Battle Hymn of the Republic

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a mediator," Skarnir placated as his mug returned to the table. A deep drink left the hair on his upper lip lined with foam.

The din of a panicking crowd began to fill the space as those nearest tried to get away only to collide with those further away that were still unaware. Skarnir turned towards the man that had just punched him, he was winding up for another punch with Skarnir's hand still gripping his throat. Bold, trying to knock him out rather than trying to break the choke. It meant this mage had confidence in his physical abilities rather than relying on spells alone. Finally. Reforming his stance after throwing the woman, the Norseman brought his freehand back around to catch the incoming second punch. With the man's wrist once more in a vice Skarnir spun and flipped the surprisingly tall man up into the air before slamming him onto a nearby side table. The man tumbled, spilling drinks and breaking glass, before collapsing on the ground. Behind Skarnir, his employer had flipped his table to create some cover while his bodyguard worked. The lights in the room began to brighten. No, not the lights. The woman! She was a mage as well, and her hands glowed with luminescence directed toward the man Skarnir protected. A curse and a quick motion placed Skarnir between them as two bolts of searing light hit his midsection. The smell of burnt silk, scorched hair, and singed skin wafted to his nose. The panic reached its apex as crowded rushed to get outside. Skarnir glowered but didn't flinch with the attack, and moved to grab the woman by her hair. Lifting her he made to slam her head against the nearest wall. His legs buckled. The man had tackled him from behind. That idiot missed the actual right time to cast, or at least continue to pursue his target. This woman was important to him. He shouldn't have brought her along. Letting go of the woman Skarnir tried to remove the lanky assailant, but the other man moved to catch his right arm in an armbar. Not bad.

"To be frank, Miss Eryl, Flynn is a man of action and code," he spoke with a mouthful of potatoes. "He'll be far more swayed if you accomplished this under your own power. If you are having a hard time with it, perhaps you should instead be asking if its even worth trying to gain his forgiveness."

The blunt manner in which Skarnir riposted Eryl’s request put the woman in a sullen mood, but she didn’t look away. Under her soaked eyelashes was the gold-flecked gaze of someone apparently distracted by something akin to a TV show. Her sudden zest was lost in her cup, and she tipped back more of the contents before getting to her lunch.

“I can’t do that,” Eryl began going through some of the chicken skewers, losing some of her own table manners, “I’d rather raid a blood-crazed worg’s den than face these things head-on. I’ve shed blood with these people, and it took near on a month to call on one of them afterwards. Jane. That is. She and I have the least history, but one-by-one the others have come around, in their own ways. Those were miraculous instances. Flynn leads such an ordinary life on the grounds I can’t just… happen upon him. I don’t know how people keep going up to his door in such a cavalier manner. For heaven’s sake, I once went to a karaoke party with them, and the bastard ignored me the whole time.”

She became so enraged that she got weepy again, gnashing through a chicken skewer and snapping the charred wood beneath. With a gnarled look on her face, she plucked the broken end out and chewed, blinking away more tears.

“Part of it is… Motivated by greed, you see. I’ve become… quite fond… of… someone. Someone Mr. Flynn is very close to, and I’m quite afraid she might be influenced by his opinion. He’s a man of high character, and so is she, and I’m… I’m quite the gutter-rat. I want to make amends, but I’m also afraid of the discontent it may cause in this… relationship… I am trying to pursue,” Eryl rubbed her temple, and tried to dry her eyes, “The worst fear I have is coming upon him and having him see my search for absolution as selfish; as just a means for getting into the pants of one of his friends. It has to be real. It needs to be genuine, Mr. Far-field. Everything has to be perfect, or at least I need someone to vouch-safe my intentions so they don’t come to be wildly mis-interpreted as they always are.”

Skarnir became suddenly tense and worried. This conversation was beginning to drift into drama territory, and he detested being pulled into drama. A better skald than he could probably have navigated the coming conversational storm better, but the best he could hope for at this point would be to mitigate its intensity. Given the apparent neurotic aspects of his drinking companion, he wondered how much of what he said should be honest, and how much should be fluff. He sighed; a sound that was practically a growl.

“It can’t be perfect, Eryl,” Skarnir gripped his mug in his gloved hand and planted his other in a fist. “Not if you also want it to be real. Real is never perfect. Real is messy. Real is clawing your way tooth and nail towards whatever you are trying to do. Perfect is a pale attempt to replicate the machinations of gods. If you try to be perfect, Ruarc will see through you in a moment. Be real. I will get you past the gates and give you a kick towards the door, but nobody will be your Cyrano in this.”

The man actually had Skarnir beat for reach, and he could feel the man trying to dislocate his joint. He moved his foot underneath a metal rail that bordered part of the dance floor, and then used his core strength to rise. He groaned as the new position gave the other man greater leverage to bend his arm back. Flexing in resistance, Skarnir stood; his hulking form defiant of the attempts to ground him. Twisting at the waist, Skarnir wound up and slammed the man down into another table. Once. Twice. The third time splintered the table and the man released his arm. The room brightened again. The woman was casting. Skarnir moved to grab her, but the man behind him had regained his feet surprisingly fast. Skarnir roared in annoyance. His gloved left hand caught the side of the man’s head and slammed it against the metal railing. The cheap aluminum tube dented and a red streak was left behind as the man once again hit the floor. The woman threw out her twin bolts of light towards where Skarnir’s employer had taken cover.

The drinking companion, who had ridden the course from start to finish as affable, intrigued to overbearing, shrank as Skarnir laid down the law. Eryl held her cocktail close to her chest, and she stared at the floating ice cube in it as he thrashed at her preconceptions in a similar way he had treated Ruarc to a table. Yet, her withering disposition seemed to give way to something more excitable as he went on. There was something infectious about how Skarnir carried on, about how he seemed to carry on calmly while thinking about absolutely destroying Flynn in some apparently vivid memory.

It was fiery, and Eryl was just tipsy enough to be swept up in the air.

“You are right. So right. I am… just sitting here in my misery. I’m forgetting the important thing here. Absolution. Forgiveness. Redemption. I have changed and I have to show it. I have to do the damned thing. I’m. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go. Tonight. By myself.”

That last part was repeated with a squeaking lack of surety that was very audible, “By myself. I will. After this drink.”

She set the half-full glass down on the table and stared at it.

“I’m afraid I’ve been terribly full-on with you, and you’ve been terribly patient,” said the triclops as she wiped her eyes, “I don’t get to share these things that often… or… or at all, really. I’m not sure if that’s what you bargained for when you asked me to sit with you, but… thank you.”

“Hooooooold your horses, ma’am,” Skarnir immediately began to counter Eryl’s enthusiasm. “I like the enthusiasm, but as a professional courtesy I will reiterate; speak to Ruarc when you are sober. So for the time being, just enjoy yourself. If you want, I can tell you the story about when I first met Flynn myself.”

Eryl's hands flattened on either side of her beverage, and her spirits rose more considerably as her posture bubbled in her chair. Her gold-flecked eyes fluttered with a prim, expectant smile.

"Yes, you were saying; the woman had thrown a pair of bolts at your employer."

“So there I was standing guard…” Skarnir began his story from the beginning before processing what Eryl had said. His mental gears were visibly working as his mind caught up to the situation. A look of dawning realization signaled him reaching the desired result, as good of a confirmation as he could get without directly asking about Eryl’s abilities. Taking a swig of beer and clearing his throat, Skarnir regained his footing. Eryl could sense the shift as he got back into story mode. While the thoughts and memories were clear before, now they were downright vivid. The pumping bass of the club, the residual sounds of panic from patron who hadn’t cleared the vicinity left, the slight tackiness of drying beer on the wooden floor, there was a slight flowery aroma present in the air noticeable above the myriad scents ranging from a dozen colognes to a swath of spilled cocktails and the acrid smell of ozone. Over the din of club music were a multitude of shouts that Skarnir’s mind had noted as important; his employer shouting at him to just kill the attackers already, the white haired woman cursing at having not done as much damage as she’d wanted, his own snarls as the situation as a whole was giving him a headache, and somehow the man behind him growling in defiance despite a blow that could probably have killed other men.

Back at Nishinoya’s Skarnir got a glint in his eye and settled into his seat with a look of excitement. He enjoyed telling stories, and it seemed Eryl here would make for a good audience. “So there I was…”

The white haired woman, Laoise, Skarnir had learned later on, began casting another spell. Skarnir grabbed one of the side tables near the railing and threw it at her head. Somehow she was alerted to it and turned to take the hit with her shoulder rather than her face, and the visceral sound of the heavy particle wood table combined with the pained yelp of the young woman to make the Employer cheer, “That’s what I hired you for!”

“We aren’t here for you,” groaned the man, Ruarc, from behind Skarnir.

“Congrats, you figured out what fighting a bodyguard is about,” Skarnir growled as he turned around. “Call it quits, kid, you’ve lost.”

The lanky twenty-something regained his feet and took a fighting stance. Getting a good look at the lad Skarnir could see the young man squaring off with him. A bold move considering the head injury, and the fact that Skarnir had at least eighty pounds of muscle on him.

“It was clear that Ruarc was a laborer. Even at twenty-three he had the tan, a respectable amount of muscle, and the calluses to show for his work. But his eyes… they weren’t in the fight… not until I had struck Miss Laoise…”

Skarnir could sense the shift as though the direction of the wind had changed. Despite being so soundly countered and beaten he kept standing up. If nothing else the kid had grit. Setting his jaw, Skarnir looked back at Ruarc. “Then allow me to get serious. As a sign of respect.”

Ruarc threw a punch, and Skarnir redirected it to allow Ruarc to pass by him. Skarnir had underestimated these two assailants and allowed them to get on either side of him, so he could only respond to one at a time. Laoise was still trying to push herself off of the ground, apparently that had been the hardest she’d ever been hit; you could always tell when someone was shaken to that degree. Ruarc recognized that the only way to his target was through Skarnir, and the young man steeled himself in response. Skarnir’s employer seemed confident in his bodyguard’s abilities to now peek around the table to watch the fight. Skarnir himself made the next move.

“I pressed in, knowing he had more reach. Got right up in his face and got him with a strike to his stomach. Apparently a switch had flipped in him. He took the hit, and while I was expecting him to be forced away he held his ground, grabbed me by the braid like this,” Skarnir demonstrated the grab on his own hair before continuing, “and absolutely laid into me. His technique wasn’t great, but my nose could tell he’d thrown a punch at least a couple times. Behind him though, Laoise was regaining her senses…”

The woman had shaken herself out of her daze and saw her partner in a grapple. It looked as though she were going to join the fray as she rose. Practically scoffing as she threw a punch, Skarnir focused on grabbing the man’s arm to try and pin him.

“I realized too late, you see, my employer-at-the-time said the Druids would be after him, and I got wrapped up in dealing with Flynn that it didn’t cross my mind that not all of druid magic requires chanting.”

The woman’s hand lit up just before contact and she opened her fist. A visceral sense of dread and failure washed over Skarnir as the stone in her palm lit up. A savage torrent of hurricane winds erupted beside his head as what would have otherwise been a scrawny punch connected with the side of his head and sent him through the rail, across the dance floor, and over the bar.

Stars danced across his vision, and a shift in song brought him to his senses quickly. Quickly grabbing two bottles of indeterminate boozes from around him Skarnir ignored the desire for a drink, rose up from behind the bar, and with a stoney expression hurled the bottles at the assailants.

“It was a curious mix,” Skarnir sounded thoughtful. “Of brawl and mage duel.”

Eryl's ears were still pretending to ring from the sounds of cacophonous music and arcane warfare. Thankfully, the sound of a saxophonist helped her glide out of the rich memory Skarnir was experiencing. When reading people's thoughts, it was a trepidatious balance of leaning too far in versus not enough.

Her eyes fluttered, wicking away the gold in them for their natural sapphire.

"What a strange turn the druid order has taken," was what Eryl managed as she took up her drink and hazarded a careful sip, "When I was a girl, even among the gifted, druids were almost historical figures. Now, they could be confused with the Parisian Inquisitors, they are everywhere."

Wiping her eye, she looked up at him, "Curious; I am found desirous to know how Ms. Laoise regards you now considering how intensely you checked her."

“Strange turn?” Skarnir’s eyebrow cocked. He seemed to rummage in his pocket for something as the memory of the battle faded away. “My friend, this is how they’ve always been. The druids are ancient, dating back further than even their cyclopean Order; but they haven’t changed a bit since then.”

The Nord placed a genuine golden coin on the tabletop. Once he was sure Eryl had seen the visual, he propped the coin up on its side under his index finger with the face towards Eyrl.

“I’m drawing this from memory, so Mr. Flynn would likely correct me on a number of things,” Skarnir began. “Druids, across all of their years, have kept a few key tenets. Preserve Nature. Preserve Knowledge. Preserve their Kin. They preserve nature by tending their glades and appeasing the spirits. They preserve knowledge by keeping their ancestral tomes; going back countless generations. They preserve their kin by using their skills to maintain a healthy community; both for the druids, and the normal folk who live around them.”

A slight move of his hand and the coin flipped from the face of some regal king to an eight pointed star.

“Ruarc does all of these. He has cultivated a beautiful campus. He has built a school. He fosters a good environment for his students and those in need to thrive.”

The coin switched again.

“He bends magic to his will even to the detriment of his own being. His school is becoming more akin to a fortress. He will destroy gods and even his own soul to preserve his kin.”

Snap. The coin went flat to the table. Skarnir looked grim, as though he were leading into a ghost story.

“The nitty gritty has been lost to the ages, but thankfully I have a long memory. Have you ever heard of The Children of Donn? They supposedly died out back during Ninth Century, and the Druids did their damndest to bury everything about them; but…”

He tapped his forehead.

”From the Mabinogion? The mages and tricksters? A man with a wife made of a shrubbery?" Eryl tilted her head, not sure how to interpret the turn in Skarnir's demeanor. She had found the man easy going except in these matters of honor. The best she could think is that it was all part of the show, part of a big build up to what he had to say next.

Then something else crossed her mind, in what Skarnir had said of secrets.

"What dangerous acuity," said Eryl, bringing a hand to her chest, "it did not even occur to me until just now. I had been so distracted by what druids would want in a night club, that I had not given it the faintest thought. But, your ability? Does it not make your knowledge quite deathless? I cannot mean to interrupt your anecdote. Should an organization have something of sufficient shame to their name, why, you would never forget, no matter how many times your name passed on. Would they not hound you and your inheritors?"