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Robin's curls bounced as a round of laughter burst from him. The barbarian possessed more playful wit than the prince had first imagined. His gentle hand struck the table with vibrant glee, inspiration. Would Sion be so entertaining the entirety of their journey, or will the presence of the fellowship reduce him to a mere violent savage once more?

"I am pleased that your skills are not limited to swinging your mighty axe, barbarian." Robin taunts, but at the heart of it is a compliment. However, Sion didn't seem as pleased after reciting his own legend. A legendary tale that not even Locket possessed, yet. The menacing reminder of why Helygain's people kept their distance and Robin followed suit.

Not that Sion had ever given the fair prince reason. Until now, as the barbarian's very focus made the busy tavern feel still. A powerful all encompassing energy. Black gaze stuck directly on the bard who jolted to sit up only slightly. He quickly spoke in order to overcome the disturbing sensation. Remedy it.

"Horror. Isolation. That is your story, or... was." With a simple word, the bard rose above the berserkers tension and rediscovered that inspiration instead. He couldn't help but wear a smile as the words fell from his lips with the same ease as breath.

Under The Black Valley's darkened haze, A barbarian roams in savage craze. With axe in hand, he takes his toll, Leaving bones to blacken and coal.

His bone pyres burn with blood-drenched blaze. Marking his reign of terror, til the end of days.

After a beat, Locket cocks his chin up again. Not entirely satisfied.

"I... would omit the cannibalism, unless you did enjoy it?" The lone gruesome detail that did make him nauseous. That was just Robin being terribly curious. "Still, an outdated story. That will likely be tested by enemies on the road. It is time for a new one."

"I will have to keep that in mind, but I doubt the council has given them much choice." Dark and pedantic, it would surprise no one to know that the barbarian was inherently pessimistic. There were glimpses of enfeebled optimism but given their quest, destination, and company. To the barbarian, at least, it seemed unlikely that they would make it through this.

Confidence between them was scarcely in short supply, though the bard had earned his perhaps just as keenly as the barbarian had his own. Though in Sion's regard, it was far quieter, he could not be shamed easily. "For once I will count m'yself as part of the crowd then, but this" Sion gestured with his free hand towards his chest, "is all the better for y'ou and the barmaids to gawk at, Locket." A proper shirt? Absolutely not; the material across his chest would only end up hindering him and tearing anyway.

It never occurred to Sion that there might be a means of stirring his narrative in an opposing direction, that through recourse, rhetoric, and storytelling, the barbarian's name might be regarded with something as more than ire. "The barbaric beast from Blaegd'yn: maneater that devours the flesh of men raw and builds p'yres out of their bones." He fiddled for a moment with a chip in the handle of his tankard, momentarily fixated upon it instead of the languid posture of the bard in front of him. Sion lifted the tankard towards his lips for a final time and drained the remnants of its contents before he let the dark, obsidian hues of his irises fixate upon the bard whose offer had struck a very obvious chord.

"Stories have meaning and value; they remember when we do not." Sion had questioned initially why Locket would choose to accompany the fellowship along this quest; honor and oaths aside, at their core, everyone here had a choice. The events that would unfold in the following weeks would need to be retold, and Sion had never encountered anyone more qualified to fit this role than the bard sitting opposite him now. "I would thank y'ou for telling mine."

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"I imagine Zyrah kept you quite busy." Robin mused aloud with a grin. Using words more casual, careless even, with the knowledge that Graciela wasn't too separate from her station.

Such was his case, by title anyway. It was an ego boost that the God Burner herself recalled his existence, but there was no forgetting her in turn. However brief their interactions had been. The fear her very name instilled granted the bard more reason to toy the line of dropping such titles altogether. "Is that why you isolated or... a fear? No... a curse?"

"I know... it isn't my business." Obviously. Robin adjusted in the seat to accommodate Graciela. The prince played fair. Should Graciela share a vulnerable truth, he would do the same. He would share now, in the hopes she would extend a similar courtesy. Not that she owed him. Most kept the cards close to their chest. So it remained a sort of test. "I only ask, because I grew up within Helygain walls and for certain seasons kept to my own tower. Awaiting my kings order."

Which never came.

"I can keep records, but often they are embellished." He chuckles, once more showing his hand to the Artificer. "History can be drab, but stories have reach and most people only have time to hear them in the form of song or poetry. You could say my writings are often... creative. No less scintillating."

"I have remained in my tower by choice," she admits, once again finding amusement on the knights words. If she didn't knew any better, she would take him for one of the entertainers she had enjoyed seeing at courtly events, but his easy demeanor and charm could very well be attributed to a royal upbringing. It is a different sort of charisma to that of Zyrah's, the one Prince Robin holds, but it is striking nonetheless, even if it is more of a showy endeavor than Zyrah's calculation. "So I can't say I have been locked away. Still, when you put it like that, it makes it all the more whimsical, doesn't it? Almost like a story."

One she would have read avidly if it had crossed her desk at any point over the last ten years.

"Not quite, but also not quite not," she admits carefully, eyes focusing back on her project as she deliberates on how much to explain and how to explain it. How can she say that her parents do hold a seat in the council, but if everything goes according to their plan that seat would go to her younger brother? How to explain that she agrees with Zyrah's policies but it's unable to openly support them for fear of finally crossing a line her parents won't tolerate? How does she explain that for all that she works for the Royal Court, she remains at the edges by choice and by timidity? She can't, not really. "I know Her Highness Teneldris through commissions, but I have yet to inherit my parents' seat to the council."

It is unlikely that she will ever, for she does not hold the tempest magic the Resendiz lineage prides themselves of.

"What sort of writing?" She finds herself asking as she moves to make the adjustments on the armband's stretchy material, deciding to brush aside his maybe-apology and continue with the conversation. "Are we to have a historian-knight with us on our travels? Or another sort of writer?"

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Uncertainty and isolation were dressed, adorned, by melodies of ease and delight. Masking over Locket's strained heart or simply getting on with the show. That always went on. No, reflections of rejection from home would not get the better of Robin. Neither would just as familiar, soulless hallowed halls cripple his attuned body.

The casual cat-like grin stayed stuck while he lounged beside the fire. Dark brown eyes held on Llyr for an indefinite amount of time. The cleric draped in white fabric contested the magical fire in the Citadel's darkness. His stature wavering like a single flame threatened by a breath of air.

Robin had no interest in snuffing the light out. He hoped to set it ablaze. Someday. "A song of divergence summoned you to me." Sure. That's what it was. The dreary truth didn't interest Robin. "We'll share enough noise as a fellowship on the road. Private hours are sacred tonight."

Did Llyr truly intend to spend them here, with Robin?

The lute's sound simmered low. The comfort it provided dampened by this newcomers voice. Willing to share. Combating the prince's troubled thoughts. Robin keenly listened. What Llyr offered a mere tease, an appetizer to the entire society he typically roamed. Well, it did seem that the devout kept themselves busy.

"You must be the disciple given a mission then?" The prince guessed, naively. "Oh--"

Robin raises the lute before him. Then smiles, on account of Llyr's energy and willingness to share the room. "Not yet. If you'd like to recommend one. Shepherd does sound lovely, but the first option is rarely the best."

And music- music has always been a spectacle, even to a boy penned into the devout silence of hallowed ground too early to acquaint himself with it. No instrument has ever found his hands - none but his voice, and even that, through the years, has gone unused - nor did any choir take root in the sect that raised him, Lathander's halls starved of sound, save for the orchestration of the clergy and the organ reserved for ceremony. There had been passing performers, though, come to worship. Llyr had only seen - heard - them in passing moments, a leashed dog minding its own; he remembers each one, the memories of strummed lyres and lute strings a private indulgence reserved for the smallest hours of the morning. He'll remember this one, too. It seems impossible not to. The jaunty lilt of it carries the same way light does: with cutting, razor-edged delicacy. Fills his chest. At least- makes the brutalism feel softer, lighter- easier to bear. Instinct commands caution. Ingrained teachings command that he gravitate to it, this makeshift light in the dark. No candle is one wasted. No candle is one in vain. He’d meant to observe, not to disturb. It’s difficult, as it turns out, to be mindful of one’s feet while quite so enchanted, the novelty an enticing one. Llyr freezes, white cloak stilling like a hound at his ankles. The pause is one that seeks permission, first. And- the Bard smiles, continues his strumming. Llyr smiles in turn. It bleeds into his eyes, their stormy, gold-flecked grey turned lucent, gratitude an open wound. “Blessed,” he echoes; the irony in it registers a moment later for him, eyes narrowed in amusement. He takes no step further into the room- not without invitation. Lingers in the doorway like a thing come to haunt. “I’m not so certain if its being a private show. I could hear you. Ah .. down the hall.” There’s no accusation in his measured voice, just a quiet enthusiasm- albeit just as carefully metered. As for a cleric’s free time, Llyr responds in kind with a quiet huff that verges on playful, “in ways far less entertaining than private shows, I’m afraid.” But the musician asks for indulgence, and so indulgence he gives; he has been asked a question, and so answers it. “With the holy texts of their god, mostly. Prayers - like trances - can last days. Some are given missions. Some carve out their own. Some reinstate their holy wards. Some, if given the privilege, spend time shepherding in and out those that mean to walk on hallowed ground..” His smile softens at its edges, head tilted a fraction to the left. “As I said .. in ways less entertaining than this.” A beat of silence. Two. Calculative, in some tentative, rabbit-hearted way. His eyes flick to the lute cradled in the Bard’s hands. “Does your instrument have a name?”

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Mouth filled with biscuit, Robin sipped from his teacup and awaited Uthyr's reply. Would it be a cold shoulder instead? The knight was undeniably intimidating, but Robin couldn't compare his rival to the wolves of this council. A pack that nearly tore the princes spirit in two for all the fellowship to see.

For this reason, approaching members individually would at the very least lead to an honest fight. To date, the lot seemed to believe in second-chances too. That was really all the bard could ask for. However haughty Robin appeared, for the sake of keeping up appearances, he was grateful.

He heard the elder's voice, that felt more gentle than he expected. The words too genuine. Robin didn't detect a note of disdain. Scorn that he often received from others that shared similar (official) titles back in Helygain. Was it safe to discuss his music with Uthyr or would he tease another member about all Robin shared later?

"In my youth, I would write about simple observations. The mists of Vinnesse do appear similar to the fog that plagues Helygain's mountain side." He offered, choosing to overcome fear and doubt.

Which came easy with such subject matter. "Lazy and obvious. One way to put a listener to sleep out of sheer boredom." He laughed to himself and then sighed. "Merriment and surprise have the opposite effect. ... My songs are driven by impulse mostly. Feeling. Memory."

There was no faulting Uthyr's assumption. As the youngest prince, Robin would appear spry. He laughed again at the honest comment. Unable to dwell on their shared sentiment of losing such sweets to the wilds tomorrow. "If ever the opportunity presents itself; I will drink you under, Sir Uthyr."

      The sky was pure and warm at sunrise; unmarred by clouds, creeping across its bounty. Upon the veranda, Uthyr was given full view of the Citadel, where nature was retreating. Warm weather had given way to darker days, a decrease of strength and vigor, felt in every persons bones. He was wont to rise early -- solitude offered no pleasures in prolonged rest. Thoughts of the gauntlet were relentless and unforgiving; he desired no longer to turn such malice 'round his thoughts. Uthyr thought of his ill-gotten attempts, once more with a blade in hand -- it had been foolish, to believe himself the same knight. Uthyr could no longer recall what he had expected in combat from the young bard -- whether he had believed to be met with acrid opposition or submission, he knew not a fortnight later. He did not believe himself one to spar with malicious intent; there was merely something in their fellowship, which invoked in his breast, fierce antagonism. The sweeping west winds that coarsely passed across his skin, offered Uthyr no clarity on his actions - had he sparred with honor? Or had he engaged, as always, in a manner that paid little homage of to his vows? 

Company was welcomed, and once more, a coincidence so perfect -- it could only be human. Uthyr had believed Robin to be a man accustomed to rising at mid-day; an attribute of youth, he had seemingly misapplied to the bard. "I assume bleak skies are fine fodder for your hymns - or do you prefer sweeter themes for your compositions?" Uthyr's heart betrayed itself in devotion to melodies and lullabies, a fondness from his childhood he could not break. He could not fathom a life of a bard, having neither the faculities for composition nor the compassion to trade on companionship - Robin was a singularity. He marvelled at this young man, his countenance alive with a sunny sheen; undoubtedly affording their fellowship, feelings of warmth and levity. "You'll feel compelled to forgive me, but I felt compelled by reflex to ask if you were old enough for ale -- I grant you, that the Citadel's tea is a comfort. I have no doubt it's one of the last times we will ever taste something sweet." 

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I've had recurring nightmares That I was loved for who I am And missed the opportunity To be a better man

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The artificer, a mystery, remained uncanny. Attentive to her work. Work that she was incredibly attached too. While stealing the feeling of her smooth skin, the prince was merely after the shock factor his unexpected actions often summoned. He liked to test boundaries. This didn't dishearten Robin, instead he became more careful with listening to all Graciela did have to share.

The hour stood against them all on this final day of sanctuary. A fact that seemed to trouble the artificer who wished for more time. All for the sake of crafting for him, a prince, but a stranger first. What had he done for Graciela to be worthy of such passion and effort? Even a talented flirt shouldn't feel so deserving.

At last, a laugh--sharp and brief, rang through the dim room. Like a heavy book dropped flat in an empty library. Robin felt his smile return.

"So that's where they've had you locked away?" Robin knew many mortals would challenge Nansir's borders to simply observe Graciela's physical beauty. If they only knew of her. A vision contested by Robin himself, who had spent his fair share of years within walls. He should have recognized the similarities.

"Then you are not part of Lady Zyrah's court?" Robin pried.

The dangerous angle he drew the needle triggered a reaction. Sating the poets hunger for attention, energy and even care. However disturbing or relieving. To see the shift of Graciela's body and expression, tone, was akin to witnessing a great work. Spilling with color and life. His evening and reality were no longer so dull.

"Oh. Presumptuous of me." Robin offers, in lieu of an actual apology. He raises both hands, no further disorder would take place on Robin's account. At her final comment, it was his turn to laugh. "You have my consent and may ask of my services in return. It's likely that I will write home about this. Writing is one of my great joys and simple to do on the road. It requires... less gadgetry?"

Touch is strange for Graciela. Foreign, even, for someone as deliberately self-isolated as she is. Unusual, for sure, and enough to freeze her on her tracks, bemusement clear on her face as her eyes flicker down to the deliberate movement of his hand and upwards, the movement of her eyes repeating in growing confusion until the knight's other hand reaches to her work and he speaks.

It's a topic entirely unrelated to the foreign touch, and the confusion still settles upon her, but the conversation is a thread she can pull upon to take herself of the growing puzzlement and she will take it as the entire interaction seems to be easy for Prince Caddell which only lends to her assumption that she is likely overreacting to something unusual as she is prone to do, rather than there being any other underlying motive she is not smart enough to gather.

"And yet, if I had proper time to prepare, I could make you something of equal quality and yet much more protective," she states simply, her tone implying her words to be a fact rather than a brag for in her mind they are. Graciela is not one to brag about her work, but she is proud of it and she knows her work is good.

A loud snort echoes around them, then, and a grin dances on her lips.

"Please, I might have proven to be able to handle the gauntlet, but my place has always been on the forge or my laboratory, nothing less and nothing more," she tells her, amused despite herself at the aggrandizing view he had of her. "I am merely an artificer. A rather good one, yes, but not quite as special as you imply."

The amusement is easily quelled though, as he offers to bleed for her work and she cannot help the flat look he sends him.

"All the blood would do is ruin the embroidery," she points out as she deliberately pulls the needle away from his finger. "I can include blood into my work, but it requires more preparation than this. And much more care as to not make it painful for the donor, so please do not bleed on my account. All I needed was your consent. It's a small charm, after all, nothing to write home about."

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"What? No. Too soon." Like any faithful theater critic, Robin took timing seriously. Clearly, he did not see whatever Sion was sensing now. In the same mage tavern where he had just made friends. An amazing turn of event. The bard wasn't keen on ruining it. "They've been hospitable. Surprisingly so."

Rob kicked up his boots and got comfortable with pint in hand, close to his chest. "Besides, they're likely stuck staring at me. The faraway prince with an angel's voice.

And while you can't stand the feeling I revel in it." Attention. He loved attention.

Besides the plagued arm and the berserkers size or mannerisms, he possessed his own beauty worth beholding. At least in Locket's opinion, and when it came to the subject of beauty he was never wrong. While Sion could stand to have a more complete wardrobe, his style was not lacking.

The appearance of a seasoned survivalist and warrior. Fixed with his worn weapon and other articles one might dare consider sentimental in value? Not much, but Sion had clearly lived lives far beyond Robin's humble knowledge. "If you donned an actual shirt, voyeurs wouldn't feel drawn in by that exposed chest. However exquisite."

To cover all that dark skin would be a crime. A crime only to be committed in freezing temperatures. Robin nearly finished the second drink and hummed with budding intoxicated pleasure. Adjusting himself he leaned on his elbow atop the table and wore that confident smirk. "Oh, the pyre shall topple over and I will carry an entire tome of poems in their legacy long before you draw a final breath. ... My writings will outshine any that proceeded our first encounter. ... I assume you did not commission those. It would take no effort to improve upon them." Pitiful attempts as they were.

For a brief moment, Sion thought about the mage who could set the city ablaze with blackened flames if she so chose. The future empress was feared more for what she could do than for the title attached to her name. The Dark Heir skulked in the corner of taverns and shirked his title until it was dragged out by the council's lips and laid before the barbarian. This poet sitting across from Sion now claimed to be equal parts prince and bard, a juxtaposition uncommon within Helygain.

Sion was made up of harsh judgments and biting critiques because the seed of his loneliness was wrapped in a husk of jaded bitterness. To see the people before him as multi-faceted brought forth the burning question of not just those he'd torn apart but those who'd hired him, those who'd suffered as a result, and his own ego. What was the barbarian besides a barbarian? Berserker was a non-answer, but that question drove why he was undertaking this fellowship. Could he not allow others the same freedom?

"I am learning." Sion's head cocked slightly though his tone's typical pedantic nature didn't give more than that away. This was as close to a concession as Sion could reach at present. While there was some familiarity between himself and those who'd all but duped him, there was undoubtedly more than met the eye. Even now, as he sat amid the tavern, Sion stuck out like a sore thumb. He had been resentful from the first moment someone looked upon him and screamed in terror; clearly, where people were concerned, there was more than met the eye, but while Sion would always be a monster, those of noble blood would never lose their shine.

"Hopefull'y after we leave Nansir," drunkards stumbled about as Sion's eyes drifted about the room momentarily. There were eyes upon him because there were always eyes upon him, now he smiled, not for the first time but in a way that that was clearly genuine. Sion had no desire for conflict; he never had. Conflict seemed to find him at every turn, and the plague across his arm ensured it. "but the night is y'oung, so we shall see." He considered the thought of sacrifice momentarily as he turned the tankard around slowly and kept his dark eyes fixed upon it. After a few heartbeats, Sion looked up towards Locket again. Tongue loosened by the ale, "I have never done anything of worth or meaning; if all I have to give is m'y life, then so be it."

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Even while drunk, Sion hardly flinched at any point of Robin's fuss. It phased the prince who often fought fire with fire. Passionately. Without a sword but cutting, confident and self-assured words. He was filled with such words, but rarely coaxed to let them out. After all, what ordinary person would dare challenge a prince? Unheard of back in Helygain.

Sion provided another drink... as promised. Robin's hackles smoothed at the gesture. He could still feel his fighting heart race within its marrow cage. What anxieties he'd had to face this week still present in usually cooled blood. Stinging, across the boys chest where his father had dug his nails. Robin drank some more, inviting the liquor to restore balance within his spirit and being.

He would never admit that Sion's confession left him feeling humbled. At least, tonight he's certain he would take the realization to his grave. The Black Valley was naturally forbidden, even to such close neighbors. Prince Robin was like the majority of mortals who only knew of the wastelands stories and legend. History. A wonder how any other mortal could live in such a place.

"Then you have learned that there is more to nobility than lofty towers and gratuitous crusades." He offered before nibbling on the fresh, heavily spiced bread provided. While casting his gaze toward the window beside them, water droplets clung to the nearly black panes. Not from rain, but the ever present fog combined with the oceans evening mist.

Robin's mind temporarily wandered to thoughts of his elder brothers. Soldier-princes, Moran and Damon. They too had interests beyond their callings. Pastimes others might consider insignificant, dull, or even wonderful. Smothered and locked in shadow. Only Robin knew while Locket refused. "'not one without the other. It is why I am so very splendid all the time."

He finally faces Sion and smiles that old smile once again.

"Will joining this fellowship be your first act of honor? How soon will I see your tearing of limbs first hand? Neither of us are all that we seem. You and I are willing to sacrifice for the greater good." To offer what they had, as they were now and who they would become. To whatever end.

Offense was natural to Sion's candor but never intentional, Locket's haughty response did nothing to throw the barbarian off guard as a pair of drinks hit the table and the barbarian offered the maid a few coins; unscrupulous, shrewd, and cheap, Sion had already been imbibing so the tip was more generous than was the berserker's usual custom.

Implying that Locket was somehow unworthy hadn't been Sion's intention, but some offense had clearly been taken. The King over Helygain had a slew of sons; there was the heir and the spares, and Sion paid little attention to either. His business in the city was largely professional; if he lingered, it was only for the comforts a city's tavern could bring. Like Rhydian, Sion had suspicions, but it was not until they stood in the hall that the council had introduced the party for who they truly were. Only then had Sion ever taken to associating the bard in front of him with anyone named Robin.

"I prefer m'y compan'y without crowns. Besides, I have never met a Prince named Locket." A meager offering because, as far as Sion was concerned, the man before him was still the creature he'd known in the taverns and alehouses about the lowest rungs of the city. An entertainer who could breathe life into a room with little more than a turn of his lips, a breezy smile, and an apt tune.

"I was not invited, I heard of the Council's plans and promised them I would tear the limbs off of those who would stand in the fellowship's way." Naturally, the Council seemed inclined to agree. "I lived in The Black Valle'y, I know what it holds. Oaths and honor are not reason enough to go, but I have never sworn an oath, and if y'ou ask around, these spectators will tell you that neither do I have an'y honor." He raised a brow, the closest form to an apology that the barbarian could muster, lips brought looser by the ale. Incensed by the comfort of familiarity, whatever hesitation lingered at the back of the barbarian's mind softened when he sat across someone who did not balk at the foreign manner he spoke. "So what could I know of it? Besides, is it Robin, or Locket that commanded the room just now?" Was it just an oath that brought the other here, or was there something more?

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Quiet, or was she merely preoccupied with this little project? Robin, Locket, wasn't accustomed to hearing no response toward his flirtatious comments. Receiving a diverting glance, timid giggle, and pinked cheeks were his usual rewards. A refreshing smile to match his own.

Graciela's focus was absolutely uncanny. The only mannerism to break this crafters shell being that mysterious melody she hummed. As if Robin were the artificers new object and she was once again alone. Tinkering upon him. At peace, until her gaze fell upon his bare palm that jostled the maker back to reality.

Robin traces a finger across the bend of Graciela's brazenly soft elbow, the line of her forearms ulna. Back arched forward and mortal eyes fixated. "Please. I am clothed finer than most of our company. Such services would seem beneath you, considering what you carry."

The other hand reached out to delicately trace each string of her current project. Invention. "And yet, they aren't."

He'd yet to meet a mage who wasn't an utter snob. The dull needle is captured and its point pressed against the prince's thumb. "I would be honored to wear one of your fine works. Will it require my blood to be most effective?"

The knight from Helygain is a curious man, indeed. Not as skilled as one would assume the kingdom would send, and yet with a touch of magic she wonders her fellow mages can identify. It's a sparkle hidden amidst mortality, and yet not entirely hidden to her eye. Not when she has spent years seeking the magic on seemingly death steel and she has learned how to find it. Graciela sees what others don't, but on this she keeps quiet.

Her curiosity urges to speak, to ask the questions sitting on the edge of her tongue, but she refrains. As isolated as she as grown through the years, she is not yet dense, and she has seen the looks sent on the mortal's direction. Doubt has begun to sit upon their fellowship and they have yet to depart for their journey, but she will not sow further discord for any conflict will only risk the sanctity of their mission. Not when this Prince Robin Caddell had journeyed far to join their quest, not when he remains despite the whispers. Despite the threats they are to face.

That alone is worthy of her respect.

"The wrist alone will do, I don't have enough time to sew any clothes," Graciela mentions distractedly as she reaches forward and wraps her hands around his right wrist, bringing it closer to her so she can wrap the band of cloth around it and hums thoughtfully when she realizes that there is some loose cloth. Absentmindedly marking the place with graphite, eyes dipping into the scrapes on his palm and she chews on her lip thoughtfully for a moment before she takes the cloth back and glances up, just for realization to dawn. Blinking back the embarrassment she sends him a sheepish grin in apology. "Pardon me, I got ahead of myself. Would you like a protection charm? It will not be too powerful due to time constraints, but I wanted to— Well, offer some of my services before I have to focus my attention in the gauntlet."

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The ask might have offended Robin, but by now he was prepared. Considering the fellowship had cornered him with similar questions for one whole day. Complete with an underwhelming (and wholly unnecessary) duel. Disappointing that Sion couldn't resist being curious as the non-believers after all.

"It's more likely than you, or the others might dare imply." Robin smiled, determined to not feel insulted toward his closest (potential) friend. "I do carry my invitation... and where is yours, darling?"

So the monster came with a reputation of rib tearing and skull bursting. He did not originate from a royal bloodline, possess their seal and a proud history pledged to ancient oaths. Why then should it be Prince Robin Caddell and his legitimate invitation put to the challenge?

"I don't need to pull the prince card on you, do I?" He teased again. Either the word 'worthless' was etched above his noble brow or the lot of them were just stupid. "You know, I really wouldn't mind wearing my crown night and day to remind you all." But that was left far away in Helygain. Where it belonged.

It wasn't Robin's style to advertise the legacy he was born into and behave greater than all others. Evidently, as his own people, commoners to outsiders, were his nearest and dearest allies in life. While his family and then eventually most castle staff shunned him, his people were... his people.

"I am a proud knight of Helygain... our people honor our oaths. Of course I heeded the call."

Locket's reputation and what he hoped to conceal were in no danger from coming from the barbarian's lips. Sion had never seen the bard handle a sword efficiently; to hear that he was a trained knight was... Something of a surprise. Sion did not know the other well enough to call him a liar, but the barbarian had an eye for falsehoods, and it was clear where Locket's heart lay. The fellowship was not wanted for physical power, but diplomacy was something the surly contenders were in a shorter supply of that force.

The barbarian was true to his nature, for all that the people gawked, there was always an interest in danger when around these parts, the common folk were accustomed to the tired eyes, hunched backs, and knobby knees of the mages who spent more days in a library than in a field. To that end, Sion would find some barmaid to entertain himself with for the few hours before dawn, or perhaps one of the other brazen men that lined these streets. They expected a berserker and a barbarian, and Sion remained true to his reputation. The undertaking would begin tomorrow, and it'd likely be a good while before any of them had the comforts of a feather bed and warm body beneath them.

"Y'et, I will still be glad to put it behind me." Sion defended harmlessly whether the weight of inebriation, weariness, and regret was a problem for tomorrow. His rage would snap him out of any stupor he happened to find himself in should the need arise, but as was his nature, after half a day on the back of his old mare, he'd have shaken whatever dregs clung to him still. He'd let the horrors of the day be left under the light, the whispers of the Gauntlet and the dark promises that it had come to make, for now, he would drink, and he would fuck, and at dawn, he'd drag himself to Graciela's side. She was young and hopeful, both of these things made her naive.

The ale had made Sion more talkative than usual as he turned the brew around before he emptied it against his lips and gestured for one of the maids to bring another round. "There is enough misery ahead of us, I can assure y'ou of that." He thought of his time within The Valley, the diremen were the least horrors they would encounter. "How did y'ou end up in the middle of this?"

[heartstringablaze]

@falseroquen

His short-lived foe appeared just as worn as the afternoon they first faced each other. Surrounded by peers. Heavy blades in hand. The look Robin recognized now, then, the same as when Uthyr disarmed him.

No contest.

Around them swelled with murmurs of disapproval, and a chortle or two. But that gaze, however spiritless, was all that spared Robin of complete and utter hopelessness. To duel was to repeat a haunting pattern which Uthyr unsuspectingly broke.

The morning that followed felt like renewal. Robin was armored. With kind words and healing company from Graciela the night before. The symbol that despite what took place, he was still apart of what came next. In his heart, mind this also remained true.

He stood on the veranda and helped himself to tea and a biscuit. Beloved luxuries he at least would carry with him on the journey, but would not last its entirety. Would Uthyr partake? The suns presence was not clear, but Robin presumed Uthyr was the early riser of the company. Perhaps breakfast was already warm in that belly.

"Marvelous morning. Bleak as the last." The poet sardonically announced before savoring the swirling tea. "'divine as Vinnessian ale. Before earning my armor, I couldn't stomach their spices."

[heartstringablaze]

@hhalxyon

The great Citadel was massive and sunless. Chambers designed for seclusion plentiful. Robin did not fair well without light. Desperate as he felt to isolate, the corners of this strange new place chilled him. A seat by the eternally roaring hearth was the best he could manage without fleeing the fellowships temporary sanctuary.

His nerves were busted. Was it night? Flames flicker and create movement across the four walls. The artist feels himself shrink, drawing the large text closer to his chest. Alone, at last, dark mortal eyes turn downward and focus. Was the style of calligraphy odd, foreign to human visitors, or was his mind still aroused?

This wasn't home.

Abandoning the book on a nearby table, Robin flexes his musician digits before lifting a lute to his chest. Light as a feather. He stands before the fire and shuts both strained eyelids. Whoosh, crackle, a subtle high pitch whine. There are no such sounds. This fire is magic and consumes no pyre.

This place is so empty.

He has to let his mind wander to find inspiration. Soulless as his surroundings felt, Robin possessed his own. Fingers flick and strum, drawing forth the most innocent and cheerful tune he can muster. The sort played beside a rushing stream, teaming with fish, on a blue and golden afternoon among friends.

The punishing heat of this dead fire is replaced with a feeling of refreshment. From his toes that skirt the cool ripples to his chest that exhales with laughter. He would trade the emptiness for a full hand of trout, clammy slimed scales wriggling back and forth. He would trade it for a blinding of pure sunlight.

The void conquers the sun again as a creak slips behind him and Robin turns on his heel, knowing he'd been caught. The form of this presence is still very unfamiliar to him, but he recalls the gold they had pierced to their skin. The sun.

Cleric.

Robin smiles and continues to strum. As a performer would.

"No party with you? A private show it is then... how truly blessed you are." He teased before finding his seat once more. Raven curls pressed into the velvet. Lute cradled lazily, too high on his chest, the sound from it still expert. But now, more muted, as to not outshine his humored voice. "I've always wondered how clerics like you spend their free time. Care to share?"

[heartstringablaze]

In Helygain, Robin couldn't be further from a man like Sion. Honestly, no visitor or immigrant back home had been comparable. For twenty-four years, the preoccupied prince had relied on the outside world to come to him. Sion was the first of his kind.

Appearing mortal if not betrayed by that blemished arm, the stories of mass-terror arrived long before Sion's frame breeched the kingdoms seventh level. A creature, a monster, a mystery. It was humorous, that Robin now invited himself to dine with what was a warning from both his guard and people. But why shouldn't he?

Robin smirked again, and raised his pint in a silent cheer.

They had traveled just as far, met for the same cause, shared some semblance of security for the mortal country. Tonight and from this point on, Prince Robin Caddell and Mercenary Sion Ewig were equals.

Then there was this... 'bard'. Cold silver washed down Robin's throat to settle mid-torso. Yet, he managed not to flinch, not in Sion's company. Not because he had to be strong before the barbarian, it was because he didn't have too. He didn't have to lie to Sion.

The fabled monster knew too much.

An old warning, now a comfort, but also a conundrum. Robin wanted to speak of it, to ask, but as this tavern had become their usual escape that idea seemed too selfish. Too selfish, even for the prince. Please, let this last night of creature comforts remain just so. Pretend.

"Vinnesse has changed you." He laughs before casting what once had been a deadened gaze now a twinkling one across the chatty tavern. "Mages made merry, and mercenary turned patron. ... The dreariness of that damned Citadel. They should learn; better to depart tomorrow with cheeks pink and bellies brimming."

Fickle airs of warmth flooded this space. Sion often thought that this was why he enjoyed taverns and alehouses. People from all walks of life were mostly the same after they'd poured a few pints down their gullets: faces red like cherries, eyes reflective in their glossy ambers, and hearts eager to spill open at the most convenient pause. Honesty thrived in dens like this, deception left its boots at the door, its coin a tip for the alemen. People like Locket bartered and traded in these truths; Sion had no tact in these things; if he had climbed atop that keg, he was likelier to fall off and break the table than he was to inspire anyone to cheer.

Sion wasn't an envious man; it was rare that he wanted the things that others so easily possessed. People only held their breath when the barbarian entered the room because of the fear that followed the berserker's presence. Ascribed with a strange plague, rage, and sigils, he did not need to open his mouth to make those around him uncomfortable. Locket had the opposite effect; the light seemed dim when he entered the room. Bloodshed was painfully common, easy at least for the barbarian; civility was harder.

There was such revelry here, lightness, and jovility. These are reminders of things Sion was not and could only ascribe to in fleeting passing. If he'd ever had a youth, he couldn't remember it; the barbarian was resolved to believe he'd cropped out of the ground as was: fully formed and irrepressible in his surliness. There was a faint lightness to his gaze as Locket took his seat opposite him, seemingly ambivalent to the omens hanging over them but lavishing in the tavern's ambiance. At least that song had ended, and Sion was no longer sitting there alone.

A few ales in, and Sion's lips were looser than they ought to be, but regardless of how slick the Vinnessian's had made his tongue, he hadn't imbibed enough to be on his feet alongside the rest of these patrons. "I have to admit to nothing." Low as gravel and bedrock, the comment churned over itself; Sion's stubborn disposition didn't allow him to concede too much, but it wasn't the worst performance Sion had ever seen. Not by a long shot. "But, I will bu'y the bard's next round."

[heartstringablaze]

Silence was a rarity as well for musicians like Locket, but not for forgotten Princes. The day was grey, like the others had been since their arrival in Vinnesse, and Robin stared directly into it through an ajar Citadel window. Left hand pressed to the right that clutched a dampened handkerchief, meant to soothe the heat still radiating off his palm. Scraped, swollen, burning. He stared into the grey, emptied his mind and let the pain be. Otherwise... he just might give in. And cry.

That was when a faint humming reached Robin's attuned ears. Sparing him not only the tears, but the pained throbbing he obsessed over. A song in the Citadel? After such a week, Robin was certain no song had ever been uttered within the ebony walls. He followed the sound, walking straight through the doorway without a second thought. Mostly because he was accustomed to such noble environments belonging to him.

The Artificer. Robin did not know her or of those with such skill. When the fellowship first gathered, she intimidated him. The mage had been heavily clothed from head to toe. Face hidden behind thick goggles and a dark mask. That, and she stood but inches from the formidable presence of Lady Zyrah. Mage royalty that Prince Robin shared insignificant history with.

In this state, his mind tried to convince himself it was insignificant anyway, but the God Burner had undeniably taken a second glance toward his presence. In confusion perhaps, suspicion likely, but more importantly remembrance.

Robin did not receive the same greeting from The Artificer, Graciela Resendiz, once she had shed her masks for the sake of party transparency. She would carry The Gauntlet, so members attention had been fixated on her until the inquiries of Robin's answer to the call began. Would she have joined in otherwise?

"Perfect."

Standing alone, in the opening of the enormous doorway, Robin is immediately phased by this word. His eyes are dark, plain, mortal. His lips have been beaten into a flat line. Pathetically, stupidly, he lingers in place left hand still pressing into the right.

Perfect. Well... I do like to think so.

He thinks to himself, but really... can he believe such lofty claims right now?

The mage's voluntary smile and invitation to join her seems to suggest that he can. How could she, when he might as well be the pariah of their company at this point? Had Graciela not been told? Had she not paid attention? Did she simply not care?

A protection charm, for him? Robin cocked his brow slightly, but sauntered over to take a seat near her. One, because he would never say no to a gift, and two, because she gave him hope that he might still be part of the fellowship she mentioned. Pictured in her mind.

He quickly pocketed the handkerchief and flexed his hand, glancing between it and then her small frame. Busy at delicate work. Embroidery was familiar to him. Admiring such artistry made him instantly calmer. He smirked, captivated, "My wrists, and what's attached, are all yours to measure. If it would spare you the trouble, 'last my tailor checked it was seven."

who? open where? sitting room within the citadel, vinnesse when? a couple of days before departure

Silence can very rarely be found in the proximity of the artificer, whether it is her voice driving it away for her own peace of mind or the sound of her tinkering with alloys and all manner of metals, there is always a sound in the background of Graciela's surroundings. Always.

Except for when she finds particularly focused on a delicate task. Sewing takes the sort of patience she is grateful she can muster for specific tasks, embroidery doubly so, and yet the end results are worth it nonetheless. One week before departure is a rather tight timeline when it comes to enchanting, but it is one she makes do, desiring to provide some sort of aid for those who are to defend her on the journey ahead. There is an intrinsic awareness that comes from knowing she is likely to become a hidrance the more the journey progresses, and there is nothing she wants more than to prove that she can be of useful. Needle passing through cloth, she eyes the wrist band and hums in satisfaction. Nearly done, if only–

The sound of footsteps distracts her from her musings and her head snaps up towards the newcomer, a mix of relief and tension sweeping over her shoulder as they approach.

"Perfect," she says instead of a greeting, a warm smile on her lips even as she internally regrets having taken the mask off. It's only purpose is to hide her features and allow her to breath amidst the smoke of her work, but she has been in near solitude for years, it's rather unfair that when she is forced into a journey, it is with what clearly are the most attractive people in the realm. She is not used to that. "Please, join me for a moment? I have been preparing a cursory protection charm for the entire fellowship, and I would like to confirm that I gauged the size of your wrist correctly."