12. Silvershield Estate

Koveras takes the punch - a painful sacrifice! - and grabs her arm, shifting his footing just so, and suddenly Aiwe's in danger of being thrown flat on her back (opposed Athletics or Acrobatics, por favor! DC 20).

While he strains to overpower her, he manages to growl out: "I know you jest. You take so much onto yourself."

Aiwë grabs his arm with her free hand, gritting her teeth as she resists his strength.

"Do I?" Her grimace turns into a grin. "Guess it's in the blood." She kicks him squarely in the chest.

Koveras sputters and gasps as the air is knocked from his lungs, but he manages to plant his feet under him and respond with a quick jab that connects right with Aiwe's nose.

He backs up, coughing, but checking to see if his punch did any real damage. "Sorry I went for the face, it was just a response to that impressive kick... Are you alright?"

(Insight: Sparring does indeed help you get to know your opponent on a level that mere conversation does not. Aiwe realizes that tonight Koveras has consistently been paying more attention to his footing than properly committing to his attacks against her. Is he going easy on her? Or is he just keeping the spar friendly? Sometimes the half-orc is frustratingly hard to read. At least in some regards.)

Aiwë holds her ground, but growls deeply at the pain. She isn't sure yet if her nose is broken, but the blood suggests it might be. She doesn't break stance to staunch the flow and instead stomps her foot and blows a spray of blood at her opponent.

"I'm glad to see you can deal as good as you take! I was worried you were going easy on me. Again!"

She grins with bloody tusks and strikes out with another kick to the chest.

The repeated kick to his chest staggers Koveras. "Easy..." he gasps hoarsely. "I think if I tried that you'd take my head off!" As if to prove his words, he bends low and charges her, arms around her and shoulder aimed for her diaphragm.

(another contested check, please! DC... 14)

Aiwë ducks under his grab and juts up quickly, knocking him upward with her shoulder beneath his.

Dancing out of his reach, Aiwë wipes blood into her sleeve. "You're really not feeling this are you?"

Maybe the half-orc finally rises to the challenge Aiwe presents, or maybe the more brutal side of his heritage has overboiled, but Koveras doesn't pause after Aiwe's clever maneuver. He continues his charge forward and drives his fist up in a vicious uppercut into Aiwe's jaw.

The wild look in his eyes immediately fades, and he sags. "No! No, I'm sorry. Maybe you can play this game, riding the edge of... whatever this is. But I can't. I... I'm sorry."

(Insight: The bitterness and loathing in his demeanor isn't directed at her, but inward.)

Aiwë staggers backward at the blow, but she raises her hands to appease him. "Hey, look, it's alright." Aiwë straightens and wipes her nose on her arm again, but this time when she lowers it both blood and swelling are gone.

"There's no reason to be sorry, you haven't done anything wrong. I'm sorry I pushed you. I—it doesn't matter what. I'm sorry." She approaches with gentle hands.

"Did I leave bruises? Can't have you wincing at your desk on my account."

"And that's it?" Koveras shakes his head. "You can fight, flirt, and just wave away the bruises?"

(Insight: Apparently he's not talking just about physical bruises?)

"You can bleed and bloodlet without any of it turning against you." He jabs a thumb into his chest. "But that's not me. I was trained to kill. My rage yearns for it. And giving in to any of that is a big problem. I don't do things halfway; I'm not that flexible."

His heavy brow lowers, hooding his eyes, which are beginning to glint red in the dim light. "I shouldn't have agreed to this. I just wanted..." Fists clench, and tendons flare in his forearms. "No! I just want Rieltar dead. After that... Well. It doesn't matter."

Koveras closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Thank you for trying, Aiwe." His voice is stiff as a board. "I'd best return to my work."

Aiwë's eyes glint. There it is. What is it? "It's hardly a hand wave, Koveras. It's a lifetime of being trained by someone like you, of straining for that discipline so I don't let her tribe down. I put it in the bag with everything else, and I carry it. But you're right. I'm not enough orc to feel the blood in my throat like you do. Don't worry, I'm not allowed to forget."

She folds her arms. "I thought you were closer to breaking and I wanted it to be here, not in the field. You're so hyper-focused on Rieltar—I was afraid. But I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm sorry."

Aiwë rubs her face. She really is a menace to this man, isn't she? "Before you go, if I can help with your bruises—"is he still mad at her?—"I'd like to."

Koveras pauses, his large frame backlit by Silvershield lamps. It makes his face difficult to read, though his eyes continue to reflect red. What horrors has this man had to live through, being raised by Rieltar Anchev? He's very careful about the controlled persona he shows to the world, the civilized orc-blood forged into a merchant prince. But what do those tortured eyes of his see?

After a long pause he moves to just in front of Aiwe. The evening breeze is warm, but he seems to shiver slightly. His gaze at first is fixed on the ground, but he slowly looks up to meet her own red-tinted eyes.

And he waits.

He looks like a man chained. It infuriates her. Her anger pulses in her temples and puts an ache in her jaw. She doesn't let it show.

"It matters," she says quietly. "That thing you wanted, what happens after, they matter. They matter right now." Aiwë reaches out a hand that reverberates with her oration and puts it on his chest. The vibrations of her magic sink into his skin and melt away his aches and bruises. They pull as well on the teeth of his anger or frustrations, offering to help soothe them, if allowed.

"We were all trained to kill. Its okay. It's not all that we are. You least of all."

Aiwë casts Cure Wounds and Calm Emotions.

His breath catches slightly as the healing does its work, even soothing the muscles in his back, shoulders, and neck that are weary from constant tension.

But the other spell, and Aiwe's words...

Koveras covers her hand on his chest with one of his own, the pressure betraying his calm until his eyes squeeze shut and his lips reveal gritted teeth and tusks. A ragged breath follows... and then she feels him accept her spell. The tightness in his chest loosens, the pressure from his hand softens. His breathing, though cavernous from his powerful lungs, feels as relaxed as a babe's. His forehead comes down to rest on her shoulder, just for a moment.

"I believe you."

"Good."

She is relieved of course, but the fury only grows. Aiwë isn't sure how much of it might be empathy, the vibrations of her magic carrying his energy echoing back to her, or just herself, but she feels it. She is careful to let none of it show in her breathing or the tension of her muscles, but she feels it.

"Rieltar doesn't have to be dead to be behind you," she encourages. It's true, but as Koveras rests his head on her shoulder for that brief moment Aiwë feels Gruumsh's Mark looming over them both from Keggruk's slack face, and she knows:

She is going to make Rieltar very dead.

Dieter had been waiting for Aiwë.

Once Koveras left he stepped out of the shadows drawn by the evening light.

"We need to talk" Dieter says simply.

"Hey, Diets, I was just going to come look for you." She smiles brightly. "Did you get enough to eat?"

"I’m not hungry but thank you for thinking of me.

As you can probably tell I had quite the experience, Lythander did speak to me. It turns out our conversation before we entered the temple was a bit prophetic. I was given the choice to remove the block or find salvation and ultimately happiness." Dieter explains. he waits a bit for Aiwë to process what he’s saying

"As you can see I chose to remove the block. I remember my past before Tulfgar. I’m from Il Aluk, a necropolis of the Shadowfell, I fled with my sister from our father. My father is the dark lord Darcalus Rex, A wizard-tyrant. Everything I’ve told you before is a lie yet… not. I’m still me I’m still Dieter…I’m just more of me." Dieter continues

"More importantly I know where my sister is. She was the wolf that accompanied us into the mine. I need to talk to her, I need her forgiveness." Dieter finishes.

When the party returns to the Silvershield Estate, Stella is absently scratching away in her Tome.

She heads for the forge to find Yeslick, the dwarf she rescued from the mines whom Aldous had quickly employed by the estate. She invested much of the party's funds towards him working his craft on their weaponry.

"Good evening, Yeslick! How does the work fare? And how do you fare?" she asks cheerfully, though her face is weary from the day. She was used to traveling for hours on end in the wilderness, yet something about the city, and everything on her mind, made it a bit different.

Stella finds Yeslick sharpening swords. "Lady Stella!" The dwarf's face splits into a large grin. "Seein' ye brings joy to this old dwarf's heart."

He gestures to a long table against one wall. "As ye can see, I've been hard at work on yer team's equipment. Ye've collected a fine assortment o' gear, but nothin' tha' can't be made better by an Orothiar smith! E'en one who's seen as many winters as this one." True to his word, neatly laid out on the table are the things Stella requested Yeslick work on.

Aiwë listens to Dieter with a brow creased with concern. "Wow, Dieter that's... that's a lot. How are you feeling?"