Lemons

A Tyrant's Undoing

@Ryuji Sakamoto Wasn't he searching for Avad in the first place?

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad, having consumed two or three mugs of beer, was just drunk enough that his emotions were beginning to run unchecked. He would chide himself the day after with a this happens every time and you know it!, but for the moment, he was fighting back tears at the merchant's song. While he certainly wasn't warforged like Sergei, and certainly hadn't been through as many battles or as much pain, he'd still his share of the atrocities of war. At the siege of Nightvell Castle, his entire squadron had been slaughtered by a brutal curse, leaving him alone among the corpses of his comrades and friends. He found himself humming (badly, but mercifully quietly) along to the last few verses.

Then Tahra and Logan MacNeil came out of the abandoned mansion. Stumbling as he attempted a standing salute, Avad seemed to have forgotten entirely that he was no longer wearing his military robes, and, in all likelihood, the knight would have no idea who he was. Instead, he decided that the best possible of all solutions would be to address him as a military officer. "Surr Logn Mcneel..." He squinted suddenly, "why're you here 'gain?"

He stumbled sideways again, barely managing to catch himself before reseating himself. As the merchant (who had rapidly become his favorite person in the world for providing this much beer at a time this appropriate and the young boy stated the fact, he realized again that it was his charge's birthday. He lurched to her, gripping around her shoulders with a madcap grin that one would more likely see on the face of one half his age, and slurred a few words of power before motioning loopily in the air. His grin widened as the mug in his hand shook slightly, and he gave only a second or so of warning before he poured the rest of his fourth mug over her head. The beer had become a cloudy gray-gold and gave off a gentle mist. Taken by his own incautiously-conjured magic, he wrapped his arm tighter and cheered, lifting the empty mug to the sky.

As one might be able to tell...Avad did not often drink. It seldom ended well.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad will go with the group that isn't with Tahra. Though he cares about her, the king is a very old friend of his and he doesn't want to see him overthrown. Rather, he wants his name cleared.

A Tyrant's Undoing

"Magnanimous beer goddess."

You are now officially my favorite person.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad's eyes opened and he sat up, stretching and yawning. He looked around at his surroundings; a cot, a derelict house...familiar architecture. City architecture. He sighed and flopped back down, tossing his arm over his eyes. "Damnation," he growled in annoyance, "I told him not to come here."

Scattered about him about the seemingly-abandoned house—Westering District, he decided, based on the strangely contradictory opulence and state of decay—were various articles of clothing in various states of repair. Sighing regretfully, he stripped the military robe, complete with his stars of decoration and honour, off, folding it carefully and placing it to the side, leaving him wearing only a light belted tunic.

In lieu of the wondrously crafted robe, he tossed on a thick, deeply-cowled cloak of deep gray wool. Scowling slightly at the itchy fabric, he readjusted the garment until it was comfortable, then placed the folded robe into one of the cloak's several deep pockets—cloaks did have advantages, after all—and rose, grabbing his spellbook from its place at his side and placing it into a second pocket, fingering the pages fondly for a moment.

Navigating outside and tossing back the gray hood, he mussed his gray brown hair until it was suitably disorganized. In the ragged cloak, he was fairly confident he no longer reeked of nobility. Hearing a collection of sounds from off to one side, he veered off and found a collection of three sitting by the cart: Sergei, the old soldier; the Dullahan that he had so ill-advisedly thrown a sixfold bolt of lightning at; and finally, a rather unremarkable—at least compared to present company—half-elf woman, somewhere around her early-to-mid twenties, if his eyes told him right. Stepping into their circle of booze, he nodded at her.

"I assume you're the owner of the wagon that got us here." He gave a curt nod. "Thank you. You saved us much trouble." With that said, he turned to the Dullahan, though she clearly still made him uncomfortable. "And...I apologize for, well, trying to kill you without provocation. After the events of the night, I was a bit rattled. Understandably so, I'd like to think."

Then he laughed, relaxing visibly. The complete lack of headache had put him into a considerably better mood. "Now that the formalities are over," he chuckled, pulling out a few silver coins and turning to the cart owner again, "how many mugs do you have left in that barrel? I could...really...use a drink."

A Tyrant's Undoing

@Dodi do 900

Good, so it isn't just me.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad was floating in a black void of ache, wincing at the occasional flickers of light that shot through his unconscious state. His overtaxed mind was knitting itself back together, the æther in the air around him slowly filtering into his spirit. Finally, with a soft groan, he opened his eyes and found himself looking at the underside of a what seemed to be a blanket. Though his instincts told him to shove it to the side, his logical mind won out; he was now a fugitive from his dearest companion, and had no idea where he was. For all he knew by the bumping and jolting, he could've be in an executioner's wagon right then. Instead, slowly lifting a corner to peek underneath it, he squinted into the moonlight in an attempt to grasp his bearings.

He seemed to be was lying on the bed of a cart rattling down the road. Lying beside him was the princess, and in the dim half-light of the night sky, he mouthed at her, where are we? The last thing he remembered was casting a six-span bolt of lightning, then the sensation of falling. His temples still ached, though less so from before, and letting a bit of magic drip through him, he found that his fingertip lit up with the bead of magic used in drawing glyphs, faintly illuminating the blanket's interior with the dimmest of dim gray glows, without making his head feel fit to burst.

He suddenly became painfully aware that he was still wearing the official robes of a High Battlemage and hissed softly in displeasure at the realization that it would be dangerous for him to show off the position he worked so hard for. Not only that, but free inn rooms were a thing of the past. He began to regret giving Sergei three gold crowns.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad grinned lopsidedly. "A single silver coin? Please. Who do you take me for?" He dug into one of his numerous belt pouches, taking out three golden crowns.

Which was a lot of money.

He tossed them to Sergei. "I wasn't present for your civil war, but I remember Nightvell. You fight well. It's worth the money, and at least until I can clear my name, I'm going to need all the help I can get."

Then a headless person wearing a spine walked up. And Avad was...startled.

"Achmat adalber malakelta eirinn verelest oine'in!" Ignoring the pulsing pain in his head, he traced the glyph in the air, letting a blast of elemental lightning surge forth from his palm. It was rare for him to use combat magic of that potency; it was, in fact, very likely that it was the first time anybody there had seen him using a spell that powerful. A little known fact, mostly only known by mages, was that the more words in a spell, the more powerful it was. The usually run-of-the-mill spell was four words. Six? Six was preposterous.

The immensely powerful magic surged away from him, and his eyesight flickered briefly before dimming entirely. As his headache multiplied ten...twenty-fold, he fell over sideways, gasping for air.

Avad's Spellcraft

Lightning-Strike-Seek-Pierce-Debilitate-Destruction

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad shouldered his way forward from the waist-deep water, grimacing in displeasure. As he stopped to consider the ex-soldier in front of him more closely, though, his brow furrowed and his eyes darted back and forth before settling on the red surcoat. His mouth dropped open a bit in recognition for a moment, and his eyes snapped up to those of the veteran.

"I recognize that crest. You were at the battle of Tabor Lei during the Erane'Vos campaign. Knights of the Western Fjords, if I'm not mistaken. Long since destroyed. I didn't know any of your order were still alive."

He pulled a small leather sack that jangled loudly from his belt, tossing it at the man. "For services to the Realm," he nodded. "I would do more, but I'm a bit drained of magic at the moment."

With that said, he turned to the Silver Fox, regarding him coldly. "No. I myself stationed guards at every entrance to the city. And trust me, I know all of them. We're not going back in there for a good long while, until things cool down a bit. Don't even try."

Finally, he turned to the Princess. "Princess, I strongly urge you to leave this criminal behind. He'll ransom you to the king for a few silver crowns in a heartbeat. No honor among thieves."

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