RP:Drow Political Theater

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: The attack on the arena that killed Matron Obleven of Orbb Quar'Valsharess has frustrated the House D'Artes ambitions both on the surface and in Trist'oth. Gevurah, the D'Artes member framed in the attack, has the most to lose, including a carefully forged alliance with Matron Laezila of House D'l'Sel D'issan. Laezila, unsure of whether or not Gevurah actually carried out the bold, but sloppy attack, visits with the priestess and confronts her directly. After issuing a threat, the matron is convinced of Gevurah's innocence (of this attack if nothing else), and the drow discuss the blowback that the drama in Trist'oth has inflicted on war efforts on the surface. Gevurah reveals that some houses have recalled their troops on the surface, and that Gevurah needs proof that the elves committed the attack. One attacker was vaporized by a drow mage during the perpetrators' escape. Gevurah has tasked a group of slaves led by a lower ranking priestess with collecting the thousands of bloody, vaporized corpse and putting the body together like a macabre puzzle.

RP still ongoing.

D'Artes Estate

Gevurah has been keeping a low profile ever since the attack on the arena. Despite D’Artes heavy-handed publicity stunts to clear her of fault, and place the blame the elves, most of the city still believes that Gevurah openly slaughtered an arena full of drow, including Matron Obleven. To be accused of such reckless and lethal boldness flatters her, in a subversive way, but it also disrupts her ambitions. The D’Artes estate shuttered its doors and windows the day of the attic, and since then no one has been seen entering or leaving the estate through known passageways. Nonetheless, drow have spotted Gevurah both above and below the surface, likely using secret passageways which all the noble houses possess. Oligarchs insure their longevity within the walls of clandestine escape routes.

Laezila was not oblivious to the rumblings of the politics and apparent shifting of power beneath the surface; while she hadn't immediately reacted, but rather remained out of the picture in the consist imagery of House D'l'Sel D'issan as a House unconcerned with the shifting of reign and more focused upon the aspect of being feared. But the Matron would be a fool to entirely ignore the situation at hand, especially as it involved her professed 'friend'. So, with the guards of vampiric strain the enigmatic teenager arrived within the D'Artes foyer in their accompaniment before the guards of the first House no longer allowed her access with an entourage. Which was fine, to the girl, as she sought to have a private audience with Keter's daughter. So the vampires were left, and the matron made her gait toward where the drow female was lurking.

Because the estate is on lockdown, Izzerin, the house chamberlain and a drow with no real combat ability, accompanies Laezila down a hallway whose doors are all closed, except for one. It leads to a small lounge that the nobles use as a family room, to scheme and gossip about the pathetic nature of every other house (it’s like playing parcheesi or chess, but more fun!) Only the family, or close ‘friends’ and advisors visit this room, and thus to choice to host Laezila here is strategic. Gevurah sits on a couch in the middle of the room and faces Laezila’s entrance. She tries to look busy with a map of the surface, but in truth her mind rifles through all the possible motivations for Laezila’s visit. Few of her guesses please her. Izzerin leaves Laezila as she enters the lounge and very, very slowly closes the door behind her. Spooking Matrons is a short-lived hobby, and Izzerin has lived a very long time. “Matron Laezila,” Gevurah says, rising from her chair and making an effort to appear cordial and warm. The effort does not include a physically close greeting. Until she knows where Laezila lands in this political mess, the priestess keeps her distance. “Wine?” She crosses to a credenza where a servant has left a tray with a bottle and two glasses.

Laezila stood for a moment in the distinct scrutiny of Gevurah upon her cool and collected demeanor with azure eyes behind that ivory, faceless mask. The girl still remained silent for several moments after the wine was offered, in an overwhelming sense of scrutiny from enigmatic matron to the First Daughter. Those eyes briefly narrowed, before she moved toward one of those couches. A gloved hand gently and lightly ran along its backrest as she walked behind it, "Gevurah. No reason for you to play such a game in your own house. So is it as D'Artes claims, or are you endorsing another House's ascension on the council?" Her movements froze at that question, as those striking eyes pinned Gevurah, expectant of an answer.

Gevurah hands Laezila a glass of wine without being explicitly instructed to do so. She takes a sip of her own to mask her expression as Laezila asks her question. The daughter is relieved that Laezila skipped the pleasantries and got to the heart of the matter. The priestess is as eager to know how this resolves as the Matron is, and thus she does not hesitate when answering, “It is as my house claims. The accusations are illogical.Since when does a noble house conduct its plans so publicly and sloppily? Or do our accusers suggest D’Artes made a mistake?” She growls involuntarily at the suspicion, a reflex of decades of house brainwashing. Just as the rhythm of conversation passes the baton to Laezila, Gevurah sputters her own wine as she guffaws. “Besides, what other house is there to endorse? Kular’no? Bor Makein?” Her eyes roll dismissively at the mere mention of their name, even if it is she who did the mentioning. “No, Matron, D’Artes has been focused on the surface. This petty infighting in the Drow Council is undermining the war with the elves. My expectation is that your eyes will see the matter clearly.”

Laezila 's expression was hidden behind her mask as her gloved fingers and slender hand wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. The woman of the infamously ruthless bestial House, which had pride in how much they were feared, then elegantly and with a predatory grace moved back along the couch in order to come in front of it, and ease her diminutive frame into a seat on the couch. "Good, it would be an unwise move, and being the friends that we are..." She set the glass down in order to lift her hands and take hold of that mask. A moment, and it was pulled away from her strikingly young face. Across her right eye were three long, grotesque scars of claw marks spanning forehead to cheek, but otherwise she looked as if she had just recently become an adult. Those eyes appeared all the more striking and cunning without the mask, and the wine was lifted, "I would hate to have to gut you if you tried a stunt like that on me," she finished. A sip, "But with that matter out of the way, I take it that you are running into some surface difficulties?"

Gevurah‘s face visibly tenses as Laezila lifts her mask and threatens her. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but a tingle crawls down her spine. The powerful drow nobles may each be self-assured in their own abilities, but they would be foolish to forget the abilities of their peers, and Gevurah is no fool. The D’Artes way would be to return the threat in-kind, but Gevurah needs allies, not a pissing contest. And thus, she leaves the threat unanswered, and also unacknowledged — the most she will do for her house pride at the moment. “The greatest difficulty of the surface begins down here. The houses that either believe we are responsible for the attack — or more exactly, the houses who do not in truth believe the farce but pretend to believe it because it presents to them a short-sighted and futile opportunity to try and hurt us” she speaks a mile a minute, her rage burning through her calm and collected veneer, “THOSE idiotic houses, have recalled their troops on the surface! And between you and me, if we are friends as you so put it, the army needs bodies.” She remembers to breathe finally. And sip her wine. She’s still scowling, but at least she’s coming down from her rant. “What I need is proof that the elves conducted the attack. I have a project in the works to that end, but it is slow going. One of their kind was vaporized by one of our mage soldiers. I have a group of slaves under the direction of a lower priest trying to piece the bloody puzzle together, but it’s thousands of pieces and every scrap of elf flesh looks the same.” Her head shakes in a tight, tense pattern — the kind that turns hairs grey on other races. “The idiots thought they were putting together the orbital bone of the eye socket before they realized it was actually a hip joint.”