01.26.3014: The Storm Approaches
Summary: Roger and Cyrielle's father-daughter moment is crashed by an unwitting Nitrim.
Date: Wednesday, November 13 2013
Related: None
Cyrielle Nitrim Roger 

Cyrielle's Treehouse, Beacon
Included in log
Sunday, January 26 3014

It's a relatively new treehouse- a collaboration between Cyrielle and Ephraim to have a place for the youngest Hollolas to adapt back to living close to the ocean and the children on the whole to have a place to hang out. It's a multi-storied thing, but with an open floorplan. A porch wraps around the bottom floor, which opens to a collection of couches and general seating arrayed around an Infosphere display. A small kitchen seems more inclined to snacks and alcohol than any sort of actual cooked food. A broad staircase with a railing to either side sweeps upward; the first landing opening to a bathroom. The second opens to the loft above, where a bed and a balcony in the treetops can be found.

Cyrielle is alone today, sprawled on a couch as she watches some of the latest rumours cycle through. Mostly about various celebrities and the naughty dealings of other nobles. There's a slight snort from the young woman at the mention of the brawl on The Ring and she sits up, leaning forward to grab a glass that bears an amber liquid, taking a sip before she leans back, propping her right leg — the injured one — up on a pillow on the central table.

An injured daughter is never a /good/ thing, but there are advantages nevertheless. In particular, the Lord Hollolas has sufficient cause to leave Beacon and head out to see her; after all, she can hardly be expected to travel herself, and he can hardly be expected to just let her sit in a treehouse alone while it heals. That's the rationale, anyway, and the man is sticking to it.

Accordingly, Roger appears at the top of the stairs, dipping his head in a little not, lips pulling back in a big grin. "Good to see you, Cyri." That's his indoor voice - which is to say, it's probably only audible to people inside the treehouse and everything else within a thousand-foot radius.

It's mostly a resurgance of her old injury. The one that took her away from sailing and triggered her Awakening. It's what Cyrielle gets for participating in a training exercise largely intended for soldiers, squires, and Knights. At least she held her own and was on the winning team- all in all, she came out not having been hit solidly once. A good showing for a Hollolas, to be certain.

"Father!" She seems quite pleased to see him, sitting up a bit more. His voice is certainly louder than the gossip show that's droning on and she taps the control pad nearby to silence it completely. There's a gesture to the bottle of liquor on the table. "Sniffed it out, huh? Promise I didn't take yours this time."

"/This/ time?" There's a little knowing upward quirk of Roger's lips as he ssteps into the room. A moment later, he's settled into a nearby armchair, and with practiced ease he makes himself comfortable almost instantly. "Liquor is meant to be enjoyed. I'll have to make certain you are having quite enough /fun/ in order to approve of your time here." That grin gets a touch bigger.

"Speaking of which!" There's Roger's /outdoor/ voice, the booming one, the one that's probably heard all the way back in Beacon. "You know, surely, that the festivities are coming soon."

See? It's a perfect location for Cyrielle. She can still hear the call to dinner… or anything, really. She just doesn't have to hear the ocean haunting her at night. Her lips twitch in bemusement and she reaches for her glass, taking a sip. Yes, /this/ time. "Considering how often Ephraim is up here for movie night, I'm sure you can approve. At least I'm keeping him from losing more ships in his betting games."

Eyebrows rise slightly as Cyrielle mulls this over, thinking. "Which ones, again? It's not time for the brewing games, is it?"

"Hah!" As though it is ever /not/ time for some good, old-fashioned competitive brewing. "Yes, I suppose Ephraim has improved a bit in that regard. All the better, that. If he'd gone much in the other direction, we'd have lost half the fleet!" Roger's chuckles are deep and booming, resonating throughout the treehouse."

"But no, that's not quite what I mean. We have the cruise coming up in just a few weeks. Preparations must be made." A wave of one hand. "You'll be bringing guests, I hope."

"He's not been much interested in getting this last ship back… I think that girl he's twitterpated over has talked him out of it." Cyrielle frowns a bit. She's not spent much time reflecting on /that/. The last of the glass is drained and she sets it back down, shifting to adjust slightly.

"Oh! The cruise." Cyrielle glances to her father, squinting briefly. Maybe not quite suspicious, but curious. "I'm sure I can round up some guests. Must they be willing?" Psuedo-pirate humor there.

"Mmmph. There's nothing like a little twitterpation to ruin a man's focus." Is that just a hint of bitterness in the Lord Hollolas' voice? If so, it's there and gone in just a few moments, and he's back to his typically bright mood. "Still, that is likely for the best. Better to focus on what we have than on what we have lost." He's talking about the ship, of course. Only the ship.

"I'm afraid we can't quite /abduct/ them, Cyri." A little chuckle at that. "Bring them aboard with good food and drink, I say. And if it takes a little encouragement, well." Grin. "So long as it's a good showing."

"Ha! Funny how us girls get the trouble for becoming all lovelorn and yet I'm hearing my father approve of my brother's own twitterpation. Irvy will love this." Cyrielle's eyes gleam with amusement. She shifts forward to her feet, taking slow movements towards the kitchen area to retrieve another glass.

"I'm sure I can convince a few of those Khourni to attend. See how their stomachs fare." Lord Hollolas has claimed an armchair. The infosphere display is silenced, showing the latest gossip- mostly the bar fight on The Ring. She returns to her seat at the couch, pouring two glasses of the whiskey now. One is held out to Roger, "Sure could use some revelry, though."

"I care for both my sons and my daughters, Cyri. I can hardly be held responsible if that takes different forms for each of you." Roger's mood is still bright and jovial, but there's just a hint of seriousness beneath all the laughter. His amusement grows just a bit, though, as she wanders off toward the kitchen.

"Hrh, Khourni. If anyone on Imperius needs to be shown how to have a good time…" If it were anyone else speaking, his voice would have 'trailed off.' In Roger's case, 'trailing off' means it echoes everywhere. "Except, perhaps, our dear friends down in Khar-Mordune." And then his broad, callused hand reaches out to take the glass of whiskey, and he takes a long sip, draining half in the process.

WayGates are a hell of a thing. One minute, a WayGate can be open at Volkan, and the next minute they can be open near Cyrielle's treehouse, or at least within walking distance. Which is exactly what Nitrim has accomplished. With fresh bandages wrapped around his forearms from a recent training exercise, he takes advantage of the cool air to fix his cowl low and his jacket as a protective barrier. It adds to the mystery and anonymity, and if his calculations are correct, when he knocks on the door to the treehouse, Cyrielle will be alone and surprised and…


There's a slight wrinkle of Cyrielle's nose; it's a bit serious, yes. She'll take it though. She's home and settling in best she can- plus, there's her own sailing expedition coming up… and then the cruise after. "Oh, they know how to have a good time. I think. At least some of them do."

A good bit of her own glass is drained- Cyrielle is her father's daughter. She's about to say something about the Peakes, but the knock comes and her brow furrows. The woman doesn't quite feel like getting up and those prone to coming by… "Come in?!"

Oh, sometimes? Her voice can carry too. More of those Roger genes.

"Every rule has an exception, Cyri." A grin, and another sip. A good three-quarters of the glass is gone, and their company hasn't even come in yet. "The captain, for instance, is always right. And when he is wrong…" Sip. "The captain is always right. That, you see, is an exception."

The Lord Commodore gives a little chuckle at his own wit, and then there's a knock, and his hands sink into the armrest. Sigh. He's going to have to get up soon.

That voice? Definitely Cyrielle's. It brings a slow grin to Nitrim's face as he reaches for the door handle, which is presumably unlocked because one does not beckon someone to come in through an unlocked door, and turns the handle. With his cowl hung low and his eyes to the floor, Nitrim shoulders the door open and steps in at a lean, completely unable to see the rest of the room as he veers inside.

"And look who was able to escape the prying eyes of the Lords of Volkan," Nitrim's goatee'd jaw rises and falls as he speaks. The door swings closed behind him. "Because in all fairness I was getting sick to fucking death of sitting on my ass in a room all by myself thinking of—" Nitrim looks up and stops, seeing someone else on the sofa. His jaw settles and for a second he freezes. "Tapestries. Because I'm here to sell art."

"There's a reason I'm making sure even Ephraim knows who runs the voyage we're leaving on in a day or two," Cyrielle casts towards her father, smirking. There's that mischievous twinkle in her eye. The one that for all her skill at dissembling, she just cannot control or squelch. It just appears and belies that she's up to no good. Or up to all the good.

When the door opens and it's Nitrim's figure revealed, there's a brief widening of eyes and she starts to rise, but no, there's no stopping the Khournas once he begins talking. Cyrielle blanches slightly as she gets fully to her feet, balancing weight on her left leg. The right is still aching from the training exercises. "Ah… father, this is Lord Nitrim Khournas. A… friend of mine." Throat clear. "Lord Nitrim… please meet my father, Lord Commodore Roger Hollolas. He stopped by to discuss the upcoming pleasure cruise… that I'm sure you and your sister will attend? Perhaps Lord Victor and Lady Devon as well."

<FS3> Roger rolls Brawn: Good Success.

Out of the frying pan, into the deep-voiced frier. Roger, for one of the first times in his life, falls silent as Nitrim enters, and he starts to grin as the man begins to address his daughter in terms that wouldn't be out of place on a sailing ship. When the Khourni freezes, the Lord Hollolas' sea-green eyes rest on his, boring into them with doubled and redoubled intensity.

He's already poised to stand up, and so he does so, shuffling to his feet and drawing himself up. Roger is a /large/ man, after all, muscular and broad-shouldered. Wordlessly he approaches Nitrim, nodding back to Cyrielle as she makes with the pleasantries, and silent he stands for a long moment…

And then he reaches out with his right arm, eyes still fixed on Nitrim's, and gives him a heavy, hearty clap on the back. "Good to meet you, lad, good to meet you." That's his indoor voice, but for Nitrim, close as he is to the source, the sound probably resembles a firecracker more than a greeting.

The scar from battle on Nitrim's neck, the peppered dots of angry, malformed flesh tighten sharply as Nitrim is clapped on the back by the giant, seafaring MONSTER that is Cyrielle's father. Half expecting to be punched or thrown by his scruff out of the treehouse, Nitrim lets out a ragged cough as his back is clapped and he has to plant a heavy boot forward to catch himself with the force. His straightens, rolls his shoulders, and looks to Roger with a gritted scowl. Yes it hurt. Yes it's okay.

"Nitrim Khournas." Nitrim returns, brushing his cowl back with all of its Hermetic-styling to offer the man his forearm to the shake. To say that the dropping of lord was tactful is an understatement, as this is an abush and the Khourni lordling has barely a second to glance towards Cyrielle with a microsecond look of horror. Instead, he nods his brows sharply to the elder Hollolas. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Commodore. Damn, you've got some mitts to you, you know that?"

When Roger's back is turned, Cyrielle offers a grimacing kind of shrug to Nitrim. It'll learn him to 'call ahead' in the future, perhaps. She bites her lip a bit, waiting for the reaction to that clap on the shoulder. Letting the two make their introductions, the youngest Hollolas makes her way towards the kitchen area once more. Another glass and a spare bottle of whiskey- the first may go swiftly.

"I had hoped for formal introductions upon the pleasure cruise," she says, finding the words come a bit awkwardly. "But it would seem that Nitrim, with your usual sense of… theatrics, you've thrown that all out." Cyrielle tops off her and Roger's glasses, while pouring a third for Nitrim. The men's drinks are brought over, one offered to each.

"So I've been told!" Roger's laugh is a deep, bellowing thing, and he takes Nitrim's hand to shake - his grasp is firm, though just on the good side of bone-breaking - before turning about and reclaiming his glass on the way back to his seat. "Good to meet you as well, lad. Send your father my regards." In an instant, he's settled. "Enjoying the weather here around Beacon?"

The Lord Hollolas sips his glass and gives his daughter a little nod. "To be blunt," he says, eyes drifting back over to Nitrim. "I've seen drunken seamen make more tactful entrances than that one." Another laugh. "More's the better. A good laugh never hurt a man, I always say… and, if I'm wrong, that would be a fine way to go."

"It was the first thing that came to my mind, I'm normally more quick to the punch." Nitrim grins, eyes widening to Cyrielle as he takes his glass from her. It's the wide eyes that say it's going to be one of those days. To kill the nerves that have been frayed, he sips from his glass and gives Cyrielle a soft bow of his head. "And it's a pleasure as always. Lady Cyrielle. I'd hoped this would be a surprise and, well, I guess it's a surprise all around isn't it?" He gives her a veiled nod, eye on the opposite of where Roger can seen closing in a slight wink.

"I'll give my Lord Father your regards, Lord Commodore," Nitrim starts back to Roger, saluting him with the glass. "And a lot of thanks to help me getting away from ash and fire for some cooler air up here. I was just talking to my sisters about bringing them around for this pleasure cruise. I'm rather excited about it. I'm a drake, so I've been kept busier than the Devil as of late but to get the fuck out on the sea and have a few drinks with friends would be great." He pauses, quirking a brow to the two Hollolas. "It's been a long few months."

It's almost a relief- there are worse ways that could have gone. Cyrielle has Dreamt some of them. The woman finds her own seat again, propping her foot back up on the table the couches and chairs surround. She's claimed the central couch in the place… of course. She was here first. The controls are tapped and the Infosphere darkens completely, followed by retrieving her glass.

As the Lord Commodore makes known the… lack of tact and charm in the entrance, she suddenly finds the drink very, very interesting. Downing a good portion of it, she clears her throat once she comes up for air. "A few drinks? You're underestimating the amount of booze you'll be expected to imbibe."

Fortunately, tact isn't exactly something the Lord Hollolas himself is known for. Roger grips the glass in his fingers and lifts it to his lips, taking another long sip. "There's something to be said for a good surprise now and again. Keeps you young." More of a concern for Roger than for the others, that, but even so.

"Glad to hear that you're so excited already, lad. There's nothing like a trip out to sea to lift your spirits." Especially when it's accompanied by… well, another sort of spirits. Sip. "Now's the time to eat and be merry."

Looking across the floor to Cyrielle, Nitrim watches her over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip. When a Hollolas says a lot of alcohol, they aren't lying. His brows loft a little. "Well," Nitrim's jaw unhinges, taking the burn of the alcohol with ease, a seasoned drinker for being so young. "I'll have to put in a good show then, won't I?" Nitrim turns his gaze to Roger, nodding to the man with a confident look. "Test me. You Hollolas aren't lace and finery. But if you come to Volkan expect the same, aye?"

Reaching out, Nitrim nudges Roger's elbow with his own and points towards the sofas, where Cyrielle has moved, and offers to walk alongside him on the way to where they can sit. His eyes unfocus, looking to the wooden wall as he makes the first few steps, and the young man makes his decision. "So…no bullshit, Lord Commodore? I figure you've guessed I didn't drop by to sell art." He huffs, rolling his eyes at himself. "But I am working hard, I've made a bit of a hole to crawl out of, and your Lady Daughter has become a part of my support network of friends. Lady Lyrienne Orelle, my cousin. Lady Anabethe. Lady Devon. Lord Victor Khournas." Nitrim pauses for another sip. "I'm aiming for next year, or later this year, to be something different for me for the future."

"Emphasis on good surprise," Cyrielle calls over her glass. She drains the rest, smirking at Nitrim as she leans back, letting what she's had simmer in her stomach. She started before even her father arrived; it may be time to let it begin to process. Her eyes are somewhat watery even so.

When Nitrim continues the blunt affairs, her eye twitches slightly. Surely her family is not one for dancing around issues, no, but it's clear she's uncertain the route this may be taking. The glass turns slowly in her fingers, eyes darting up brief-like. "I visited Lady Lyrienne recently. She and I are going to train together over the coming months. She's unable to visit Arboren easily due to her children, so I'll be able to take trips to The Ring. That way she doesn't have to suffer those strange mystics and their ways."

Well, if Nitrim is an experienced drinker, Roger is a legend. His glass is empty in a moment, and he doesn't appear at all the worse for wear. "Brave, lad, very brave. I'll have to consider that a challenge." An eyebrow quirks upward at Cyrielle, and he gives a little nod. "Yes. /Good/ is an important term there."

When Nitrim starts to speak in earnest, though, Roger leans back in his chair, eyes open wide, glass momentarily forgotten. "I figured that might be the case, given that you didn't bring a stitch of tapestry with you. A word to the wise - it's best to have a cover story prepared, hmm? Just in case your friend's father should happen to be waiting around the corner." He's still jovial. There's still a little bit of edge to his words.

When it comes to the listing of allies, Roger's eyelids make a point of drooping downward just so. "Quite a list," he replies, but his voice just /drones/ outward. The Khourni may as well have been rattling off his groceries. "Change, you say. Where are you coming /from/, lad, and where are you headed?"

Taking a seat across from Roger and Cyrielle, Nitrim leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the glass of whiskey dangling precariously between his legs and the floor. His claw-ringed fingers tapping the glass, the drake nods his head gently, listening to them talk. "Yes, Lady Lyrienne's got another coming along. Her and Lord Cedric are going to have their hands full. I think she mentioned trying to get me to watch over one or two of them for an evening," Nitrim laughs, scratching his ring against his brow with a shake of his head. "Terrifying. If you could draw some of that away, Cyrielle, I'd be grateful."

Nitrim's voice catches as he looks back to the glass between his hands. A sort of Aaaarrrmmm… drolls out of his mouth, ending in a look to their faces. Look to the right. Look to the left. Cyri. Roger. Spotlight.

"I used to be a lot of things, Lord Commodore. Mostly I was just a spoiled punk that was better at spending his Father's coin, center of his own universe. Lots of soul searching, wandering, getting myself lost." Nitrim frowns, leaning back in his chair and resting his glass on the arm of his chair. "Then the war came, and something changed. The bad decisions didn't. I learned a lot getting lost, and it helped, but it took a few hard hits to the head to get it set on straight. Now?" Nitrim pauses, brows furrowing. "I don't have many bad decisions left in me and things are getting serious. I'm headed towards leaving a lot of old things behind and letting actions speak louder than anything, really. Not big, desperate actions but the right ones, the non-flashy kind. But this war's happening and I'm a part of it, and that's going to direct me for a while."

"I'm as surprised as you, father," Cyrielle says, attempting to adjust the tone a bit. "Usually he has any number of cover stories hidden up his sleeve." It's not really enough though as she opts to lean forward and refill her glass. Yes, more whiskey is good. "Two, actually," she opines to the Khourni: "Twins."

With freshly filled glass in hand, Cyrielle leans back once more, shifting her foot slightly. There's a slow sip taken; she's not stopping, but slowing down. Her features do smooth as Nitrim speaks, but as he continues… a slight smile does twitch and pull at her lips. The woman doesn't break in further, no. This is a serious answer to a serious question. She's curious to see where it leads.

Center of his own universe. It's not as though Roger doesn't know the type - hell, there's at least one of those in his own brood. He's silent throughout Nitrim's speech, glass still set well aside, eyes fixed on the Khourni's, lips pressed together. The smile slowly recedes from the Lord Commodore's lips, and in its place is the calm, steeled expression he adopts when he's at sea. Strange to see that this far inland.

"Aren't we all, lad. Aren't we all." Slowly, Roger's hands sink back into the arms of his chair, and he gets to his feet, eyes drifting over to his daughter for a moment, then back to Nitrim. "Actions are the /only/ speech that's likely to make an impression, lad. Drink all you like Make all the friends you like. Sell your /tapestries/ to every wench you meet, if you like." Pause, and there's a glance in Cyrielle's direction, as if to make a point of excluding her from the 'wench' category. "Don't expect it to earn you any favors." Step, step, step, until Roger is, quite notably, standing more or less between his daughter and the Khourni. "All I want to know is whether you'll be ready to face the sea when the storm comes."

"At any rate." That's said at the end of a few moments' pause, during which his sea-green eyes stay wide open, unblinking. "I've stayed out too long already, likely. They'll be needing me back in Beacon. Good making your acquaintance, again, Lord Nitrim." He turns on his heel. "Lady Cyrielle." Without further ado, he's out the door, out of the treehouse, and probably halfway to the nearest waygate. Even at his age, he can still /move/ when he wishes.

Rising from his own seat, Nitrim downs the last of his glass and sets it aside, considering the Lord Commodore as he starts to walk away. "Nothing's killed me yet, Lord Commodore, and I'm not about to let my Paramount upbringing earn me an ounce of shit if it's not something I've earned with my own actions. Which…" Nitrim turns his head, gritting his teeth as the insurmountable truth of his dilemma is made clear. "…it's growing. Daily. I just need to fend off the crows." Crows being tabloid press.

With a quick look to Cryielle with her father's back turned, Nitrim gives her a look of concern and a warm set of eyes as his arms swing, pointing in the direction of the door. His lips part to grimace-smile, half an apology, and he starts after Roger Hollolas. "I should get going too." He says loud enough to be heard. "This was just going to be a short visit as it was, but it was good to get some face time with the two of you together. I'll be on the seas soon enough yet, aye?"

"I'm not sure if it's good or bad for him, but he faced me in the arena and held his footing…" Lips twitch. "Mostly. A hint of storms to come, mm?" Cyrielle shifts to her feet finally, drawing a breath as she does so. The ankle is becoming easier, but not swiftly enough for her liking. "I have not fought yet by his side in battle, but I have seen hints of it. He earned those scars defending his own blood, yes, but I know he'd do the same for any." She drains the rest of the glass in her hand, making strides to watch them depart at the door.

"I'll test his mettle at sea this coming week, father." And once they — at least the Hollolas Lord — are out of range, she'll slip into her Awakened state, reaching out to the Khourni. « I'm sorry. I didn't expect you tonight… »

« No, it's okay! I'm a dumbshit. » Nitrim looks back to Cyrielle with a wink; a casual wink with enough arrogance and swagger to assure her that although he was caught off guard, he's feeling good about it. Turning to walk backwards to the door, he waves and frowns to her, as each step away is a bit of a chore. « I'll head down to the pub for a drink before hitting the gate. Stay in my head and we'll talk, but I shouldn't stick around in case he doubles back. TELL ME WHAT HE SAYS. Alright? »

In one another's minds, Cyrielle cannot hide her disappointment. Certainly, yes, Nitrim's first meeting with her father went well… but she would prefer they get time together. There's new horror flicks on the Infosphere to catch, afterall. « If he says anything. We sail out soon… That, likely, will be the real test. Are you ready to be under my command? » There's a playful hint there.

Stopping at the door, Nitrim brings his ridged hand to the corner of his brow for a mock salute. « Aye Aye, Captain. » Nitrim replies with a grin, sending the thought directly into her head as he holds the door open. Stopping, his shoulders sag and he lets out a sigh to show her his disappointment in not being able to stay. His salute comes to a fist over his heart, batting his breast twice. « I'll pass every test. Failure is inexcusable. Like squeezing blood out of a rock. » With that, he closes the door behind him as he leaves.

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