RP:Aramoth Joins The War

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Hildegarde convenes a war council in Frostmaw Fort. She calls upon allies from all corners of the Frostmaw wild, from the Northern Kuronii tribe, to he Quelodian Centaurs, the Sylvan Elves, and other warriors from all walks of tundra life. And of course, also present, the High Priestess of Aramoth Leone, and the half drow (unofficial) informant Nymh. Josleen, who had been staying at the castle, also forces her way into the War Council. The council discusses the pros and cons of entering the war as allies to the elves, and agree to nobler reasons to fight for what is good. Nymh reveals that Skylei has been captured by Matron Laezila and given as a gift to Gevurah D'Artes. Emrith volunteers to rescue her, to Josleen's swooning approval. Josleen volunteers as a nurse once more in Frostmaw.

War Council Room

Hildegarde had gathered many to the fort over the last few days, sending out letters of summons or even personally going off to fetch these people from all around Frostmaw. They had filled the vast halls of the fort and whittled away at the supplies of the pantry, as Hildegarde had hosted them as a sign of her largesse. The Silver had already departed for the War Council, hidden within the depths of the frozen throne room, so she might prepare for what was to come. She had taken off the pointed hat, the black blade and the white fox from the map: holding them all in her hand with a near sad and longing look as she quietly asked the pieces, “Where have you all gone? I am afraid to do this alone,” she confided to the strategic pieces, before placing them aside and well off the map; adjusting her own piece to sit squarely at the fort of Frostmaw. Mikael had been sent off to fetch all the representatives she had invited and now he was returning, giving Hildegarde the time to compose herself and steel her features. Scarred and older giants enter the councilroom, a centaur covered in tribal paint canters down the steps, three wolf pelt covered warriors stride in together with their beards ornately braided and faces adorned with warpaint. Other representatives would be making their way here too, such as the elven refugees and the High Priestess. “Greetings,” she says in a loud and clear voice, “gather round the map. We have much to discuss.”

Leone follows the larger contingent of giants in. The petite human is among their ranks, accompanied by a single Aramothian paladin. Draped once again in the dual mantles of Frostmaw and Aramoth, the High Priestess gestures to one of the steplike seats that edge the room, indicating that her accompanying warrior assume a seat. The raven-haired woman moves toward the Silver at the side of the map. Her own palm rises, cupped into a stalwart curve like the dome of a turtle's shell, before seeking to lay it atop the hand of Hilde's that clutches the pieces. "The players have changed," the blacksmith notes evenly, her diametric tones of sand and silk shaded with sympathy, "The game remains the same. You are not lost, you are not foundering. You simply haven't plotted a course yet. That's why we are here."

Emrith and Aeth arrive on the heels of the high priestess and her paladin. As they pass through the hidden door into the large room, Aeth slows his slow steps even more until Emrith, who was paying little attention, almost bumps into him. When the two elves are abreast of one another, Aeth turns to Emrith and whispers to him in the elven tongue: "What you have suspected is about to take place. Follow my lead, and do not let a rash temper anger you. The fate of our entire race may depend on what transpires this day. Do me proud." The older elf places a trembling hand on Emrith's shoulder, then makes his way down to the map near the center of the room. Emrith follows him, but deliberately lets the elder gain a lead in order that Hildegarde may call Emrith forward if she desires him, instead of having to either tolerate his proximity or order him to retreat. Emrith is nervous, but it does not show; true to Aeth's advice, Emrith is stoic, silent and grave.

Nymh is one of the last in, watching silently those that passed through the gates, from a shadowy corner. He trusted Hildegarde, but none of these others. He had a good impression of the High Priestess, and was at assured he wouldn't be abused here, detained or coerced. Hildegarde wouldn't allow it. When he came in, he'd not take a seat, instead taking to a corner, close to an escape route, and watching the gathering through wary eyes.

Hildegarde waited for all bodies to gather around the large map that was representative of Frostmaw and her mountains before getting to the heart of the matter. As was the way of Frostmaw and many warriors she had come to know, the woman is as blunt as a club and straight to the point; there is no beating about the bush here in these council chambers. “We are gathered here to discuss the matter of the Sage forest, the conflict between the elves and the drow. As we all know, Frostmaw has claimed neutrality throughout this ongoing and bitter battle and we have gladly taken refugees into our city with open arms,” she begins. “But… People still suffer. The elves are persecuted and the drow roam across Sage and Kelay like wolves harrying sheep, they nip at heels and ankles to get the folk as they like them.” The woman paused to allow murmurs and grunts in reply, signs that the warriors and folk assembled here were all listening. “Long we have said we will not let the elves hide behind our skirts as we fight their battles for them, long have we refused to do more than give land and hearth to the people who need it. But I say no more. The elves did not hide behind our skirts when the exiles came knocking at our door; ‘twas they who raised their bows, who tended to our wounded with their knowledge of herbs and poultice.” The woman glanced around as she let her words settle in, before continuing her now impassioned speech, “It was they who died beside our brothers and sisters, fathers, mothers, lovers. It was they who gave their lives to defend the place they called home. Do we not owe them the same?” she asked of the council, garnering murmurs of agreement and disagreement. “We are good men! We ought not shed more of our blood for those who do naught but praise the trees,” a man of the Northern Kuronii protested, his fellow tribesmen hooting with support. The Silver set her sole eye upon the man, staring for a long moment before speaking to him and those gathered: “Good is not a thing you are. Good is a thing you do. And I, for one, intend to do good with my life. You ought to cut your hair, Kovirsson, I thought the men of the north to be brave. I did not expect you to run away with your tail between your legs,” she accused acidly, playing on the pride of this northman.

Leone clears her throat before looking pointedly to the Kuronii who had protested. The farrier's eyes move over the warrior, fiery peridot-hued orbs like glittering gems stare down the vociferous one. "It is known," the High Priestess begins in a loud, clear voice after the Steward has finished, "That trees are insurance against an avalanche. They bring stability to a mountainside; deep-seeded roots that hold the soil, break the wind, and muffle noises that would otherwise send tonnes of snow and ice careening on a path of destruction. The trees protect us, and so we should protect them," the bantam blacksmith outlines for the Kuronii. "These trees may not be on our mountainside," the farrier continues, pulling away from her standing position next to the Silver to take several rounding paces and look along the remainder of the room, "But they are still tenders of our hillocks and dales. The path from them - through them - leads to us."

Emrith and Aeth both look upon the silver, and then the blacksmith, with quiet respect while they speak. Emrith is of a mind to exchange hot words with the northman, but he remembers Aeth's words of only a few moments ago and holds his silence for the moment. Aeth surreptitiously gestures with one hand and, at his summons, Emrith joins him. When the blacksmith has finished speaking, Aeth nods to her and begins to speak in turn. "You speak both bravely and nobly, Hildegarde. Lady Leone, your wisdom of trees is music to my ears." His voice may be thin with age, but those in the large chamber should have no trouble hearing it; when this man wants to be heard, he has a way of orating that makes his pronouncements very easy to catch. "For any of you that would hesitate to lend your aid to our kind, you have my sympathy. We are not of your kind nor of your land, and our plight is not your own. However, let none say that elves wish others to fight in their stead. We will welcome aid, but we do not expect to stand aside and let others fight for us. We, too, have honour, and to watch idly as an ally fought for us would be the height of dishonour, and intolerable." He gestures toward Emrith. "This is Emrith, of house Kohl. He is one of the finest young elven warriors I know. He has risked much for this cause, and will continue to do so." Emrith nods in agreement. "He, and those like him, would welcome the help of any and all who would, for a time at least, share this cause." Aeth falls silent, gives Emrith an encouraging little half-smile, then takes a single pace backward. Emrith's speech is far less politically charged and, to his mind at least, far more to the point. "hatred and vengeance do not cloud my heart. I, Emrith Kohl, fight because what once was ours must be ours again. Please do not mistake the desire of our kinsmen for war against the drow in Sage as a desire for war at large. It is a bloody endeavour, and not lightly taken up; indeed, many among us flinch from it. I do not flinch. I stand here before this Council seeking to reclaim the elven ancestral home, and nothing more. If drow exist, either beneath the surface or elsewhere, then let them be. Any grudge our races may bear toward one another of old pales when placed next to the immediacy of this burgeoning conflict. Help us, please; we will do everything we may to ensure that you do not come to regret it." Now it is Emrith who steps back a pace, and Aeth gestures quickly to him in elven hand-talk: "Wordy, but effective. Next time, speak less and say more."

Nymh continues to retain his silence, letting the council meet continue. He looked on at Emrith and Aeth with a look devoid of emotion, and at the northern kinsmen with something approaching tolerance. The elves had not won him over... still, he was here for one reason, and one alone... he could not leave her forsaken. He'd thrown away his home, and betrayed his matron because he could not live with himself if he'd done anything less. It didn't mean he wanted any part of this war, this horrible conflict. He especially didn't desire to ever cross blades with Laezila... he'd fall without ever attempting to strike her and hers, in his grief.

Josleen had been staying at the fort long before the far-flung allies began to arrive. She came to Frostmaw in search of Skylei, her sister by choice, and moved into Skylei’s room. That room used to belong to Aela, who was involved romantically with Hildegarde, who infiltrated enemy giants’ barracks with Josleen to save the paladin Eliason, who led a squadron of allies from Chartsend. That chain of relations and perils is but one thread in Frostmaw’s complicated social web — a web in which Josleen appears multiple times. It’s an odd role for this non-combat bard from Xalious, but she’s never stopped to question it. Along with the guests’ arrival, Josleen began to ask the right questions to the right people, instinctively following the strongest threads in this social web. A creature of persuasion rather than force, the half-elf charms her way to the secret war council’s door just as it shuts itself behind the last ally. She can hear Hildegarde begin her speech, and presses her ear against the door to better discern the words, but the echoing chamber does her no favors. As an observant guest of the fort, Josleen has come to learn the special knocks the guards use to communicate both rank and a petition for entry. She mimics the highest ranking knock she’s come to learn, and using one of her few bardic gifts, amplifies the sound so that it convincingly mimics a giant’s knock. The guard opens the door wide enough for a giant, so imagine his surprise when the petite Josleen slips in, dressed as a warrior’s antithesis in a floral dress that peaks out beneath a plum peacoat. Before he can hiss a query after her purpose, she dives between centaur hinds and disappears into the crowd. The bard blushes a bright scarlet. There’s something about the splicing of buff men and horses that gets a woman’s fancy just right. As the elves begin to speak, she weaves and wiggles her way through the crowd to find them, her impractically fashionable boots clicking against the floor. “Sorry!” She whispers. “Pardon me,” she mouths. “Just need to… thank you… Could you make… Uh huh.” She stops beside Emrith just as he concludes his speech, waits for Aeth to finish his gentle ribbing, then chirps in a sweet whisper intended for Emrith, “Hi. I’m Josleen. Do you know Skylei?” She is in plain sight of Hildegarde and Leone.

Hildegarde nodded to Emrith and Aeth alike, “Leone is wise in these matters and far better at wording them than I shall ever be,” she admitted, offering a gentle smile in her direction. Indeed, the Steward is ready to say more, to add weight to all the words offered when Josleen apparently sneaks in and is already whispering questions to Emrith. Even without Josleen being directly in sight, the knight would be able to hear such whisperings thanks to her saurian heritage. “Josleen!” she near enough barks the name, swiftly tempering her tone into one that suited a commander on the field and not an embarrassed politician, “It is rude to whisper during this council. Wait your turn,” she instructed the bard with a knowing look. “I seek to have Frostmaw back the elves in their endeavour to reclaim Sage. Together we can reclaim your ancestral home and make peace. We are… We are a family of sorts, I suppose, having lived with one another for as long as we have; fighting beside one another,” she said with a gentle nod towards Aeth. Once again, she raises her voice to address the council that had gathered within these walls, “I will not drag my people into a war, but I will not sit and watch this injustice go on any longer. Satoshi… the Queen… she is no longer here and the decision falls to me. I would ask of you what I have asked before, my brave people,” she began, looking around them all and glancing at Leone for just a little more strength. “Will you stand with me? Will you bleed with me? I will not ask you to bleed or die for me, but with me! As my brothers, sisters, as my people. Let us come together and stand; let us do good for our realm and drive back this evil that would plague the elves and harry the sheep of Kelay. Our names will be forever echoed through the halls of history; Aramoth himself will serve us at his table! What say you?” The giants are convinced, harooing and roaring their praise and agreement; some going so far as to shout ‘Aramoth!’ ‘Frostmaw!’ ‘Hildegarde!’ The Silver waited for quiet to fall once again, before addressing those gathered, “Then it is decided. We will aid the elves,” she said finally. “Now we must make plans. Nymh, come forward,” she asked of the bard, her hand extending in his direction.

Leone is careful to be attentive toward the elven emissaries, her vivid jade sights turned toward the pair of Aeth and Emrith. As the latter finishes speaking, the cleric gives him a warm smile. "Passion free of judgement and rife with purpose is the best kind," the farrier compliments toward the elfin warrior, her livid gaze again sweeping over those collected in the room. "These abassadors display our tennants at heart," the diminutive smith insists toward the crowd, "To lead their own fight, though their numbers be few. To reclaim what is rightfully theirs, and in doing so honor their dead, their history, their ancestors. Be we of the earth or of the snow, our hearts are one." The metallurgist stops short, pausing just long enough to look at Josleen, and mull over the name she speaks. It has been months, perhaps even a year, since the High Priestess has crossed paths with Skylei. The name rings a faint bell, but as of yet, the blacksmith does not connect it with the trap she'd built for the odd ranger. The farrier's silence carries through the Steward's speech and the rousing display following it. Speaking no more words, the sable-haired human instead crosses back toward the dragon. One hand seeks out a phial tucked into a pocket. The miniature glass vessel is unstoppered, two fingers prying out the cork before a finger covers the mouth, and the vial is upended. Oil oozes out over the smith's digit, which then quickly rises and makes short work of annointing the Silver's forehead. "Hildegarde, you are Aramoth's champion and Frostmaw's fist. I dub thee my Hammer, my weapon of favor, and will follow where you lead," the plover declares with a wide and gregarious grin. Afterward, the farrier steps to the side, providing ample room for the summoned Nymh to attend the Steward's request.

Emrith watches with wide eyes as the frost giants are stirred by Hildegarde's words. It is one thing to live in a land populated by large, fierce warriors at peace, and quite another to see them mobilized. Emrith is not precisely in awe, but to say that he is simply impressed might be an understatement. He hears a muttered "Ouch!" from his right, realizes that someone has stepped on Aeth's foot and earned a cranky glare for their trouble and looks in that direction just in time to catch Josleen's whisper; this is a woman he does not know, and he takes a moment to look her up and down before responding. "Skylei?" he asks in an undertone. "I know the name, and have heard rumours of her, but have not had chance to meet her. I sought her out, but before we could meet, she disappeared. Unfortunate, that." Emrith glances back toward the silver and the priestess just in time to see the former anointed with oil by the latter. Aeth, from nearby, mutters a short elven prayer.

Nymh heard the Silver's words, and came between the seats, nimble and dark, to stand next to the considerably taller female, looking every bit a diminutive drow. Some wood elves may see the impurity of his heritage, but he did not look like a typical gray elf. He bit his tongue, waiting in silence until he was bidden to speak, watching the many about him. His sharp ears caught Josleen's questions, and he would soon give her the answers she sought. Just as soon as Hildegarde asked him to speak. Whether he gave the whole of his tale or just the important parts, and left it to Hildegarde to vouch for its truth, he would decide when she asked it of him.

Josleen bites her tongue when told to do so with plenty of chagrin and embarrassment to share with the class. Would Emrith like some second-hand embarrassment for being dragged against his will into this exchange? Here’s a generous slice, sir. The embarrassment is quickly replaced by trembling awe as the giants thunder their war cries. She winces and sinks into her shoulders until the shouting stops. To Emrith, she sadly nods her gratitude for his information. Her frown deepens as her imagination chases nightmares centered on Skylei’s fate. Nymh's race disturbs Josleen for only a brief moment. If Hildegarde says he is an ally, that's good enough for her.

Hildegarde had stooped ever so slightly as Leone reached up to anoint her forehead, ever aware of the height differences between herself and the smaller folk. Aramoth’s daughter and now his champion, the giants would surely go wild at the rumour mill with this one. “Thank you, High Priestess,” she said gratefully before straightening her posture. “I would ask that you would be so kind to perhaps give the blessing of Aramoth unto those who would follow us into battle. If Aramoth deems them worthy, that is,” she said, offering a brief smile before her attention turned to Nymh. “You have fled to Frostmaw from your matron and you brought with you information. We need to know that information now. Once again, I’ll place my hand upon you as I did before,” she spoke gently to the bard, giving him a few moments to prepare himself before she placed her gauntleted hand upon the flesh of his arm. It only takes a few moments before the dragon hisses sharply with what must be pain or discomfort, yet she does not dwell on it for long; quickly asking her questions of Nymh, “You must tell us all you can remember and all you know of how Skylei was, where she was kept, the Underdark itself, any weaknesses of the Houses who do support the war. All this information is vital, Nymh. The more we know, the better we can strike and a good strike… well, a good strike will hopefully not shed the blood of many,” she said hopefully.

Leone gives a singular nod to Hildegarde's request, though the farrier holds up a hand to those who being to move from their seats to receive a blessing. The palm is pressed through the air, bidding those who are willing to fight to heel for a few more moments, and allow the event with the drowish-looking Nymh to transpire. The elven emissaries and Josleen are not forgotten about, though the smith's attention does turn to fixate upon the Steward and her informant. At Hildegarde's words, those that betray Skylei is being kept in the underdark, the farrier's face crease with concern. Her tawny lips turn down at the corners, and a sour frown accompanies the flash and flare of angry injustice in her eyes as she waits for Nymh to spin his tale.

Emrith and Aeth both regard Nymh as he comes forward. Aeth, in particular, seems singularly focused upon the gauntlet Hildegarde bears upon her arm, staring at it with feverish intensity. Emrith does not understand the markedness of his interest, but instead reserves his own attention for Nymh, offering the half-drow a bare nod of the head as he passes and then watching him as closely as Aeth watches that gauntlet. Emrith is remaining alert for the first physical tells of untruth - which he may or may not catch, of course, being a perfectly fallible elf - while Aeth's intention is somewhat more obscure. Were one to regard the old man closely, they might see his wrinkled old lips moving as he mouthes a spell to himself. The exact nature of the spell would be difficult to discern, but Hildegarde might, perhaps, feel slightly less discomfort as it settled into her from below, having transmuted through the marble floor; Aeth is using his natural gift for healing upon the silver dragon, but doing it very slowly and with as little fanfare as he can manage. Even those attuned to magic might be surprised to realize that the druid is engaged in the arcane arts at all, so inute and steady is the trickle of manna into the ground before him. He hopes to work his will thus, in silence and without recognition, as one of the myriad ways he can aid the effort without engaging in tests of arms which are quite beyond him.

Nymh would begin posing his tale immediately. Here again, he would betray his matron... and he had little time to spin his tale, as Hildegarde took great pains to keep these words secret. He spoke quickly. "Skylei was captured by my own matron Laezila, who I dearly believe the possible salvation of the Drow race as a whole. I was within her house because they kept no slaves, accepted the refuse of drow society. Outcasts... cripples. The second most powerful house of the underdark. I betrayed her, and left my home, because I could not leave Skylei forsaken. She gave me a chance, when I had fled my slavery. Twice I'd met her. She gave me a letter of safe passage to the elves in Frostmaw. It was to Hildegarde I went first, and Laezila who found me before I dared to throw in my lot with the elves of Sage. I joined with Laezila, in the end. Skylei... she was unconscious, when Laezila gave her in a gesture of good will to First Daughter Gevurah D'artes, and she doubtlessly resides in the First House of Trist'oth. She might have come across her and captured her only shortly after I last saw her going East through Kelay. I would have attempted to rescue her, if I thought I had any chance of success. The First Houses defenses... I was a slave there a short time. They are without peer, perhaps in all this world. D'artes is the driving force behind this war, but a split among the drow council could well end it. If civil war broke out between the first and second Houses, or even any of the other first Five, the drow would likely no longer have the means to hold the forests of Sage. If civil war broke out, all houses would do their upmost to protect their own assets... internal strife has a way of spreading like wildfire, among such singular opportunists. A case in point was when the fickle mistress Laezila held feelings for Krice, and he was intercepted by Gevurah D'artes, whose roughness in his treatment almost caused Laezila to turn her entire house against that of the First. That is something of conjecture on my part, but I believed it was a possible outcome... if it had happened, the war would have ended that day. Drow have held stronger alliances since the fall of the Matriarchy, but their political ties are still weakened by mistrust, by the constant struggle for dominion and dominance over one another. Laezila of second house D'L'Sel D'Issan struggles to hold a home for those she cares for, rather than fights for her own power and ambitions. She is most remarkable in that her powerful house is without slaves, as I have mentioned, and is singular in that regard. That was why I went back to the underdark, and joined her house." There was such pain in his words. "And I have forsaken her, because I couldn't bear to leave Skylei forsaken, one of the first few in my life to show me a measure of trust, to give me a chance. It was not a decision I took lightly, and now all the underdark will be my enemy. So be it. I did what I thought was right. Gevurah D'artes particularly despises me, but I have been in and out of House D'artes as a slave. Twice, without permission, I was able to covertly remove and enter myself through my own means. I could possibly do it again, though it was easier as a slave. Their defenses are incredible, magical and mundane. It will take an army to break down their gates, and stealth... it will take one more capable than I to sneak in undetected, and rescue Skylei."

Josleen feels the blood drain from her face as Hildegarde reveals that the drow have Skylei. The room spins. She feels faint. Her throat knots in on itself in distress. Her eyes don’t leave Nymh as he speaks. The value of his information transforms him an untrustworthy drow to godsend. His loyalty to Skylei reassures her that he is right to be here, amongst herself, Hildegarde, and the elves. When Nymh finishes his speech, she can’t help but yelp out, “Who?” She takes a step forward and addresses Hildegarde directly. Anguish and desperation color her features and speech. Her hand rubs nervously against her collarbone in an anxious tic that the steward will undoubtedly recognize by now. “Dame Hildegarde, we’ve done this before. We can do it again, surely...” The bard’s words lack conviction. She has no combat skills. True, she did successfully rescue Eliason with the help of Hildegarde, Kovl, and Ezekiel, but she barely escaped with her life. Lady luck was one of many graces that kept Josleen from being buried in the snow. And that enemy was a simpler foe than the one they face now. This new setting is foreign and inhospitable to those present, save Nymh, and the defenses of the drow leadership make the exile frost giants’ camp look like child’s play. Her collar turns mottled red under the sheer force with which Josleen works her own flesh in nervousness.

Hildegarde keeps a hold of Nymh’s arm, her face grim with resolve to keep gripping onto him until all relevant information has been divulged. “Tell me more of these Houses; their power dynamic and their defences. As detailed as possible, Nymh. The more we know, the more lives we can spare,” she said as gently as one could through gritted teeth. “Josleen… It is the love I bear for you and Skylei that I say no. You cannot join us in this venture. The exiles were half-dead, corrupted beasts. The drow will not be,” her words are spoken softly, for the woman means no ill to Josleen. She truly does love and care for the bard before her, so her refusal to include Josleen in any expedition is said with a heavy heart indeed. There is a bead of sweat forming on Hildegarde’s brow and if it were not for the restorative magic that Aeth sends to her, she would likely be far more weary at this stage. Yet she cannot permit the men of the council to see her as that; she cannot be weak when she has summoned them to war, when she has raised her banners and cast the die.

Leone moves toward Josleen once the half-elf approaches Hildegarde. The plover offers a steadying hand, a narrow yet stalwart palm tipped by blackened phalanges, toward the brown-eyed woman. A sympathetic frown is presented to Josleen, along with a resigned frown. "I may be able to ease some of your worries," the plover states in hushed tones to the bard, "But not here. Not now. Later, if you will accept my council." A significant look is passed over the bridge of the farrier's face toward the half-elf, and a tight-lipped smile keeps her silent while she awaits Nymh's answer to Hildegarde's probing.

Emrith cannot restrain himself. Leaving Aeth to whatever he is about, the younger elf strides forward to stand next to Josleen, then turns to face her; he is aware of Leone's presence and, not wishing to crowd the priestess, has approached Josleen from the other side. The bard may be feeling just the slightest bit boxed-in as a result. "Lady Josleen, fear you not. If you cannot rescue her, others will no doubt make the attempt. If fortune is good, I will be among them. What is more, I have a few tricks which may turn the tide somewhat. Allow me to demonstrate." Emrith reaches to his throat, and the clasp wrought from jade which bridges his collarbones; he taps the stone with one finger, and immediately he fades from existence; Josleen, if her gaze is still seeking him in earnest, may see the slightest elven shape, but it would be indistinct at best. He dispels the light-bending illusion in the same manner, simply tapping the piece of jade which keeps his cloak closed. A moment later, Emrith rises an inch or two from the ground as the manna he has infused into his boots activates. "And I have other tools at my disposal," he adds, settling back to the marble floor. "Stealth will be needed, and I am quite likely one of the more stealthy members of my kind, owing to the enchantments upon my gear. I will not dare take Skylei's rescue entirely into my own hands, but I pledge here and now that, unless I am stopped, I will be there when the time comes to make the attempt."

Nymh nods at Hildegarde's words. "On D'artes security, I can say precious little. I was a slave, I avoided their detection barriers, their defenses weren't activated by my passing. Most of them I can only guess at. But I can give you a scale. Laezila of the Second House has vast, powerful beholders at her command. Weredrow. Many soldiers, great enchantments of power. The first house could roll over her forces in a matter of days. If the Lich drow Tiphareth took part, and half of his legends are true, he could destroy the Second House singlehandedly." He shook his head. "Reconnaissance is your most major difficulty. But it is through the slaves of the house that you have your best chance of learning that which you need to know. D'artes keeps many slaves... many hanging on a thread, only days or hours away from their deaths, in their minds. Desperate, many of them are unpredictable. Manipulable." He'd answered as quickly and succinctly as he could. and watched Emrith's little tricks of enchantment. His eyes flickered back to Hildegarde. "If you can cripple the first house, however, somehow... this war will almost undoubtedly end. The drow will withdraw their forces, and internal conflict will once again be the reigning priority of the Drow. Perhaps the Duergar, the illithid, and separate beholder sects could be dealt with to take part in this, if you had capable enough diplomats. I wouldn't hinge any real hopes on any of them, though." It was as much information as he could muster on the spot. The horrors that awaited foes of House D'artes within its walls were an enigma, even to him. "Remember, it is D'artes that overthrew the Drow Matriarchy, and its reigning goddess, and even successfully outlawed its worship. They are an incredibly dangerous foe."

Josleen doesn’t argue with Hildegarde. For one, the dragon is irrefutably right. And secondly, it would be selfish and misguided to ask Hildegarde to speak again whilst under the strain of keeping Nymh’s speech secret. Just as Leone approaches Josleen with kindness, the bard exhales in relief, and the timing makes it so that it is unclear what brings her peace of mind: Leone, or the fact she won’t be visiting Trist’oth any time soon. Josleen nods to Leone and mouths a ‘thank you.’ Surely, in a room full of warriors someone will step forward, and Emrith literally and figuratively does so, right at her side. She regards him with hope that quickly gives way to joy as he announces his intentions. Throughout his demonstration, she grows confident in his abilities, so much so that she can practically see a safe and sound Skylei before her already. When he reappears, in Josleen’s eyes he is suddenly transformed. As he stands there striking a heroic figure and vocalizing his willingness once again to risk his life for the safety of her closest friend, Josleen notices how jaw-droppingly handsome he is. His voice makes the hairs on the nape of her neck stand. She murmurs a quick, demure “Thank you,” and averts her gaze. The stress of Skylei’s captivity keeps her focused on the present, and she looks to Hildegarde and Leone, the figures of authority, for their opinion. Yet, unseen even by Josleen, a secret calculation takes place in the back of her mind in which a visit to Emrith suddenly gets priority over a visit to Leone.

Hildegarde offers Nymh a gentle dip of her head, “Thank you,” she said before withdrawing her hand with a breath of relief. Her hand feels as though it is afire, though she cannot do much about it before the giants, tribesmen and centaurs gathered who are giving their support to the cause now. “We will hold council with both Emrith and Leone in order to best determine how to rescue Skylei and Maegus of the elf council if we can,” she said with a little nod to Aeth. The woman’s forehead is clearly slick with sweat, but none of the warriors gathered deign to mention it. It might be rude or a little bit out of place for them to do so. “We must consider what we can do in order to reclaim Sage. How many men we can spare, how best to do this… I will need the Eyrie and other scouts to examine the lay of the land and see how best we can tackle this, especially if we must fight on the ground,” she explained to those gathered. “Kovirsson,” she said, looking to the warrior who had arrogantly refused to aid the elves, “your men are beyond brave and they are great fighters. We’ll need them in the coming days,” she said gently, knowing that these words would win him over; would mend his wounded pride if he felt as though his people were *needed* in this fight. The Kuronii nodded his head and approached the Steward, raising his arm as if he were about to pump his fist only for Hilde to press the back of her wrist against the back of his. “For Frostmaw,” he said with unabashed pride, “and for our friends.” The woman grinned at him, “For friends.” The gesture between two warriors complete, the woman takes a little step back and announces to the room: “Tonight we feast! Ale, food, wenches; all to warm the heart of the mighty warriors of Frostmaw! Aramoth smile upon on this evening, as we ready our hearts and minds for battle.” A nice way to dismiss the majority of the men and women gathered.

Leone turns to look at Hildegarde upon mention of her name. The farrier's head rocks forward in silent assent, indicating that she will stay for council, or be recalled in the coming days for further advice. As the crowd begins to filter out of the war room, the priestess holds fast, her vial of oil still in one hand. Those that wish to pass by her and receive a blessing are indulged, anointed, and allowed to go on their way.

Emrith nods his blond head in response to Josleen's word of thanks. He has been listening with half an ear to Nymh's explanation of house security in the Underdark, and he gives the half-drow a guarded look when he falls silent. Aeth, for his part, continues that slow trickle of healing energy into Hildegarde, intending to maintain it as long as she might need it. When Hildegarde begins to speak, and mentions the other imprisoned council member, Aeth nods his silver-haired head as if in agreement, pleased that Skylei will not be the only focus. Both of the elves are unused to the sort of spirited show given by both Hildegarde and her constituents, as it is not their custom to be so full of bravado, but both have come to respect these people and their means, if not their specific ways. As most of the gathering streams doorward, Emrith sidles a few steps toward Aeth who, without breaking his monotonous silent chant, hand-signs to Emrith: "Brave. Maybe foolish. If this is planned well, though, your impetuousness will be an asset and not a liability." Speaking aloud in response, Emrith says, rather quietly so that his words do not cut above the babble of departing warriors, "Some things simply cannot be let to stand.", and Aeth signals agreement with another bob of the head.

Nymh goes quiet, and allows Hildegarde to stop maintaining the stressful connection. For his part, he's glad so little attention fell on him... Hildegarde's trust in his word staved off questions of credibility, and he could rest without having to defend his reasons and motivations, sketchy as they seemed at first glance. He was tired of wars, and politics, but might yet wish to help if possible in Skylei's rescue. He'd stay close to Hildegarde unless she expressly dismissed him, fingers drumming lightly on his ebony ocarina.

Josleen doesn’t leave. If she’s supposed to leave, she missed that memo, just like she missed the memo that she wasn’t invited here in the first place. She waits for someone to start whatever comes next, but it’s a long wait as dozens of warriors need to pass through one exit. As they wait, she steals surreptitious glances at Emrith. If he meets her gaze, she looks away. She tells herself not to look at him again, but fails at that and glances again. Alright, this time she’s very, very serious about not looking at him. To help herself to that end, she counts to 20 silently and slowly. By the time she gets to 17, she looks again, but this time, instead of looking away, she pretends to look past Emrith’s shoulder at something or someone behind him. If he were to follow her stare, he’d find an empty wall. Smooth.

Hildegarde waits until the gathered warriors have left the council chamber before she strips the gauntlet from her arm and tosses it down on Lake Frysta, gripping her wrist with a little hiss of plain. The flesh of her palm has blackened and looks necrotic, stretching up to her fingertips. “Blasted thing,” she muttered, though she understands it would be much worse were it not for the ongoing chat of Aeth. “I bid you all gather close,” she told the group quite seriously. “We are going to go to war… we are bonded through that now and I would call you friends for that,” she said sincerely, for this was the way of Frostmaw. Battle and war could bond a person to others. “Emrith. Josleen. Nymh. Aeth. Leone,” she said, smiling ever so slightly, “I would be honoured if you lent me your aid.” She knew the elves and Leone would, she knew Josleen would do whatever she could to assist Skylei, but she needed people to play to their strengths; to suggest how they would be better used in this war.

Leone moves toward the table at the center of the room, her eyes drawn to Hildegarde's blackened wrist. Only once the door has closed behind the last warrior excused from the further proceedings does the High Priestess hold her hand out toward the Steward. One brow is lofted, a silent query toward the dragon that is given neither voice nor further regard, at least until it is answered or ignored by the redhead. "I have a particular talent," the smith says through set teeth, "One that you know of, that could be of great use here." The comment seems to be directed to Hildegarde, and is not further expanded upon. It seems the smith expects that the knight knows what she speaks of.

Emrith has not missed Josleen's antics, though the first glimpse did go unnoticed due to Emrith's focus upon Aeth. After that exchange ends, however, he is free to take in the room in general, and he is more than observant enough to note how the woman's eyes keep moving to him before snapping away again. After this happens a few times, Emrith, on his way to the central table, turns on his heel, looks Josleen dead in the eyes and barks, "What are you looking at?" This is an elf who clearly has little sense of humour, at least today. At another time, he might find the woman's regard amusing, might even have a look or two of his own, but unfortunately for the bard, the spell-blade's resolve is as keen as his favoured weapon. Aeth shuffles forward as well, now a pace behind Emrith until finally moving up beside him. He speaks to Hildegarde first. "My areas of expertise are well-known to you, Hildegarde, but I deal particularly with magic of the earth, of plants and stones and the water which runs through all of them. I am old, and I know much. I cannot help you in combat, but mayhap my spellcraft will be able to aid in infiltration or the gathering of information." When he falls silent and stays that way for a few seconds, Emrith explains his own talents. "I have skill with blades," he states plainly, "and a knack for going where I wish to go and coming back alive. I know little of politics, little of raw magic, but much of the bloodier arts. My masters were good, my training long and my diligence easily proven, if need be." He makes a casual gesture with one hand to the shortswords crossed on his back; it has never occurred to him that wearing weapons in a war council might be a bad idea, particularly in such a country as Frostmaw.

Nymh had little to say. "You've done right by me, Hildegarde. I have few places to go where I'll be safe from the enemies I've made. If you require my aid in this endeavor, I will see it through to my dying breath. My music is the Bae'qeshel... darksong. I manipulate minds, and am capable in stealth, and knife fighting." His eyes flickered towards Emrith for a heartbeat, before returning to Hildegarde. Such a trick would not catch him again, not anymore. He'd learned much from that encounter. "And I'm the only one here who has been within the walls of House D'artes, and I know the corners and some safe havens within Trist'oth. Any and all of my abilities and knowledge are at your disposal, in whatever manner you deem fit." He'd stay by her side and counsel her, he'd thrust himself into the underdark. "I only hope to avoid... meeting my old matron again. I would... be ineffective."

Josleen winces like a whipped dog when Emrith snaps at her. She turns bright red and looks away, this time for good. She says nothing, no attempt at a retort. Handling embarrassment with grace is among her skillset, unfortunately one gained from ample experience. Normally she would flee the scene altogether, but Hildegarde has bidden them gather and Skylei and Frostmaw need Josleen to remain a little longer to iron out some details. She stands as close to the dragon as possible, the place where she feels safest right now, and uses Hildegarde and Leone both as a shield from Emrith without making it obvious. She frowns at Hildegarde’s wrist and and says, “I am useless to you in battle, Hildegarde, but I can serve once more as a nurse. I can visit Eleenin as soon as we’re done here.”

Hildegarde waited to hear what each had to say of their talents, nodding once she had heard everyone speak. Her arm extends towards Leone, her blackened wrist and hand limply pressing against her waiting hand. “Aeth, I need you to tell me more about Sage when the time comes. I would not send men into the field without understanding the lay of it. There are things that the eyes in the sky cannot see, things that only residents might know. I would know that, so I might better use it to our advantage,” the woman did not necessarily pride herself on being a strategos, but it was one of the reasons she had reached the station she held in this world. “Nymh, like Aeth, I will need your knowledge of the Underdark. I will need the talents of both you and Josleen as bards,” she said, “for the song can hearten any warrior or soothe the aches they suffer.” Emrith is offered a little look of brief displeasure before she speaks to him, “You must pardon Josleen. She is a curious one and likely meant no offense by looking upon your countenance,” meaning she did not think it fair he barked so at her. “But that is of no importance right now. We know of your talents and we will put them to use. I will do my utmost to see that none of you face dishonour in the field.” Yet while she has explored and touched upon the talents of these individuals, she does not do so with Leone. Instead offering a soft, “I know what you can do,” to Leone, along with a meaningful look.

Leone waits until the Steward's arm is nestled in her palm before the intensely blue runes along the inside of her wrist pulses with light. The luminance is wan at first, but builds into a streaks of vivid, azure that slowly twine up her palm before splitting off to wind around each individual finger. The priestess's fingers curl around the Steward's wrist, and in a flash (literally), the sacred healing is delivered into the humanoid dragon's flesh. The healing complete, the farrier's aura of blue and white once again recedes into nothingness. The Steward's words are followed by a short, curt nod. For the moment, the petite plover has nothing to add.

Emrith does not miss Josleen's reddened countenance or hastened steps, nor do Hildegarde's words go amiss. Emrith has the decency to be somewhat abashed by his harshness, and as he turns toward the half-elf bard standing hear the silver and the plover, he happens to catch a single glower from Aeth. "Shameful," Aeth flashes at him, hands flicking speedily. "Regard might have been foolish, but your response was discourteous in the extreme." Emrith steps forward, opens his mouth, closes it again; he is notoriously bad at apologies. He takes note of the healing Leone offers to Hildegarde's wounded hand before steeling himself and speaking. "Josleen, I apologize. I would not throw sharp words when we are allied in a purpose. I spoke out of turn, and I cry your pardon." Aeth shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes toward Hildegarde in a "What're you gonna do?" gesture.

Nymh keeps his silence. He had no home now, save the one Hildegarde might make for him, here in Frostmaw. No home, and no purpose, save the one in front of him now. No friends, save the strangers beside him now. He watched on in silence, and was taken by a grim determination.

Josleen glances at Nymh when Hildegarde seems to suggest they should do a musical collaboration. With a drow? Josleen’s racism acts up like heartburn. Hopefully she’ll ease into this idea with time, but for now her racist distress compounds with further embarrassment as Hildegarde nobly chastises Emrith, and in the process calls more attention to the friction. Josleen prefers to bury and move on from anything unsavory. Her garden is notoriously lumpy. In this vein, of never speaking of the bad or the ugly, Josleen keeps her lips pressed together, smiling wanly when appropriate, but otherwise humorless. She misinterprets Hildegarde’s meaningful stare into Leone’s eyes as romantic intrigue and assumes they’re a couple. She tucks this away into her mental gossip file to share with Skylei after she is rescued. The bard refrains from thinking ‘if.’ When. It must be a when. That success rests on the elf who apologizes to her now. Josleen nods a brisk acceptance of his apology, because it is expected of her, not because she particularly wanted it. Bury and move on, bury and move on. Apologies unbury things. It makes her uncomfortable. Her weight bounces between her feet as she itches to leave. “I should see Eleenin soon. He goes to bed early.” She curtsies to the gathered, even Emrith, as is expected. “I’ll see you soon, Dame Hildegarde, to learn of when the rescue party will set out. Fair well.”

Hildegarde offered Josleen a little dip of her head, “I look forward to seeing you again soon, m’lady,” she said politely, as always. With the blue runes wrapped around her flesh and just as quickly gone, the knight flexed and wiggled her fingers before offering Leone a little smile, “Thank you, Leone, once again.” With her hand and wrist tended to the woman withdraws her arm from Leone’s grasp and pulls the gauntlet over her flesh once again. “I think that’s enough for this evening. We can reconvene another time to discuss plans and what have you. I’ll set the Eyrie to scouting,” she said with certainty.

Leone lifts a hand in farewell to Josleen, even if the half-elf doesn't see her. Still quiet, the farrier simply nods at the Steward, offering her welcome for her thanks. The singular gesticulation of her head is soon followed by another, a secondary one that is in agreement to the Silver's declaration. She would remain in Frostmaw until the business of war was concluded.

Emrith inclines his head in acquiescence to Hildegarde's words, then makes for the door. Aeth makes as if to follow Emrith, then turns back to Hildegarde. "I will provide details of Sage on the ground, the sort of thing your aerials cannot avail us. I know those trees and thoroughfares like the veins upon the back of my hand." He raises a hand to illustrate the point, stares at it, drops it. Then, with a courteous little bow, Aeth makes for the door, quickly catching up to Emrith despite the younger elf's lead; clearly, this elder can move quickly when he wishes. "You and I will have words," is his only statement to the spell-blade, and it is clear that a lot more talk between the two will be forthcoming behind other closed doors. The two elves leave, passing back into the rest of the fort.