[IC] The Refusal of the Greatest Gift

Some say that Archmage Lumina howled in anguish and was trying to tear a hole to the afterlife planes before she was subdued by others in the tower.



Some say that Archmage Lumina went straight to work in a businesslike manner, speaking Celestial as she intoned from scrolls of Raise Dead and Resurrection, before withdrawing, taking notes as she went.



Some say that Archmage Lumina had never seemed so small and frail, saying nothing and ignoring all as she curled up next to her fallen love, patting Red’s hair until and after her fingers were cut to ribbons on the frost.



All agree though, that Lumina placed a runed mithril necklace around the neck of Alexandra Markova, as soft words were whispered in Traladarn, before the body was taken to Lumina’s laboratory.

Protector Lorien Dark stands at the stone door to the upper levels of the tower. Not usually anywhere near the public facing levels of the Arcane Alliance tower, not for years. 

Already dressed in her mourning black, as a lifelong habit. Then again, is a leather catsuit really mourning or is it just a nod to the concept of funeral black - but with a wiggle in it's step? This is a concept she muses personally as she collects the notes, gifts, baskets and questions from well-wishers on behalf of Archmage Lumina. 
Exceedingly polite, even if they are shocked at her sharp and extended canines when she smiles warmly. 

They are too surprised, to ask who she is. Or they know and they didn't expect her to be here, now. Surprise, she actually really was doing this. Watching for anything unusual, out of place. Any jittery movements under robes or long coats. Any additional messengers from all the wrong places. Herias stood stiffly at his desk, their eyes met - same same. What are the odds that trouble doesn't travel in threes. Or more, it is Threshold. 

There is a pain there, deep in her heart as she waits between guests. Avoiding contact with people for so long had saved her from true connections. Grief, loss. Though when Julien Cole had terrified Archmage Lumina, when she was just an Initiate, something broke free. Something made her want to surface. Holding her "Crest of Threshold" amulet strongly with her gloved hands, pulling it tightly against her neck and dragging a deep divot into her neck. 

"There's genuinely nothing you could have done." A hooded figure says, appearing suddenly beside the bookcase. Proprietarily also in mourning black. It had an edge though, not hastily donned. Not new. It was her kind of mourning black. It was familiar. "You all tried." His voice is gentle, but also demanding in a manner. Someone that is used to being respected, believed, agreed with. Well damn.

"Do you have a message for Archmage Lumina?" Lorien replies curtly, dropping the amulet back down onto her chest and picking up her parchment and old fashioned quill with all the air of a secretary. Albeit one with thousands of dollars of ancient rubies and adamantine chains in her elaborately wound dark scarlet hair. 

"Yes. Mortimer would like to apologise for her loss, sincerely. That he also congratulates her belatedly on her work on Highforge and the entrance into the Civilian ranks of the Order of Perpetual Motion." He says this smoothly, tossing his head and briefly lifting the hood - showing off a fringe of stark white hair and a handsome face. Eerie and symmetrical, like hers. Then a flash of such similar pointy white teeth. "He didn't ask, but I'll.. bite.. No wedding ring?" 

"I'll wear mine when you wear yours. Get out of the tower." Lorien says with her head tilted coyly, an open mouthed smile that is contrary entirely to her chilling words. To all the world it looks like she is overjoyed to see him, with warmth poured into her glittering green eyes.

"Au contraire, my love. Have fun playing with your friends." And the pretense of business is dropped, the familiar snapping of two formidable foes. He presses his fingers to his lips and then steps out of range. Weaving to the exit with polite nods and socially acceptable pats on the shoulder. The wolf is exceedingly good at tricking the sheep.

Her sudden drop in mood unnoticed in the deep mourning of the antechamber. Filled with milling people, new flower arrangements, old pains. Familiar wounds. 
Not so much after all - Herias notices, as always. He gives her a look of knowing, of gentle disapproval. 

Respectfully, she bows her head to her predecessor - lowering her green eyes as she is admonished, rightfully. For a moment in that reflection she had forgotten the curled body of a twin spirit. 
A feisty, strong, brilliant, glorious redhead. 

But it's back, like a slamming coffin lid and the darkness re-envelopes her mind as a the swirl of a black dress catches her eye and a local baker creeps forward hesitantly with a wreath of bread in a basket of flowers. A heartfelt, genuine gift from someone who felt the hard painful kick of loss even though she did not know her - Adventurers are heroes. Heroes are revered. Threshold knows all heroes. Threshold mourns all heroes.

Alexandra 'Sasha' Markova was who this woman's daughter would wear a red jacket and pretend to be. Who her daughter would invoke when she wanted to use the power of imagination to be exciting and different and in charge. Red, was an everyday hero, a powerful woman who was uncompromisingly herself. The woman explaining still how many of their children all wanted to have fire eyes and red hair when they grew up. 

Lorien falls back out of her brief reverie and manages to communicate just in time as the woman prepares to return to her household in mourning. 

"We're so sorry for her loss." the baker says awkwardly after too many beats of silence and then with a quick curtsey and a whirl away through the crowd.

Belatedly, too long after the woman had retreated -  Lorien realised she was still just, holding the wreath of bread. Wondering about that little girl and her friends. She hoped they would still wear their red coats. That they would always want to be heroes.

Niskriya sits in her oversized chair, skimming over a Dwarven book on the desk, making notes in another adjacent book. Her glancing between the two slows and then stops. There is a pending chill in the air, and her gaze turns towards the entrance of the tower, waiting, wondering, praying.

The small parade that enters, as they the corpse of Alexandra Markova, takes some time to register in Niss' vision, it seems incalculable, impossible. Injust. Wrong.

Someone calls her name, it doesn't matter who, but it causes her to snap back into reality. Glancing about for Lumina, her own panic overridden with a heartbreaking concern. Niskriya keeps close to Lumina, fielding the questions that go unheard in the anguish. Redirecting offers of assistance to where they would be best received. Being the invisible anticipator, a warm cloak appearing silently over the shoulders, a glass of water or tissues manifesting when there wasn't even a sign they were needed.

That night, Niskriya plays piece after Traladaran piece, the type first brought to her attention by Pavel.
The accompanying stories that Alexandra told her all going unspoken, unsung; there was no room for lyrics from a wavering voice.

---

A room above Darcy's Diner is filled with the lingering scents of lotus & rose incense, lit only by a candle on the bedside table.
Valerian lays on the floor, wearing only a blindfold, with fingers laced behind their head, legs out straight, crossed comfortably at the ankles.
The well groomed moustache of a small-framed gentlemen is tickling an armpit, yet the growing noises of the city outside become irksome for the small figure.

Eventually the reason for all the noise becomes apparent, and the gentleman caller stumbles towards the door, saying with a saddened sigh "Fun's over, I know you've got work to do."

To work, Valerian goes. Donning the closest approximation to a set of traditional Valerias robes they own, Val heads to the streets, guiding the youngest eyes away, and kissing the top of every head. Each and every person they pass receives a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, as they work through the gathering crowd towards the friends that are breaking apart. No stranger to grief and tragedy, it seems that Valerian shoulders this all, as they always have done, and always will do, with a compassionate smile and an open heart.

'tis a fortunate thing, being an Elf, they think, knowing that there will be long days, and longer nights ahead. 

---

Síochánta remains on the periphery, only having a brief connection with Red, watching how much her friends miss her, watching how much Red's lover suffers... she backs away, not able to convert her thoughts & feelings into words, she retreats to her house. Sitting on the bed, her knees tucked to her chest, she waits for Kalisa, comforted in her knowing that Kalisa will make it home. Eventually wrapping her arms around her lover, and holding on tightly, the gravity of what could have been sinking in.

"I don't know what I would do, should I lose you, so please don't let me find out."

"Sock 'im in 'is golden heeeeead!" one of the gold and green suited squires shouts, throwing more coins into the fight pit at the Quixotic Dragon. 
"Not the face!" one of the lasses at the long bar replies at a similar volume. With murmurs of agreements and disagreements in the packed bar space. 

The elegant cobbled floor was scattered with recent confetti, as they celebrated a recent intake of new Knights - which then required some of the local boys and girls to stop training finally be accepted as squires. Kelvin was heaving with happy families, realising the dreams of generations. 

And Taevin had returned to it, basking in the familiar banter and and surprising ache that eased when he had set foot in his familial home. He glances over to check on his friends and for some reason - against his better judgement, Tatienne Delacroix. The dancer, cardkeeper and operative?? had just easily slid into his group of friends and the social scene of Kelvin, something he would have asserted would be impossible for the complex ball of chaos that he saw her as.

Still she was determined to assist in his current mission, despite only having asked her in passing. She had considered his problem to be worth her time with no current work to be doing, showed him her professional capacity to become exactly what people needed in order to tell her everything. Everything she was doing was purely to help him, but the ease in the way that she managed people was putting him in a spot that teetered back and forth to trust and suspicion. 

She leaned all the way over to pick up a pretzel, her strange Delacroix pendant catching his eye more than her overflowing décolletage in a fancy black silk shirt that his buddies were supposed to also be ignoring, but were doing a damned fine job of inspecting at too much of a length. He frowned.

Then he took a fist to the jaw, unfocused for a moment. 

"That was a damn good hit, always take control of an opponent who is distracted." He added jovially to the new squire. 

"Yessir, noted sir." She replied, hopping from one foot to another in a sort of parody of a boxers stance. Her short black pigtails bouncing as well. "What else, what do I need to know?" 

Taevin pointed behind her, then waited for her to turn and swept her feet out. Knocking her to the ground. "That you can create distractions and still be honourable. Creating the openings in combat is smart." And then offers her his hand, to a rousing round of applause. 

The squire, named Katie accepted it. Skipping then up the stairs and taking the spotlight where it comes, bowing dramatically and waving to her 'adoring fans'. Leaving him to slowly work his way around to the corner booth. Making eye contact first with the longest legs in the room, propped up on the opposite bench. His boyhood friends pointing to Tatienne's constellation tattoos and asking her if they hurt and also if she was going to go try hit someone. 

He opens his mouth to let them know to give her a break, even though she seems comfortable with the intense interest - but a Griffon Knight comes running in and up to their spot. Panting and helping himself to some of their liquor before he speaks. Giving them all a good chance to stare both incredulously and curiously.

"Orright Bren, have a drink why don't you?" they joke, but there is wariness there. Messengers come and go, but they are rarely their own. 

Taevin stays standing, using a clean towel to dab off the spots where Katie transferred sawdust onto him with her gentle taps. Dusting off his relaxed Ochalean style training outfit as a way to avoid the tense wait. 

"They've got Protector Markova back." Griffon Bren finally says. Sitting down heavily in their corner. Beginning to pour multiple short glasses of good Ylaruam Whisky. 

"Hey, that's great. Now we can stop worrying." His usual sparring partner, the dark haired Griffon Blakeney says. "Everyone made it back." 
The silence becomes uncomfortable. The touch of the bottle to the glasses and the glugging becomes almost unbearable. The room has quieted down around them, other runners are making it in. A stifled sob and the proprietress Arandie slumps behind the bar.

"I do not think Protector Alexandra Markova is okay. From what I can gather, she is very much not okay." Tatienne's husky, Glantrian drawl interrupts the silence. Sliding to sit and then hunkering forward, staring intensely at the table. "Am I right, Mister Bren?"

Bren nods curtly, taking another shot and then waving the drinks at them. "Frozen solid. Found by a full team, just sitting on the forest floor. Wasn't there one minute, then she just was there. Plain as day. Curled up in a ball." his voice is low, but the facts still carry. 

Taevin picks up a glass and sips at the amber liquid. Feeling the burn of the drink and the realisation. "I made it out. We all did, except her." perplexed, tired. Saddened.

Tatienne stands, towering over almost all of them. But eye to eye with him. Making sure she gives him a full beat of her sympathetic warm brown eyes. He has to look away. Though in the corner of his eye he can see her raise her glass, not just to them but to the room. 
"To Protector Markova. The heart of a Traladaran, the body of a warrior, the spirit of a hero. May she ever be remembered, for all she was and all that she could have been. To her." And that, in her raised voice with her strange cadence - still a stranger here. He was awed to hear his people shout. 

"TO HER."