RP:Burnt Offering
Part of the Home Sweet Home Arc
Summary: Rikailin, on one of her many patrols of Sage Forest, comes across the vampiric drow Laezila, formerly of the Underdark. Laezila confesses that it was she who had burned this part of the forest, and after a few moments of tension, the two women find a few mutual threads of understanding. An alliance is tentatively suggested.
Razed Forest
Abruptly the forest shifts from green, brown, and silver to cinder, charcoal, and rust. The springy grass beneath your feet fades into a crunchy carpet of ash. At the center of the destruction you realize that not a single tree stands for a mile in any direction. What more, the hum of insects, twittering of birds, scurrying of rodents, and melody of magic has been silenced. Only the wind howls past you, changed from a forest breeze to a brazen gust. Gone is the serene glade, that testament to the resilience of nature. But watchers of the forest would recall that the glade was nature's salve to past destruction, and the forest can overcome ruin again and again. To your east, south, and west, lines of green in the distance hint at life beyond death, of leaves and birds, of light. To the north, the drow military camp, the blight in the forest responsible for this destruction, taunts any who would question the drow's right to rule.
A single dead tree, burned from the inside is here.
Rikailin is on one of her seemingly endless nighttime patrols of the forest. This particular patch of razed ground, however, always gives the battle-druid pause. It is a single incontestible blight on the land, proof that a usurper was once here, even if they are now little more than a bad memory. Every time the vampiric elf sees the scorched ground, smells the faint odor of smoke and char, her heart grows heavy and angry and guilty. It is a complex stew of emotions, to be sure, since Rikailin herself was part of the reason the drow were able to do these terrible things in the past; had she only been there, fought harder, perhaps all of this tragedy could have been averted. Instead, history was changed, and only recently has the battle-druid been permitted to return to her homeland. She stalks through the desolated woods, feet crunching on cinders, a tiny snake nestled on the back of her neck. Its vigilance is the only way the druid can see, since her sightless blue eyes have long been useless to her; instead, she has formed a link with her reptilian familiar to grant her its sensory perception. She is very used to seeing the world in different and interesting ways through the eyes of her companions, and it no longer fazes her; she does it virtually without thought or effort now. Her feet are heavy, her stride purposeful, her face set in an angry scowl. She is garbed in little more than vines and moss for the barest hint of modesty, and her hair is a clean but disordered tangle spilling in black chaos to the middle of her back. Here, in this open space, her height seems all the more noteworthy, her statuesque proportions perhaps offputting to an observer. She is a self-proclaimed guardian of this forested realm, and not best pleased.
Laezila is the trespasser, if Rikailin is the guardian; she is its anathema, its decay, its disease. It is not something that the drow is proud of. This is evident in the way that she is positioned -that is, kneeling before that single dead tree, head bowed and shoulders slumped in tragic sorrow. It is very easy to tell she is a drow, from the pale ebony of her skin to the stark, glittering white hue of her hair that skirts her slender shoulders, as the tiny woman remains still. That she is a vampire is more complex, but identifiable still; there is no heartbeat, no blood pumping through her veins, no exhale or inhale of her breath. The heavy, purposeful stride draws the former matrons attention, and causes her head to turn so that a strikingly vivid eye could peer over her shoulder and at the elf.
Rikailin stops dead, ears twitching at the sound of a scuffle in the direction of the single remaining tree in the area. The snake twitches its head back and forth, flicks its tongue. Rikailin's head turns, just as if she is actually seeing what is before her. A drow, kneeling by the tree, seemingly just as tense as she is. Rikailin is used to sensing the life signatures of living things, but this drow possesses none; she is either ensorcelled somehow, or vampiric. Another worry, then; even though the battle-druid is a vampire herself, through no choice of her own, Rikailin's own experience has taught her to mistrust most of those who drink blood. They may not all harbour evil intent, but most have, at the very least, taken up a mindset which lends itself to taking whatever is needed from whoever is weak enough to be mastered. Rikailin herself, sad to say, is just as guilty as anyone else in this regard. And so, with a mixture of unease, shame and rising anger, she trudges forward. The vines wrapped about her body twitch, much like serpents themselves. "I am going to give you one chance," she says, her voice carrying in the quiet. "One chance to tell me who you are, and why you are here. Satisfy me, and we talk. Displease me, and your bones will lie unmourned beneath the roots of this dead denizen of the forest."
Laezila turns her head back to dance her stare up along the length of the tree, taking in the contours both natural and charred, and the contrast of the two displayed by the deceased tree-turn-memorial. She is silent for several long moments, a tense period that threatens to push the patience of the druid that interrogates her. She knows nothing of Rikailin. Rikailin's reputation was earned on the surface before Laezila ever turned her eyes away from the Underdark, when the former matron's entire world consisted of the politics and infighting of the drow, with only the sporadic and few encounters with duergar or shadow-gnome, even rarer deep dragons. Thus, even the woman's reputation, exile and return, the young vampire is ignorant to. It is with a sad, melancholy and mournful tone that she speaks, a simple, yet complex answer all at once. "I am Laezila, formerly of House D'l'Sel D'issan. I am here to mourn what I have done."
Rikailin waits for the drow before her to speak. Moments spin out. Rikailin's muscles tense, and she readies herself for swift but brutal follow-through. Then Laezila speaks, and the battle-druid's jaw literally gapes. "What?" she asks. "You did this?" She gestures with one slender arm. "You burned this part of Sage?" There is both incredulity and anger in her tone now. On the one hand, Laezila appears to be telling the truth, and her willingness to do so must count for something, as does her reason for being here in the first place. On the other hand, Rikailin's ire has been roused, and her hands knot into pale-knuckled fists. The vines across her chest begin to undulate and unspool down her arms, sheathing them in rippling nets of green. "I am Rikailin. Perhaps it is a name you know?" She waits a beat, to see if any recognition will be forthcoming, then continues. "I fought to keep your kind out of this forest. I was driven out, despite my best efforts. I spent years - years! - in exile for my failure. And now I have returned." Now her voice drops to a deadly whisper. "And here you are. You are sorry, are you? You think you are sorry?" The battle-druid's eyes gleam with a mixture of amusement and rage. "We are quite alone here, Laezila. No one will hear a scream. No one will come for you." The vampire makes an effort to master her emotions, taking a wholly unnecessary breath and letting it out through clenched teeth. "But I grant you this. You did not attack. You are not doing further harm. Your regret seems genuine. You are foolish if you think any who knew the plight of this forest will take you at your word alone, but today, it is the difference between whether you live or die. You live."
Laezila slowly turns her head to look over her shoulder at Rikailin, once more, scrutinizing the angry woman with naught but a sad stare, "I do not know your name. Do you think you are being merciful?" Her head tilts lightly, eyes narrowing to more keenly pierce the distance between them, "Mercy would be to put my bones unmourned beneath the roots of this dead tree. Leave me, you've returned from your exile. Something I cannot do."
Rikailin is ready to turn and walk away when Laezila's words strike her...and strike her they do, hitting her like a punch in the stomach. She almost reels back a step. Exile? It is a punishment Rikailin knows all too much about. Before she realizes fully what she is doing, the battle-druid has moved forward to within touching distance of the drow. Then she kneels on the ashy ground, splaying both hands on the earth and bowing her head. "No one would jest about being cast out," she murmurs. "No one. If this is pain that you, too, know, then we have a thread in common. It is true that I have returned from my exile, but it is a return to a broken, dying home. It may not be home much longer unless I--" But she breaks off here, turning more fully toward the vampiric drow. "When I was driven out, I had no purpose left, and could not find one. It nearly drove me mad. I have lost friends and allies. I have lost my home, my station...almost everything that matters to me. And the only thing I have discovered is that setting yourself to a task is perhaps the only heal for this wound to the heart. Do something that fulfills you. If you cannot have what you want, then learn to want something you can have. I cannot bring back old days, but I can at least hope to make the forest better for those who would inhabit it after me. And you..." The battle-druid pauses, shaking her head; black hair curtains her face, and her little familiar fidgets restlessly at the nape of her neck. "If you lament the harm to which you brought your hands, then unmake it. Can you not do some good to balance the harm? If your own lands will no longer have you, can you not find some other means of living?" The elf's words are quiet, but resolved. "If your quarrel has anything to do with matron Gevurah, I can tell you this much. I, too, have had dealings with her. Did you know that Archdruid Liana was held captive in the Black Caves? Skylei and I rescued her, and Skylei tells me that you had some small part in her rescue. For that, I must thank you, for I never could have rescued Liana alone." A little shiver trails down the vampire's body. "Anyway, Laezila, there is a point to this. I want something, and so do you. Neither of us, obviously, can promise the other a thing, and it would be foolhardy to trust so soon. But this I will tell you. If you want to make good on your guilt, and are able in any way to help the forest of Sage which earlier you harmed, then I will do whatever I can to aid you. If Gevurah of House D'Artes is an impediment to you, I will pledge to help you remove her."
Laezila curls her upper lip in a physical response to the name that is given toward her, "Gevurah. Tiphareth I was able to work with. Gevurah, she wants more and more, and she will take it." The name Skylei causes her to cast her gaze elsewhere -she was the reason that Skylei had been in a coma for so long, but that she does not voice. Not when she had Rikailin not vowing to murder her. "Not only did she exile me, Gevurah convinced my people that I was a traitor, something that your kind helped her do." The last is said somewhat bitterly, but the edge in her voice quickly ebbs and dulls, "I know what ails your forest. But any magic I had that might have helped it has been stolen by Gevurah and her goddess."
Rikailin is silent for a moment, letting Laezila respond. There is always more to a story than any one person will tell, and she is tempted to ask, or even press, for details, but suspects this is not the time. That simple curl of Laezila's lip is enough for Rikailin to know how best to continue. "Knowledge is power. Someone who understands how to build a palace but is paralyzed can tell an able-bodied workman where to put his bricks. Someone who has been crippled by an injury can still have once been a battlemaster. Even your knowledge might be valuable. There are more entities than just myself in play; I am hardly the only person interested in the lifting of the curse from Sage, and even if you may be powerless to wield whatever magic you once possessed, your understanding may be enough." The druid folds one hand up beneath her chin, steepling her fingers as she thinks. "A thing that must be remembered: victors write history. You may have done bad things, but you surely have done at least one good thing as well. You did help Skylei escape, did you not? She has made a full recovery from whatever injuries she may once have suffered. There is a lesson here. The lesson is a simple one." Rikailin reaches out, intending to lay a hand on Laezila's shoulder. "Life is balance. Existence itself. Balance. There is harm, and there is good. And there is the redressing of the one with the other. Laezila, it is never too late. Don't give up."
Laezila lifts her gaze back toward Rikailin in silent scrutiny of the elven vampire, that vividly colored stare watching in distinct awareness of the other's proximity, danger, and the very concept that she is having explained to her. But then she's slinking back, away, and into the darkness, "I will.... see what I can do."