RP:Death Chubby

Part of the Saurian Onslaught Arc

Summary: Because the saurian blockade has disrupted major trade routes, Trist’oth is deprived of many staples and luxuries. The lower nobility is beginning to miss its imported luxuries and blames the hard times on House D’Artes and the rest of the Drow Council who have failed to stop the Razurath’s tyrannical plot. Lanlan visits Gevurah to hatch a plan on how to put those lower nobles in their place. They decide to capture a Razurath alive and enslave him in Trist’oth Arena. Any detractors shall be fed to the new Razurath slave!

Oh and Lanlan has a big ol’ crush on Gevurah and she maybe likes him too (you can tell by the way she kills a slave over biscuits and tea).

House D’Artes

Lanlan does his best to make sure Gevurah isn't at all embarrassed by saying, "All your previous invitations to me must've gotten lost in the post, or otherwise misplaced." Because surely there were many. "I blame it all on these...sauruses, or whatever they've decided to call themselves. Certainly they've eaten or enslaved all the best couriers." Lanlan was dressed very gentlemanly, and would've loved to look comfortable if he could. But he could not. He brought a small cup of tea almost to his lips, but found his tails under him were restricting his shoulders. Almost nonchalantly he put the cup on a table. "Have you devised any way of beating this latest nuisance?"

Gevurah scowls at Lanlan’s question, much as she had scowled at his presence. However their setting belies the pleasure she takes in his company. Instead of entertaining him in the throne room, as she would any other noble, she sees him in the D’Artes ‘family’ den where the D’Artes clan, back when it was numerous before her relatives began dropping off like flies, would sit and scheme over dark wine served by slaves. Those halcyon days are over, and in his slow and insistent way Lanlan has filled the void left by Gevurah’s dead kin. Drow are believed to be antisocial, but their society disproves that theory. Why build taverns? Why build arenas? Why build temples? Why build cities at all? Whatever pleasure Gevurah derives from Lanlan’s foppish nagging remains a mystery, perhaps even to Gevurah herself. “You lower houses,” she says without a hint of irony to the second most powerful person in Trist’oth, “do have some nerve, if little else worth note. As soon as there is trouble you turn to me, but in times of peace there isn’t a scoundrel among you who wouldn’t be tempted to stab me in the back.” She turns her back on Lanlan as she shouts for someone, anyone, to bring some treats.

Lanlan truly appreciated Gevurah's scowl, because by now he knew her. Even if she might appear displeased with him, he knew what she was truly annoyed with was her inconceivable (to her) fondness of him. He knew all about her disguises, and especially when one was being used for his benefit. If he bothered to have a thought about why drow might bother forming a society at all, it would probably be that there was no one more dangerous to a drow than another drow. And none better at plotting. Gevurah especially had a knack for uncovering another's weakness, and he winced. "Times of peace? You must be so much older than I am, First daughter," he says to remind her that even she is only at the top until he returns, "to recall a time of peace. But you don't do me justice. In fact, as I often do, I've come to...bail you out." Now with restrained jubilation, he raises the small cup, and leans forward into it until finally it reaches his lips. "I think we can solve the problem of the saures and of the whiny populace rather easily."

Gevurah rolls her eyes at the phrase ‘bail you out.’ She gestures at herself, lounging on a dais in leisurewear, which for her still includes a full length skirt, corset, and jewelry. She considers this get-up casual “leisure” because she isn’t wearing big jewels, a bustle nor crinoline. “Let me guess, you want to feed the whiners to the saurians,” she says as if this is the most outlandish, inane, pointless plan that even he, Lanlan, possessor of rainbow wax sealant, has ever devised.

Lanlan leaned back and nodded eagerly, "So you have considered how to beat them? Yes, that is exactly what we should do because the last thing anyone wants is to be eaten alive. Once they see it happen to their brethren, they'll want it even less." Lanlan truly didn't know why she feigned this air of indifference toward spectacle. "Do you remember Nymh? I do and I think so do many others." Poor Gevurah, another helpless victim to his relentless talent for flattery and guile.

Gevurah shakes her head as she pictures herself and Lanlan dragging some thorn in Gevurah’s side (aka a drow with hopes, dreams, family) through the underdark to the blockade on the otherside of Craughmoyle just to throw said thorn (aka a drow with hopes, dreams, family) at a ruthlessly clever dinosaur. Who would be there to watch that? “What spectacle could be had at--” Her eyes widen as she realizes how to turn Lanlan’s dumb idea into *her* brilliant idea! “I know what we must do! You and I need to capture a saurian alive, enslave it, and put it up for sport in the arena. We will hold public feedings! Those who whine will find themselves confronted with this beast right here in the city, in a new bloodsport for all the see! Drow v. lizard. Those who would rather spectate and not participate would do well to keep their silence.”

Lanlan was so proud of his queen. With so little of his guidance she could devise such acceptable schemes. "Brava! If you'd only spent as much time fighting your feelings for me as you did truly listening to what I have to say." He touched his gloved hands together in a barely audible clap just for her sake. "Now if I remember correctly," he said without directly alluding to his years on the surface, "reptiles cannot stand to be cold. Quite literally they find that all they can do is lie down and wait for the summer heat to return. So we'll employ that knowledge into some kind of snare, and I think naturally they'd be drawn to you for being quite so magical as you are. You could lead them into the trap." Obviously there was no doubt in his mind that he was waaaaaaaay more magical. But he's never the bait.

Gevurah laughs condescendingly as Lanlan tries to worm his way out of being bait. “Why would I serve as bait when I have magical underlings who I can use as a lure? House D'l'Sel D'issan must have fallen on hard times if you lack the resources to spare a mage or two. Speaking of disposable curr…” She turns away from Lanlan again to shout down a corridor, “WHERE ARE MY BISCUITS?!” Turning back to Lanlan, she continues as if she didn’t just pause to throw a petit tantrum. “I entrust you to think of the snare, or must I do everything?” A slave scampers into the den holding a thin obsidian plate of dark chocolate and fig biscuits. Both are imported rarities and a powerful flex in times of a trade blockade. Gevurah gestures for the servant to set the plate down on the table between herself and Lanlan. The slave bows several times as he obliges his mistress. When he turns to scamper away Gevurah catches him by the forehead. Her black-painted nails dig into his balding scalp. Her eyes close so that she may focus on her bond with her God, an invisible thread felt but not seen from which she can summon His most terrible power. The slave begins to squirm and Gevurah says simply “Hold.” The writhing body goes stiff. After a few seconds of silence she murmurs a lengthy, nocuous incantation for a full minute. A shadow quickens around her hand then seeps into the slave through his nose, his gaping mouth, his ears. His ebon skin ashens and dessicates under her spell. Gevurah’s nails extend into claws that hook into the slave’s scalp and keep it affixed in her grip as the body goes limp. Her eyes flutter open as if from a deep sleep. She blinks away a gray film to reveal the red glow of her eyes. She pushes the tray of biscuits towards Lanlan. Over the course of the next five minutes the slave’s body withers and wilts like a black rose in winter, a black cat trapped in a crawl space, a black snake smoke and embalmed by a witch. “Try the biscuits, they’re to die for.”

Lanlan trembles while he watches her work. Her countenance so fierce, her posture so confident, her power so vigorous. "I...should. The snare..?" He hears what she says but by the time her spell's finished he finds it impossible to remember what she could possibly be talking about. As long as her eyes are closed his are open, dry to the point that a single tear buds under his eye and rolls halfway down his cheek. But soon the most exciting part of her efforts are over, and he has to feign some sort of attention. "Of course," he says as he mindlessly chops the biscuit to pieces in his mouth. Maybe it was to die for. Maybe it was baked cow pie. Since he must, he arduously fights back his feelings and balances one leg on the other's knee. "Of course you shouldn't serve as bait it isn't worth the risk," he says with brainless sincerity, "but I was rather hoping to keep my house surprised as well. I might have a candidate in mind for a good showing." Maybe after the poor mangled corpse is dry and ragged, he'll look at Gevurah to see if he's given anything away.

Gevurah does her best to suppress a smirk as she notes with satisfaction the effect she’s had on Lanlan. Ah to be appreciated for her talents, not merely feared. Don’t get her wrong. It is wonderful to be feared, but those who cower are so preoccupied pleasing her that they fail to take pleasure in her power. Get you a man who can do both. At the height of his arousal she dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Very well. Get everything in order and meet me here in two days.” She rises and leaves, without bothering to say goodbye, through the back door that connects with the private family residence. Lanlan can see himself out.