Epsir

No Haven [A Walking Dead Roleplay]

Well, busybody was a reputation he could live with, even appreciate so long as it didn't turn into people getting jealous. Still better to just go it normal until it was over. The happiness coming from the woman was strange, if he was more judgmental he'd call it off putting but as it was she just felt incongruous with the desolation and depression of the recently trodden over world. They hadn't even properly lost water and electricity in some places he'd seen, the luckier ones, but it was already down to their loose little commune of strugglers. It wasn't even sad at this point, or maybe her smile was just infectious. "Boston," he said, miming the accent everyone in Oklahoma assumed he would have. "I liked it better where there was water around." He was stopped when a third person walked up to their group. He lamented the attention but in some way... it almost reminded him of standing around the water cooler. George played along. "Hello to you too," he said to the newcomer, "George Walsh, pleased to meet you," he stuck his hand out to shake. The boy looked much younger than him, but was plenty taller, something he was used to.

When the Flames Die

She swayed uneasily on her feet, trying to pick a direction as Thomas charged at her. Outside, it had already begun, and she could feel the cold comfort slipping away from her body in response. Pain returned in full and despite willing the sense away with all of her might, that particular control was long gone. Time was up, her seconds had gone by so fast. Learned doctrine flashed back to her as her mind returned. Her left, good arm, dropped down to sink Thomas' blow to her side on her forearm but his hand took her head and forced it back into the wall. Her vision spun, memories turned in her eyes where Thomas' hand should have been. She could hardly right her legs, but she had to do something. The woman's left arm, still better off than the right, reached out to the side. She floundered around as her head crashed against the wall once more, and found fire in her hand. The torches that lit the small room. That warmth, so much more familiar than the coldness that took her mind. She gripped the burning rag within the flame, ignoring what the heat did to her hand with the last discipline she had left, and as her spinning, starstruck vision faded away she struck out at Thomas' head with the burning torch-cloth. It was her last effort, as she completed her writhing attempt at combat, her mind finally gave up and she collapsed.

---

The king was swept up in his guard and pulled away like a child holding his hand out to a fire. Chaos ensued on the feast grounds as diplomats and representatives scrambled about the grounds, unsure of what exactly was occurring and what would come next. The loud drone of the party was replaced by the erratic shrieking of a frenzied crowd. Large swathes headed to the gates, but the cry came back from two weary looking guardsmen running into the feast grounds and declaring, "The gates have been brought down!" So explaining the noises in the distance. They had been severed from their guide chains and let to sink into the ground. It wasn't about to stop anyone from getting out, the palace had other exits, but none so broad. It would take hours to clear the grounds and the majority of guests had given up on that angle, instead scurrying for shelter in the castle. Indeed, what remained of the regular guard was in the process of corralling the guests into the great hall for their joint detainment and safety. Organized people were safe. Feril found herself swept up in the crowd, jostled towards the great hall with the rest of them. More thunder could be heard, distant on the horizon, and she was unsure herself if it was real or not. More importantly, what had been in that box and why had she trusted a woman in armor?

When the Flames Die

Lexine realized nothing. Thought nothing but the sensation of ice and a continuous dictation of movement. She was surprised by the ease with which he surrendered her freedom, without an attempt to stop her movement. She rolled over the man even as he seized her arm, pressing on through the daze of the twin strikes made against her head. She'd been ready to give her left arm for the maneuver when he still had hold of it, her right was nothing more. The angle was precarious, but she was behind or at least had a better angle on the man. With compact, mechanical precision she rolled to plant her feet as she came down on the other side, twisting her arm in his hold and taking full advantage of the awkward angles of their fight to force momentum and leverage against his fingers. His strike landed on her elbow, albeit far out of the intended angle, and she simultaneously leaned back and kicked off the ground with both feet. Her elbow strained, especially under impact, and her vision flashed in pain as she felt it begin to disjoint. Only under the propulsion of both legs and the keen balance of her weight, she broke free and was sent tumbling end over end the short distance across the floor to the wall. She snarled as her back struck the wall, garbling some unintelligible curse through her ruined neck as she strained to dig her feet in and press her way up the wall. Standing, if one ventured to call it that. The room spun in her vision, but actually did shake hard at that moment. Dust wafted down from the ceiling and the ancient stone structure groaned around them. The torches themselves flickered, but their flames continued to burn strong.

---

The small, unmarked box was finally brought before the king, having passed a glossing over by the guard. A passing girl in a red riding jacket stood shocked at the sidelines to see her parcel brought before the king, and slowly waded her way into the crowd to watch. Bard Urien attempted to conceal his confusion with the unmarked gift. Such things never boded well and he briefly wondered by which mechanism it had been allowed before him. Slowly, he opened the top of the box and visibly paled. Even the practiced politician couldn't hold his smile at what he saw. Sitting on a tiny, drenched, velvet pillow, was a decayed finger bearing a signet ring very familiar to him. Why wasn't there a letter? Was there no message accompanying what would otherwise be an act of war? He closed the box, forcing a smile as if he'd found some particularly well hidden punchline and hoping that nobody standing behind him had been able to look. Apparently they had, because one of his knights accompanied by a gaunt faced adviser to the king immediately disappeared to the palace, and the Order of the Thistle members immediately by him seemed to gravitate closer. The king nodded his head gently, setting the box down at the table. "A gesture between old friends," he said, unable to perform his usual address to the sender. If not for the glaringly uncomfortable smile on his face, he'd almost played it off. Then, without a flash in the sky, lightning seemed to shake the palace and the ground itself. The sound of grinding metal could be heard faintly in the distance, but any attention to the noises in the night was quickly stolen when a man fell through one of the tables near the king. A large, rotund object clad in a long coat, that for a second bore a resemblance to one Karl Leid, fell from the Tower of the Thistle. He disappeared in a rain of splinters and blood practically within arm's reach of the king, and silence fell on the crowd.

When the Flames Die

She felt some tiny gust of life returning through her damaged windpipe, and reflexively drew in a harsh, ragged breath. She needed to keep going, Lexine intuitively understood that and nothing else save violence. Her arm was seized, but she kept thrusting with it, desperate to move it any which way and shake Thomas off or better yet, stop his next punch. No avail. She took the hand that had been beside the man's head and hooked it around his neck. Every part of her was screaming its own reminder of the damage she was incurring to keep up. On an aching shoulder, she pulled herself in close to the man over her. At a shallower angle, Thomas' fist tore into the left side of her skull painfully, but slipped by down the side of her head. She'd probably not be using that eye for a few days. Instead of biting, she looked down at the space between them. Thomas had switched to one knee to keep his high ground as they turned. It was fortunate he had such a big frame, she had just the height she needed to pull her legs in under her. She twisted in the direction they had tilted, and forced with both feet against the ground. She didn't care where Thomas went, she was only concerned with getting up, over, and away.

When the Flames Die

Lexine thrashed her body around even more as Thomas rolled with her strike, stealing some insignificant quantity of air in the time it took him to reassert his hold on her throat. Air in her lungs didn't mean anything, being choked as she was, but Thomas surprised her when he opted to go for her trachea. Agony, muffled by the ice in her veins, shot through her neck and down into her limbs. The injury he was making wasn't something she was going to walk away from, but her opponent was greedy. As he reared back to punch her, she reached out with the arm she'd swept with, which would have been perfect to block his strike, and grabbed at the side of Thomas' head in an effort to push it down. Thomas had shifted himself before, giving her a dominant side, and as he motioned to throw his finishing punch into her head she surged beneath him. The woman silently cried out through her stopped throat with exertion and pain as she felt something start to tear in her waist. She pressed her knees, suspended by the seat of the chair, into Thomas' back and kicked her heels into the seat of the chair as she twisted. She wouldn't have managed such a brazen maneuver if she hadn't waited for an opening, and even then every struggling motion her body could make simultaneously was barely enough in her fuel starved state. The two fell to the side as Thomas' punch sailed. Lexine used her newly freed back to pull away from Thomas, stretching his arm out to full length if he kept holding on and angling herself to take his punch cleanly on the forehead. Green eyes glowed with calm, calculated bloodlust underneath the knight's fist as it connected with a thunderous smack. A trickle of blood ran down her face, pooling a little beside her nose. Her mind was gone now, replaced by the cold and pain. Only seconds left. Without missing a beat, she hardly had to move her left hand from where it'd been left to ram it towards the elbow on the arm Thomas was holding her throat with.

When the Flames Die

Lexine had been watching his show with a blank look, waiting for either freedom or confinement. Thomas' face darkened, and her heart jumped. She surged forward in the chair, aiming to ram her head into Thomas' nose but by the time she thought of acting, his hands were at her throat, forcing her head back as his weight sent them tumbling. She bared her teeth, opening wide and futilely trying to earn a bite of the wrists by her jaw. Her mind blanked as she fell. All of the politics of the last hour drifted away, and panic was replaced by an icy grip along her spine that made her sick to her stomach. Clarity. The chair slammed against the floor, jostling her head and signalling the beginning of hostilities. She brought her hands up to her shoulders, and went to work. Her left hand grasped at her attacker's wrist on the same side in an attempt to pin his hand, while she brought her right arm up and swept, elbow out, across her front. The chair kept her from being flush with the ground, and despite immense protest from her waist and the weight holding her she jerked to turn herself in support of her sweep. The strike was intended to force Thomas' hold off or elbows out with raw leverage, or at least put her in a better position to start gouging with the short time she had left.

No Haven [A Walking Dead Roleplay]

The news that people, at least one of them, noticed his daily routine was alarming at first. He didn't want to stick out, definitely not here, but he didn't get the impression that his reputation was particularly negative. He only eyed her hand for a moment before offering his own. "Pleased to meet you. I'm George Walsh." He almost said 'from accounting' out of habit. In his time on the road he had never had time to slow down or think about how much things had changed; the important bits, the survival, had simply molded their way into his psyche as he walked and the little ticks and idiosyncrasies of his past life had remained in the absence of live company to practice new ones on. At least he hadn't start talking to the walkers yet, he'd seen how that ended up for some of the people in OKC. "I'm just doing my best to stay busy. The amount each of the living has to do goes up every time there's another one of them."

No Haven [A Walking Dead Roleplay]

He'd almost made it. It was actually a peaceful walk down to the front of Last Hearth and he'd managed to avoid bothering anyone or being bothered until about the last leg. George looked away from the center of the street, as he'd been watching the crowds, to address the voice hailing him. A woman, armed - not that that was particularly rare or unsettling at this point he just found himself taking stock of what was a threat - and without an immediately apparent occupation. At first, he was confused as to why she'd ask him if he was busy. But why chance it? "No, I'm just going to the gate to find work. Why do you ask?" It wasn't uncommon for people to ask for help around here. They lived out of each others' ways and in each others' company, and he'd gotten used to pitching in what he could where he could to keep focused, even if he didn't particularly trust anyone in town yet.

When the Flames Die

Lexine sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over her knee and resting the her head on the chair's back. Thomas was right, execution was about the most civil treatment someone in her line of work could expect. However, his questioning had gone over the margins she was going to answer within. No one commanded her: her initial statement declared that. She sat there in silence, letting Thomas continue with his questions. She would have liked to trust Thomas, especially because she needed a replacement. That word hurt to think, and her brow furrowed to match her frown as she glowered at the ceiling. The words 'noble intentions' caught her attention, and she spoke up slowly, "I am a killer, sent to find a killer. No names for anyone involved." That would have to be good enough for the knight, it was among the only things she had left to say. She'd hoped his curiosity would have been more restrained, there wasn't much she could do about his demands.

---

The stewards made sure that food and drink around the tables remained stocked, and the pile of gifts was being cleared through quickly, although of course they all went back to the same table after being received. Eventually, one of the knights presented the long, slender box to the king. Bard II stood and gingerly opened the Lyoki gift, sliding the red pillow bearing the sword and scabbard out onto the tablecloth before him before taking up the sheath and partially withdrawing the weapon. The gold glistened keenly in the candlelight, and the gemstones came to life with twinkling. Absolutely marvelous, almost too rich for a king's taste but that in itself was a qualifier. It had been addressed from Lyok, his guards had mentioned that particular group on the way here. The amount of money they'd spent on a gift was generous, but he also knew it to be symbolic. Gifts were never just that, but it wouldn't stop him from showing appreciation. Cooperation between their nations would be beneficial on both sides, after all. They were just willing to put up more to guarantee it. He bowed ever slightly in recognition towards Sophia, whom he knew only by retold likeness but it was easy to find the rich, Lyoki looking foreigner in the crowd. "A beautiful weapon, a paradox. Gorgeous and thought provoking, thank you Princess Octavia. Please return my kindest sentiments to the Lyoki crown and people. Accord between Keilaudrin and Lyok will mean prosperity not just for our lands but for the entire west of Estovet." He smiled, and sheathed the weapon once more before affixing it to his belt, beside the ceremonial sword of the king, instead of sending it back to the table. As he took his seat once again, distant thunder sounded on the horizon, seeming far off in the eastern skies and rolling on far longer than normal.

No Haven [A Walking Dead Roleplay]

His rounds at Last Hearth were simple, make sure the solar stills were working. It was almost laughable, to a few members of the community it really was, that he was doing this when they had water to spare at the current. They'd also had a military to spare a few weeks prior. Barrels, plastic wrap, and a few cut up plastic bottles arranged to catch whatever impure water they could evaporate, left under the harsh sun. He stood back, smiling at his handiwork and appreciating simple work that could keep the mind busy. There was nothing left but simple work. He left them there, meandering back out onto the streets of Last Hearth. People packed the street, going about their business the same as he was, albeit most without so much order. He kept to the side of the road, wandering inadvertently towards the front of the settlement in keeping away from the business in the street. There was always something to be done at the gate, maintenance or watch. He wasn't particularly handy with repair work but he wasn't doing it because he took pride in the results.