RP:A Daughter Scorned

From HollowWiki

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc


Summary: Laezila crosses paths with her mother in the Hanging Corpse and tensions run high while Goren, the latest of those loyal to Larewen, looks on in careful amusement. Something cracks in the strained relationship between elder and sireling.

The Hanging Corpse

In the evening glow of Vailkrin's lack of light, the night suffocating the city and dressing the corpse that it once was in the highlights of eerie fogs and setting the ambient sound to rattling chains and wails, a petite figure gracefully moves along the path that cuts the region in two. Clad in black from cloak to dress, the contrast to this and amplified by said contrast is the mask born upon a femininely-structured face; it is faceless, a pearlescent and striking white, except for beneath either eyehole, where a streak of crimson is painted like tears made of blood from the vividly azure eyes that calculatingly scan out from behind the mask. The door seems to open of its own accord, two paces before the female enters, with the only the few glimpses of pale ebony skin beneath her attire and snowblind white strands of hair beneath her hood indicative of her identity.

Larewen has returned to the tavern, having given up on chasing down Trajek. Blood still oozes from the new wound in her chest, the basilisk's blade preventing it from healing. Thusly, the elf has seated herself within a chair near the heart and quietly watches those that come and go... until Laezila arrives. Her mismatched eyes immediately fall upon her daughter. Unlike the others, Larewen does recognize the youthful drowic vampire and the sight of that faceless mask quirks the corners of the necromancer's lips upward with delight. It has been too long since she's seen the girl wearing it. "Come," she calls.

Laezila cants her head in a quick, almost erratically jerking movement of her chin that turns those vivid sky-blue eyes upon her creator with a calculating that is as cold and cunning as the ice her stare resembles. It is done in accompaniment to a shift in her motion; her steps wane, ebb, and come to a cease mid-way through the Corpse's length with the decrescendo of steps that draw breath, hesitation, anticipation. Scrutiny. The daughter analyzing the mother, her call, her command, and deliberating the execution thereof like a sour word on her tongue. But the body seems to move against the will of her mind, a slight turn, and the rising pace of her steps to bring her closer, ever closer, to the elder vampire.

Larewen extends her hand and the chair near her slides out for Laezila to be seated. If the elf is pained by the gaping hole in her chest, she does not show it. A familiar madness glistens in the woman's eyes. "You're looking rather well, my dearest. There is someone I would like you to meet, someone that you may have known during your time in Frostmaw," she says. The necromancer means Trajek, but that's all that is said in that regard. Her head tilts slightly. "The slave market has reopened as well. You may find yourself a good, strong bloodbag or two there. Use my funds as you wish."

The sneer of the drow vampiress could be seen reflected over those painted trails of crimson tears on her mask, emphasized on the word 'slave' and held there accountable like her stare would crucify the matron vampire. "I do not deal in slaves." Her House never held slaves. In fact, it was made up of slaves freed. She had started a revolution of slaves against their oppressors. It was a facet of her old life that she can remember, that she could cling on to, and so it is said with the determination of a madwoman, and all the ire thereof. "And who is this person you wish me to meet, why are they worthy of my time?"

Larewen finds further delight in the way that Laezila responds to her words; she knew of what ilk Laezila's House of misfits had been filled with. A slender, scarred and blood-covered hand waves down a tender that passes through and she orders blood wine for both of them. "He is an ally," she explains. Is that... pride that teases at the edge of her lips now? "An ally whose strength matches my own. He is worthy of your time because I say he is."

Laezila is hardly convinced and makes it apparent through her own ego (and semi-prowess) by her deflective response, which is a lazy twirl of a petite hand that is indicative that she is hardly buying in to what Larewen is selling her. "If you say so," is a dry, uninterested response, purposefully crafted in such a manner as perhaps an underhanded jab to attempt to rile up the elder by being dismissive of what pride is being displayed. "Kasyr eclipsed your strength," she off-handedly, back-handedly comments, as her cold eyes slide along the gathered in idle curiosity, "Who else is worthy of my time, then, mother?"


An eerie silence settles between the pair as the waiter returns with the glasses. For a brief moment, an image of the night prior resurfaces in the elf's mind: an explosion of skull and gray matter. Instead she procures a cigarette and raises it to her mouth as she leans back in her chair. One leg crosses the other beneath the verdant dress and she lights the smoke. After a slow exhale, mismatched eyes once more settle on Laezila. "It seems you've found your way back to your older ways, but you've not yet lost this petty mannerism you seem to have picked up. Perhaps I am wrong to think of you as my heir," she says sweetly.

Goren returns, and if anyone was able to tell the difference, the ghastly creature had a spring to his step that was not usually present, a full 'stomach' was usually enough to put something into a good mood for the rest of the day, and the memory feeder was well stuffed, licking the chunks of brain from his fingers to clean himself and open his book, not seeming to care too much about the small print of blood he left upon the notebook's pages, too distracted by the warm feeling radiating through him

Laezila seems hardly affected by the sweetly spoken words of her sire; it is her sire, after all, that reintroduced her to her old ways, her old ambition and determination. The former matron of House D'l'Sel D'issan was going to be in command again, whether or not that command was freely given to her. It is a doubtless thing that resonates in the very calculating eyes and stare of the petite young woman as she turns her gaze toward Larewen, "Your heir? Oh, absentee mother, oh, vanished teacher, you mistake me for someone that requires your approval. I will survive and succeed as I've always done." Her fingers rap lithe knuckles hollowly against the tabletop, "Chasing after your men, turmoils of your heart, of your loins, the majority of your house already heeds my words more than yours. Do not fool yourself into thinking I am grateful for whatever you failed to aid me with. You desire the throne, very well -I shall give you the throne," her voice comes from behind that mask, simultaneously both muffling and amplifying it to an ethereal standard, "But you have taught me nothing, least of all any love for you. So do not act like it is deserved."

Goren's arrival goes for the moment unacknowledged, though there's no doubt that Larewen feels him. Instead, her mismatched stare is fixed upon Laezila as the youth bites at her bitterly. A bark of laughter rumbles from the depths of her throat, renewing the oozing of black ichor from the gaping hole in her chest. "The majority of my House has yet to figure out who you are. Margret, Sigmund, and Aisen are servants; they obey your whim because that is what they were -raised- from the grave to do," she hisses, adjusting once more on her chair. Again she puffs on her cigarette and a tendril of smoke curls upward from her lips.

Goren raises his hands, "Whoa, family moment." He walks over to the bar and stares at Steadmen, leaning forward as he focuses on the other in silence, the barman just staring back with a completely flat expression as the undead just leant in closer, pulling back when the barman blinked, "Ha, I win." He leaves a bloody handprint upon the counter as he sits down, spinning around idly, "Sure glad I don't have any family. Or maybe I do. Who knows. Not me." He slams his book upon the bar and leans in again, "I would like chicken. I do not know why. Must of been a favourite of that dude with his head splattered all over the wall."

Laezila again, very calmly and likely irritatingly, rapts her knuckles against the tabletop idly, as if bored by the rebuking hiss of her sire, and not quite meeting her gaze as she adjusts or even laughs. "Are you certain of that?" She draws out slowly, and those cold eyes now lock on to the necromancer's. "Is there something truly important you wish to tell me, mother? Or do you wish me to simply meet your lovers?"

Larewen snorts derisively at Laezila. Perhaps the jibe was meant to draw the necromancer's ire, but truth be told, Laezila already knew Larewen's present lover. For the moment, anyway. "I am quite certain of that. I am privy to their thoughts, girl," she answers as she tilts her head sharply. The movement releases pressure with a popping sound. "This one is not my lover. He is the one whose hand I trust to command Vailkrin's forces."

Laezila again rapts her knuckles, her stare not tearing away from Larewen although there was a distinct dismiss and amusement that danced within them. "If you sleep with him, surely it won't drive the city to ruins," she taunts insincerely, as her gaze slides toward the door and the darkness beyond. "Remind me why I want to help you again, mother?"


The drowic girl's words perplex Larewen. On one hand, she's comparing Larewen to the common whore, where as on the other, she's... giving Larewen the okay to sleep with Trajek? The necromancer blinks silently at Laezila as she finishes her cigarette and crushes it into an obsidian ashtray. "Because you're too weak to survive on your own and I have no qualms with telling Gevurah where you can be found otherwise," Larewen says finally, her voice icy. If Laezila wants to play this game, then Larewen will oblige.

Laezila twists her gaze toward Larewen in an icy cut that that glittered in their chilled slice, calculating and lacking empathy like a brilliant sociopath. "Careful, mother," she says slowly, "you're pushing too far." With that, her lithe body pushes back to slide the chair out from the table she so lazily occupied in order for her petite frame to rise to a stand for a pause to idly correct the dress that her cloak is draped over. "You've done little for me but insult and abandon me. But of course, your mind is on other things." She's pushing away then, engaging in a gait toward the door, "I'll consider it."

Larewen isn't so quick to allow Laezila's departure. In fact, the air seems to thicken between the pair and the Corpse's exit. It's not a harmful magic, thus the building's wards do not yet negate. At this, the odd familial display takes an entirely new twist for those that are watching the Lady Dragana and her eldest sireling. "What do you want from me, girl?" she growls and frustration tints her voice. "I push you because I know you can be better, and that's not to say that you don't suffice at all. I have given and given and given to you, and what do I receive in return from you? Nothing. You insult me, then expect me to treat you with honey? You chose to stay in Frostmaw because you failed to have faith in my ability to protect you. Even now, I protect you. Next time you cross the threshold into House Dragana, take a good whiff of the older smells. You will see that Lanlan has been there. Do not mistake my absenteeism for abandonment. I expect you to be capable of surviving on your own, but I have not cast you aside. If this is how you wish to treat me, how you wish to thank me for what I do for you, for the power I wish to secure for you and the home I wish to make for you, then leave. I will find another." Her voice... cracks, surprisingly enough. Mostly because at that moment, the memory of Endrin surfaces within her mind. She procures another cigarette and washes the taste of the last one out of her mouth with what's left in her wine glass.

Laezila doesn't seem hindered by the thickness of the air, though that very well may have been the reason for her steps to abruptly pause -more likely it is the words of the woman that cause this, cause the young drow's steps to halt so suddenly, for her masked face to turn to cast her eyes over a slender shoulder at her. Her mouth opens, behind that mask, and no sound comes out. So it closes, and she resumes her exit, silenced by Larewen's unexpected words -intending to mull them over.

Larewen makes no attempt to chase the girl down as she had with Trajek earlier. Emotions have a horrid way of making the necromancer feel wrong, and so she is content to simply ponder over her cigarette. A waiter passes by to refill her wine. At House Dragana, should Laezila return there, the girl would find a box of black onyx. Upon opening it, she would find a blackened rat skull and a letter, resting comfortably upon a cloth of verdant velvet.