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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Celaven asks for a meeting with Syarra, who sends Roper in her stead, to discuss the latest potential problem with Kaela Mondragon's path of destruction, and to offer the assistance of a druid for other healing options for the Light averse undead. 4200-ish words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Death Knight PR
It's a peaceful afternoon in the Legerdemain Lounge, with only a scattering of people seated at the various chairs and sofas throughout. It is a true neutral restaurant - for instance, there are a pair of sin'dorei mages chatting at one table, a human soldier sitting deep at thought at another, and a gnomish woman with notebooks scattered around her at a third.
And then, on a padded chair at a round stone table sits a kaldorei priest, his long purple hair and beard carefully groomed, his silver and blue robes spotless. There is a cup of tea sitting by his hand, but he doesn't seem to take much interest in it. He's watching the door, instead.
It might be easy to miss the moment he's waiting for, if he's most attentive for the sight of saronite armor.
A fit, shorter human man strolls into the Legerdemain Lounge, in an expertly tailored dark red suit with a dark gray shirt, his cloak pushed back to just over his shoulders and hood still covering his face just enough for a shadow that obscures how his skin tone reads in the light, covers his eyes from immediate view. And as winter approaches, those coming into Dalaran still wearing a hood over their head from the Northrend air isn't that unusual. There's nothing else strange about him, no immediate give away that he might not be as living as the rest of the people in the place, as he breathes and moves just like any other guy. He signals to the bartender with a black gloved hand, pointing to a bottle of the midshelf scotch, and without waiting for it, he makes his way confidently through the room.
Who he is becomes more apparent as he sits down at Celaven's table with a casual ease, slouching into the chair like he owns it, and tips his head back enough to show his glowing blue eyes, more of his features, under the hood. Celaven's never seen his face before, but it can only be one person.
"Hey." It's neutral, neither especially friendly, but not antagonistic.
Celaven blinks, and then looks at Roper, and the most obvious sign of his surprise is the fact that he doesn't answer the greeting immediately. The time stretches as he reaches for his tea, lifts it, sets it down without drinking, and then finally looks at Roper again.
"You're on time," Celaven finally seems to settle on for a suitable answer. "I suppose there's no need for armor in Dalaran."
Roper's scotch arrives in a discreet manner, served unobtrusively by a dark skinned woman with sharp eyes. Roper flicks his wrist, moves his fingers, and the exact change for the drink is set on the table, quickly swiped away by the woman.
The death knight lifts his drink in a toast to Celaven. "You're not wearing any," Roper drawls, the echo hidden away for the moment. "I hate showing up for a date with the wrong vibe." The suit's finery at least is a vague match for the same vibe, if one were evaluating by that metric. Roper is not, however, unarmed. The runeblades are strapped to his back, hidden beneath the cloak, but present, the hilts visible as he slouches. He sets his left hand on the table, tapping a strange, uneven beat — it isn't fast, it's slow, without a simple pattern. It would take a keen observer to realize that he's tapping out the general ebb and flow of the conversation in the tavern, the sounds of people setting down drinks, of someone walking by on her way out from upstairs.
"I don't wear armor," Celaven agrees, taking his teacup again and raising it in the toast by some kind of reflexive politeness. "But then, I generally rely on other things. Thank you for meeting with me today, though it is unfortunate Syarra could not accompany you." As he speaks, his gaze is drawn to the tapping hand. If he can read any pattern in it, he doesn't say. "To get right to the point, I may have something of a death knight problem on my hands."
Roper tips back the drink, draining half of it, with no reaction to the alcohol, and keeps hold of it with an elbow on the table. From afar, they'd seem like nothing but companionable drinking buddies. "And so you've come to get a death knight solution. Smart move." He lips move in a slight lopsided smile, his face mobile and expressive, though it's difficult to read the full expression of the smile, his eyes so shadowed. "I'm listening."
"Have you encountered, in your time, a death knight by the name of Kaela Mondragon?" Celaven asks, resting his hand and teacup on the table in reflection of Roper. "I would not want to imply that you all know one another, of course, but…" He leaves that sentence hanging for Roper to answer.
The tapping comes to an abrupt halt at the name, and doesn't start up again for several seconds. "Ah fuck," Roper says, with a degree of feeling, a touch of an echo. He makes a rolling sound of disgust, sitting up more in his chair, and tosses back the rest of the drink like a shot, setting the glass down and releasing it with the energy of a man trying not to crush it in his hand. "What the fuck has the bitch done now?" This is no longer a casual meeting, his eyes bright and intense on Celaven, his jaw set tightly.
Celaven leans back at the reaction, a subtle, possibly unintentional pulling away.
"She's been a menace to Cobalt, but nothing immediately new that I'm aware of. I know she attacked one of your people, too, one of the Ebon Blade, a while back." Celaven's ears twitch slightly, maybe with a touch of concern over who's listening in to all this profanity. "I'm more concerned with what she might do. And I have reason to worry she might target someone I care about."
"What she might do," Roper repeats, a dark drawl. "Yeah, I know that feeling. Look us at bonding over fucking common causes." The words have an edge of sarcasm to them, but he's technically not wrong either.
"Her latest shit is that fuck up in Stormwind, if you've heard of a death knight that killed three 'priests.' Cultists, sent to fuck with him enough to provoke him in the middle of the city. Healed him until he couldn't handle the pain any more. That was her retaliation for us helping Cobalt and the Argent Crusade get their people back from her clutches, which we did, and I do fucking mean 'us' as in me, personally. Right now, we're sitting on one of her other targets, because it could fuck up everything we've got going, which means she might look for an easier target. So," Roper says, leaning forward, his eyes unblinking on Celaven's. "If you know of someone else she might fuck with, then you have my fucking attention."
"I heard something about that," Celaven nods, watching Roper warily. "That was the one of yours she'd hurt before, the one I met briefly. I hadn't heard about the provocation. It may be that Syarra had a reasonable point, then. If he'd been more accustomed to the Light, then…" Celaven gestures with one hand, a better path not realized. "In any case, yes. My girlfriend. She's very capable of defending herself, but I find myself unwilling to not explore all possible avenues to ensure her safety. She was… involved… in Kaela Mondragon's death."
"Oh, yeah? How involved," Roper says, although it's probably a question, something amused in his voice, an expression that doesn't actually make it into his face, which still seems too intent.
"For the purpose of this conversation, she did not kill her, but Mondragon would likely see her as instrumental in the events that led to her death," Celaven says calmly. "Thus, now that she is the kind of dead that walks around and attacks people, I have some concern she may seek out vengeance."
"Yeah, I mean, it's not like living people who've been resurrected do that or anything," Roper drawls sarcastically, tapping slowly on the table, heavy drops of his finger on the wood, the leather muffling the sound. But he's clearly thinking, his jaw working in an idle way. "She might. Things like the desire to hurt someone who hurt you are easier to still feel, but it depends on how attached to who she was. So far, her motivations have been some fucked up national pride bullshit. Get Lordaeron all under one real fucked up undead banner. Your girl — Lordaeron based?"
"No, she's kaldorei," Celaven shakes his head. "She spent some time there, but… I don't think national pride would be a motivator. Is Mondragon very attached to the idea of the Scarlet Crusade?"
Roper shrugs, a lift up and down of his right shoulder. "Her old squad, yeah. The rest of it? Doesn't look like it. It's possible she's cooperating with them, because the fucking idiots have gone half Scourge themselves for who fucking knows why, but she's been mostly using vrykul rather than Onslaught. But that's the thing — depending on what went down when she died the first time, she might see your girl as someone who fought against Lordaeron or whatever bullshit she's told herself." Roper rotates the wrist of his right hand, turning the hand palm up. "She's a crazy bitch and if I knew what she'd do next, she'd never fucking do it because she'd be back in the ground in tiny fucking pieces where she belongs."
"That's… possible," Celaven laces his hands together. "I do not want to inadvertently bring attention to her, if Mondragon may have overlooked her continued existence. Thus, I would prefer to keep my girlfriend as separate from this whole situation as is possible. I hope you understand."
"Sure." Roper tap…tap…taps. "Problem is, no way to know if she's forgotten your girl, or if she's just been setting things up, ready to pull it in. She's had a year. These cultists she sprang on Mourn? She set that up at least six months ago. So, if you wanna bet that she's just forgotten her, keep that in mind. I remember the face of the woman who killed me, and the only reason I don't have to think about if I'd kill her now is I already did it before I died." It's said dispassionately though, no reveling in the death, no emotion attached to the fact that someone killed him. Maybe he's not much of a revenge guy?
(He is absolutely a revenge guy.)
Celaven considers that, his eyes drawn again to the tapping finger. "I would not gamble with her life. That's why I'm here at all. If you get any kind of hint that she might be changing tracks, from national pride to vengeance, you'll send word? And I can keep watch myself, of course."
"It's what I did before, when we knew that she was targeting Cobalt's Jenzelle. You can ask your captain about it, how long ago I made sure she knew. But, see, problem is," Roper says, tilting his head to the side. "I don't know who else was involved. So, for all I know, she's already been taking those people out, and scratching their names off a list, and I don't have that list to check off against. I'll be able to tell you if she happens to cackle it manically at me next time she's in spitting distance, but beyond that, it's not like we're sitting down to tea and chatting about her evil plans."
"Involved in her death? Hm. One should be unreachable here in Dalaran. Another is dead already. And…" Celaven frowns, looking through Roper, and then he seems to come to a decision. "My girlfriend, Velrin Silverbloom of Cobalt Company. She will most certainly not be hiding in a settlement."
Tap. Tap. Tap. Roper smiles at Celaven, a crooked grin. "You got the other names? Dead might not mean they're still dead, speaking from personal fucking experience. And don't bet on unreachable here. Those priests she got to serve her to wreck a death knight in the middle of Stormwind were tucked into the fucking Church of Holy Light and they died for it, and knew they were going to. All it takes is one person willing to die and kill someone on their way out and no one is untouchable. That's what assassins are for." He can't quite hide the curl of disgust of his lip at the mention of assassins, a ghost of a remnant of another life and another opinion of people who killed for a living.
"Marus is dead," Celaven says quietly. "And Evanlyn is here in Dalaran. However, I cannot advise as to her level of hostility against the Ebon Blade." He pauses, watching Roper. "We are quite dangerous to you, it seems. Those of us who wield the Light. Is that why you came with her, the first time?" The her does not seem to be a reference to Evanlyn.
Roper runs a tongue over his teeth, and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest, still watching Celaven, his eyes just suggestions of blue in the hood. "Yeah. By that point, I'd already got a good close up, point-blank-shotgun-to-the-chest-cavity look at how some people reacted to us even when we were helping them. Had another threaten to blow me up for standing near her after checking on her after Kaela had kidnapped her. And just six days before you called her out, a paladin I stopped to help after he crashed a gryphon in the middle of the fucking Plaguelands went to 'save' me from my 'torment' with the fucking Light. So yeah. I went with her."
"And today? I hope you know by now that I would not," Celaven unlaces his fingers, smoothing his robe with one hand. "I have my uncertainties about the situation, but whether or not to kill you is not one of them. And she should know that, after she asked me to t…" Celaven shifts back on his chair, breathing out. "I have been considering other, less painful methods of healing lately."
Roper's left hand taps against his arm. "Oh, yeah? You mean like that shadow shit? Didn't know priests could do that, heal with shadow instead of light, until we got one who did. That didn't hurt." Which might say something about the shadow, or what a death knight is, but here we are.
"Like that shadow shit, yes," Celaven repeats evenly. "It's less common to find a priest that practices such that isn't otherwise… compromised. Who did you meet, may I ask?"
Roper's smirk pops back up, and there's a pause of a calculation, and he leaves it long enough to make it clear that he is calculating it, in a tit for tat sort of way. "Etone Greennote, of the Argent Crusade." He leaves off Confessor, for one reason or another. "Did it to save Syarra, after she was nearly destroyed by Kaela Mondragon taking a blow meant for another Argent, Dame Briellen Clay, while we were rescuing Jenzelle and Bren."
There's a flash of alarm in his expression and a twitch of an ear, making it clear he had not heard of this near-destruction of Syarra. What he says, though, is "Etone Greennote. I don't believe we've met. I had heard that went well, all the captured recovered."
Tap. "Yeah. The only ones who took any real dangerous blows were Syarra and me. It's why you bring a death knight solution to a death knight problem. Because at the end of the day, who would you rather get a sword through the chest? Someone like Sir Atley? Or someone like me?" He uncrosses his arms, setting his left hand below the table on his thigh, his right hand picking up his empty glass, turning his palm over to balance it on the tip of his index finger. "It's not like it's gonna kill me." Ha ha, get it? Functioning heart and lungs are for living suckers.
"So, you said methods for healing that doesn't feel like someone's searing your skin from the inside out. Plural. You got something else?"
Celaven nods. "Have you tried any kind of natural magic? Elemental or druidic? I'm not sure if it would be effective given how you are set… apart from the natural order of things. But it is nothing of the Light, so it is possible that it may not harm you."
Roper sets the glass to spin on his finger, catches it, and starts it again in an idle fidget. "Me, personally? No. Don't know anyone who has, or at least no one's mentioned it on any of our social bonding activities and sharing time." Is he serious? Do they have those? Unclear from his tone. "I don't know of any druids — fuck, or shamans for that matter. And, for some strange reason, none of the people worshiping life and all that shit have gone out of their way to make nice with a bunch of death knights." Truly, his tone says, a mystery for the ages.
"That would make it more difficult," Celaven agrees. "If you'd known any before you'd died, but then… perhaps the kaldorei and the humans were not on as good terms back then. And it may have been that the draenei had not yet arrived." It isn't exactly a question, but he lets the statement hang for a moment, inviting clarification.
It gets a laugh from Roper, low and without an echo, making it sound oddly human, like they've just shared a joke, with a flash of a grin that changes his features — an all too brief glimpse of another man, from another time. "Or maybe I was too much of an asshole to make friendly with one," he drawls, spinning the glass again. "So, you offering a contact, or you considering a career change?"
"The only shaman I know is not a healer," Celaven says, with a faint smile that may or may not be intended for Roper. After a pause, he adds with a touch of reluctance, "Druids, though… druids I do know. In the area, I have a half-sister."
If Roper's tapping, it isn't visible. "And on a scale of 'not in this millennium' to 'probably,' how likely is she to listen to you if you ask her to pretty please not unleash nature's wrath on the friendly neighborhood death knights coming to borrow a cup full of heals?"
"She is… very young," Celaven says, as if this might be an answer. Perhaps realizing more information is needed, he leans one arm on the table and adds, "Less set in her ways than others, I think, but also more easily startled. If I talk to her first, if she agrees, then I don't think she would attack you unprovoked. She does not specialize in healing either, but I know she can heal."
"That's a lot of ifs," Roper says, flicking his fingers to toss the glass up and catch it neatly, setting it down on the table.
The bartender makes an aborted motion as if he might have said something, or done something to stop the glass from breaking, but settles back with an exasperated sigh.
"But, it's not any worse than what I've dealt with. That paladin that tried to kill me? Worked with him on that rescue mission, and he asked for Syarra and me to join up on the Argent Crusade's initiative to work together for Icecrown." Maybe Roper is a live and let live kind of guy, not much for revenge, interested in forgiven — oh, who are we kidding? He has ulterior motives, obviously.
Roper's voice is serious, and he holds out a hand as if making a deal. "We won't provoke her, and if she does attack from some…fucking reason, the moon in the wrong phase or some shit, we will walk away, and leave her unharmed. It'll have to be more than one of us though, 'cause I don't know if I can be healed by her. And I'll look into Kaela's business, if she's been getting information on your girl, or been setting up something on the other one involved."
Celaven stares at the hand for a long moment, and then warily reaches his own to take it.
"Thank you. And about Florande, just… don't start out by trying to intimidate her. It really isn't necessary, and if she's frightened I worry you won't be able to get her out of bear form…" Celaven trails off. "You, specifically, can't be healed by her?"
Roper's hand is cold, but this is probably not unexpected. He mimics the pressure of Celaven's own grip to a possibly uncanny degree, before releasing it. "Yeah, me, specifically. I had trouble with being healed by magic, even when I was alive. They used to tell me I was resisting it. Wasn't really on purpose, but." Roper ends it with a shrug. "Unlike my ability to survive a sudden bear mauling, can't say that it's likely gotten any easier."
"Some people do that without realizing," Celaven nods, moving his hand back to his lap when Roper releases it. "I have encountered it before, in healing. I think it has something to do with trust, in a way that's difficult to choose to let go. I would offer to help, but… I expect it's mostly irrelevant now." He pauses, trying to meet Roper's cold gaze. "Florande will be in Moa'ki Harbor, I expect, but let me talk to her first. If you and your friends catch her off guard, she'll run from you."
"Moa'ki?" Roper makes an amused sound. "If she's hanging with the tuskarr, ask her to ask around about 'Roper and Syarra of Karkut.' They'll know us. We've been fending off one of their settlements, Kaskala, from the never ending fucking kvaldir since March."
"That may help your case," Celaven says, his ears rising slightly. "She's very fond of the Tuskarr. I don't think she's spent much time away from Moa'ki since the summer."
Roper shrugs, a quick lift and fall of his shoulders. "It's pretty much just fish all the way down with them, fish and giant rooms of yurts to park in while you eat fish, and they don't give as much of a fuck what you are as long as you aren't trying to tear down their shit. If I was just a bear sometimes, I know where I'd be."
Celaven smiles again. "I admit fishing is not really my strong suit. And I am fonder of the rooms in Dalaran than the yurts. Will you give my regards to Syarra, when you see her again? And tell her I am here now, if she has more to ask of me."
And it was going so well. Roper's expression grows colder, but he works his jaw with a tsch of irritation, possibly directed at himself rather than Celaven.
"Sure," he rasps, with enough of an echo that one of the sin'dorei mages in the tavern turns in their chair, her face pale, as she has suddenly realized there is a death knight in their midst somewhere. "But my wife's a busy woman, and social calls are low on the priority list." He doesn't manage to keep the possessiveness out of his tone, but at least he's trying. Probably. His hood moves slightly in a twitch, as if he's picked up on the sin'dorei mage looking over at him.
There's another, more pronounced, flicker of surprise at wife. Maybe Celaven didn't realize death knights could even have such things.
Roper rises to a possibly surprisingly agile stand. "I'll let her know where you are. Tell your girl to watch your back as well. Kaela doesn't always go for the one she wants first. Sometimes she takes out the bodyguard. Mourn, that death knight attacked by the cultists, was guarding one of Kaela's targets. If that does happen to you, you can count on one thing though — we will come for you. Kaela doesn't get to win another one."
As Roper rises, Celaven moves as if to follow suit, but then simply remains seated, his hand on the table.
"I'll keep that in mind," Celaven says seriously, looking up at Roper. "But if she tries, she will find that I am less helpless than many people seem to assume."
Roper bends down, close enough for Celaven to make out more of his features, the ghastly gray of his skin, the evidence of dehydration in the sharper points of his cheekbones and dryness of his lips, that stubble he will never be able to get rid of now, a strange crooked smile pulling up his lips.
"Yeah, well, some people are fucking idiots," he tells Celaven, low and dark. "Some of us know better though." The smile twists up into a grin as ice flows over him, slowly, not a snap, the shapes resembling in black ice Roper's saronite armor, and then it's gone, faded back into the suit, as he straightens. "See ya around, Celaven."
Celaven draws back slightly as the ice flows over Roper, but he simply nods. "Take care."
As he watches Roper move away, he reaches one hand down to pick up his cup of tea, raising it to his lips. He pauses for a moment, and sets it down again with a breath of irritation. It's gone cold.