Heartless

The Southern Cross Inn - Crown's Refuge

The Southern Cross is what one might describe as a 'traditional' tavern within Crown's Refuge. Though constructed via magical means like most of the freehold, it seems clear that the architect of this inn must have been a former Imperial of Fastheld, for much of the establishment's personality can be clearly traced back to the idea of such buildings being filled with subdued lighting and as many shadowy areas as possible from which one can brood within.

The building itself is "L" shaped, with the main polished-oak bar being in the corner in which horizontal and vertical meet, pushed up against the back wall so that the Innkeeper can keep watch over all of his establishment. Circular tables and high-backed wooden chairs fill the floor space while "U" shaped booths line the walls beneath stained-glass windows and a myriad of trophies and ornamentation.

It is a tavern that has been clearly designed for the Wildlanders of Crown's Refuge, and whatever visiting Imperials may be in the freehold at any given time, having little in the way of consideration for the Syladris but not excluding them from the premises should they wish to try and navigate the floor. The lighting remains dull and subtle - be it day or night - with candles that burn a dark blue flame providing the only means of light other than that which manages to stream through the stained glass windows.

Stairs at the top of the "|" of the inn lead upstairs to the second level, while a trapdoor near the well-stocked bar leads into a basement below, as well as an alchemy lab, oddly enough. The door leading back out into Wolfsbane's row remains at the '-' end of the "L".

Residing in the back of the tavern is a singular figure, dressed in a fine cloak crafted of black leather. The bulky humanoid appears to be wearing a mesh of well-maintained obsidian half-plate. As he leans back, the hood of his cloak obscures most of his features except a lightly bearded chin and a few strands of errant, light brown hair. Leaning prominently against the table is the ornate hilt of a steel claymore, sheathed snugly in a broad leather scabbard. A gauntleted left hand idly fingers with a tankard set before him.

The door flies open, admitting Meian and Sandrim, who between them are hauling an unconscious and bloody Taran for the stairs. They pause for no one or nothing, between the two of them struggling but managing to get him through the floor, aided by the way the crowd parts for the wild, teary-eyed and bloody girl and the somewhat less injured but equally determined Sandrim.

The armored figure looks up from his reverie, the eyes beneath the hood seeming interested enough in the approaching figures. He watches them pass before reaching to tank up his tankard and drink deeply of the remnants, setting it down with a *thud* on the tabletop and rising from his seat. His left hand reaches to retrieve his claymore while his right pushes the chair out of the way so that he might follow after the trio.

The Southern Cross (Second Floor) - Crown's Refuge

The second floor of the Southern Cross is a fairly conventional affair consisting of a wide wooden landing that leads into one of the various private rooms that the tavern offers to people that wish to live in a somewhat unconventional home rather than a town house.

Clear-glass windows rest at either end of the hallway, overlooking the street below, while the occasional explosion or haunting musical chime can sometimes be heard from behind the often locked and triple-reinforced door of the Tavern's owner, one Garrett Hawklight, a somewhat eccentric mage.

Meian and Sandrim together haul Taran's frame up the stairs, panting and staggering, but managing to get him situated in am empty room, laid out on the bed. Leaving Sandrim there, Meian staggers out of the room to fall back against the wall outside it, leaving a smear of blood from her own four visible wounds- upper thigh punctured and bloody, shoulder grazed, right calf punctured also and right hip bleeding.

"This is what happens, you know," comments the figure, his voice carrying the tone of a pleasant tenor as he arrives from the tavern proper, his sabatons thudding against the floor with each step as he finally takes to a leaning position against the wall a few feet away from the girl, settling the sheathed tip of his claymore into the floor and resting his gauntleted hands over it. The voice continues, the familiar cultured accent of an Imperial Noble, "When people rush blindly in to a situation to foolishly sacrifice themselves. Perhaps you all should've just stayed home. But who am I to judge?" asks the man, a sudden tone of amusement playing into his voice as he glances down to Meian's form, lifting a hand to tip the edge of his hood up so his eyes might meet hers. The face shown is clearly that of the emerald-eyed Duke Norran Lomasa, although he lacks much of his usual fanfare, his grin remains resolute. "...I'm just an old soldier from the Empire. Atleast, it's all I am here."

Blood and tears on her face, Meian stares up at Norran uncaringly with the glazed vision of someone far beyond caring about nobility and propriety at the moment. "Believe what you will but you know nothing of what happened," the girl says quietly, beginning to tremble. "How could you... how could you talk like this, now..."

"Because you'll learn no other way. If all anyone ever did was pity you, you'd never learn a single thing. I talk as I do because I was apparently excluded from these efforts, and thus all I can do is observe. Also, because you need to cheer up. The lot of you ought to, rather than going about like stone-faced Nillus, complaining about every single slip in respect as if you somehow get a monetary reimbursement for every time I offend you in some bizarre manner or another," freely admits the Imperial, breathing a sigh and shaking his head in disappointment. "None of you have learned a thing. Shouldn't you be rushing him to the healer instead of his deathbed? That would be arguably more productive. And you seem as if you could use similar attention."

"The healer is coming here to him, and you are wrong to think I need instruction from you, Duke Lomasa," utters Meian with sudden coldness, the trembling stopping as if someone's hit a switch. "You do not know what happened, and though I thank you for trying to help and appreciate your efforts on my behalf, I will be fine. The healers will see to me after.. after they see to him." She does sway slightly this time, but likely more from physical weakness than any emotional reaction.

"You've all been presuming to lecture me the entirety of all of this, blatantly assumed all my jeers in serious situations were of outright lack of heart, when you understood nothing of what happened. You all seem to be fond of doing that, so why should I offer you the courtesy otherwise? Perhaps when you've all wisened up, or died, most likely the latter at this rate," points out Norran, giving a nod toward Taran's room. He then reaches to pick up his claymore, taking it up to hold at his left hand as he turns to begin to thud his way toward the end of the hall. "It is not 'Duke Lomasa'. My title and my family have no meaning here, so why should I bother to use either? Perhaps you'll all survive the night. We can only hope, lest who would continue to seethe in hatred toward me over a few harmless jokes to lighten a situation that is most unfortunately depressing?" The armored Imperial chuckles to himself, continuing toward the staircase. "I've brought a pair of very lovely archers with me. I'm sure you'll meet them soon."

"If you're no Duke, then I feel perfectly fine in telling you how heartless you are for saying we should 'cheer up'!" cries Meian after Norran, slumping back more heavily against the wall. "If you're no Duke, then I... I can tell you how -terrible- you're being! Not you'd listen... not that you'd -care-. You are one to talk of, of learning... when you cannot even see how much you hurt people, or care."

"Respect is not given, it is earned. And I respected each and every last one of you on the first day I had met you, as much as I could allow myself to respect a Freelander as appropriate to my station, Mistress Firelight," responds Norran, stopping for a moment and glancing backward over his shoulder. "But horrible accusations like that are what led me to caring so little about your feelings. I couldn't give a damn how much any of you jaded freelanders were hurt by my words, it's not my fault that you take words to heart and whine relentlessly even though you've completely misinterpreted their merits. But, no matter any of this, I would be the first to rush to your defense. Any of your defenses. Your husband's, the bard, and Celeste's, no matter how much you continue to spew about how 'heartless' I may be, it is only in response to your own heartlessness and lack of respect. I'm sure you'd find if you'd all just remove yourselves from the mud, I'd start acting quite amiably toward the lot of you. But your pride is more scathing than mine." Norran takes a deep breath, and exhales greatly. He turns again to make his way down the hall. "I'll make sure to prod the healer, so you don't bleed to death."

"What have I ever done to you? What have I?" Meian stumbles a step after Norran, her composure cracking, the girl's voice audibly overwrought. "Kael might be dying and I can't make it to him and I have done NOTHING to you but you come here and call us fools and lecture us! Kael might be dying! Why? Why did you have to.." She halts herself, shaking all over once more, already pale face more or less salt white at this point. "I did nothing, and you... just come in to hurt people... because you can act superior, because you weren't there."

"I wanted to be," echoes the Knight as he begins his descent downstairs, "But none of you let me."

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