Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"One," started the Wanderer, his figure glistening with the blood of the fight and the sweat drawn from the sheer heat of the burning shack as he began his pendulum swing, building up momentum to launch the broken elf into the fire

"Matt, please," pleaded Elias, squirming as best he could in his state. The hold Matthias had on him was as unyielding as a vice. It was a wonder his grip wasn't breaking bones.

His voice was icy, any emotional response his brother may have hoped for completely absent as he spoke. "Two."

"Matthias, don't!" begged the Betrayer. It was the last thing he'd ever say.

"Three."

[C S]

Matthias and Urlox hurled Elias into the fire without mercy or remorse. There was a terrible crash inside the shack as Elias collided bodily with the table inside and went right through it, sending cinders swirling around in the gray and black smoke. The disturbance was enough to make surrounding timbers and beams fail, and the two warriors were treated to the chorus of snapping wood. One fissure after the other belched embers and smoke, blackened, chipped wood falling onto the snow and steaming. The shack started leaning to one side, its foundations slowly failing, until finally the natural forces overtook them and sent the wreckage out of its divot. The shack fell apart trailing smoke and burning refuse all the way down the heights, dragging Elias with it.

Urlox dragged his sleeve across his mouth, sniffled, then said, "That's one way to send someone to 'ell."

[The Kingpin]

There was something to be said about the hellish scream that a man made when set ablaze. It was a sound that chilled one to the bone and raised the hair on the back of one's neck, so shrill and otherworldly as it was. It had been a wonder Elias had managed to heal his lungs fast enough to do that when he was thrown to the blaze.

The screech had been short-lived as the shack collapsed, and whatever solid pieces of lumber that existed in that bonfire came down and utterly crushed the Kleidde, ending him once and for all. It was an ending so sudden and abrupt that the Wanderer could have sworn he had felt the very instant it happened.

Matthias stared into the flames, still as a statue and unresponsive for several long moments, even when Urlox spoke. The Wanderer had lost his brother a long time ago, when the assassin entered his room that night. The burn scars that dotted much of his upper body were a permanent reminder of that.

But now, his mirror was well and truly gone. Never again would people be confused as to which one was which at a social event, though the confusion would continue for a while yet in Niyera.

"May the flames keep him company for aeons to come," stated the Wanderer bitterly, spitting a mouthful of blood to the ground a couple of yards from the flames before turning away. He reached for the straps on his back, pulling a canteen from his hip, uncorking it and downing a large mouthful of the contents before sealing it once more. He walked off to grab the remnants of his cloak and shirt. They were torn apart, but perhaps they could be salvaged so that he didn't freeze to death on the way back. Though he supposed he could just tear apart and repurpose his bedroll if the clothes were truly irrecoverable.

[C S]

If not the flames, then this "Commissar" Urlox had heard Elias speaking of would fill the role. He let that remain in his thoughts. It was one of many things to discuss later, after their wounds were treated and their energies were regained. Urlox chose to remain at the char, where heat still lingered. The smell was acrid, as was to be expected from burning skin, but something kept Urlox standing in place, looking off the edge of the mountain. He heard crunching snow behind him after a short while.

"Captain," said Chandra. "You require aid, and your armor is in need of repairs."

Urlox blinked, then looked back at the ranger. "Right you are," he said, though he did not need to be informed. With the settling fury, the tiredness was seeping into his aged joints and the sting of his injuries was a nagging thing. He smiled in spite of it, realizing something after the fact.

Elias' plan was to reclaim what he felt fate had robbed him. A madman's dash to live in the past. Yet, here Urlox stood, wearing the uniform of his prime. The torn flesh on his back was his punishment, he supposed. The scars they would become would be his penance, and he would never forget this lesson. Urlox viewed all of his scars in much the same way. Who needed patches and tattoos? Let the past be frayed and bloodstained. His present and future were as hardy as steel plate.

Chandra looked at the man neutrally, containing her worry underneath layers of professionalism. "I will tend to you back at camp. Don't delay because of some inflated sense of bravery." The fight had given her a newfound appreciation for Baaz's handling of the kleidde back at the safehouse. That mission could have gone very differently if she were allowed to transform, as Elias had.

"The Royal Arms will come poking around these parts once their scouts catch sight of the smoke. I won't be dilly-dallying," Urlox assured her.

Chandra nodded. She started off, noting Baaz trawling the snow and Valeria keeping her distance, her sling-blow dangling off of her by its strap.


Several minutes went by before Baaz approached Urlox. She cleared her throat to get his attention, hands behind her back. "You have a thing with fire you want to tell me about, or?"

"It is no secret, Walgruuf." Urlox flexed his shoulders and turned to face the ranger, who looked at him with a raised brow.

Everyone knows you've got a thing for burning people alive?

"I am getting old."

Oh.

"In the rage of war, you find your respite where you can. This is mine."

"Fair enough," Baaz replied. "I'd say I hoped the years would be kinder to me but..." She was just a little over half Urlox's age, and she already slayed her own giant shapeshifting beastie, and left someone to the flames. "But hey, there's no telling whether or not this was your first time in the muck. You and Matthias probably have a lot of stories like this."

"Not quite like this one, but a few." Part of the reason why they led lives that pulled each other part. Good friends though they were, brothers of a deeper creed than what Elias could have ever imagined, their combined exploits would have driven them to the grave years ago.

"I'm not expecting storytime, old-timer." Baaz presented her hands, and in them were all the sizable pieces of the broadsword. Many fragments were too small to recover, flakes, if anything. What Baaz had in her hands was the best anyone could have done for the weapon. "I'm here to make sure one doesn't end; the legend never dies, it just gets retold a little differently."

"Retold a little differently," Urlox mused aloud. He took the pieces of the sword, ruminating on the thought.

Let the past lie. Assemble the pieces of the present. Forge a new future.



"Don't stand around out here for too long. I've fetched a lot of things on my back for this mission. I'm not carrying you," Baaz warned, only half-jokingly. With that said, she turned and started heading off back to their basecamp.

[Hopeflower]

A much quieter battle was raging in the mind of one young psychomancer. Arsenic stood observing Viho's class quietly, having opted to watch rather than join them. The better to pay attention to the way Viho actually handled himself around other people. His father seemed to have more or less tuned out Arsenic's presence and was continuing on as normal, giving pointers and explaining the why of the techniques they were practicing with the kind of confidence that only came with decades of long practice.

The mute assassin's own stubborn determination had made him push Viho to teach much faster than this, learning lessons on the fly. Mistakes had come with dark bruises and the sort of bone-deep exhaustion only one who wielded magic could understand. Arsenic's insistence on that method had been what had nearly killed him, months ago.

Even with Vix's head injury in mind, it was hard to reconcile this competent, if crippled, teacher with the man Arsenic had sworn to hunt down. He'd built his father up as a monster to be slain, envisioning his mother as someone who needed to be avenged because Viho hadn't been there to protect her. He'd made a career out of honing his skills for the day he'd track the monster down and deal that final blow. He'd put Viho's face on every mark, envisioned it being a triumph; the final step he needed to take to overcome his grief.

Now that Arsenic was confronted with the reality that Viho was a man like any other - one who had loved and made terrible mistakes and was trying to do better in his own way - he was left feeling a bit like he had nothing left to anchor him. Thoughts of taking revenge had poisoned him as surely as one of his own brews, but they had also given him something to be sure of. Something to guide him. Without the drive to take what would surely be an empty victory at this point, Arsenic watched and wondered.

What was he supposed to do now?

His son's turmoil was a faint but persistent itch on the edge of Viho's awareness. He couldn't read exactly what was going on in Arsenic's mind, but he knew enough to make a very well educated guess. But he had no answers to give. He was lucky to have survived two brushes with death in the last few months - he certainly hadn't expected to survive much past learning Zaltana had died. Viho was as lost as Arsenic, but he had resolved to do his best with the chance he'd been given.

And so he would. It was about time he spoke to Desrium again. If he was to be the first in Brodudika's newest line of defenders, Viho would need the use of both of his arms.


Vix sat up abruptly. It was a testament to just how many books she was attempting to go through - and to how thick they all were - that only her head was visible to Rowan above the stacks scattered between them. Her face was twisted with some strong emotion that the older woman couldn't place. She thought it might have been rage. Or maybe disgust.

"What have you got?" Rowan's question was quiet but automatic.

The innkeeper made an uncertain noise. "Something, I think. It looks like a copied letter to someone. I'm not sure I'm reading it right - this book's in what looks like old Elvish and I'm having a hard time translating - " She broke off, making another sound that was definitely disgust, probably aimed at herself.

"But?"

"I think this is describing some kind of...sacrifice. It says, 'The Adsilas have done what we'd suspected. It takes - '" The word that came out of Vix's mouth could only be described as sounding fluid, an almost musical, rolling sound that Rowan was sure she'd butcher if she tried to repeat it. "I'm not even sure I pronounced that right. But the sentence continues, 'to gain understanding of the beasts. We must - '" Vix tilted her head and squinted a little, and continued haltingly, "' - convene and discuss this matter.'"

Rowan let that hang in the air between them while she mulled it over. "Well. That does seem...ominous," she muttered.

"Yeah."

They sat in silence, with Rowan staring at Vix and Vix staring down at the open book in front of her. When the table began to shake a little, the scarred assassin realized Vix's leg was bouncing restlessly. Rowan reached out with her foot to nudge the redhead's shin.

"It, uh, doesn't have to be as bad as it sounds. That's hardly anything to go on."

Vix's hum wasn't quite as neutral as Rowan suspected she'd been going for, but she left that where it was. They still had a lot to go through, after all.

[C S]

Rutgers stopped again.

After spending the last few days in a transit that had returned to its wintery, secluded norm, his body was making its needs known in a way that could not be bested by quiet resolve and a stiff upper lip. His extremities ached with creeping exhaustion. His very core ached from settling starvation. His time in Wickendale was short. What little comfort he took with him when he left, Rutgers made sure to keep them in small portions. In part, it was to keep his load light so that he could cover as much distance as possible, and he had gone pretty far from that village. Mostly, it was to make sure that he wouldn't need to waste energy dealing with hungry predators that would otherwise hassle him for his rations. That, in addition to trying to kill and eat him, if one of them happened to be big enough.

The forest wildlife left him be, and his survival skills gleaned from the ranger corps and his later desertion were enough to keep him mobile, but Rutgers knew the time to stop and rest would visit him sooner rather than later. Likewise, he knew he had to heed it, or risk suscepting to illness and the elements as a whole. There were probably many other, more favorable, spots to take a breather in, for Rutgers found himself in a misty, icy swamp. Perhaps, surrounded by such dour scenery, his mood and constitution had decreased. The axeman had no shortage of brooding over his failure, and his discovery of fiends that played as men.

"A bitter place for a bitter man," the axeman noted internally, carry-on slung over his pelt-draped shoulder. He walked the banks of hardened mud in search of a place he could sit down at and get a fire going.


A marsh did not readily have dry places. Rutgers found a stretch of mud that rose a few feet above the surface of the still waters and decided it was good enough. He set his bag down and went off to gather rocks. He assembled several handfuls into a small pit dug into the frozen mud, then spent some time getting the tops of reeds that grew near the edges of the shore, the only convenient dry tinder. And only just. After that came some tree-chopping, stripping slender branches off of nearby spindly swamp-trees. The axeman was right at home there. At the end, he put his assets together at his pit, hitting rocks against each other to cultivate fire, which took to the supplied wood and billowed into corralled burning.

"A little less bitter." Rutgers sat back on one of the trees he gathered his firewood from, in this case, he'd cut it down entirely to use for his campsite. The crude log played its role well while Rutgers sat with his pelt pulled closed over himself, warming his hands.


A little while later, Rutgers found it in himself to try to get some food to eat. A sustained fire and an empty stomach were good motivators on even the most dreary days. Rutgers even counted it a stroke of luck that he was in a swamp as he prowled the banks. He recalled from years past that swamp-fish were a tasty bunch. Rutgers had come across some people that could not quite be called bushmen who were adept at catching fish in their flooded locales, granted they were more south still than he was, where they did not have to worry about snow. Nevertheless, the axeman figured he could use what he had learned to catch some kind of water-critter.

When his impromptu mentors saw movement in the water, they used nets, spears and their own fingers, at times, and struck quickly. Rutgers was an axeman through and through, but he applied his skills to the ask at hand, gently lowering himself to the water's edge where the mud there stained his pants. He held an axe out over the gray water methodically, inching farther and farther out until he was confident in his position. At that point, Rutgers swung the axehead into the water and pulled, dredging up murk that hid the shape he was vying after. It did not matter when he felt its mass against the bottom of the blade, being yanked towards the bank.

Once the fish was out of the water, Rutgers brought his axe down again, right behind the head. It came off before the fish had the chance to flop. It was a lean-bodied creature, long and thin. The head was flat, had many sets of small eyes, and a bundle of barbels that extended from the lower jaw. Rutgers rolled it back into the water with his axe to serve as bait. In doing so, he claimed enough fish to feed him for the day, one fish after the next. All it took was some waiting and routine.

Rutgers took his fish back to the firepit. He used the log as a counter to cut fillets out of the fish, a delicate process with an axe that involved both hands, one on the axehead, and a steady push to wedge the blade down the length of the catch, almost shaving off the meat and skin. The cuts were then put in the pan he carried with him, which went over the fire to broil them.

The axeman ate his fill, wrapped up the leftovers in cloth and then rinsed off his pan in the nearby water. He set it back on the fire to sterilize it, then used it to scoop up some more water to boil. He took the water off before it became searing, waited some more so that it could cool, then drank. It wasn't especially enjoyable, but he needed to keep hydrated, and this was the only way to ensure that the water was safe.


As far as rest days went, this one shaped up to be pretty enjoyable, Rutgers thought. A little break from the bleakness, and the terror. An old inclination pulled at him, one he had silenced some time ago, or so he believed. "You are without debts. You hold no one dear. You can stop this." He didn't have a prompt rebuttal for it, as he had in the past, no uncompromising stance to fall back to.

He thought back to the woman who could summon blades from her arms and put them to work at the speed of thought. He thought about Copper. They did not rob his tranquility of its merit, but they made it somber. In this long and pointless excursion, Rutgers reached the point where his rational thought saw no worth in standing on the bloodsoaked boundary of man and beast. On that boundary, there existed things that no man could ever hope to best alone, or perhaps even with a legion. On that boundary, minds were flayed and left to decay like tangible flesh. There was no worth, however, whether he wanted to be there or not was not something he could help. He was irrevocably marked by the taint of his soul, a lure for monsters, and his only way out was the release of death or stooping low, as Copper had.


Rutgers changed his goal a tad. He would find the village without a name and stay the course in a theater of war that he knew, or he would find death in one he did not. Whichever came to pass, he ultimately accepted, did not matter in the slightest. He wrote down as much in his journal, applied the fixative so that it would remain on the page, extinguished his fire and then set off again. There was liberation in it, really. What kinds of horrors awaited to die by his axes? Which of them would prove too much for his crusade?


The axeman found a one-time horror to mankind at the end of a trail of irregular footprints that were longer than they should be due to the dragging of limbs. The trail had appeared before his path without any obvious beginning, per say. It was odd, and Rutgers was of the mind to follow it, for dying was only the worst thing that could have happened to him that day. He spied a few trees that were leaning away from the trail by the roots as he followed it, as if they had been nudged aside. If the size of the prints were not indicative enough of a giant perpetrator, the mark on the landscape surely was. And what Rutgers found there at the end of the trail, balled up into itself, was a dragon. One with split scales and osteoderms cut in ways that could only be called surgical.

It would have been easy to assume that the masked drake was dead, but Rutgers heard the faint sound of rushing air, slow and rhythmic, every time the scarred grayscale dragon breathed through the nose. Rutgers found it surreal for such a large creature to be so quiet. Many a times he had been startled by the smaller dragons that considered the village as part of their territory. Today, he was mildly surprised to have accidentally come across one at the tail end of some horrid ordeal.

He didn't think much of it when he walked up to the dragon's snout, put down his bag and pulled out his fish. It wouldn't be much of anything to a creature of its size, Rutgers knew, but he still felt that the dragon needed the food more than he did. Rutgers laid out the fillets, inquired silently about the mask and utensils that were strapped to the dragon's body, and then moved on.


Jahkid, in turn, silently wondered what the man's familiar green coat could have meant, as he ran his tongue out and retrieved the offered fish to eat while Rutgers had his back turned.

[The Kingpin]

"Faruq," rumbled the voice in the Storyteller's mind, jolting him awake. He had fallen asleep in his chair, his book flat against his chest, his form slumped. Or at least, until he'd all but jumped out of it, his gaze zipping left and right. He realised no one was in the quiet library to wake him, which confused him somewhat.

"Ghariba," he murmured lowly. Strange. He looked, somewhat bewilderedly towards his books and qahwa. Had he been dreaming? He couldn't remember anything abou-

"Faruq," repeated the voice. This time he knew he wasn't imagining it. He knew that voice, and he knew the owner could not be here. It was not something he heard, but something he felt, something that seemed to come as one of his own thoughts. A feeling he hadn't felt since...

"Septimus?" he asked, or rather, thought.

"I wondered if you would guess."

Faruq's brow furrowed with concern. He had been expecting Syria to speak to him, not the Scholar himself. "What is wrong? Something the matter?" he inquired, pouring the earthy-scented liquid into its small cup and taking a quick sip, bracing for bad news.

"Nothing to panic over, thankfully. Syria has been through quite the ordeal, however. She's asleep, and needs to recover, but we did not want for panic to set in amongst you and your companions. She will speak to you soon enough, but suffice it to say the danger has been delayed, for now." The Hueilin's voice was calm, firm, but every bit as tired as Faruq imagined Syria was.

He took a large swig of his drink, a reflexive gesture of relief, but perhaps too big a one for its temperature. He cringed at the burn that went from his tongue all the way down his throat, the numb loss of taste on his tongue telling him he had definitely not been wise in drinking it so hastily. He set the cup down, bracing as he focused his thoughts into a coherent message. "I wish to know about the story in detail, once you are both in a better state to tell it."

"We will, soon enough," was the Hueilin's succinct response. "In the mean time, I would appreciate if you could pass on a message to Desrium for me," he added a moment later.

One could have felt Faruq's brows raise over the mental link, but he chose not to voice his surprise. "Of course. What do wish for him to be told?"

Silence lingered for a few moments as the Scholar considered how to word it. "Fate's reflection may not be a perfect mirror, but it is a mirror nonetheless. He has been my shield too many times for me to count. But that doesn't mean he couldn't do with a shield himself on occasion."

"Wise words. I will be sure he hears them."

"Farewell, Faruq. Speak to you soon," rumbled the Hueilin's voice over the mental link, as much a pleasant goodbye as it was an outright promise.

And as swiftly as it had come, his presence was gone, the Storyteller once more alone with his thoughts in the empty library. Reaching for the flask, his hand hovered a few feet from it, before he thought better of it and reached for a jug of water instead. Something for the burning sensation in his mouth, perhaps. He idly wondered if there were any dates left from the supply he and the others had brought with them from Thimeyra.

[C S]

Street-food sizzled away on the hot-top of the chef's stove.

Dahnae sat atop the boulder in Jiier's Corner.

The girl was slouched over, chin resting in her hands, watching the day go by. It was what she was begrudgingly growing accustomed to since she was released from the clinic. Dahnae rather enjoyed that bed, despite the situation being what it was. It was commonly held that one did not know what they had until it was gone, and Dahnae had regretted looking forward to leaving as eagerly as she had. It was hard to spend a day taking things slowly when the time wasn't spent sleeping. Something about that bed made sleep come easily. Dahnae did not have much luck sleeping back at her own place.

On top of the boulder, there were interesting things to see. Sitting around and watching wasn't so interesting, but she couldn't do anything about that. The lives of many blended together until the hours where most people were where they needed to be came. The crowds were sparse then, but like the clouds, drifting accumulations would pass the big rock for Dahnae to see, a few of them ordering something to eat. As the shadows moved across the ground, the chef who paid her no mind seemed to be the only constant. He would pull out a stool from his cart and rest his legs on occasion, and Dahnae would slide down the smooth faces of the boulder to stretch hers in the small patch of green, forming a sort of routine to frame the slowness. When the chef stood up to work, Dahnae climbed up the rock again. She wasn't supposed to be doing any sort of jumping that she would have preferred.

Things were left undisturbed for some time. So much so that Dahnae did not react to the figure in black that emerged from her peripheries. Not until Evisa was standing right in front of her, a bundle of fluff draped over one arm. And even then, it took the viking's concise greeting to get the glaze out of Dahnae's eyes.

"Ey."

Dahnae blinked, then her pupils darted to every spot around the armored lady before they rested on her silvery, metal face. "Hello," she replied.

Evisa glanced down at her feet and tapped the front of her boot against the pavement. This was already off to a shaky start. "Heard you almost died, a couple of days ago. More than a couple."

Dahnae's shoulders tensed. If she were in her other skin, her fur would have bristled. "Mhm," she responded tiredly.

Evisa looked up at her again, a hand placed on her hip. "Shouldn't you be inside, resting up after all of... that?"

"The doctor-people said that I had healed pretty fast-like, for the most part. Cats heal fast, though. It's also common knowledge for my people that those like I heal quick."

The viking woman had to remind herself that she was talking to a shapeshifter. Supposedly a cat, of all things. Still a shapeshifter. "Alright. So how come I've heard about you wandering the city instead of rampaging through it? Did you give up on class and quit your job?"

That wouldn't be anything new to her, but Dahnae shook her head. "The doctor-people told me that they wanted me to take a few days off to make sure that I was fine. They would want me inside too, but I don't want to stay in my room alone."

"You're pretty young to be out here all by yourself," Evisa said.

"Only alone at home." Dahnae considered it a correction. Evisa thought it just proved her point.

She did not press the matter. Evisa moved right along, saying, "I also gathered that you could have gone with a new coat."

Dahnae narrowed her eyes and shifted, just the slightest bit self-conscious. The blood had been washed out, but the tears where the knife went through remained. "Why do you care?" Dahnae retorted defensively.

Evisa was quiet. Her gaze fell for a few seconds, then rose as if she had a response, then it fell again, repeating a few more times until she sighed heavily. "Because even if you don't remember or care, I have to live with the things I've said and done to you. The jokes about you breaking before a window does, or seeing you get hurt... I didn't mean those things. And then you go ahead and nearly get yourself killed, and now you're on top of a rock with me here..."

She cleared her throat. "Maybe it's me playing den mother to a bunch of nature-babies that's made me all soft like this. I don't know. I don't mind it if it is. Take this as my apology."


Dahnae eyed the viking warily. "Am I to be indebted to you?"

"What? No -- damn it, has no one ever been a decent person to you?"

"I have been fed and I have fed others, but no one has given me clothes," Dahnae said, "It means much in my culture."

Evisa looked from the coat she had to the girl, and in the grips of some confusion, held her arms apart. "I just told you what I mean by it -- look, okay, whatever."

Evisa pulled the coat off of her forearm, folded it into itself, then placed it at the base of the boulder. "It's yours to take when you're tired of the cold getting through the one you're wearing; no strings attached, nothing at all." She stepped backwards, hands held up and apart. "You don't need to thank me, you don't even have to think of me. If I'm to ask you anything, it's that you don't leave it there, okay? Okay."

The viking turned her back and walked off with a hurried stride. Dahnae's eyes trailed after her up until Evisa rounded a corner and disappeared behind a building. "Hmm." She slipped down the side of the boulder and landed beside the new coat in a crouch. It was made from a woolen material that was so dark, it was almost blue in color. The collar was lined with leather, as were the straps around the sleeves at the cuffs and the belt around the waist.

Braving the chill, Dahnae slipped out of her large, torn coat and pulled the other over her frame, finding that it fell over her body especially complimentary. For the first time, her coat actually fit.

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir could have been found in the forested areas just outside Oak and Willow's home that day, practising her magic. She did as told and stayed close by, but she was insistent on not letting her magic learning grow stagnant. For now, she hovered on Syria's old staff, weaving in and out between the bare trees that dotted the city's outer reaches. It was a bit lonely doing this on her own. Ceridwen had spent the previous couple of days keeping her company, hopping from tree to tree, clinging to them with her wing claws and pulling funny faces, puffing up her feathers and bobbing her head and neck in the strangest of ways, all to help the young elf hone her focus through distractions. Distractions that often left the girl giggling and her spells collapsing on themselves.

But today she wasn't there. She had told the girl that she had to go speak to someone and would be gone most of the day. She'd seemed uncertain. But all things considered, it seemed she was not going to let that uncertainty stop her.

That left Beshayir with little but her magic to keep her company. She supposed she could have gone inside and stayed with 'Granny Willow', but the elderly Daavenian would likely not have been keen on seeing the girl zipping around the house on a staff or floating fireballs in her hands indoors. So for now, she had to do it outside. Still, it was hard to deny how cool it was being able to conjure fire out of thin air, and ignore the laws of gravity as if they were silly unenforced guidelines.

Well, until she fell, that was. She had to be careful not to do that.

[C S]

Almost as if to test her, a sharp noise came from the brush. Dry leaves rustled loudly amidst the trees as something large charged through them. In the arboreal shade, only a few specks of smooth scales were visible through the gaps in the bushes. Deep blue. The creature circled about the girl's path, making another loud cracking sound as it did, and then burst out into plain view in front of her. The bushes recoiled while leaves flew, and the enormous lizard stood with its claws splayed apart for a wide base. Its side was facing Beshayir, its face fearsome while its thick tail lashed about angrily. The orange frill upon its neck quivered, moments away from brandishing with a rattling display.

[The Kingpin]

The young elf yelped as the figure burst from the bushes to her side. The elf juked sideways, almost slamming into a tree before catching herself, eyes fixated on the blue figure nervously. Her heart was thumping in her ears from the shock and fear she felt, several moments passing before she calmed enough to realise what she was looking at.

"...Perioul?" she asked, confused, a bit startled, and a bit uncertain as to whether or not it was indeed Syria's Frondfoot.

[C S]

The Frondfoot's nostrils flared at hearing the name. Yes, he had seen this girl before. She was a friend. Did that mean his lady was around again? She would wonder why he was so far from home -- 'home'.

Perioul let his tail thump heavily to the ground, settled his frill flat against his neck and straightened out as he went towards Beshayir. He appeared to flop about as he jogged over to her, his front and back acting as two entities it seemed. It was the complete opposite of the visage the child was just shown, compounded by him nuzzling his snout against her legs and feet once he reached her.

[The Kingpin]

For the briefest of moments Beshayir considered floating out of the reptile's reach. That hesitation would likely have cost her her life, or at least one of her legs, had this not been who she thought it was.

Thankfully however, that was not the case. The nuzzling against her booted legs confirmed that much, and as she settled a bit, she lowered to the ground, reaching slowly for the reptile's head. She was thankful for once that this wasn't Thimeyra, and the reptile not a Warral. The carnivorous beasts were nowhere near as docile or as friendly as a Frondfoot.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly, somewhat surprised. Friendly or not, the Frondfoot was still quite a way from where she knew it... he typically lived.

[C S]

Perioul's response was a series of affectionate snorting and snuffling, which did not tell Beshayir much past whatever threat the Frondfoot posed was gone. While Beshayir had her relief and puzzlement, Perioul still had a job to do. He remembered as much as pulled away from Beshayir's touch, turning his snout to the air. His small orange eyes searched the canopy in that oddly contemplative way Frondfoots were prone to, then he hefted his upper body vertical. Perioul towered over Beshayir, his arms dangling at his side, and the lizard himself making a low sound, each interval of it sounding like a prolonged grunt in tone. It almost sounded like some sort of trumpet.

[The Kingpin]

Startled by the motion, the elf girl backed away, her staff drifting sideways and putting a few feet between her and the reptile, not wanting to end up under the bear-sized lizard when he dropped back onto all fours. He was calling to something, that much was clear. But what? Well, clearly another Frondfoot, but why?

Much as he'd tried to convince her he posed no threat, she still felt unsettled around such a big animal.

[C S]

Timidly, the other Frondfoot crawled out of the vegetation. Surprisingly, it was even larger than Perioul was, and had a breathtaking flourish of pink and white amidst black and yellow scales. The lighter coloration striated the lizard's underbelly, which seemed swollen to an extent. The tail was also very thick at the base. Perioul stepped about in place then fell back onto all fours to meet the Frondfoot. The two vocalized with each other in rolling tones and clicks, and occasionally nipped at one another.

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir stayed absolutely still as she saw the second Frondfoot appear. This one was big to put it mildly. The bulging base of its tail had her curious. It was bigger, fatter than Perioul. She knew that Perioul was a 'he'... So would that make this one his mate, perhaps?

It was an odd thing to consider. She never thought of lizards having family like that. What little she'd learned of Warrals described them as loners. The mothers made their dens in the early autumn, hibernated in the winter, bred in the early spring. She guarded her eggs on her own, and the young would head out on their own by mid-summer. The fathers were never in one place, and never stayed with their mates. It was why the females were typically the more frightening of the two, as they were vicious and protective.

[C S]

Very much against the norm Beshayir was used to, Perioul nudged encouragingly against the female's flank to usher her to get moving again. She was a sluggish one, but that was owed to the burden of bearing life more than the cold of the season. It was no coincidence that this was a time of celebration for the Daavenians. It was generally a time at the cusp of a new generation of their large, scaled companions, and another generation of Daavenians would grow to appreciate their neighbors within and outside of the walls.

The pink-bellied lizard continued her transit shortly there after. Perioul stepped about next to her, tail swaying back and forth and kicking up dust in his wake. He would see her across the forest from one end to the other before he rested. Before giving his all back to his instinctual duty though, he looked back at Beshayir and snuffled again, as if to say his farewell. Then the two were off the trail, rustling through dry leaves in their shared journey.

[The Kingpin]

The girl managed a small wave at the two, smiling at the sight. It was an uplifting thought, that even in the middle of this harsh and unforgiving winter, life went on, families were started and happiness was found. She couldn't say if Frondfoots felt happiness as a human or elf did, but she liked to think so.

With the warmth of that thought fresh in mind, she swung a leg over one side of the staff, hopping off onto her feet. A hand slipped into one of her wirshah pockets, drawing her wand from within. It was as good a time as any to practice some pyromancy.

Far from the City of Green and Silver, the Storyteller finally finished the tome that had been his sleep inducing foe for the past week. It was with that triumph that he set his books aside, his flask and qahwa cup down, and reached for the jug of water. He poured himself a glass of water, still nursing his burned tongue somewhat, and departed the labyrinthine library. From there, he made his way to the stairs that would lead him up to the office of the Stalwart.

The usual din and buzz of the various mercenaries, bounty hunters and other heroes for hire held no unexpected surprises for the robed elf. It was a part of daily activity he had come to accept. His ascent to the Stalwart's office was very much equally uneventful, a rapping at the door announcing his arrival. "Desrium?" he inquired.

[C S]

Faruq heard the subdued thud of metal on floorboards behind the door before he heard the door itself beginning to open with the turn of its handle. "Storyteller," Desrium replied. One hand still rested on the door, and the other held a mug that was filled with honey. Some of it slowly crept down the side of the mug, indicative of it being dunked into the barrel behind Desrium just a moment before. Always where he needed to be, when he needed to be there.