RP:A Bargain Struck

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Emrith has been hoping to meet with Laezila, after hearing of her through Nymh. He gets his wish, but for awhile it does not go as planned. When posturing ends and a peculiar bargain is struck, things take a rather unexpected turn.

Frostmaw Tavern

Emrith is comfortably seated near the fire in a chair much too large for him. He is somewhat wearied from an evening of hunting and tracking, but a pint of ale has set him at least partially to rights. Zendor has thus far escaped capture and death, but Emrith is patient and not rash by nature; sooner or later the human will slip. For now, he has informed a few elves of his acquaintance of what he knows of the man's doing; hopefully, Emrith will remain well-informed, at least within the borders of Frostmaw. His mind is awhirl with future plans; there are many, many irons within these flames, as it were.

Laezila did not know anything about Emrith aside from his name and the reputation of the story that she had been relayed to by Nymh, but had the distinct impression that it was Emrith's plotted plan to eventually bring his identity to the forefront of the young and enigmatic matron's mind; the interrogation of Nymh reinforced the idea. Whether or not this was, in fact, the intention of the elf, it was the result thereof. This was made apparent as the doors of the building, in this city of official neutral ground, were opened to silhouette then reveal the small, petite, and slender form of the drow woman as she stepped within. Her hair was a stark and glittering white in contrast to her light, nearly purple skin that was accented by the sleek and elegant black dress that she wore. Yet, the most out of the ordinary thing? A white and faceless mask that only revealed strikingly blue eyes covered her face. Those eyes swept over the tavern.

Emrith is aware of his surroundings despite his deep thought, and when the doors open and the white-haired woman steps in, the elf is on full alert. Small figure, feature--obscuring mask, blue eyes...rumour gets around, and Emrith is fairly certain that this woman is Laezila, a creature of whom he has been told much and learned yet more. He stands, adopting a languid posture at first; though this woman is a drow, the spell-blade has reason to believe that she is at least a little different from her kind. hasty blades draw needless blood. "A good evening to you," Emrith calls to her across the relatively empty common room. His voice has the slightest harsh edge to it, not a conscious roughening but a simple characteristic of his speech; it might seem a slight contrast to the more malifluous tones of the majority of other elves. "You are a long, long way from home. What brings you this way?"

Laezila 's small frame was a petite and young thing, and hardly looked imposing. Yet, there was a distinct and powerful sense of imposing authority about her, and that mask veiled any emotion or expression behind its ivory walls as strikingly azure eyes fixed upon Emrith. They studied his posture, languid and unassuming, and narrowed to more keenly pierce the distance between them in the relatively empty common room. Then, the young woman pushed into a graceful and fluid gait that had her strides eating away at the separation between drow and elf, until she stood boldly within arm's reach of the alert male, likely to have to look upward at him to meet the contact of his stare. "An elf." She replied; unlike the harsh edge of his voice, her own was youthful and simultaneously augmented and muffled in a strange juxtaposition by the natural contours of her faceless mask.

Emrith is undisguised and completely comfortable with who and what he is. He looks down at Laezila from his modest height, and his lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile. Elves do not often smile in the presence of those with whom violence is possible; this facial expression definitely has a little slyness in it. "I am Emrith, of house Kohl," he answers. "And if rumours suit, you are Laezila. I have heard much about you." He pauses, and now the smile has grown into something approaching a feral grin. "And you owe me a debt. But come...before we talk business, will you not remove your mask? It is considered discourteous to hide one's face."

Laezila 's surprise at the boldness of the request from Emrith was not conveyed because of the mask and its advantageous ability to veil her emotions and expressions from those she conversed with; it was a handy aspect in the depths of the Underdark. In contemplative and cunning nature, she took several long moments of silence after the elf finished speaking, in scrutiny of that nearing-feral grin and the way that the undisguised male spoke to her. Finally, she spoke, again her voice distorted in that eerie, dominating fashion by the natural contours of the ivory piece, "A priviledge reserved for those closest to me. The mask is not to hide my face, there is merely a drow woman's face beneath; the mask is a symbol. An identity. You speak more to me as matron with my mask on than without. However, if you insist, I would insist a more private setting, Emrith of house Kohl. As for debt..." She paused, and peered the man over from her more diminutive size, "From my vantage, it is you that owes me."

Emrith inclines his head somewhat at the matron's response. Moss-green eyes lock on her blue ones, holding her gaze. "Given a choice between seeing your face and remaining visible with a drow, I will take the latter course and ignore the offense...for now, at least." He folds his hands, fingers weaving tightly in an altogether feigned gesture of nervous tension. "I owe you? This sounds a jest, but I would hear how you believe this is true. You owe me, quite simply, for the life of your half-blood bard. He was mine to kill, and I spared him. If he yet proves troublesome, I may have to rethink my mercy, but thus far, I know of no such treachery. Now, Miss Laezila, allow me the dubious pleasure of knowing what precisely you think I owe you for, and why." By the end of his little speech, Emrith's voice has hardened; perhaps the matron will see it as bravado, particularly when combined with those tightly-interlaced fingers, and if Emrith presents a slightly less-than-brave front here this evening, so much the better; this elf is quite good at giving false impressions under some duress, and a potential foe who thinks one cowed will often end their folly with a knife in the back.

Laezila did not annex control of House D'l'Sel D'issan and transform it into a House arguably more feared than that of D'Artes, with more bloodthirsty, bestial, and outcasts of ilk, or ascend such a house to the second-most powerful of the Underdark without prowess or intellect. She was cunning, and as Emrith attempted to feign emotion and manipulate the mindset of the young and enigmatic matron he dangerously tempted underestimating her. His words, though more hardened and combined with tightly-interlaced fingers in feigned tension of nervousness, were once again distinctly contemplated and mulled over by a silence that immediately followed his last syllable. Finally, she explained, "By your very logic, you are mine to kill. And I am sparing you now. Do you value your life over that of the half-breed bard? Then your debt to me must assuredly be greater than my debt to you over another's life, Emrith of house Kohl. Your ignorance to the Drow is also... disheartening; how is it do you say on the surface? You poke a sleeping bear. Our part in this war is minimal, do not be so foolish as to tempt my House D'l'Sel D'issan, of lycans, vampires, of greater hunters than any mere elf can profess, to turn their hunger upon your kind. Then it would -only- be this place that keeps you alive." She turned from him, in order to stride along one of the tables' edges in a gait that traveled in a slow contour encircling it, as one slender digit pressed and dragged along its surface, "Perhaps you thought yourself cunning, weaving a game and marking a bard -not even a soldier, I might add- as someone important to me. Such I had to see with my own eyes the pride, and I am not disappointed." She turned her body on pivot, then, to face Emrith directly, "So you have succeeded in gaining my attention. You have it, and I am curious to why you wanted it, and that is why you are alive. That is why your house Kohl is alive, your family is alive, and your homes unburnt. And do not test that threat, I made well on it by burning the homes in Sage, I will not hesitate to do so again, Emrith of house Kohl. So I suggest you speak whatever it was you wanted my attention for, before you lose it."

Emrith unlaces his fingers, puts one hand on the hilt of Nahr, his flame-enchanted shortsword, but does so very slowly; it is a deliberate, calculated move. "Very well," he replies, still tracking the woman and giving her his hard smile. "Fencing is not your strong suit, and your threats wobble, so I will shoot straight for the heart then." He takes a step toward Laezila, but with no intent of harming or crowding her. "You are of the second house. Your members may be varied and powerful, but they are not pure, and purity has ever been the curse of both elves and drow. Both of our races disdain those not born true, to their shame. I suspect the only reason that you live is that your house is central to the plans of the first house. You are twisted tools, nothing more...and the end to which you are being used ought to make your heart quail." Another step forward. "You want to know why I seek your attention? It is simple. Both of our races pay for war in blood, and it is needless blood. One strong civil war, one outside influence, would be enough to topple either one of our kind, and that would be to no one's benefit. And pray do not presume to tell me that drow are unassailable; when steel bites you hard enough, you die, and when you die in large enough numbers, your race is threatened. It is not impossible. In fact, your very doom may linger just over the next horizon, would you not see it. But I am not here to usher that doom along any faster; were it up to me, you would have your lands, beneath the surface, and we would have ours, in the forests we tended well and loved for thousands of years. I bear the drow ill will only insofar as they keep us from what is ours, and I have sought your ear because of one simple fact. You are young, and perhaps - though only perhaps - not wholly aware of the threats you face. Would you rather not live out your life in relative peace? Would you rather not make the threats and the death this war builds go away? You, as a matron, may have things to gain from this campaign, but think of all the innocents on both sides who will never grow up to see their parents, or who may be slaughtered wantonly for the designs of the first house. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life being wielded like a sickle? It is not too late to set yourself a different course, Laezila. It is not too late to stand aside or, indeed, to support those against whom you currently fight, so as to end the war more decisively. Your waywards, if they could be trusted, would be a strong force which, if it turned on the first house, might well topple this engine of death. I am, in short, seeking all possible avenues to end this in better fashion; I am no coward, and I will spill your kin's blood if I must, but I will exercise other options first. Answer as you may, but threaten me no more. Humility is stronger than arrogance."

Laezila did not seem perturbed in the slightest by his words, as she had not previously, either by his movements or words; that mask was extremely advantageous in that aspect. Just as before, several contemplative moments existed within the silence that immediately followed the words of the elf. Slowly, then, her slender hand lifted to that mask and pulled it just enough away to separate it from her face, and lowered the item. Her face was young, strikingly so, and attractive if not for a set of three parallel lines that scarred her face from her forehead to the opposite jawline like a claw's strike. The expression she wore was set not in anger or defiance, but curiosity of this man, this relative unknown, as intrigue danced in her startling azure gaze. "Then exercise it; your disrespect is contrary to your claims to desire peace. My House, my people, the half-breeds and the crippled, the outcasts, they survive because we act as the beast in a D'Artes cage. I do not care about your people, or the surface at all, or this war. I care about the Underdark, and the home that I have carved there for my kind. But your people are not strong enough to assist mine in toppling the First House, and I would not risk everything, -everything- I have worked to build for my people destroyed by fighting them alone. I do not care that it would save your people, because it would at the cost of my own." Her hand lifted, then, between them to press softly against the elf's chest, "You ask me to sacrifice my people for your own, when your people cannot even unite to one cause, you realize." She said in a dropped whisper.

Emrith slaps his left hand down over Laezila's wrist the instant her hand touches his chest; his grip is firm and vise-like while he pins her hand. He could potentially do her further violence, up this close and with his other hand ready to draw, but for now, the spell-blade contents himself with simply keeping them close together by the simple expedient of keeping her hand trapped against his torso. "And you Drow are so very united, are you?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. "Underdark politics are, to my understanding, a mass of sharks feeding upon sharks, of ceaseless power struggles. The drow are the embodiment of social chaos, so do not lecture me about the lack of a unifying cause. You yourself are testament to this lack of unification. Your stated aims differ from the first house." At this point, Emrith frees Laezila's hand by dropping his own, but he does not back away and does not take his other hand from the hilt of his weapon. "You care only for the underdark, but so long as you remain in the cage you speak of, you will be loosed and used and sacrificed at the will of those who purport to be your betters. You must realize, as I do, that your house is a tipping-point. With it, the first house has a crushing advantage not only upon the underdark but with all its other objectives. And with it, could it be trusted, the elves would be more than equipped to retake their home." He sighs, shrugs his shoulders. "Yourr scars tell me that you have suffered, but I do not believe you have thought this through as others have. So long as you remain in this war, to aid one side or the other, your house will be weakened, and less able to pursue its aims below ground. So long as you continue to further aims about which you claim not to care, you are inviting misery. Either the first house hunts you, or the elves hunt you, or their allies hunt you. You have lain this path for yourself, Miss Laezlia, perhaps without knowing it. No path before you is safe. But I am suggesting, perhaps, the one that might be safest. Safest for my people, and even safest for your own in the long-term. If other surface-dwellers see that not all drow are to be feared and hated - for your race is widely reviled above ground, I'm afraid - they might well join the fray, end the war all the more quickly and thus minimize the casualties to your house. This protracted war we're involved in, on the other hand, will pick off your best one by one, while the first house grows fatter and more powerful at your expense."

Laezila was neither startled nor shocked by the sudden snap of that slapped hand over her wrist, the only reflection of the reaction of the woman in the extremely subtle and brief wince. Yet her hand didn't withdraw, even when Emrith freed it, as her eyes narrowed defiantly, "Extreme examples. The elves are losing. The drow are united against them because of D'Artes control. You know little about Underdark politics; you know less about Underdark rebellions. I will not stand against them and risk the eradication of what I've built over some few, which might not even be enough I might add, 'maybe joining'. You assume my House is on the front lines, as well; I've lost eleven soldiers in this war. The bulk of my House is in the Underdark, removed from it. The First House is destroying themselves with fighting your race out of sheer pride, and if sacrificing a handful of men placates them to continue doing so, I choose that over warring with them for your kind. And here is a hint; if you wish to sway someone to your side of thinking, do not belittle and patronize them," She offered a wry smile at these words, "I concede to your point of inviting misery, but you have a misconception. The soldiers you face are D'Artes, not D'l'Sel D'issan. The more you fight them, the stronger my position in the Underdark is, the more influence I gain. But I have little faith in your people's resolve, their governance, and even less that they'd strike at D'Artes when mine would." She moved a bit closer to him now, "And you have yet to offer me anything aside from your arrogance for the aid of my House at all. Things are in motion that you cannot possibly know or understand," The young drow turned from him then, to begin walking away, "And I grow tired of listening to your haughty words. You had my attention, and now you've lost it; one would think, with the possibility of their people coming out of this alive, one would be a bit more curteous and respectful, a bit less... patronizing. You know little about me, and less of the Underdark, to believe that you have explained to me the scenarios in which my House is in." She began to walk away.

Emrith does not move to follow Laezila, even though he is fairly confident that he could cut her off before she reaches the door. "You have yet to name anything you might want in return for any aid you might be able to render. You have said no, and no, and no. How could I in good conscience make my position even weaker by blindly guessing what might appease you? That is a fool's game, and I play as few games as I can manage. So let us have this out. Is there anything you seek, anything you desire, with which I or someone I know might be able to help, and for which you might be willing to do more than simply play at supporting House D'Artes?" Now he is moving across the floor, but deliberately trailing the drow. Of his lack of courtesy, he says little; affronts have been dealt both ways this evening. He has no intention of dealing more, however.

Laezila 's bait was not bitten, but seen through, as Emrith spoke of not playing the fool's game that would give her a more advantageous position in their debate; their affronts, including her last 'outburst' were likely both able to be chalked up as mental fencing in order to provoke the other and test their fortitude. So her steps waned and ebbed, until she turned upon her heel and, still without her mask, cast her ice-hued eyes upon the elf. They scrutinized his form, up and down, down and up, side to side. For an elf, he wasn't unattractive in the slightest. He was wise to cease their game of dealing affronts, and she opted to join that wisdom, "You are a smart man, and not bad to look upon. For that I will offer you one small thing for another. The minimization of my role in this war, to the point where mine take little part and only insofar as to keep D'Artes smug and unwary, for the life of my bard and a single, simple kiss." It was an old tactic she used -it was extremely effective against those supporting the patriarchy in the Underdark, to kiss that which stood for what they hated. She intended it to be not dissimilar in that the elves were not at all fond of the drow, especially her that burned down their homes; a lesson in her arrogance and his humility. "More will require more-" this was said suggestively, but also underlined with a serious note, "As well as would require your people to be united and committed to working with my House. Until such a time, there can be no further than the minimization of D'l'Sel D'issan role in the war."

Emrith is not altogether surprised to see the drow pause, then turn; she is strong, but she is still young, and perhaps not as hard-hearted as some of her kin. "I thank you for the compliment," he responds, and the hardness in his green eyes softens somewhat. "You are not such a sorry sight, yourself. Young, mayhap, but passing fair. I especially like your eyes. They tell me much." The tone in Emrith's voice is gently teasing, the kind used in more friendly banter, and this is not so much a ruse; if there is to be anything done here tonight, then posturing has to stop somewhere, and better late than never. "You would have a kiss, would you?" He is far from being disgusted or upset by this turn of events; Emrith could hardly be called a flirt, but he does not harbour hatred for all drow on sight, and this one has at least deigned to treat with him for awhile. He could ask the girl to come and take what she wishes, but instead he bridges the gap on his own, long legs quickly bringing him close. His right hand has not left his sword. He leans down, trying his best not to loom, meaning to kiss Laezila on the lips, as he believes she intends for him to do. If treachery is afoot, the lithe elf is prepared to react to it by drawing and slashing for the woman's kidneys in one brutal stroke. In his heart, though, he hopes it does not come to that, and not just because it might interrupt a kiss. For the drow, this might be a distasteful act; for Emrith, it is, at worst, awkward and unexpected. Any past crimes of which Emrith has been made aware may be redressed later; for now, this is business, and not unpleasant business at that.

Laezila was surprised, and without her mask it showed, from his compliment of her scarred features to the boldness and confidence at which he strode forward in order to claim her lips. For a moment, she hesitated, as if to protest the time and place, but it was her that had set forward the terms at which this deal would be made. There was no treachery planned, or at least none delivered, as when those lips met her own her striking gaze closed and her small body instinctively pressed against the elf's lithe one.

Emrith instinctively loops his free arm around Laezila's back as their lips touch. He has been kissed before, and some things are hard not to do. The little woman is a light weight in his half-embrace, and he is gentle with her; the kiss is perhaps a little more thorough than at first intended, but emrith does not let it linger too long. When he pulls back, his eyes are shining and his face is the slightest bit flushed. He lowers both hands, for the first time in quite awhile relinquishing his grip upon Nahr's hilt. "Can we safely assume that a deal has been struck?" he asks, and his tone is remarkably lighter than before. "And can we also duly dispense with the threats of violent retribution if either of us should reneg upon our bargain? I do not particularly feel like spelling mine out. We know what is at stake, and pretense does nothing more than stiffen spines. It is a lesson I am learning remarkably late, but learn it I will." He chuckles, a musical sound; he is still very close to the drow, and continues to gaze into her face. Up this close, both her youth and her striking features are more firmly impressed upon him.

Laezila 's last 'lover' (as unwilling as she was) was not particularly kind to her, and that memory was permanently burned into her brain by the the reminder scarred upon her face; the gentle loop of that free arm around her back and the way that the elf offered kindness and comfort made the deceptively deadly young drow feel so secure, complacent, that when he pulled back she did not disentangle herself from being pressed against him. Instead, she met his gaze with azure ones and forget that solemn reminder that marred her otherwise beautiful young features, and took in the countenance of shining eyes and slightly flushed face. In fact, the slender arms of the woman found their way, unbeknownst to her, around his waist during their kiss, and she found herself enamored with the musical sound of his chuckle. It made her lips twist into a soft smile and nod in affirmation of her question, still not yet in realization that she had him entrapped, that they were in embrace.

Emrith is aware of Laezila's arms around his waist, a gentle sweet pressure which brings back memories of a youth more than seven decades gone. There was never any serious relationship in those days, but some elves are known, in their formative years, to have a little fun, and Emrith is one of them. The fond reminder stills his tongue after Laezila's nod, and as her head moves, he places his right hand gently to her temple. Impulse rules the moment, and he bends to bestow another kiss, this one on the drow's scarred cheek; it is exceedingly gentle. He offers her no words in its wake, though his mind runs rapidly through the scenario, wondering what this surprising little drow matron will do next. She is more vulnerable than he had expected, and this both saddens and gratifies him. He is saddened because at least one person has already taken some advantage of it; it gratifies him because it offers a ray of hope for the future. He voices none of this, simply being content, for this moment, to stand there with her arms around him. The elf yearns to return the gesture, wishes to do more than simply stand body to body with the girl, but knows - or believes, at any rate - that this is just about as far as any such encounter is apt to go, under the circumstances. Thus, he is still.

Laezila 's azure eyes were veiled behind dark lids when they closed in order for the exceedingly gentle kiss to land upon her cheek, and she offered him a squeeze of some vulnerable delight that she could rarely show. She was, after all, the matron of the second House D'l'Sel D'issan, and was neither born into the position nor began upon the council; she made them both, took them both. All stemmed from the brutal nature of the Underdark, and that which had saddened Emrith was what had driven her. Yet it also gave her that softness; she was a young woman, still, dealing with things beyond her years, killing and living in a deadly world that she just shouldn't be in, because she had to. But, even this moment had to end, she had a House to run and he a people to unite. She disentangled herself slowly -very slowly, obviously unwilling to have to do it, but it was necessary. As she slowly backpedaled away, she could not help but somewhat beam and smile at Emrith, "A deal is struck," she repeated softly, even a bit happily. This meeting ended much different than she had originally foresaw, and she lifted her mask to her face once more as she headed out.