphaline by her very nearness to the former Commander, and then to Lita upon hearing her name on a stranger's lips. He halted, standing near Laezila but at the opposite side of the staircase, just out of her reach, is attention pointed outward at the crowd.
Lita couldn't help a gentle smile at Anson's complaints about their service. "You think service at the Barrel is nicer?" She rolled her eyes playfully at him. "You've somethin' to learn, then." She lifted her mug for a drink. "Simon means well. He only asks about me 'cause he ships in rabbit jerky from up here and I buy it for Chio. Reckon he wouldn't be so thrilled to know I was up here buyin' it from source." The thought of the look on the tender's face was reward enough. She had tried to skirt Anson's question about why she had stayed in Frostmaw so long. Maybe he wouldn't notice that she'd avoided that question. Dark eyes flickered to the warrior as he entered and she lifted a hand to try and get his attention but he was heading for the stairs. She'd chuck something at his head but she was just as likely to hit one of the other patrons so that might be a poor idea. Either way, there seemed to be someone blocking his path. She gave the stranger a once-over before looking back to Anson. "Good thing about tattoos is even when you make people wait, they'll still shell out solid coin for good work. I's kind of addictive."
Raphaline didn’t pick up on the words the man had offered to Lionel, but it was not missed that he had spoken. She chooses to wait to see if Lionel will tell her about the interaction rather than to inquire and maybe cause problems in this rather overstuffed tavern. She downs a bit more ale, readily, as she listens to him speak about past things. Always in the past. “What about now?” She prompts as she sets her mug down again. “You always seem to be in the past Lionel or comparing your happiness to your past.” She doesn’t offer an opinion about what something like that might me for his future, rather, she leaves it open for him to decide upon such things. “Also,” she begins to say as she reaches over to press a hand a top his closest hand to her, “stop giving yourself so little credit. You are far greater than maybe you’ve been able to perceive of yourself. Not as the knight commander, but, more so as you without all those titles and such. Those who know that worth, those who see that in you won’t let you just live in the past.” She retracts her hand to take up the mug, hoping to finish up this one as well. As she moves for the mug of ale her gaze falls upon a shadow moving in to the tavern, and for a moment, her lips purse together and her emerald eyes widen before turning to Lionel and staring at him very intensely.
Laezila remains poised on that banister's end with an impeccable and uncanny balance and stoicism likely learned from her time in hiding. Her crystalline-blue hued eyes sweep the interior from her position beside Krice, yet he is just out of her reach, and oddly enough they don't stray toward him; she looks upon Lita, upon Anson, Lionel to Raphaline. Her voice is quiet, a small and effeminate thing that still has some degree of command from the petite woman's claw-swipe-scarred and paled ebony face. "I would not seek you out, but I cannot wait any longer."
Krice didn't catch Lita's eye, but he thought a glimpse of emerald in the face of a bard looked his way, detected in his peripheral vision but turned elsewhere before he could confirm it. With his points of interest occupied, and the dark-skinned woman nearby drawing him into conversation, the warrior diverted his gaze once more to regard Laezila, his expression calm and unreadable. " What do you want?"
Lionel is as yet unaware of Krice’s presence. Unfortunate, since he’s hoped to find the man again and soon. “I do,” he admits, reluctantly. “I do live in the past, Raphaline. It is almost as if one eye sees the present but the other is constantly in reverse. Whatever I see, any experiences, joys, sorrows, they’re always on loop, sending me back to some far-off times. It’s no wonder that song of yours yesterday lulled me toward your doorstep. Reminiscence is a heck of a thing.” Her hand is on his now. He’s grown accustomed to it -- to the contours, to the sensation -- and so he does not tense, although it is still an alien motion to him. An unknown factor. Yet he is beginning to appreciate these actions people take to symbolize compassion. In time, if he does not cling so vehemently to the past, he may even learn to reciprocate with hands placed upon others, too. “You’re very kind. Very, very kind. I feel as if I can be myself around you, utterly, and you’ll accept it.” His own blue stare now fixes her green. “I don’t know. Ambiguity be thy name. Neither of us know what awaits us in the afterlife, and now neither of us know what happiness I seek. That’s two for two.” He pauses only long enough to shake his head profusely at his own stubbornness. “No. That’s not entirely truthful. I have to admit something and it isn’t easy. I haven’t verbalized this. I haven’t said it once. Here, everyone’s so loud and there are so many -of- them that I suppose it’s as good as anywhere. For ten years I didn’t love a woman, but now, I do. Only, it’s an impossible love, thoroughly so, and that hurts.” There. He’s said it. Remarkably, it was an easy admission.
Laezila remains just as calm and unreadable, and although Krice diverts his gaze toward the former Matron of D'l'Sel D'issan -the one that had ignited those riots in the Underdark and started a rebellion against D'Artes- she doesn't bring her own toward him, as if she is hesitant to. Her voice is still hushed, quiet, steady and even, "I just need a little bit more. I-" her mouth closes, contemplative of her next words, before she makes a decision on the choice, "am not a monster. Yours is different. It will sate me again for a long time." Finally, that ice-colored gaze flicks toward the man. "I'm not threatening. I'm asking. I'm not armed."
Anson lifted his ale and brought it up for a long drink of the warming agent. "Well downstairs is different, I've been working quite hard managing the parlor up stairs thank you.. After all that is what I do for work.." he said with a light chuckle at the thought of playing cards as a job, it was such a easy thing for him to tinker his time with and earn a pretty sum. He noticed that the lady had avoided his question, but he knew not to pry even though he honestly wanted to, it just wasn't his place. Shifting around on his seat for a moment he had finally managed to remove his cigarette tin from his pocket and laid it upon the table. "I will stop trying to lure you back then" he said as his fingers fiddled the tin open and the a rolled smoke into his grasp. "My plan failed" he said leaning towards her with a wounded pup look before a smile could crack and he leaned back away. His own eyes flickered over the two strangers that Lita had looked to, and he hadn't a clue who either of them was, the fact that out of all the people in the room the only one he knew was Lita made him realize why he hated this frozen land even more. A slump of his shoulders gave as he drank more of his cider. "That's quite true.. When are you going to be ready to do another?" he said raising his brow towards her.
Raphaline can feel his gaze upon her, but she does not to turn to study him. With as many ales (three so far) as she has had, she is not too sure about whether or not she can keep her words and thoughts as steady as she has if she acknowledges more thoroughly his appearance. So, she focuses even harder upon Lionel and his words. “It is, isn’t it? A lot of the songs that stick with us the most are the ones we either attach our own pasts to or they are the songs that we attach our hope of the future to instead.” She finishes off her mug of ale and with a careful hand pushes the mug away from her, hopefully to keep her from thinking about ordering another drink. His latest admission to her calls upon things buried in the bard that she has been trying to smother out of existence for a few days now. But now, as she meets those azure eyes, she blinks back a few tears as she draws both her hands into her lap. What can she say to such a thing? And then, like a brisk wind of just stoic sensibility she states quite plainly, “Why is it impossible? Either they see you for the great person you are and love you back or they are a fool.” Maybe that sounded a bit harsher than she meant, but her words were out there for the knight to mull over. “I am sorry. Hold on,” she says, letting out a deep sigh, “I meant to say that I am sorry to hear that. You deserve to be happy, whether you believe it or not.” There, that sounded so much better. Ashamed of her tone of voice, her emerald eyes shift from him down to her hands now tightly clasped in her lap.
Krice 's expression sharpened following Laezila's quietly-spoken request, but any other reaction he may have felt toward her was hidden behind his naturally-crafted walls of stoicism. Whilst the dark-skinned woman awaited a reply, he casually slid one katana over to his back and then the other, securing them via their leather straps and buckles across his sternum. The cacophony of the tavern bubbled away until it was a dim hum at the back of his mind, his senses honed in on Laezila. He reached out for her, offering his right hand. If she was hesitant to take it, he'd stretch forward to insist on the contact before striding away from the staircase briskly, maneuvering around drunk patrons on his way to the door.
Laezila is hesitant merely out of surprise, and submits to the insistence by allowing the contact unhindered, and thus her tiny frame being pulled toward the toward in the wake of the silver-haired warrior.
Lita had never meant to hurt Anson. Things had changed. She hadn't done anything wrong, she knew, but she felt bad seeing that pained look in his eyes. She chewed at her lower lip, watching idly as he drew a cigarette from its case. What could she say? She kept quiet for a moment and lifted her cider for another drink instead. She was trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation between Krice and the strange woman but it was difficult. Maybe she hadn't heard that right. She'd heard it through the conversations of others, after all, so maybe she had simply misunderstood some of those words or what they meant. Either way, she was sputtering that drink from between her lips and back into the mug, lifting a hand to wipe the back of her fingers across her mouth. That was the second time tonight, must be a fluke. Despite the temptation, she didn't turn to watch Krice hurry for the exit. Instead she drew a deep breath to steady her nerves, find her composure again. She realized Anson had asked her a question and she was supposed to answer. "Sooner than I thought maybe." The words felt a little sad but she'd blame that on the whiskey. "And you know, you promised me I could grow raspberries, so I'm holdin' yah to that one." She managed a smile for him. "What are you thinkin' of another tattoo, already?"
Anson had taken the cigarette to his lips and finally lit the damn thing from a lantern that sat on their table as his eyes watched Lita. Whom was the man she had intently been looking at? And what had made her spit her drink back into the cup? This place made him feel out of a loop, and it was cold. A shake of his head moved his hair out of his eyes and the first cloud of smoke was released in a low sigh "I was hoping my artist would have another crafty idea" he said allowing his eyes to twinkle at her a few times before he looked off into the crowd "I can't run a farm without them, done found a recipe of Gran's to turn them into preserves..."
Lionel blinks at Raphaline’s lost composure but even as his eyes reopen they are filled with tenderness. He’s only barely begun to register the words themselves, because Lionel, for all he sometimes speaks, is inclined to note changes in expression and tone and the tenseness of muscles before he fully acknowledges what has been said. “Don’t be sorry,” he tells her, soothingly. He considers reaching for her hand, to experiment with this concept of physical affirmation. But her hands are both retracted -- the moment passes, unabated. Instead, his left hand will reach awkwardly out to the table’s midway point, some subconscious token gesture of caring. His right hand, meanwhile, reaching for his ale, and he chugs. Oh, he chugs. All that remained is now gone, and the man smiles pleasantly for it. Armed with intoxication, he presses on. “Seriously, lass, no need for apologies. It’s a nice sentiment and I wish I could agree with you. But alas, when a man like me falls for a woman heavily pregnant with another man’s twins, there’s just nothing for it.” His voice is beginning to take on trademark Catalian notes. It’s lilting and airy, despite these matters of the heart. “She’s a wonderful woman, truly.” He recalls their secret kiss. He narrowly avoids tears of his own. “Hence, impossible. I don’t know the details of her relations with aforementioned another man, but I certainly have no wish to tear apart a happy young family. We met, we felt something, we ignored it.” Mostly apt, Lionel. -She- claimed to ignore it, but then she kissed you. But then she left. Go figure. “You’ve ambitiously managed to turn the spotlight back to me,” he laughs. “If I were half as good at that conversation trick, I’d be twice as decent at deflecting compliments. It’s good that I’m not. I appreciate your companionship.”
Lita made a face at Anson. She hadn't had any good ideas lately, only bad ones apparently. "Kind of stuck in a rut in the art department, lately. Unfortunately. Seems the snow's not so great for inspiration, least not for me anyway." It was all the same damn color. Clearly, that was the issue. She wrinkled her nose a little at his mention of turning her beloved raspberries into preserves. "Eww, you'll ruin 'em." she managed with a grin. "They're better fresh. Or in pies. Or maybe you can flavor up some of that 'shine you'll be cookin'." Seems she had more luck finding inspiration about fruit than her art. Not that she had much experience in how liquor was distilled. She'd mostly been on the distribution end of those deals.
Raphaline feels the pit of her stomach fall at the look of tenderness in his eyes. Goodness, how had she been able to muster up such a harsh tone to such a good person? To try and find some sort of way to forgive herself for her transgression, she lifts up her right and lays it gently a top the one she noticed was now extended across the table in her direction. The smile, albeit a sad one, does cross her features as she wraps her fingers carefully around that hand. The bard takes a deep breath as she arranges her thoughts carefully before she turns those beautiful, emerald eyes upon the knight once more. “It seems m’dear, that the best intentioned people are often times the ones who are left in the dark. Why do we always fall in love for the people we cannot have?” She shrugs, releasing his hand as her left hand moves to brush fiery curls from her face, but finds them too wild to control. She lets loose something that sounds like a half hearted laugh, “She is a lucky woman to have the loyal affections of someone so good natured.” In her mind, she whispers to herself that she would kill for such a taste of something like that but alas. “I know many tricks darling, many tricks that help me deflect what I do not wish for someone to know about me.” But the alcohol was making that very difficult right now, and he is just so sweet and kind and just hell’s fire.
Anson shrugged his shoulders with a heavy sigh when Lita admitted she wasn't feeling to artistic "Well I guess my artist is out of commission right now" he spoke gruffly as he drained the rest of his mug. "Now Lita that is a idea.." he raised his brow at the thought of adding fruits to his mashes "That's why I need you home.." he said nudging her playfully. "But in all seriousness I need help with a run soon... Would you be interested?" he said bringing his cigarette back to his lips.
Lita grinned as Anson nudged her. Home. She missed home. She was glad to have Anson here. She was certainly intrigued at his mention of needing help with a job. "Certainly. Got a friend looking for work if you need more than one person. He even comes highly recommended." She meant by herself, of course, and offered him a playful wink. "What're you runnin' anyway?"
Lionel feels the hand, appreciates it. When it’s gone, he withdraws his own. When she speaks, he listens. When she’s finished, he thinks. Or drinks. This is the rhythm to tonight’s song. This is the mélodie de la nuit. His gaze of understanding only deepens, only lengthens in its resolve. Before he can reply, a soldier on his way out places two more rounds of ale in front of them. “For the fallen,” the man tells them, and then the man is gone. Soldiers and townsfolk are clearing. The hour is late -- the hour of the wolf, not so far away. Lionel sips. “I fear we may get a rise from the challenge,” he says at last. “Our hearts want the seemingly unattainable. The gold at the end of the mountain. The proverbial splendor. Just out of reach.” Another sip. A meaningful stare. “And so we travel, aye?”
Raphaline eyes the newly replaced mug with a look that says she is debating pretty hard on whether or not to indulge in drinking again. To his aforementioned words, she cants her gaze once more to him, emerald eyes studying his features for a moment before she says, “I have traveled and seen splendors beyond belief. I have seen mountains higher than the ones here, gold filled rooms, gleaming white towers and creatures of all sizes. I have been invited to royal engagements, sung at the weddings of diplomats and been courted by people in positions of power. What I have not been able to experience is a true, unconditional, understanding kind of love. My mother was the only one and now, I am merely a splendid wonder to be looked at and admired and lusted for but never truly loved.” Her admission causes her to make up her mind about the ale, of which she picks up, presses to her lips and then thoroughly drowns her feelings in. Yes, right at this moment she held a bit of envy for all these women who had love.
Krice returned to the tavern a few minutes later, courtesy of one opening door and another gust of freezing wind. He earned himself a halfhearted grumbling complaint from a drunkard seated near the door but the warrior dismissed it as unimportant; the drunkard himself went back to his pint once the tavern was sealed anew. With his katanas on his back, the warrior waded through the crowds without much difficulty, patrons mostly milling about in tightly-packed groups and gathered around tables. He passed by Lionel and Raphaline's table, a little closer than intended, and noticed the latter first. Even if Lionel didn't glance his way, the warrior offered a nod and a casual, " Hey," before his eyes drifted to the red-haired bard seated across from him. Krice slowed in passing, just enough to bow his head to her in amicable respect, complete with a small, wistful smirk, though he continued on his way thereafter.
Lionel waves his hand at that. “You’re no mere splendor,” he tells her, deep in his cups but still earnest. “Yeah, I’ve seen the way some have looked at you. Of course they’d look to you as such. You’re beautiful -- it’s natural. But you’ve touched hearts with song in ways I can’t begin to imagine. I can only feel it. Whatever the reason the fates have deemed it so that neither of us happen upon love, I have no doubt you have given love to people who have needed it desperately.” He sounds adamant, steeled. Then Krice passes. “Hey to you, too,” he says with a smirk, candidly and courteously, and then he drinks. And as he drinks, he peers to Raphaline, peers past her to the departing enigma, and deep within his mind’s eye -- aye, he’s peering to the past, too. Just as he’s said.
Raphaline gives the knight a look, the kind where she lofts her brow in skepticism. “You are just trying to be nice to me.” She makes a gesture with her left hand as if she is physically brushing off his words. As she turns to regard the slowly cleared out room, her emerald eyes fall upon a certain warrior entering. Her lips purse together once more and she steels herself enough to nod to him before turning back to Lionel with a small sigh. “I hold on to the fact that I have been able to light up the lives of others, because if nothing else, at least I can be the love they need.” No more drink, she decides as she pushes the half full mug away from herself. With her mind made up, she brings up a curious question, “Now that we are both quite drunk, how are either of us going to get back home?” She places both of her booted feet on the ground and tries to stand up for a moment. Clearly, she can stand, but she looks to Lionel to see if he can do much the same. “Come on, I’ll get you home safe now that it’s late.” She offers to the knight her right hand to help stabilize him if he tries to stand.
Krice didn't pause so much as slow down, but Raphaline's words to Lionel caused his step to hitch. It was sad, to hear so talented and lovely a woman yearning for a love that seemed to escape her. Where were the Gods? As he cleared her table and turned toward Lita's, the energies surrounding Xersom's arrival drew his gaze and -this- time, he halted altogether, turned his left side toward the female vampire, and regarded the Ancient past his right shoulder. There had always been civility between himself and Xersom, though it had never once relaxed below 'strained' and 'tense'; they each knew who they other was, beings possessing of power in their own right, and it irked - at least - the silver-haired male just a tad. Rather than linger too closely to the Dark Immortal, Krice continued onward to Lita's table and stopped on the Xersom-side of it, leaning his hip against the lip of the furniture to observe the Ancient being from a distance. The engima's demeanour and heartbeat, calm and strong as each was, would tell to the vampiric woman that he considered Xersom no small, potential threat. Crimson eyes slid between the Ancient and Lionel and Raphaline, watching them in silent anticipation.
Lionel has only enough time to roll his eyes in the most outstated manner conceivable. Xersom’s point-of-entry, Xersom’s inexorable power, Xersom’s ties to Khasad and Elazul. “Pardon, lass, but if we’re attempting to ascertain a way out from this establishment, given our present state of inebriation, I daresay mine might be worse than yours. It is not just my left eye seeing the past just now.” He furrows his brow toward the creature, catching note of Krice’s glance. An old hole in his heart feels like bursting at the seams. Anything spectral, supernatural, or downright ghostly which might follow Xersom around in unseen chains tonight -will- indeed be seen by the Hero of Hellfire, who’d been tortured at Khasad’s hand and infused with that darkness. He whistles. “Gods be good, but I do say it’s time we make like trees and get out.” He stands, albeit into a minor stumble. But he regains composure. There is only one type of being which can compel Lionel to such marked disgust. It is the sort that had seen half of Lithrydel lit into a cold dead blaze. It is Dark Immortal.
Lita isn't sure what to make of the sudden appearance of this- was there a name for it? Only that it made her nervous as she shifted in her seat. She was quietly grateful that Krice had wandered a bit nearer her table but she couldn't take her eyes of the shadowy being, captivated by something, though she wouldn't have been able to describe it in words if she'd tried. She reached out idly with a free hand, slender fingers reaching for the warrior's wrist, if he might be close enough. Just something solid, something warm, something not appearing from seemingly nothing.
Raphaline doesn't need any more encouragement than that. She takes a hold of the right side of the knight and while she balances her own steps, she allows for the blond to lean on her heavily. "I am not against getting out. I've had too much to drink, too many thoughts in one night and now I could for somewhere comfortable and warm to sleep." Any chairs that might be in the way are nudged easily aside by the bard and her rather adept hip. With the door in sight, she lifts up her hand in farewell to the other other patrons still hanging around. "You all enjoy your night, you hear me?"
Krice indeed was close enough for Lita to touch, and as he felt her fingertips brush his wrist, he lifted that hand - his right one- from the edge of the table to instead curl around hers, fingers interlocked with fingers and resting down on the tabletop. His attention never drifted from Xersom and the others, but as Raphaline and Lionel moved to depart, his focus shifted from the Ancient to the other two, lingering thoughtfully on the bard. As the drinking pair moved off for the doorway, Krice's eyes deviated to the Dark Immortal once more. Though he couldn't see the train of souls linked to Xersom's cloak, the warrior could sense more about him than other mortals were capable of; the sense of death, dread, sorrow, loss, and suffering, all clamoring over him like sentient entities. Unlike Lionel and Raphaline, Krice remained exactly where he was and coolly watched the Dark Immortal, his attention casual but equally as intense and unwavering; though whether he was calm and level-headed beneath the surface remained to be seen.
Lionel departs into the night, Raphaline beside him. Miles of the damned seem to stretch in one direction, so he cleverly chooses another. “You said I’m always seeing the past,” he says, nigh-breathlessly, “well, if I wasn’t arguing it before, I’m surely not arguing it now. Come on, I’ll get you a room at the fort.” Mercifully for Lionel, the fort is -not- the direction of the netherworldly exodus.
Raphaline follows after the knight, keeping pretty decent pace with his steps. Once out of the tavern, she sighs with relief to be as far from whatever that creepy, slimy gross thing was that appeared out of nowhere. Turning to regard Lionel she says thank you in regards to the room and a place to stay. “Promise you won’t hold anything said or done tonight against me in the morning, aye? I promise to make no mention of anything you said or did either.” A secret, despite there being plenty of witnesses in the tavern. None of them were paying attention to the duo anyway, so who cares.
Lionel said to Raphaline, "You've got it. What a night."