RP:Drink of the Soul

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Despite some initial tension, Laezila and Josleen work together to brew a potion using umbrastone to hopefully wake Skylei from her coma. In the process, they find some common ground, but friendship and forgiveness still evades them.

Frostmaw Fort

Annexed to the fort’s medical ward is a small laboratory where shamans brew potions, ferment salves, and distill medicine to be used on the clinic’s patients. Josleen’s not much of an alchemist and thus it is with great care and frequent error that she tries to mix a juice intended to save her friend’s soul. Her struggle is not helped by the design of the lab, scaled to the height of giants. She stands on a large foot stool, lips working against each other nervously, as she flips between two pages in a tome. Beside the tome is a beaker partway filled with dishwater-colored fluid, and beside that a small dish of reagents, mostly minerals, pollens, and leaves.

Laezila knew what she was doing, and knew Hildegarde wouldn't exactly approve. But in this particular case, the petitely-shaped drow was convinced that she was doing the right thing. Clad in a more revealing dress less suited for the cold of Frostmaw, but rather more suited to the expectations one think of her attire in Trist'Oth, the drow's diminutive form was hugged by the contours of a black sheath-cut, knee-length, open-backed dress with a natural waistline and an asymmetrical hem that tailed down behind her and was lined with white wolf-fur -the only piece more appropriate for the climate. It was obvious that, were she to leave the Fort, she'd need to wear something warmer, but she found little reason to with the Josleen-inspired lockdown that she was under. But this, this had less to do with the gossipy woman and far more to do with the coma'd friend. Heels resonated and echoed her approach as the ex-matron cut a determined line toward the healer, her voice sharp, "I've made it before."

Josleen stiffens when she recognizes Laezila’s voice. She glares over her shoulder, but her hatred gives way to critical disdain as she takes in Laezila’s sexy get-up. The woman sizes up the drow. “Servicing the men?” The bard immediately regrets her quick tongue. If Laezila is being true, then perhaps Josleen could afford to be kinder. She’s too much of a novice at alchemy to pull this off alone. Normally she’d turn to Ansel for help here, but, well, that’s another drama in Josleen’s heart-wrenching story. “What am I making them?” The active ingredient is umbrastone, nearly impossible to find in shops or in the wild and thus it is curious how Josleen got her hands on it. It is said to tether a lost soul back to a body. Josleen believes the reason Skylei won’t want is because her soul can’t find its way back.

Laezila recoiled only briefly with the harsh quickness of Josleen's tongue, the only betrayal of the brief wound by the expression that crossed her face and the hitch in her step; such things were easier to brush aside when she was hidden behind the white ivory of her faceless mask. No words could penetrate that veiling piece of attire, but the woman with the claw-mark scar that ran from her forehead down to the corner of her opposite jawline across her face was absent it, and in such nakedness the wound could be seen. Suppressed, however, because this was more important. The drow ex-matron knew in heart that this was the right thing to do. "Drital d'l'Quortek," the petite woman with glittering, snow-white hair shot back, "Or, in your language, 'Drink of the Soul'." Her steps resumed in their melancholy cadence of heels against the floor as she moved toward the table and the woman; if Josleen needed the stool, so too did the drow easily. "House D'Artes doesn't just attack your body; they mess with your soul, and on more than one instance I have had to make this remedy to return the souls of my own to their bodies. But I had resources at my disposal that you do not; is that truly umbrastone?"

Josleen leans away from Laezila as she approaches, but pays close attention to everything the former matron has to say, every word of it true. “Yes,” she replies apprehensively as she slides the umbrastone dust closer to her body. A rare and expensive prize for thieving hands. Josleen believes all drow to be natural born thieves, killers, torturers, etc. The bard eyes Laezila warily, which is an improvement over each of their meetings prior to this one. It’s been weeks since the fort was attacked, and Laezila’s presence has not begotten the City of War more trouble. Time has been on the drow’s side. “Why should I trust you?” Before Laezila can answer, Josleen cuts her off and says with a little venom, “You know, there’s something I’ve been holding back. You’ve said to me that if you had known who Skylei was, you never would have abducted her.” The bard’s eyes narrow critically. She waits to see if Laezila understands why this excuse bothers the nurse, but explains herself whether or not the drow gets it. “That’s the difference between your lot and mine. It makes no difference who someone is. Rank, status, connections certainly help my kind stay safe, but a person who lacks all of those is no more deserving of the brutality your kind — and you — inflicted on my Skylei. You’re just as guilty, and you say you’re sorry, but you don’t understand the extent of your wrong.”

Before Laezila could answer that question of trust, Josleen's venomous words cut her off with the confession that she's been holding something back, murmuring quietly, "Could've fooled me," but hopefully with enough lack of volume that Josleen didn't quite catch it. When the bard began to explain, the drow nearly flinched amidst her scarred face, which caused her small nose to scrunch, but the tirade continued uninterrupted and without shots fired back. "Why does it matter whether I say I'm innocent or guilty? It doesn't if I am sorry or not; your forgiveness will not come despite my regret and sorrow for my deeds. It does not matter to you that I have been punished; I have no more home, no more family, no more station, no more freedom, and forever will the drow that did that to Skylei send their people after me until I am dead. I am surrounded by those I have wronged and threatened, and despite what I do, I still have to fight for myself after the war -in trial, and against my own kind." Her features took on a sorrowful expression, though her fear was still present, as her hands covered her abdomen as if to protect it from Emrith's threats. "I do not offer this aid, I do not offer making that Drink of the Souls for -you- or -your- forgiveness. It is my selfish hope that it might help sway her mind to forgiveness, but -you-" and her eyes flashed from fearful to dangerous in a moment's time, glinting like a cornered beast, "are willing to risk her life so that I am punished, and not even by your own cowardly hand. You are just as drow as me. I am doing this for my own conscience. I will do it with a dagger to my throat, if I must."

Josleen 's lips work as if to respond to each of Laezila's statements, but the drow keeps talking and doesn't give the bard an opening. It will come as a surprise to no one that Josleen lacks empathy for Laezila throughout, but she does accept at long last that Laezila honesty wants to brew the Drink of the Soul. "No one is holding a dagger to your throat," she growls. "That is the way of the drow, not our way." She steps off the stool and waves at it for Laezila to climb atop. The nurse explains what she has done so far and how much umbrastone dust is left. "If this isn't prepared correctly, I don't know that I can get the umbrastone again."

Laezila didn't give an opening for Josleen to respond to each of her referenced subjects in succession on purpose, in order to keep the sharp and, frankly, maliicous tongue of the other woman to cut into her; it was no surprise that the half-elf's friend growled her retort and felt nothing for the 'plight' of the teenage'd ex-matron, who began to climb atop the stool. "The way of the drow is old and cruel," the paling ebony-skinned woman offered as she gracefully ascended the stool without revealing too much or too private of her body in that dress, which prolonged the action but was more appropriate, "You don't have to tell me how the surfacers' way is better." Then she stood, and peered at the concoction almost attempted by Josleen, "It will be, or you can kill me yourself. I know you don't believe me, but she-" Skylei, as Josleen warned her ferociously never to speak the name, "is the source of much guilt, and I wish I could take it all back." The various ingredients were sized up, measured by eye in reference to how often this had to be made -a testament to her political power in the Underdark by the amount of umbrastone required and the difficulty of procuring it. It was a gathering resource that she'd never have again. She couldn't mess this up. "You're missing something; something breakable that'd she'd recognize as a sign to follow. These potions only work if the soul is willing to follow the trail to their body, and if they don't trust the trail then they won't follow. Do you have something of hers or yours that she'd recognize, that we can break a piece off of?" Her gaze shot over her shoulder at Josleen, "The more important, the better."

Josleen watches closely as Laezila looks through and touches all the things vital to the return of her friend. If she stops for a moment to reflect on the lunacy of this moment, of this trust necessitated by lack of other options, she'd back out and find a different way, a Plan B. But Josleen doesn't stop too reflect; she's too focused on sticking to Plan A: Drink of the Soul. "If you brew this right and she comes back, then I'll take my cue from her as to whether or not to forgive you." Josleen's over estimating herself here. The bard's heart has calcified in hate against Laezila, and no amount of softness on Skylei's part would change that. However, she also doesn't believe that Skylei will forgive, because usually the ranger is even more hot-tempered and stubborn than the bard, if you can believe it. At Laezila's request, she pauses thoughtfully. "Wait here," she says. She takes the umbrastone dust with her, not trusting Laezila with it in her absence. What if the drow steals it? Drow gonna drow. A few minutes later she returns with the umbrastone and a book on herbology written by Kyl'oriel the Studied. "Here, this should do the trick. This book is what inspired Skylei to become a naturalist. After we met, I had her copy signed by the author, Kyl'oriel, my father." The book is a marriage between two of Skylei's passions: nature and family. Josleen rips out the signed title page and hands it to Laezila. "He can always sign it again," she says.

The drow would've preferred to be able to begin to introduce the umbrastone to the reagents that she was already mixing into a fine powder with the work of a mortar and pestle while a bubbling vial of boiling-hot water was suspended by wiring over a single candle-flame, but didn't protest or hinder the daughter of Kyl'oriel the Studied when she held on to the ingredient for safekeeping from nefarious drow 'habits'. Needless to say, the name and book meant nothing to the ex-matron, whose libraries consisted mostly of bestiaries and nearly entirely authored by drow hands, so there wasn't much more than a glance toward Josleen in response to her words and offered item -she had expected something a little more... climactic. But such sentimental value would work perfectly, and immediately the petite young drow crushed the paper in her hand before shoving it into the boiling water-vial via pushing it through the narrowed hole and tube at the top with her thin index finger. "Good, umbra?" Was all the scar-faced woman said, as her hand stuck out to accept the item expectantly. Her hand stopped grinding the material as her head followed slower the action of her hand, in order for her blue eyes to actually get a good look at Josleen. "So, this woman. Is she your lover?" Considering Josleen's rage.

Josleen isn't surprised when the drow fails to recognize her father's name. The things they have in common shock her more than the things that divide them. As Laezila works, the bard focuses on those differences. Her eyes roam over the petite dark frame, its alluring dress, the little expressions and movements that color a character. But they can speak a common tongue, and both have a common elven ancestry millions of years old. Their clothes may be cut and dyed differently, but is fabric not spun and woven the same? Are they not both guests of the fort, trusted by common friends, involved in the same political drama, breathing the same air? The bard's jaw works as she tries to reconcile who they are and what that means for her own identity. Laezila's expectant hands breaks through her introspection and she hands over the umbrastone without a suspicious glare. The question takes her back, and she almost laughs. Almost -- it's more like an amused scoff. "Lovers? No. No, not at all. Where did you hear that?"

The youthful drow almost relished the exchange that lacked suspicion that she had come to associate with the reputed gossiper, and the exchange of umbrastone through fair hands to paling ebony was met with a swift successive movement of plopping the ingredient into the stone cup and grinding it thoroughly to powder while Josleen seemed amused in her question. A slight grin played on the ex-matron's lips, only slightly and briefly, in the thought of having somehow caught the woman that despised her off-guard, and the amusement of her response; rare, recently, was the expression. "I just figured, she means so much to you; I never had a friend care about me like that. Though, I suppose my kind is rather treacherous for that. Would such be odd?" There weren't very many taboos in the drow society; lesbianism wasn't nearly frowned upon, especially during the matriarchial reign where women held the status of power, which was the more commonplace reasoning behind marriage and relationships. A woman courting another woman of higher rank was nothing out of the ordinary, then. "She is a capable fighter." Laezila learned that firsthand. The ingredients now ground to a soft powdery mixture, the cup was grabbed in order to expertly begin to sift the contents slowly through the narrowed opening of the veil, causing clouds to wisp in vivid blues and purples within the bubbling water; the page had dissolved entirely now.

"Oh. Well." Josleen treads carefully on the subject of lesbianism for mysterious reasons, even to herself. "I'm not sure odd is the right word in every circumstance. But perhaps, uncommon? And in some places, taboo, I suppose. In my hometown of Xalious, for example, it isn't exactly frowned upon but simply not spoken of." Josleen's player randomly decides that Xalious is a Don't Ask;Don't Tell place, and it is so. "I think Frostmaw is more accepting of that sort of thing given Steward Hildegarde and High Priestess Leone's relationship," she says oh-so casually. Her tone shifts and she practically sings, "Oooh! That looks promising." She refers to the hues of blue and purple. Magic is bright when done right. "Hildegarde and High Priestess Leone?" That was news to the ex-matron; she had barely ever seen the two together. Still, it rather negated any prospect of garnering the attention of the Silver, and caused a wrinkle of a frown to slightly and subtly cross her paling ebony countenance; a brief, momentary confession. "Well, surely they are happy, no? Yes, this is the color that I was hoping for. Almost done now," the drow replied, managing the switch the subject in order to twisted and begin to grind along a few a more ingredients into fine, sifting powder. The idea thereof -in earlier subject- made her feel a bit... Jealous. Not insofar as she wanted one or the other for herself, but moreso envious of the fact that everyone seemed to have found someone, everyone seemed to have a support; someone to love them and care for them. But the drow hadn't anyone.

Josleen nods in Laezila's periphery as to the happiness of the Steward and High Priestess. Laezila's disappointment does not go unnoticed, but it does go unremarked. The bard doesn't confuse civility for friendship. The barriers stay erected. Still, in the interest if civility, Josleen says sincerely, "I appreciate your help." Once the potion is finished, Josleen is eager to take it to Skylei, unless instructed to wait. "I'll send word to you if it works."

The potion, once finished, was then handed over, "Just... remember it, if it does. I'm not so much the monster you think I am." A soft frown, and the ex-matron would watch the other depart.