RP:Birthright

Synopsis: Over the past few months, Skylei has found herself increasingly drawn back to Sage in spite of the fact that it is a place of danger for wood elves. Coming across X, a mysterious stranger, the seeds of a foolish idea to reclaim her elven birthright are planted and then sealed in bloodshed. Skylei remains unaware, X has his own motivations for encouraging her to seek vengeance on the drow that occupy Sage.

Sage Forest Bell

Skylei moves with trepidation through the forest. Every booted step is carefully placed, every rustle of leaves in the wind and creature moving within the foliage met with a pause and a stare. There’s drow somewhere within this forest, Skylei knows that, and she knows equally well that with ears as pointed as hers they won’t stop to ask questions before they shoot her dead in sight. She’s as much a pariah as her full-blooded cousins and yet, and yet there’s something about this place that pulls Skylei back time and time again in spite of the dangers. In one hand there’s a strung bow, the other rests against the bark of one of the larger trees at the edges of the canopy. Dare she stop and sit a while in the homes of her ancestors? Skylei is yet to find her nerves and do so; she remains upright, ramrod straight and alert.

Xersom's presence was much for the flair of dramatics and theatrics in entrance, but rather an oddity considering the tension that was wrought in the area; a tension especially for Skylei as she moved with trepidation through the forest on the lookout for her dark-skinned cousins. It was an oddity because the man walked into the area with a certain confidence, or at least a lack of fear, upon boots well-worn and equally thick, faded robes as if some sort of hermit. To complete the pose, the ancient male used a walking stick to the cadence of his gait. But a flawless and faux face had intense green eyes that searched the area even as he walked without the sense of impending danger. It was upon those steps that brought him toward the clearing of the canopy, which made those steps wane, ebb, and finally cease. The walking stick was easily transferred to his other hand with a gentle grasp, "Dangerous place for your kind." His voice was naturally sinister but soothing; like a madman's lullaby.

Skylei nearly jumps behind a tree at the sound of a voice. It’s a voice that grates and then soothes. It doesn’t fill her with fear, but it leaves the hairs on her arms standing on edge as though anticipating something more. It’s that soothing edge that stops her in her step to conceal her body from sight and, instead, all that happens is that both hands rest on the bow. She attempts to do this in the least threatening way possible; she has no desire to fight, but she will not be defenceless and the male clearly knows her presence here is not welcomed. One loudly spoken word and she could be rumbled and she doesn’t know if he is friend or foe. She attempts to play down her vulnerability, “Dangerous place for all kinds of people, really.” Stepping away from the tree against which she had previous rested, Skylei ducks between two more, keeping Xersom ever in her line of sight. Those green eyes pierce her every time she gazes upon his face in a manner almost hypnotising.

Xersom's head turned easily to keep his intense green gaze upon the girl as she ducked between trees and generally kept on the move. He supposed it was a more advantageous move than anything; the woman being in motion would allow her easier to move into motion provided that she was attacked. But Sacrilus had no intention of attacking, so long as that bow remained facing downward. "Aye, I'd suppose several arrows are being aimed at the both of us right now." Slowly, again, gentle fingers transferred the entirety of his walking stick from one hand to its brother as he spoke in that sinister and soothing voice, and finally his gaze tears away from Skylei in order to look toward the line of trees to his east, sparsely dotted with younger ones as one moved closer toward the position of male and female. Abruptly, with the distinct 'twang' of strings released, X returned his eyes toward Skylei; those arrows stopped mid-flight around the two, six in all, just mere inches from their necks, heads, and ears.

Skylei opens her mouth to respond, but hears the twang of bow strings before words have a chance to leave her lips. As arrows fly, Skylei barely has a second to react. It’s not the most sensible of reactions, as her hand simply presses itself against the side of her neck in order to protect that vital artery. She is fortunate that Xersom is her company, for without him she would likely face an injury of the grievous nature. She cries out as they stop inches away from her head “Sven in the heavens!” Whether she invokes the names of the god in shock at the arrows or surprise at the stay in the projectiles flight, even Sky cannot be sure. Blood pulses wildly around her body, adrenaline floods her veins and, as she moves to press her back against a tree that should protect her from arrows from the same direction as the first six. Her head she turned on one side to look at the green eyed man “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” Curiosity prevails though and she doesn’t yet flee. Her hands are back on the bow, string is drawn and she is more prepared than she had been previously.

Xersom's eyes briefly narrowed at the invocation of the god's name as she spoke in startled decree, even as those arrows stop just before his own head and neck. It was perhaps in his bout of anger that followed at the name of one of the three heroes that fought his master, or perhaps it was a retaliation of the attack, that the hermit-disguised man with that all-too-perfect face turned toward the direction that the arrows hailed from. The hand free of his walking stick lifted palm facing upward in a slow force that seemed like it was almost pushing against something solid and unseen. The drow appeared from the trees as a result, all six of them and not in the manner that one might believe. They floated forward, with their own hands desperately clawing at their own necks as their eyes bulged from their lack of breath. It was as if some massive hands were strangling them, unseen even as their own hands pulled at their collars and their own throats to get it to stop. Their legs kicked violently around the air, and as the first of the six choked to death, the drow's feet twitched as it hung in the air. "But you are here," he spoke again, "Even if everything tells you that you should flee, no?"

Skylei doesn’t see Xersom's reaction to her words. Indeed, she only moves from within the trees when her dark-skinned cousins appear from within the trees. She steps forward, further into the clearing, away from the trees that offer protection and obscure her from sight. There is a sick fascination and perverse delight in her eyes as she watches the drow choke beneath the unseen force. She revels in their death, if only privately, but her eyes are the window to her true feelings. Skylei can only assume that it is Xersom’s doing but her eyes are fixated on the dying creatures and even as she speaks in response to his question she is blindly captivated, “I am as much of the forest as the trees and the beasts. If I leave, I will return. Maybe it will be in days, maybe in weeks, maybe in months.” She is so distracted by the disgusting show before her eyes that she cannot help but extrapolate, “It speaks to me. It is my birthright” (half-birthright). “I cannot resist it.”

Xersom turned in order to face Skylei as the drow behind him all finally finished choking to death and hung suspended in a neat row in the air. Those intense green eyes stared at that sick fascination and perverse delight if only shown through those eyes that were so intent upon the death of her enemies. It was with such practiced ease that the creature took the lives of those six drow, even as he stared in scrutiny of Skylei. Boots step in simple movements within the folds of that thick, worn traveler's robe like some sort of roaming madman, or exiled prophet, to cross the distance between himself and the half-elf. "Your birthright? Why do you resist it, then? Do you lack the power?" It wasn't meant to belittle her, but it was a curiosity; he didn't understand why she simply didn't take what was her own. Another drow abruptly is yanked from the trees without remorse, as if some unseen hand pulled it and whipped it across the clearing, to impale its head on an outstretched branch of a tree near the two. It didn't instantly kill the seventh drow, as shown as its body shuddered and twisted with the branch straight through its head in a bloody show. The moment that its soul left it could be seen upon the last exhale as the light from the drow's gaze extinguished, and it fell still, hung by the branch as the other six remain suspended in the air.

For once, Skylei does not take offence at the words spoken. “I am one. They are many. My blood does not run pure enough to bid the wood elves to my command.” Therein lies the crucial problem. What half-breed could ever hope to achieve such things? She is lucky that her name carries some little prestige, for that is the only reason she is even permitted to move within some circles of wood elven society. The breath catches in her throat as the seventh drow is impaled and blood flows freely. Is it pleasure that she feels in that moment? It’s certainly pleasure that flashes across her features. “So I will wait, bide my time, for one who can and then bind myself to their command. When the time is right, we will take back what is ours. Until then,” Skylei pauses for a beat, “I wait.” She would approach the singular corpse in a show of fascination. Her hand wouldn’t touch the hanging body, but the bark of the tree. So fitting, in her mind, that Sage itself had taken vengeance on its oppressors. Her hand is pulled away and blood, still warm, lingers on her fingertips. Skylei isn’t a creature of war or violence, but she craves the blood of those who drove her people from this place. Vengeance is the strongest desire; stronger than logic, reason and love. It consumes her in that moment.

Xersom's intense gaze remained upon those features of Skylei as she paused, as she spoke, as those feelings of pleasure and vengeance flashed across those half-elven contours and expressions. It was with such a scrutiny that he closed the distance between them and reached out with a hand; that hand, the one not gently grasping his gnarled walking stick, revealed itself to be scarred as it reached. It wasn't scarred from battle or an accident; that hand was scarred and covered with carvings of words in some forsaken and definitely unnatural language. But it was with that hand that he attempted grasp very gently the woman's hand and bring that warm-blood of crimson that lingered upon her fingertips toward the half-elf's mouth. "Perhaps the wood elves have forsaken it, if they have not tried to regain it themselves. I am but one, and they were seven. Now they are none. Perhaps it is time to hunt the hunters, and fashion yourself the monster in the night that they tell stories to their children to keep them in line."

Skylei is pulled from her hate-lust by the feeling of his hand on her own. She would allow his hand to guide hers to some extent, those she maintains her own autonomy as he does so. But it is with the words, spoken in such a hauntingly soothing tone that her mind leaves its logical senses behind. She believes him that this fallacy is possible, that she might have the chance to reclaim the thing she wants the most. Resistance couples with desire and swirls into an intoxicating emotion. She wants vengeance for her slaughtered. She wants the death of those who caused it. Her memories ring clear with the screaming of those forced to flee. In that moment she is overwhelmed by dark desires that never fetter her normal thoughts. And it is in that moment that she allows that blood on her fingertip to press against her lower lip leaving a red stain in its place. Her teeth bite down on that lower lip, forcing the taste of drow blood onto her palate.

Xersom felt that vengeful desire to reclaim the very thing she wished most radiate from the lithe and slender body of the half elf, and could virtually witness the memories that rang clear in her mind. But the ancient being had his own reasons for wanting the drow to fear something; his own memories of Emilia's nightmares as he wiped them clean while they happened, to simply allow her a peaceful rest. Her scars. Her fear. All borne from a drow hand. And it was a hand that Sacrilus would sever, if only to placate his own twisted desire for avengement against someone who wronged the farm girl, and by extension himself. "You don't need an army, you don't need the wood elves that turn their noses at you; it is your birthright! It is for what they've wronged. Make them fear you, one kill at a time." He leaned in, to bring his faux lips to her ear and murmur softly, "The forest needs someone to help it, after all."

Skylei echoes some of his words back to him, so convinced is she by that voice of terrifying reason. What a shame that Skylei doesn’t know exactly why Xersom desires that she do so. If she did, Skylei would likely cut off her nose to spite her face and support the drow occupation of Sage. Girl-hate runs deeper than racial tensions and birthright’s apparently. But she has no idea that the one woman she loathes beyond all measure in Xersom’s motivation. Perhaps she, foolishly, believes that he simply wants to help. She will come down off of this faux-high, she will understand that Xersom’s suggestions are fallacy and unachievable. But, in her most vulnerable moments she will remember the taste of drow blood on her lips and the desire that it incited within her. And for that reason, this idea won’t flee Skylei’s mind as quickly as it should. Seeds have been sown. Xersom’s words are the water. Perhaps, with enough encouragement something will grow.

Xersom, of course, knew nothing of the girl-hate nor that the one woman that Skylei loathed beyond all measure was his motivation; he had killed elves, man, drow, dwarves, and other races by the thousands in the past, but now it was simply the manipulation to get what he desired without drawing himself out of hiding. But the creature wasn't one to press on and smother the seeds that were sown; he took a step back in order to admire the sight that he had wrought, and such a sight was the half-elf standing before the impaled drow in revelation of his death and the joy of partaking in something that she could bring about. Fallacy? Unattainable? The former General of Arrecation didn't believe such; it was the matter of a believing in something beyond good and evil. "It is your birthright." He reminded her, as he turned away to begin his departure from the woman upon the aid of that old, gnarled walking stick. The suspended six drow corpses fell to the ground in one simultaneous smack of flesh meeting earth.

Skylei would just nod in agreement with his words as Xersom departs. Here she’ll lurk for a while. Then she’ll physically leave the destruction behind her. That said, it won’t leave her mind for weeks.