Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

Andruil managed to keep a straight face for the most part, but the glitter in his eyes made it clear he was quite satisfied with the result. "And I definitely want to be there to see it when he does," he stated as he walked over to the chest, drawing one last thing from within; a smaller, more finely crafted case with 'Koganusan Armourers' stamped on its surface, smaller script stating 'crafted by Thorgrim Beardburner' underneath. The font was angular and pointed, symbolic of Dwarven efficiency. The contents, however, seemed to defy that style. "Your real gift," he stated simply.

[Hopeflower]

"Is it a smaller bow?" Rowan snarked, taking the case even as the jab rolled off of her tongue.

It was not a smaller bow. Inside was a handsome black dagger, the pommel gracefully shaped into a raven's head and decorated with simple but elegant gold filigree - typical of Elvish craftsmanship, she noted with an inward snort. Also typical was their favor for curved blades, and this was no exception. Out of habit, Rowan pulled the dagger from its sheath to check its balance, and found herself pausing at the marbled quality of the steel, which was dark enough to match the hilt and sheath.

She offered a low whistle and noted, "Damascus. Flashy." And she glanced up at Andruil with a smirk.

[The Kingpin]

"Only the best," stated the Knight with a smirk. "I felt it was deserved, seeing as you're such an admirer of finely crafted bladed weapons," he continued, echoing his earlier statement. "It was crafted by the same blacksmith that made my sword. One of the best I know."

[Hopeflower]

Rowan hummed neutrally, and didn't give an assessment until after she suddenly - and without paying heed to the fact that she was arguably well on her way to being drunk - flipped the blade upward with a flick of her wrist. It spun no less than three full times, end over end, and she caught it neatly by the hilt. "Impressive," she finally stated.

[The Kingpin]

The Knight smiled. "Befitting your skills, no?" he asked as he walked over to the table, grabbing a corkscrew that was tied to the bottle with twine. A couple of moments of twisting it in, and a firm pull, ended with the popping of the cork, the smell of the honey wine wafting through the room moments later as he lined up four glasses that would soon be filled to the brim. "No excuses," he stated firmly, fixing his gaze on Arsenic. The night was young, and the wine expensive. He was going to see to it that it was enjoyed...


The following morning was met early by the Scholar and his company. The soft crunch of fresh snow underfoot was a pleasant reminder of the spectacular sight brought about the previous night. Ceridwen was still not entirely sure what had unfolded. Her description of the events, and the gap between her memory's limit and what transpired in the aftermath, intrigued the Son of Storms. It had seemed as though Ceridwen had been entranced for a considerable portion of it, as though the Thunderbird had taken control of her actively to channel the storm. Whether that was indeed the case, or if Ceridwen was quite literally drunk on the power coursing through her during that thunderstorm, he couldn't say. It was another mystery to attribute to her and to the illusive Elemental.

"Verily, you must acquire the culinary arts as she has. Why, never have I dined on such exquisite cuisine!" chirped the dragoness as her aviant head craned up so that her head managed to rise a short distance past the Scholar's shoulders. She had not stopped talking about the cooking since she had her meal, a full hour after the storm had ended. He had been forced to heat the food for her after all, much to his disappointment. Being unfamiliar with the dishes meant that he had dried it out a tiny bit more than intended, even with Syria's help. That said, Ceridwen wasn't complaining in the least. Indeed, hearing her, it seemed there was no better food in all of Leyuna.

"I know, Ceridwen, I know. There are limits to my ability to learn. Her talents are born of experience. I cannot simply draw that from her mind. I can draw the recipes, but perfecting them will take time," he responded somewhat tiredly. He had, after all, spent the last two or three hours talking to her. Strangely, it seemed as though her listening to Syria's reading over the past couple of weeks had suddenly manifested in her own speech. According to Beshi, it seemed she was speaking normally all the way until she departed for the mountain. Yet another mystery about the trance.

"I am no fool, master Scholar. Surely you haven't overlooked that we dragons twain are of the same kind?"

It was with a peculiar mixture of frustration and amusement that he sighed in response to that. "No, Ceridwen, I have not." Thankfully, she would not have much longer to continue this barrage of questions and criticisms before they found themselves outside the inn. It was already in sight, only a few buildings down the road, though the early morning mist did a good job of obscuring that. At least for a time, anyway.

[C S]

Syria sat atop Septimus' shoulders and made a conscious effort to almost recede from the present. She said nothing and did not read too deeply into what was being said, knowing that Ceridwen's new personality quirk was in some way tied to her. Tied to the thunderbird, which by some degrees of separation, came back to her: the one who had been reading the dragoness her books of flourished text and sugary sentiments. At a later date, she would chalk it up to a trait that Ceridwen had that the thunderbird brought out in more prominence with its influential presence. Until she reached the inn, Syria passively went along with the guise of grogginess that Septimus definitely did not believe, but was too kind to challenge.

He'd get her back for it.

They reached the inn, and Syria went through the doors, her visit a quick one.

"I'm so sorry, sorry, unconditionally remorseful," said Scioux, hands clasped together and begging forgiveness.

"Scioux, if you don't mind me saying," Syria began, leaning on her staff as she held it close to herself, "slouching doesn't look professional. Neither does... hmm. Pleading?"

The young man was bent over the bar counter. He was dressed in a dapper fleece and looked the part of his job. To Syria's assessment, he'd done an excellent job in keeping the place in good order while she was gone. As could be expected, though, he found the loss of the large blue lizard a disaster, something Syria would be devastated over.

It gave him some pause to find out this was not so. "Come again?"

"You'll wrinkle your shirt if you stay like that. It's far too early for wrinkles, Scioux."

"You're not upset with me?"

"No. I hardly blame you."

"I lost your pet..."

Syria chuckled and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "You didn't lose Perioul. He chose to leave, and planned his departure accordingly. Let me guess; you were cleaning out the pen...?"

"... Changing out his feed, yeah."

"And he helped himself into the inn and right out the front door. That must have been the chatter of the town for a few weeks."

"It was." Scioux stood up and breathed easier. "You've seen him, then? That's why you're so understanding?"

"Yeah." Syria looked off to the rafters. "He's happy. I couldn't ask him to stay here if he wasn't happy, but... you know. Empty nest and all."

"This place is hardly empty once business starts up," Scioux retorted somewhat begrudgingly.

"Don't I know it. Still, Perioul has an air about him that we'll all sorely miss." Syria smiled. "I should be going. You've got a busy day ahead, and I have travel plans to keep. Until next time, Scioux."

"Until next time."


Syria closed the door behind her, glad that she was able to do this last thing in Daaven. She went across the porch, skipped down the stairs and stopped next to the Scholar. "Did I keep you guys long?"

[The Kingpin]

"Not at all, dearest Syria!" responded Ceridwen, the plumage around her head and neck puffing up to a preposterous degree.

"Ceridwen was just talking to me about the intricacies of 'feather-fluffing', as she calls it." There was a comical dismay in his voice that sounded as though he had been stuck in that situation for years rather than minutes.

"Oh yes! It occurs to me that I have yet to regale you with those intricacies. This must be rectified! In truth, all it is is the simple flexing of certain-"

"Ceridwen, why don't we save this conversation for another time, hm? It is still early, yesterday was a trying experience for us, and Syria and I are still not quite awake. We'll have plenty of time to talk about feathers on our way to Thimeyra," interrupted Septimus. Tanwen would have found it comical to see her son, the oh-so-inquisitive Scholar, known for losing himself to long lectures on seemingly unimportant topics, being so impatient with the chattering of the feathered dragoness. A moment of consideration had him reflecting amusedly on that.

"Well I ne-....Very well, Septimus. I shall hold my peace if it pleases you," chirped Ceridwen indignantly, craning her neck and lifting her 'nose' slightly at his request, though staying true to her word...for now.

[C S]

Syria had another moment where she realized she and her Scholarly friend -- fiance -- were very much alike. Any mirth it might have warranted to see him employing her tactic was subdued and hidden beneath the surface of her placid features. She needed to keep the impression up because again, until Ceridwen went back to normal, this was her doing.

"Ah, yes. Feather--" Syria yawned. "Fluf- fluffing, mm. Shall we be off?"

[The Kingpin]

"Let's," responded the Scholar as he offered his forelimb as a step-ladder to reach the satchel. It was more a habitual thing than a necessary one, as Syria would naturally just use her staff to float up to the satchel. Still, two years of offering that same forelimb for Desrium to climb his side and onto his back had done much to ingrain it in his mind, and now, he doubted he could stop if he tried. Absently, he wondered if that was a form of indoctrination that war mounts experienced between their initial capture and ultimate taming. He quickly shook off the thought.

Floating won out over climbing, of course, Syria's staff seeing no shortage of use in its first weeks under her ownership. Before long, the Misty City of Green and Silver was receding below the dragons.

[Hopeflower]

The start to the day was a slow one, and a painful one for Rowan. Surprising Vix and amusing Arsenic, she'd managed to avoid a nasty hangover, but the trade-off was every muscle from her waist down was stiff and sore. After watching her limp her way out of the room in search of breakfast and noting that Arsenic kept rolling his neck and shoulders - as though warding off an oncoming headache by trying to keep his muscles loose - Vix initially decided there was no need to go to the library that day. It was, after all, no doubt going to be a bit of a slower day with so many people having danced or drank the night away. Or both.

Arsenic looked at her funny when she said as much. 'Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a break,' he said slowly, 'but I don't know if I want to stay in one place all day.'

"I volunteer to stay put for Nick," Rowan piped up from where she was massaging her abused calf muscles.

Vix stifled a snicker and asked, "Why not? It's a good day to be lazy."

The mute elf grimaced apologetically over the rim of his mug. 'That's the problem.' He set his tea down and drummed his fingers, unable to keep still. 'Ordinarily I wouldn't worry. But the day after a big celebration, people are tired. Especially if they were making sure things went smoothly all night. And somehow, I doubt the people the neighborhood watch is looking for joined the dancing.' He caught Vix's increasingly concerned expression and glanced away. 'Maybe I'm being too cautious, but...humor me.'

After a short pause in which she had to concede that the paranoia wasn't baseless, Vix frowned thoughtfully. "Okay. So...what are you thinking, then?"

'Nothing, yet. That's as far as I've gotten,' Arsenic admitted, rolling his shoulders yet again.


Viho, meanwhile, had no such reservations about holding his class that day. It was simply a matter of his students getting to class, and so he took into account the additional time they might need to drag themselves out of bed and treat varying degrees of hangovers. They'd have a start delayed by a few hours today. That didn't stop the psychomancy instructor from being there at the usual time, but it would perhaps give his students enough time to stop hating everything the sun stood for.


And hating the sun Firel was, as he quite literally rolled out of bed and landed on the unforgiving and punishingly cold floor. He didn't usually drink as much as he had last night. Didn't usually drink at all, in fact. But as was the nature of celebrations, things had gotten a little out of hand and he'd ended up challenged to meet one of his classmates drink for drink, and...well, he was paying for giving in to the jabs at his pride.

He growled under his breath as he used the nightstand to drag himself up off the floor so he could get his morning started. The angle of the sun's hateful rays and pounding in his temples told him he was probably going to be late.

The dark-skinned psychomancer found it hard to care.

[The Kingpin]

Andruil was already down in the kitchen, a mug of tea in hand that the owner of the place had brewed. He had paced himself the previous night, for the most part. Between the dancing, the chatter, and the other activities he and his friends had gotten up to, he hadn't actually found the opportunity to let himself drop into that old habit. A couple of glasses, a lot of water, and a hearty dinner had seen to it he was mostly clear of the wine's after-effects.

Mostly.

That said, he was very much in line with Vix's own opinions on their activities for the day. Like Rowan, nearly every muscle in his body ached. He knew he had no one but himself...and Vix, to blame for it. In spite of it all, he did not regret it. It was a better Solstice than he would have had in Riverdale, all things considered. More time having fun and less wasted hob-nobbing with nobles.

[Hopeflower]

Rowan got back to her feet and, to her credit, did little more than wince while she walked over to lay an elbow on Arsenic's shoulder. "How about this," she suggested. "We location hop now and then, but we take it easy while we do. I'm sure there are more than enough places we haven't been for us to change up the routine."

'I considered it, but I don't want to make you walk too far,' he said, and snickered. 'You're all faring worse than I am.'

The scarred woman flicked his ear. "Only because we couldn't drag your *** into dancing."

"Not for lack of trying," Vix sighed. "I thought the honey wine might get to you."

'Lucky me you forgot it actually takes a lot to get me that drunk,' Arsenic snorted.

"In any case," Rowan started matter-of-factly, "I didn't plan on limping anywhere. You get to carry me."

He eyed her. 'One horse comment,' he said, enunciating slowly even though he didn't need to, 'and I will drop you.'

[The Kingpin]

Andruil chuckled at that, shaking his head.

"Somethin' th'matter, deary?" asked the snowy-haired woman pouring herself a mug of tea.

"Only the belated attacks of a humorous evening, madame," he responsed simply, taking another sip of his tea. Oh the curses of sharp hearing. He was certain there was a story about a bandit who experienced the very same.

"If only every day was so jolly. Everyone's gonna go back to their usual gloomy-grumpy selves again soon 's they haul themselves out of bed."

The Knight clicked his tongue thoughtfully at that. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But if that were not the case, you would not think back on the Solstice so fondly, would you?" he asked. "It would just be a noisy night of dancing and fire and drunken singing, no?"

"I s'pose you're not wrong. But Grymhaven was such a quaint, peaceful place when I was a girl. Green trees, singing birds, merry folk and bustling trade. Now it's a city of mercenaries and ne'er-do-wells only reigned into line by the promise of money for their work. And the locals are miserable for it," responded the old lady.

"My mother often tells me that it is 'always darkest before dawn.' That and 'whatever problem you can think of with anything, there is always a tool to fix it.'"

"She sounds like a blacksmith," responded the woman bluntly.

"I suppose, in a sense, you're not wrong. Her projects are grander than swords and armour, however. She's the one you speak to when you want to build something grand...like a clocktower."

"So a magic blacksmith?"

"More like the one who guides the mages and the blacksmiths to make sure the clocktower actually works."

"Aaah," responded the woman as she walked over to the table, her mug in hand. "She sounds like a clever lass. And to hear someone speak with any measure of pride of their own mother... Well, I wish I could say 't wasn't a rare sight."

"You can thank my father for that. 'Give credit where credit's due' is a saying he repeats so frequently it may as well be a prayer," stated the Knight, taking another sip of his tea.

"Wise words. Especially these days. Ignoring one's achievements in times like these is liable to get someone killed, what with the kind of people roaming about."

"Always darkest before dawn," repeated Andruil calmly.

"I pray that proves true," she said, adding, "...Even if the saying itself is nonsense," under her breath. Andruil smiled, but said nothing.

[C S]

Natalie tugged at the puffed cuff of her dress curiously. It was such a... curious decoration, lacy and light. The gossamer fascinated her endlessly. The rest of the dress was not heavy on her at all. The thin fabric was far from winter-appropriate wear, but the precinct was a well-heated building. Its walls, deceptively thick so as to dissuade jailbreaks, also kept in the heat generated by the lamps flickering away in their glass containers. Even Johnathon's office was kept at a comfortable temperature, just below what one may call balmy.

The Green-Coat watched the woman sat on the stool on the other side of his desk. Observing. He sat back in his chair, quill and a pad of parchment ready to go. It was closing in on a week since she had her mind broken, and he had been charged with looking after her. That duty entailed making sure that others were looking after her -- humanely -- and charting her recovery. A strange thing for a detective to do, but there wasn't anyone else free for the job.

Maybe one didn't need to have mind-powers to gain understanding of how the mind worked. Johnathon told himself as much before and after these sessions with the former psychotic and sociopath. Former.

This session, Johnathon found it noteworthy that Natalie was so captivated with her dress. The day after Viho invaded her mind, she had been changed out of her... whatever it was she was wearing when she was brought in that first night. She'd been bathed and had her wounds cleaned. Medicinal baths were given to help her heal more effectively, and to tend to her dried out skin. The outfit she'd worn as Snicker left her body to bear the elements, and they would have killed her if she was not taken in. Afterwards, Natalie was given gowns to wear, and was kept out of the holding area.

She slept wherever she could. Benches out in the lobby area. Private offices. She ate in these places too, and talked to the various people that came into the precinct. Talked. Not once did she mention the Snake, or the others she was involved with. She joked, laughed, snickered. Innocently. When she was introduced to the dress yesterday as a Solstice gift, she was on the verge of joyful tears.

Johnathon wrote down his hypothesis. By some means, Natalie Gardener had rejected the Snicker utterly, on a level she herself may not be aware of. The trauma her mind endured... it must have been enough to rewrite her personality. An instinct of self-preservation, when confronted with such a power, removed the offending traits that incurred the use of said power. If the Snicker's knowledge prompted Viho to break Natalie Gardner, then the Snicker would be forgotten, and Natalie Gardener would persist.


"Do you know where you are?"

"Freyr... Lunge?" Natalie had replied tentatively, kicking her feet out and having her gown dangle around her legs.

"Do you know what season it is?"

"Oh, of course. It was so hot the other day! I decided to drop my chores and stay around the Greshlynk fountain until sundown!"


Natalie Gardner persisted, alright. She existed as she was before the Snicker ever became a part of her life. The collapse of Draxon, the passage of time since then, whole chapters of her life missing. It showed just how long the Snake -- Xilo had been poisoning her mind with his sickening words and philosophies. Natalie was a woman outside of time, in a sense.


Jesse opened the door and Johnathon glanced in her direction. "Jess?"

"Just popping in to see how my buddy is doing--" The teslamancer had quite the shock when Natalie shot off of the stool to give her a hug, burying her face in Jesse's neck. The stool rocked and teetered about precariously before regaining its balance.

Johnathon had written about this as well. As she found herself in an alien setting, her understanding of her life thus far unquestionably changed but in ways her mind could not hope to illuminate, Natalie threw herself at the first "friendly" face she could find. Jesse was the one who gave her the dress.

It was heartbreaking.

Johnathon couldn't write that down, though.

[Hopeflower]

Arsenic stood, the height difference forcing Rowan to drop her arm. 'Rest for a while longer,' he told her, gently guiding her into the chair he was abandoning. 'Before anything else, I wanted to go and have a talk with Viho.'

The women looked at each other, then back at him. "An actual talk, or the kind that ends with blood everywhere?" Vix asked.

'He'd be dead already if I still wanted to have that kind of chat,' Arsenic noted dryly. 'The school is nice, but on the seventh floor, there are only two exits.'

"Point," Rowan conceded, "but I don't know if it's a good idea for you to go on your own."

Arsenic was already turning away. 'Good idea, no. But since when have most of my ideas been good?' He offered a shrug. 'I'll manage.' And taking advantage of the overall better state of his legs, he was out of Rowan's range before she'd managed to get herself out of the chair.

[The Kingpin]

"Care to grab some tea before you leave, Arsenic?" called the Knight from the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs, his voice hovering on that border between talking and yelling, loud enough that the woman at the table winced, but quiet enough that he didn't wake the rest of the house's inhabitants.

[Hopeflower]

'Beat you to it,' Arsenic said, arching an eyebrow at Andruil as he descended. He left his empty mug on the counter and pulled up one sleeve of his jacket to adjust the straps of his forearm sheath. The mute elf had yet to break the long-standing habit of being the earliest riser of them all, with the exception of the days when Andruil beat Viho to the classroom. Today he was helped, no doubt, by the fact that he'd drunk less than the rest of them.

[The Kingpin]

"Ah," responded the Knight, eyeing the empty mug with some disappointment. "Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever share a breakfast together," he mused, a lopsided smirk accompanying the statement. "Learn what a freshly woken psychomancer thinks about."

"Probably something along the lines of 'I. Need. My. Tea.' He's still no different from the rest of us, even if he has magic eyes," responded the elderly woman, sipping her own drink in front of him slowly, eyes never lifting from it. It was much a guess as it was a jab at Andruil's excessive talkativeness.

"Ha! You have a point, I must admit," responded the Knight.

[C S]

Time set aside for mourning the lost aside, the millennial mage's march on Amplefield was unhalted. The terrain proved unfavorable along the way, icy slopes and slick ravines, but they only rerouted the mage. Magic would have made the obstacles trivial, but Morrelie had grown self-conscious about how she used her powers. She had two encounters with a dragon she'd been unable to kill due to its exceptional cowardice, and her continued frustration over her empty vows had driven her to smear a bunch of worthless animals out over the plains. Knowing this, she found it beneath her to use her magic so frivolously; she was leagues upon leagues upon leagues greater than the elf's harlot of a wife, and she would hold herself to that standard. Thus, Morrelie decided she would conserve her power for when she truly needed it most, and until then she would continue gathering her latent strength. This was how she was going to defeat Desunka. Looking back at it now, she chastised herself for her lack of discipline when she had the metal fiend at her mercy. This could have been over a long time ago. It would be over when they met next.

Conserving and consolidating her energy was her plan. That didn't mean small exercises like a violent exorcism were not in the cards. Amplefield sat on some elevated land, with a small dirt trail winding around the irregular shape and leading into some woods below the village. The Kirrahara to the east partially obscured the morning sun. Morrelie looked up at Amplefield as she trudged along the trail, her outfit that of a Zuppo warrior-mage once more, purple and white. Her eyes peered through its slit with a fierceness, regarding the soot, ash and aged embers that layered the earth. It was like the frosting of the most grim cake ever made -- thickest where the village used to stand, thinned out down the ridge.

"How surprising," Morrelie deadpanned, "the demons burned this place hollow."

The invisible miasma that was the demonic aura was something that Morrelie had felt a long ways away. It had turned the barren forests ominous. Wildlife had retreated -- for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold -- and soon other vile things would be drawn to settle in the darkness. The festering had yet to truly begin though. It was something that Morrelie questioned. The elf had said three days had passed since Amplefield fell when he found her, yet the taint around the area did not reflect that, too early in its stages to reflect what would have been close to a week of unchecked activity.

The aura was unmistakable, however. The concentration suggested several greater demons had manifested in the abandoned settlement. To Morrelie's mind, it meant some kind of scheme that defied demonic convention was at play.


She was right about one thing. It was most certainly a scheme.

[Hopeflower]

'The simplest explanation is most likely the correct one.' Arsenic finished up with tightening the sheath on his left arm and started on his right. He gave Andruil a pointed look and added dryly, 'Surprise. Not everything that crosses my mind is a secret.' Some things were just more closely guarded than others.