RP:Clash of the Titans

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: In order to buy Laezila time, Hildegarde meets with Gevurah under the pretense that she will give up Laezila to the First Daughter. Lyros is disguised as Laezila, and Gevurah quickly sniffs out the lie. The three engage in battle, and things are looking grim for Gevurah until her soldiers arrive to tell her that Trist'oth is in revolt. Gevurah leaves to deal with the politics of home just as The Eyrie arrive.

Pass Through Xalious

Hildegarde had grasped her hand to forearm of the maleficar, the gesture reciprocated by him before she took her leave from Frostmaw with the former Matron in her company. They were meeting Gevurah of House D’Artes here: a woman of immense power, the enemy, the opposing force. She was a rival queen on this chessboard. Choosing Xalious as neutral territory was a wise move, but it felt personal. Xalious was, after all, her home. It was where she had been born and raised, she knew the people here; the young and the old. She knew and loved them all, so to meet here of all places… well, it only served to remind her of what Gevurah might do to it should she win this war. The drowess might well lay waste to the town just out of spite. The Steward walked along the road with the former Matron, adorned in her mithril armour: gauntlets, greaves, breastplate, gorget, boots, boiled leather and chainmail. She looked ready for battle. The Silver kept her hand upon “Laezila’s” arm, as if to keep her from bolting off. Though none could tell the former Matron was afraid, that mask of hers keeping her true face hidden. Hildegarde came to a halt with the drowess in one hand and her halberd in the other, the butt of the weapon ‘thumping’ as it came to rest upon the road: “Now we wait.”

Lyros ' free hand is crossed over his body to lay itself atop the covered knuckles of the Silver who holds his arm and keeps him steady on his path through the mountains. From the outside the gesture appears soft and demure, the touch of a woman seeking comfort and reassurance from her beloved friend, while the reality of the mage's bone-crushing grip is hidden beneath his glamour. For all intents and purposes, this is Laezila walking at Hildegarde's side, the ex-matron's face concealed beneath her trademark mask and her small, lithe frame garbed in a set of dark leather armour that is both form-fitting and elegant, while still providing adequate protection. The glamour disguises all that Lyros has willed it to, with effort: his true height and shape, his more masculine gait, and that subtle aura of dark magic that lingers over his shoulders at all times— these are all obscured from view under the veil of illusionary magic. So too is the steady flow of blood that drips down his arm and saturates his own armour, the fuel for this sorcery oozing openly from a wound on the maleficar's palm, though its scent has also been masked. "Not long, I hope," the apparent ex-matron answers when the pair come to a pause, his eyes throwing furtive glances at their surroundings, studying every suspicious boulder or outcropping that could hide an enemy behind it. There is annoyance in his voice, which replicates Laezila's softer tones all the same - Lyros' initial reluctant agreement to this little plot has turned into a seething anger that bubbles close to the surface, even now. This is not the kind of mission he expected to see himself on and it is something of a blow to his pride, but he can take some solace in the fact that at least Riselet is safe from harm. He is not certain Gevurah will be so stupid as to fall for these tricks, though it is a little late for that. All he can do now is play his part, literally, and hope his hold on this awkward glamour does not slip.

Gevurah, like a true queen, moves freely and late in the game, after the pawns, bishops, and knights have laid siege to the enemy and wrought a path for her to render her wrath. Recently the drow — or more honestly put, House D’Artes — have suffered a series of calamitous losses, but First Daughter Gevurah arrives with an entourage and pageantry that suggests those rumors that House D’Artes is unconquerable may well be fact. Scouts scope the mountain pass first, and finding no hidden assassins signal for Gevurah’s tardy advance. Her entourage consists of one mage and four rogues positioned strategically to the left, right, and flank of their charge. Unlike former Matron Laezila, Gevurah does not dress to provoke a carnal impulse, but instead to impress upon others her power and wealth— lest they foolishly forget. Her full-length black and burgundy dress lifts in the back over a bustle to lend her the appearance of a drider. The bodice extends high enough to cover her cleavage, but expose her collar where the insignia of House D’Artes shields the hollow of her throat. The High Priestess murmurs a prayer to Vakmatharas and asks him to grant her sight of deceit and the apparent Matron ignites like a pale blue flame before Gevurah’s crimson eyes. The spell doesn’t let her see the illusion’s true nature, Lyros’s identity remains obscured, but she can detect that illusory magic is afoot. She waves a hand towards ‘Laezila’ as she addresses the Steward. “You greet me with an insult.”

Hildegarde didn’t mind the bone-crushing grip of Lyros. In fact, she probably deserved worse than that grip. She had put him into an awful position and how could he forgive her that? If they made it out alive – and that was a big if – she would have to do an awful lot of making up. “Gevurah of House D’Artes,” she said in reply to her words, offering a most polite dip of her head. “It is an honour to see you in the flesh,” she said, as if she hadn’t just been told she had insulted the First Daughter of the most prestigious House of the Underdark. “If I were to give you the real Laezila, I imagine you would take her graciously and sweetly bid your men to cut my throat as you and her walked off into the sunset. Better to make sure Laezila stays far away from your grasp,” she explained, her hand having shifted from the arm of the fake Laezila to the back. “I see you have brought a retainer,” she said with a little nod in the direction of Gevurah’s entourage. The knight stood only with Lyros. Though she smiled – or more accurately grimaced - at the First Daughter, she breathed a few words through her clenched teeth to her companion.

Lyros may in fact be wearing a corset himself, given he seems to be finding it quite difficult to breathe. He holds what little air he draws for much longer than he should before exhaling shakily through his teeth, the sound a soft hiss, a whisper of a breeze through cracks in floorboards. A million regrets flit through and cloud his mind like moths, and the drow wishes he'd suggested another plan— one with more hope of success as anything would be preferable over the slim odds they hold here and now. His first glimpse of a D'Artes scout is a herald of things to come and Lyros' back stiffens, unconsciously mimicking his facade's perfectly upright posture and high-held head, faceless mask staring resolutely ahead along the road as she awaits Gevurah's arrival. And so she comes, and most certainly not alone - behind his magical wall and Laezila's featureless face, the maleficar grimaces and suppresses a groan. "Gevurah. Afraid to come alone, I see," Hildegarde's companion greets the First Daughter after the Silver, in a voice that is synthetic and eerily tuned to the ex-matron's familiar tones, the words laced with poison and knives. The illusion has been seen through but Lyros is reasonably certain his identity remains obscured, and Hildegarde's presence by his side allows him to speak with a confidence the drow normally lacks. He tilts his head slightly closer to his companion to listen to those words, so soft they are almost lost. Were his face not hidden from view, he would be glaring at her right now.

Gevurah ignores ‘Laezila’s’ second insult of the day. The priestess is not so easily baited, and besides, Hildegarde is talking. Lackeys need not apply themselves to this conversation between luminaries. However, Gevurah didn’t come to gab for too long with Frostmaw’s brightest star. She waves a hand dismissively at Hildegarde’s explanation — not interested — and corrects, “I would cut you -both- down, but I’ll settle for just you.” Her dismissive wave morphs seamlessly into a signal and reveals just why the strategic general of the drow army chose this location. From behind Hildegarde and Lyros, the two drow scouts set off a series of exploding stones using a magical device inspired by Emrith’s and mimicked by the drow for their own nefarious ends. Preying on the silver dragon’s weakness, the detonating pebbles set off an explosion of fire and deafening sound. Boulders roar and crack as they tear free from the mountainous ridges that flank the dwarven pass. Carriage-sized stones collide in a heap that blocks both a retreat to Frostmaw, or an army’s advance to reinforce Hildegarde and Lyros. (Though the pile, while large, can be scaled with some effort.) Gevurah wastes no time in grabbing at the air in front of her with both hands and pulling an unseen force towards her. The fire from the explosions grows into a fan half the width of the pass. The inferno charges at Hildegarde and Lyros from behind at the behest of Gevurah’s manipulation. The D’Artes mage focuses on Lyros and casts a spell of silence that beams at him in a widening cone. If the cone touches the apparent illusionist, the mage would be unable to intone spells with his voice. And finally, the rogues shoot poisoned bolts and arrows at the pair. The plan, while simple in design, is meant to overwhelm with speed and force: shock and awe. Gevurah hopes that with one or two strikes the problem of Hildegarde will end here.

Hildegarde had every intent of throwing Lyros away from the combat and out of the danger, but that plan has been shot to ribbons. As soon as she hears the beginning of that explosion, that deafening, roaring explosion, she drags Lyros to her chest and envelopes him in a bear hug. The overwhelming ‘whoosh’ of fire and force from the explosion and directed magic cast by Gevurah sends the Steward to the ground, the tiny Lyros covered completely by the brawny knight. ‘Thunk thunk’ go the bolts and the arrows, some sticking out of the ground, some sticking into Hildegarde’s mithril armour. Her world is spinning; her ears are ringing like a hunchback in a bell-tower; everything tells her that there is no shame to die in combat. But there is that little voice that urges her to get up. Was that a little rock that warbled that? Did the stones push against her or was that the pain that coursed over her body; the flames that had heated her armour and singed her hair? Even her coat was still aflame. Kirien’s coat. With a groan, the knight awkwardly rises up: her hands digging into Lyros’ shirt and tossing him back to where the explosives had once been, to throw him well out of Gevurah’s path. The Steward looks like a rather large and rather irritated hedgehog with those bolts and arrows poking out of her armour; wedged into the mithril; stuck in chainmail. The knight stared at Gevurah for what felt like a long moment – though in reality, it was only a brief look – as she grasped the opening of her flaming cloak twirled in the fashion of a wizard about to make his glamorous assistant disappear. And so the glamorous assistant and wizard disappeared, replaced by a shining hulking titan; a shadow over the world if she flew too high. “Come forth and die,” the voice like thunder commanded, before a ‘whoosh’ of wind enveloped the road and iced over the path and whatever was foolish enough to not avoid the blast. The dragon would pay for Laezila and Emrith’s time, pay for Bareneth and the elves time with her blood.

Lyros had considered running, for a moment, but he is given no time to even attempt to turn tail and flee. Without warning Hildegarde drags him closer and envelopes him in her arms, shielding the drow with her own body. Ever the guardian, saving him as always whether he deserves to be saved or not; and with the pass crashing down behind them in a deafening roar of cascading rock and broken stone, perhaps it is a good thing he did not run. When the pair are knocked down and the Silver's crushes his body beneath her bulk, the maleficar's hold on his glamour finally fails and Laezila's figure flickers into nothingness, revealing the male drow concealed beneath. He is, indeed, wearing a corset and stiletto boots (this is all Hildegarde's fault). Head ringing from the blast and breathing uneven, he shakes his head and hisses to the knight, "We were fools to come alone; you think she would?!" To his words there comes no reply, save Hildegarde's grip on him tightening just before she practically flings the mage aside, away from the enemy - in doing so, he narrowly avoids Gevurah's mage’s silencing spell. Crashing into the dirt only to leap instantly to his feet, body twisting as he rights himself to dodge a few stray arrows, Lyros rips something off his wrist with a growl. Flinging what looks to be a jeweled, metal bangle in the First Daughter's vague direction – or more correctly, to the centre of this confrontation – the mage shouts a blatantly attention-drawing, "Hey!" while a small bolt of lightning lances from his injured hand in a sizzling arc, a shooting star of deadly brilliance. When it connects with the bangle in mid-air, the result is a swiftly-expanding orb of static electricity as it gathers around the metal before exploding when the object is overloaded with power. The result is a burst of raw energy and, most importantly, a blinding flash of light which Lyros intends to surprise the surface newcomers with. As soon as the bangle and lightning leave his hand, his arms are moving to draw out his retaliating spells, each gesture linked to a syllable of his malignant incantations. Words that creep and crawl over the skin give short warning before the maleficar jerks his arms forward as if to pull on something behind him. A muted cry follows the motion - blood is literally ripped from the limbs of those two scouts, or perhaps drawn out by the lacerating strike of an arcane whip. Lyros' style lacks Gevurah's overall flair but there is an underlying foreboding in his magic, which is meant to wear the enemy down over time, only to deliver a fatal blow when they are weak and vulnerable.

Gevurah drops to a knee as Hildegarde shifts form. In one fluid motion she unclasps her peculiarly enchanted piwafwi from her shoulders and swings it over her head with the flair of a bullfighter. As the fabric unfurls like a ruffled disc its woven threads harden like a black parasol made of steel just the perfect size for shielding Gevurah from the silver’s icy blast. She struggles against the force of the blast, but leaning on a hip and bracing the steel piwafwi with both her forearms, the priestess manages to hold out as the blast arcs away from her towards two less-gainfully enchanted soldiers. They freeze to death before the ice penetrates their skin and shatters them into thousands of pieces like an icicle. With precious few seconds to spare as the behemoth of a dragon circles back around, Gevurah deftly uses what’s at hand: the disc-shaped, steel-hardened piwafwi and her satchel of endless reagents from which she procures a petrified bat wing and, her personal favorite, the versatile iron dust. With the batwing clutched between her right hand’s fingers, she spins the metal disc against her left hand which is coated in the iron dust. When the edge of the disc leaves her hand it is sharp enough to cut through stone cleanly. Its spinning gathers momentum with supernatural speed, so that by the time the dragon circles back around it is ready for Gevurah to release towards the silver’s long neck like a gleaming circular saw flying through the air for a very close shave. So long as Gevurah concentrates on the disc, she’ll be able to command it back towards her like a boomerang. As for Lyros’s explosion of raw energy, the drow mage is quick to absorb the raw power in his staff and transmute it into a chain link electric whip that flies back out towards Lyros in a serpentine pattern, navigating the maleficar’s movements in search of an opening to chain him down. The two scouts are taken out of the battle for now, bleeding profusely somewhere unseen along the mountain ridge. The remaining two rogues advance to engage the mage in melee combat. They draw twin daggers and move in quickly from Lyros’s 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock. Their poisoned daggers seek his throat, belly, and inner thighs.

Hildegarde doesn’t doubt for a minute that Lyros can handle himself, but she had sworn him a vow just as he had sworn a vow to her. She would honour that vow by turning her attention to those rogues who advanced towards him, sweeping down to grasp one in her powerful talons and toss him into the other: accepting that circular like saw to spare her loyal man what pain might await him. Yet by swooping in to defend Lyros, the saw has struck her side rather than her serpentine neck; causing the beast to give a low groan, that kind of groan of pain that only the big and deadly animals can make. It might elicit sympathy in some, but most definitely not from Gevurah. Blood dribbles from her silver scaled hide, drip-dropping onto the frozen road. Lyros would have a field day to be sure. The Silver’s serpentine neck curled to look upon Gevurah, frost pluming from her scaly nostrils as she gazed upon the First Daughter. Her giant maw opened and unleashed a mighty roar, a roar that echoed throughout Xalious and Kelay, perhaps even into the reaches of Frostmaw. The Silver lurched forward, jaw snapping in the effort to just eat the Queenly drow right up! But the sky was peppered with black spots that were fast approaching; riders of the Eyrie coming from Frostmaw. Hildegarde and Lyros were not alone. The knight simply did not wish to use all her assets at once. The Eyrie members descend from the sky, some spitting flames, frost and acid down onto the scene; some of the larger creatures even swooping to attempt to grasp whatever drow might foolishly run into their path. None are as big as Hildegarde, though.

Lyros spares a concerned glance for Hildegarde and spits a curse when she intercepts his assailants, taking a deep blow in return for her actions. Blood is shed, blood spilled for him, and while he is absolutely -furious- that the Silver would throw herself in harm's way for him, a lowly knight, he is not about to let that sacrifice go to waste. With the scouts momentarily out of play, the drow's attentions are quickly recaptured by the lightning-fast counterattack from Gevurah's magical bodyguard. Grimacing, he barks something in a guttural, ruinous tongue and the dragon's blood is drawn to his side in a gruesome display of viscera, thick and syrupy liquid crawling and bubbling over the ground to the maleficar. With it, he forms something of a makeshift shield, curved at just the right angle to intercept the whip that comes lashing his way with binding intent. It crashes against the semi-hardened wall and sends spots of red flying everywhere, the sticky blood-wall buckling before rebounding like rubber and deflecting the energy, which slams into the far side of the pass, slicing through the rock like a knife through butter. Lyros is given no time to catch his breath, however - rather, it is knocked out of him when one of those daggers slides home, one of D'Artes' rogues having clambered back to his feet to attack the maleficar from behind. He stumbles forward, a dagger embedded in his side, drawn out before he can attempt to turn it against his enemy. Falling to one knee as though defeated, the drow deftly reaches down to snap off one of those damnable stiletto heels, rising with a growl as he brings his arm up to drive the pointed tip straight into the underside of the rogue's chin. As that one falls with a gurgle, Lyros summons the blood gushing from his own wound with a snap of the wrist while lurching away from his companion. He advances on the injured knight, his blade slashing for Lyros' back and tracing out a deep cut across his shoulder blades, only for the maleficar to turn, mid-fall, thrusting his injured hand out to unleash a powerful blast of dark energy and blood at close range. The two go down in unison, one on his back with a pained grunt, the other to his knees, wide and dead-eyed, a gaping hole in his stomach.

Lyros calls weakly from the ground, blood on his lips, "Hilde..."

Gevurah recalls the piwafwi-cum-circ saw as Hildegarde recoils from the pain and roars for reinforcements. Vakmatharas damn The Eyrie! But Gevurah doesn’t have time to erect a barrier for the airborne invaders. A dragon’s mouth is chomping in her direction! The boomeranged steel disc arrives just in the nick of time to give Hildegarde something to chew on (or break a tooth on). The drow noble pushes quickly backwards, levitating to put frictionless distance between herself and the dragon. As she backslides towards Sage she’s already using the bat wing in her hand for a follow up spell. Darkness gathers like a storm around her. Her white hair whips from a gust not felt by any but her, but this accretion of power is cut short by the arrival of a cavalry behind her. Three D’Artes soldiers arrive on lizard back, shouting in their native tongue that the city is in revolt! Matron Laezila’s name can be discerned among the harsh consonants and guttural vowels of the drow language. The dark storm clears as quickly as it arrived. Bending down, she clips the bat wing against the hem of her full skirt and murmurs a quick spell as she lifts and wraps the skirt around herself like a bat. Normally she would use a piwafwi, but the dragon is using it as a toothpick at the moment. It isn’t a very dignified exit, but it is effective nonetheless. She blinks out of sight just as an acid bomb descends upon her head from a Eyrie rider above. Of her entourage, only the mage survives. He teleports some safe distance away then drags himself back to the underdark. The rest are dead or will die soon.

Hildegarde’s gaping and deadly maw is full of blood, but it isn’t drow flesh or drow blood. Gevurah has disappeared with some foul magic, leaving the soldiers behind who had come to tell her whatever urgent news they had to deliver. The knight didn’t understand a word of it, truth be told. But with Gevurah gone, she is left only with those soldiers to deal with and she dispatches with them swiftly: talons swiping across them to rake their bellies open, letting their innards fall onto the ice coated road and stick there. Steam rose from the ground as their hot innards made contact, sticking against the ice awkwardly. The Silver turned, though, at the soft whisper of her name and spotted her loyal knight calling weakly for her. With lumbering steps, the dragon approaches him and scoops him up – with surprising gentleness – into her taloned hand and takes flight without a further word or death. She must get Lyros to safety. She had bought Laezila and Emrith all the time she could. Now they must do their part.