Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"I think that goes for all of us," responded the Scholar thoughtfully. He wondered, for a moment, what had become of the young girl. It had been over a day since they last saw her. He wanted to check in and see what had transpired in that time, but knew it was probably still too early.

He was not wrong in thinking so. In the Hifaadhi household, all was still quiet. Only Ameen was awake, sitting at a table by a window, looking out over the city while eating some bread he had just brought home. A couple of slices of it were now placed on a plate in front of him, with some cream, jam, marmalade and honey. His wife and his granddaughter had both had a very long night, mostly spent trying to calm the young Pyromancer down, though it seemed, last he heard, that she was still in relatively bad shape. He supposed there was nothing to be done about it. All they could do was wait, listen, and be there to support his daughter's pride and joy.

[Hopeflower]

"Morning," Viho repeated his greeting after he pushed the door open. That he didn't immediately recognize Natalie based on her mental presence spoke volumes of the difference in her, following the damage he'd done. When he did, he kept his curiosity to a brief stare. He'd heard about the change, but hearing and seeing it for himself were two different things. And now that he'd seen, he wasn't sure how he felt.

Better? Not really. He'd still cracked her mind and done so much damage that she'd...regressed, he supposed. That she seemed happier didn't change the facts.

Viho shook himself out of the dark mood that was threatening to creep up on him and added, "I hear our guest is doing better than I'd expected."

[C S]

"We might be due for a visit," Syria responded, the timing of it seeming to spite the Scholar's thoughts in the most innocent of ways. Syria closed the book and started to pull herself from the covers. She had a book to put away, and some minor preparations to get out of the way before they did, if they were going to stop by the Hifaadhi house.

Ceridwen still had some sleeping to do, so she might as well square these things away while she had the time.


Natalie looked away from the shelf to Johnathon, silently asking for clarification. Who was this elf, how did they know each other, and what 'guest' was he talking about? Johnathon hadn't said anything about his job recently. In the same vein, he hadn't mentioned Viho to her either, a necessary part of her readjustment. She would have to stay with her confusion for now or risk a brand new helping of mental scarring that might just bring Snicker back.


"Ah, yes. I think we'd best talk about that in the appropriate setting," Johnathon said, rising casually from his chair. He said to Natalie, "I won't be long. Try not to knock anything over while I'm gone," and then led Viho out of the office as she nodded.

Johnathon locked the door and then started off to the steel door. "He calls himself Chuckle, and he most assuredly does not know what he's dealing with," he said to Viho so that he would have some ground to work with in his own session with the suspect.

[The Kingpin]

"Perhaps. We'll stop by later...Maybe after I've asked Ameen if it would be a convenient time," agreed the Scholar, hesitant though he was. "In the mean time, I think I will rest just a bit longer...It was quite a night," stated the Son of Storms.

[Hopeflower]

Viho hummed, low and thoughtful. Maybe a little relieved. "All the better. I wasn't looking forward to trying to root out his source of information, if he had one." But it did leave him at a bit of a loss. Was gossip really so rampant that it was so easy to connect him to Natalie?

Well, nothing said he couldn't just ask.

[C S]

Syria hummed an acknowledgement, and wondered if she should stick around to see how Ceridwen reacts when she wakes up. Syria had essentially traded places with Septimus, and seeing a newly woken dragoness wrap her head around that first thing that day was a joke for Septimus' inner trickster to delight at.

Later, maybe.

Syria reached out for her staff leaned against the stable wall and it jumped into her waiting grip. The mage then flicked the flap of Septimus' bag up with it and stepped inside, descending slowly by the staff's influence and shortly disappearing into the satchel, at which point Syria closed off the top with her magic.

She put the book back in her bag and took her wirshah off, resting it on the back of her chair and standing her staff up right next to it. Syria took her flower from her desk and stuck it over an ear, humming a song to herself afterwards. She saw herself in the mirror braced against the cushioned wall as she passed on by, and it gave her some pause. The mage stopped humming and she backed up a few steps to look at it for a few moments more.

The satchel was never a small thing... on the inside. It was never particularly lonely, either. Something about the effect the mirror had, making everything look larger around an image of herself, had Syria missing the young elf's company just a little bit more.

As much as she knew she could never be Imneera, Syria truly did consider Beshayir her daughter, for better or worse. Being apart from her was an ache, and knowing she was still battling with grief was a sorrow all its own.

"You are Imneera's child, in spirit as well as body... and Imneera was a solider. Fight on, Beshi. The only time I will ever condone it." Syria sighed and started walking again.



"You wouldn't have to do much searching, while at the same time you'd have to search the minds of every would-be mage in this city," Johnathon replied simply. "The reason he was so keen on that helmet, I've found out, is because he wanted some head protection against a mind-reader. And despite what you've told me, he isn't a seasoned fighter. He used to work with crops."

[Hopeflower]

Viho couldn't quite suppress a twitch at the corners of his mouth at the idea of a helmet being any good against a psychomancer. It seemed Chuckle had miscalculated on more than one thing. The sword, though... "He has good instincts, then," he commented. Something to consider if the man ended up the same shade of reformed as Natalie had.

[C S]

Johnathon nodded after a little apprehension. "And a bad mind. Not a good combination. He was only after you because he figured you were close to your student... and he wanted to hurt her by taking you out of her life. It was never about getting even with you personally."

[The Kingpin]

The Stormweaver sat, perched on a rocky outcrop on the edge of the Kirrahara, his figure coiled around itself as he meditated. Over the past couple of hours, the sky had darkened considerably. The power of the Eye was not something easy to replicate, but by virtue of storm manipulation, Arashi succeeded in amassing enough power to do so.

As the storm churned overhead, the meditating dragon rose to his feet, rearing up and supporting himself with his wings. Holding his arm forward, he began to murmur, an incantation rumbling in his throat as the artefact, the Acrovox, dropped from his grip, stopping dead as the chain from which it hung stretched to its limit. Slowly, the vitorite shard at its core began to glow, a rich purple mist wafting from within and spilling down the sides of the artefact. Soon, the runes covering the Acrovox began to glow, lightning leaping across the clouds above before connecting with the Stormweaver’s antlers and forking across his arm. From there, the electricity primed the artefact, and Arashi saw fit to begin his summons.

[Hopeflower]

All hints of amusement vanished behind a neutral mask. For the moment, Viho stopped toying with thoughts of reformation and instead considered using Chuckle as an example to his peers. He wasn't especially well-versed in beating someone to a pulp with his bare fists - there were far more elegant ways of making a point - but his left arm could do with the exercise.

Then he took a deep breath and forced his temper to cool. "In that case, it's fortunate that I'm hard to surprise," was Viho's even reply. Especially when his would-be assassins were as green as Chuckle.

[C S]

Johnathon had an easier time nodding when he said, "Agreed." It was also fortunate that the elf was in control of his emotional faculties. The Green-Coat wouldn't have been able to let Viho proceed with a clear conscience if he was going to make things personal with their suspect. At the back of his mind, he thought back to the girl he'd carried, and his ultimate role in this whole affair.

Fortune wasn't much of a comfort.

Johnathon stopped at the door with the intricate lock and slipped his arm in to open the way. Into the tunnel he and Viho went, stopping only to get the lantern to light the way down the passage. Johnathon opened the next door, and they entered the holding area, where the firelight crept up to the bars of the cell. Chuckle sat still as the shadows parted around him.

"You could have lit a candle for me before you left, friend," said the man with no subdued venom in his words.

[Hopeflower]

The psychomancer's deep voice responded, "And you could have left that guard out of last night's shenanigans, but life has this funny way of putting twists in things, doesn't it?" Viho might have been backlit to Chuckle, but no doubt his hair color was recognizable enough in the firelight. He paced forward to stand a few feet from the bars and clasped his hands behind his back. "So," he prompted conversationally, as though they were meeting for lunch instead of prisoner and interrogator, "you were looking for me, I hear."

[C S]

"Why the hell is he here?" Chuckle deferred to Johnathon. "I already told you enough, didn't I? You want the mind-reader to make sure I'm not lying or what?" The man's expression darkened a tad when he said, "Or is this another joke you like playing on friends, pocketwatch warrior."

Johnathon hadn't heard that one before. "He's here to get the things you didn't feel like sharing with me earlier," the detective answered plainly. "And the things you will outright refuse to tell me, now."

[The Kingpin]

The shifting of cloth and sound of a plate drew Ameen from his reverie, the seasoned merchant realising he'd been staring blankly at the window for some time. He looked over to the source of the sound to see Beshayir slowly taking a seat next to him. "Good morning Baba Ameen," she said somewhat quietly.

"Good morning, Beshi," responded Ameen with a smile. He took another couple of pieces of bread, setting them on her plate. Soon after, he set the marmalade, the jam and the cream between them. "Sleep well?"

The elf was quiet for a time, sighing. "Not really." She poked at the breakfast set before her, not entirely motivated to eat. She was hungry, though. Even her recent circumstances had not completely blinded her to her own needs. So with hesitation, she began to reach for one of the spoons for the cream and fruit preserves, spreading a bit of both onto a slice of bread slowly.

"Oh...I'm sorry to hear that," responded Ameen, setting his second slice of bread down on his plate.

For a few moments, Beshayir was silent. Then after she'd spread a sufficient amount of marmalade on one of her pieces of bread and rolled it up tightly, she responded, "So am I. I didn't mean for all this to happen."

"There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Beshayir. We understand. We may not know...We couldn't possibly know. But we understand that things have been...hard, for you over the past two years," he assured her.

Beshayir nodded, appreciative, even if she did not say it. She took a bite out of her roll of bread, feeling that annoyingly persistent tightness in her throat once more, as though it was choking her, trying to prevent her from eating. And stubbornly, she refused to submit to it, swallowing what she'd eaten if only to spite her own emotions. "I didn't mean to scare you," she reiterated.

Ameen shook his head. "We all face our demons sometime," he stated as he picked up his own roll, taking a bite out of it. "I am here if you want to talk about it," he offered. Beshayir looked up at him for a few moments, seeming to consider it, before nodding appreciatively and continuing to eat.

[Hopeflower]

Somewhat calmer than Natalie's Snicker persona. Less unhinged? Maybe, but it struck Viho has unlikely.

"Call it my need to know," he said smoothly. He was already reaching out, sensing for an opening. "Why don't we start with something simple? Do you prefer Chuckle, or Charles?"

[C S]

"The name is Snake's Chuckle," Charles responded with a defensive grit, momentarily stunned. Mind-reader, he reminded himself.

"We already know your names. Your real names, not the aliases you've been depending on to elude being caught in broad daylight," Johnathon replied evenly. "Snake's Snicker, Snake's Glee, Snake's Laughter..."

"What did you do to Snicker?" Charles growled.

[Hopeflower]

The psychomancer tilted his head fractionally and offered part of the truth. "We had a chat," he replied. "Not unlike this one. You came after me because of her?" He pushed gently at Charles' mind, an encouragement to talk more freely.

[C S]

"I don't know who the hell you are, mister. Not in any meaningful way. I wanted you dead so that the cat that one of these jokers in green carried out of the snow would wish that she had died that night. Snicker would have wanted it this way."

Johnathon's expression did not budge a bit, despite his personal draws at being called a joker by the one who weaponized a jester's hat.

"If yours is one of the last faces she saw before you sent her off to hang or burn, though..." Charles bared his teeth.

[Hopeflower]

Viho lifted his chin a little at the implied threat, an arched brow completing an unimpressed expression that just screamed try me. He couldn't, he realized, tell Charles that Natalie was safe. But he could let the would-be assassin know how the balance of power stood. He pushed just a little harder, dug just a little deeper, and said clearly, "Go ahead. What if that was the case?"

[C S]

"It would have meant that killing you would have been a two-fold victory. Rob a cat of its nine lives and vindicate Snicker. Snake would have been proud if I had pulled it off." Charles smiled widely and chuckled darkly, drumming his fingertips on the bench.

"And what of you, friend," he said to Johnathon, the sick grin not fading at all, "were you with him like this when you held Snicker hostage?"

"I was the one who carried the 'cat' to the clinic. My partner was the one who brought Snicker to this same cell."

"And you left her in the dark. She's afraid of the dark." Charles chuckled again. "Two ******** who could use a blade in the throat in one room, and me on the other side of the bars without a knife."