RP:Drow Political Theater Pt. 2

From HollowWiki

Part of the Surface Tension Arc



Synopsis: Furious over the recent loss, and displeased with Laezila's performance as an ally and leader of the Second House, Gevurah drops in on House Mage and acting Patron Lanlan before the fog of battle has cleared. She makes her desires clear: seize control of House D'l'sel D'issan and work with her, or perish in its rubble when she destroys it. Lanlan takes umbrage at Gevurah's tactics and flexes a little muscle. After narrowly avoiding a bitter fight, the drow part with a better understanding of the other's position, but no alliance in hand.

House D'l'sel D'issan

Lanlan has been ushered to the room of his house's infirmary; his most talented healers are here neglecting the other wounded in favor of making certain that his features may continue to be as unblemished as possible. His fight ended with him smacking against the hard wall of the tower, and thusly losing consciousness. Fortunately, Laezila instilled in these minions a certain weakness. It was more imperative to them that he be rescued rather than replaced. A feeling of vexation washed over him when it became apparent that even his most talented healers could only muster mundane abilities to restore him. "Attend to the others," he said with disdain, and he left them. In his room he nursed himself with the aid of a mirror, applying a magical make up to each discolored blotch he could see; touching a gifted finger directly to his twin on the glass. While he was tending himself, his underlings were in semi-disarray. The infirmary was full, and much of the leadership had been decimated in the battle or otherwise too occupied to direct them. It would take a moment and a firm grip to reclaim his House to order, if he bothered to do so. Still, his priorities were in order.


Gevurah takes advantage of House D’l’sel D’issan’s disarray to storm the compound uninvited. Only the captain of her guard accompanies her on the trek from the arena, where she just finished executing Nymh. A few D’l’sel D’issan guards try to stop Gevurah’s advance, but circumstances don’t inspire much resolve on their part. Laezila is missing. Lanlan is wounded. Gevurah travels sans army, and she too is afflicted by wounds and exhaustion. Most notably, she hugs her right forearm against her chest. A bloody, wet bandage veils the minced flesh beneath, but the fact she doesn’t move the arm an inch belies the pain she suffers. Fury and adrenaline alone keep her going. Still high from a kill, she moves through a rival House’s estate with an authority she does not possess here, taking risks impulsively as she scrambles in the wake of a big defeat to reaffirm her grip over the drow army. She shouts at D’l’sel D’issan staff to lead her to Laezila or Lanlan, and a series of frightened arms point the way to the House Mage. “Lanlan!” she shouts at his door.


Lanlan's surprise is perhaps limitless, and he physically jumps behind the privacy of his door, and the mirror fumbled from his fingers. It shatters at his feet, but not before he manages to finish retouching himself to what he would call: perfection. Recognizing the voice, and swinging between emotions, he takes a stuttering step to his door. No matter his reaction, it must be immediate. As he approaches the handle, he manifest confidence. "First Daughter D'artes?" His door is flung open and there she stands, accompanied by her captain, and some babblers of his own who would try to explain their security failing. Of course, he understands why they didn't stop her. But he has to take a stern tone. "This is quite the intrusion, Gevurah. Perhaps, if you would be so kind, you'll stand outside and wait to be invited? I'm certain Laezila will accept you in due time." At this, one of his minions appeared especially wide eyed and desperate to speak to him, enough to do so out of turn. Informing them both, that while Lanlan was out on a campaign, Laezila was captured in a coup by the elves. Lanlan became momentarily stupefied, "Apologies," he said to Gevurah with some embarrassment and an acute smile, "I'll take you in a moment." He closed the door once more, slowly. He kicked some reflective shards of glass aside, magicked them, and let her in. Only his room and Laezila's were devoid of confusion. He welcomed her to sit at a small and uncomfortable chair; with a cushion much more flaccid than it looked. But it was carved very ornately. "Good evening, Gevurah," he says, his bewilderment bubbling under his skin in the form of flaring nostrils and a quivering eyebrow.


Gevurah glares at Lanlan’s initial back talk, but he’s rescued from her wrath by his own staff. Her jaw clenches and unclenches at the news of Laezila’s capture. When Lanlan closes the door, she whispers to her captain that if that door doesn’t open again in ten seconds, they’re breaking it down and chasing the little weasel down whatever escape tunnel he’s fleeing through. To her surprise, Lanlan reopens the door and welcomes her in. She prefers to stand, she says, as she sweeps a third of the room and scans its contents quickly. As a mage himself, Lanlan may notice that she seems sapped of mystic strength. The battle wore her down too, but she’s loathe to show it. Skipping the pleasantries she demands, “Nymh singled you out in the arena. Why.” She was right next to Nymh when he whispered ‘lead them’ to Lanlan. Classic Nymh: ruining everything even from his death bed. Er. Death pole. Death show.


Lanlan has his room in a permanent state of cleanliness, within mere inches of godliness. A bookshelf, organized by author, has not one binding protruding further than another. On another wall, is a stretching canvas, covered in precise calligraphy, heavy with the weight of several whitewashings. Under it is a book with fluttering pages. The corner by the door has an invisible pile of glass. As a continuing show of elegance, but an actual procrastination, he retrieves two glasses and fills each halfway with wine; placing one at the table Gevurah didn't sit at, and holding the other in his hand. Though, he may notice that she's drained, he wouldn't call her out on it; then she'd be pressed to do the same to him; maintaining his pride was more important than wounding hers. Smiling, "So you noticed I attended the execution, then?" Apparently he's flattered. "You have a most ...invigorating manipulation of magic, I must say. Yes I was present with your final dispatch of that abomination. You say his name was Nymh? Ah! We'd only just become acquainted." He nods happily, and then appears to realize, "Oh! Haha! I seem to have forgotten the question, you say he singled me out...?" An eyebrow quivers, and he taps his finger on his knee. "I think you're mistaken, he wouldn't have marked me." Attempting to move quickly beyond the traitor, he addresses another subject. "A matter of more pressing priority is the state of my matron, Laezila. As you have heard, she was taken from your Patron's premises recently. When we last met, you informed me that she was lacking in compliance to the former terms you had laid out. Now, I don't know the exact details of the abduction (yet), but normally, folks have to be let into the D'artes premises. Actually, I'm not clear. Do you allow elves into your villa on a regular basis?"


Gevurah is too irritated to be flattered by easy words. She’s after retribution and answers. Her stare hardens on Lanlan as he evades the question of Nymh, but she doesn’t push him on the subject. There are many paths to the truth. No need to inspire him to obstruct other options of out fear. As he continues, she paces before the bookshelf and skims the book titles. The wine sits on the table ignored. His final taunt gets her attention again, and earns him a beady-eyed glare. Slowly she circles back around to Lanlan to stand before him, towering over his seated position. “As it so happens, we do let in elves in, as slaves and prisoners. It is your Matron who is in the habit of letting in inferior races as equals. Perhaps she believes herself to be inferior right alongside them, and with you beneath her heel, what does that make you, hm?” She looks down on him, chin and nose turned up in distaste. “During my last conversation with her, she tried to persuade me to end the war. She has no interest in claiming the surface for the drow. The most animated I have seen her in recent memory was when she threatened the alliance between our houses for the sake of saving some human male. To be quite frank, Lanlan, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t abducted at all but left of her own volition. If your opinions align with hers, I recommend you do the same.”


Lanlan heard a half-drow's pained wails echo through the halls of his house, and his gaze wanders for nary a moment. It was timed to end appropriately with her ugly suggestion, almost as if it was a reaction. His eyes widened and he appeared panicked for an instant. Much of the books she would skim were allegedly first hand accounts of various peoples, places, and things. For instance, there was a journal published from a human archaeologist who spent much time with dwarves; another of an explorer who supposedly found the secret village of Taylebeck, the land of the jershers. He gave her an invisible commendation with a gesture of his hand, "It's true, Nymh fell victim to the poison in his blood. But I recognized mine long ago and adapted. I'm stronger for it." After lazily leaning against the back of his chair, he gazed up at her, meeting her gaze meekly, "If she's been captured, or if she left, then I am no longer under her heel." he rested his mouth in his hand comfortably. "Actually, she suspected your treachery, and named me as successor only days before this...this..." he cleared his throat as he considered the word. "...This travesty." He stood up, sipping his wine with restrained jubilation. "I only follow those strong enough to lead. Had I known of her intentions to end the war I would've attempted to induce her otherwise. As far as the other thing..." He turned away from her mumbling under his breath, "It's embarrassing, so embarrassing." Lanlan's face recoiled and puckered as if he kissed the sourest lemon. "No, I'll assume the burden of Patron in the interim. However, I cannot ignore the worst case, and if she may be compromised, I will retain it this title. Permanently."


Gevurah looks away when Lanlan references his own half-blood heritage. They remind her of a sullied lineage in her own house that she tries to ignore. She retreats to the chair Lanlan originally offered, whispers a paranoid spell that scans for traps and magic, and (assuming none oocly for the sake of speed), takes a seat. Mercifully, the conversation moves on. “Treachery?” She nearly spits out the word. “Treachery to who? The treachery is hers. She has forsaken our race and saddled you with overseeing a House who grows weaker and more useless to House D’Artes by the hour.” As he elaborates on his plans and contingencies, she waves her good hand dismissively before her face. “Let me make this plain for you, Lanlan.” Exhaustion has eroded her patience for subtlety. Honesty is a blunt policy, and Gevurah wields it like a mace. “Tomorrow this travesty, as you say, will be blamed publicly on your Matron. If you want to save your pathetic House, then you seize the title of Patron for yourself and work with me. If I suspect you of working against me, then I will crush this House around you and you will die in the rubble, your name forgotten and survived by no one to mourn you. I do not wish to threaten you.” Lying comes naturally to the drow. “I am sharing with you my own plans and contingencies. Align yourself accordingly.”


Lanlan is a little surprised that she doesn't pester him further about his mud-bloodery, though he is too thankful to question why. He planted no traps of course, but was flattered that she needed to make sure. "Perhaps she was paranoid, then. But you're jumping to conclusions. The most important one being that you think My House grows weaker, when by your declaration, our weakness has been isolated and removed. Was it cast out or did it leave voluntarily? I don't care." He takes a sip of his wine glass and replaces it. He winces as she speaks, rotating the glass by its neck. Slowly, pure contempt drags one side of his cleft lip nearly up to his nose. "What illusion have you spun around yourself, Gevurah, that you might be able to threaten me in my own House? Do you think your captain will protect you from me?" Lanlan turns his back to her as his eyes purple, and his fingers are enveloped in long writhing ribbons of magic. They reach out the door and summon to the room by signal his allies. If her guard captain reacts by say, drawing a weapon, he says, "Tell him to stand down." Suddenly the ribbons recoil back to Lanlan and band together and twist to form one massive spike, tethered to a ball of energy between the illusionist's hands. It waits there pulsating, arched like a giant scorpion tail. "You have seconds to decide how many of us die." Several nearly feral looking drow abominations wait by the door; for a command, or to avenge their ally.


Gevurah sits upright and stiff the moment Lanlan’s contempt curls around his nose. Her awareness snaps into hyper drive. Seconds slow and senses heighten as her adrenaline spikes. Coming here was a risk — not even a well-calculated one. Today’s loss in battle sent her wheels spinning, and she wound up here knowing full well this could happen, but never fully believing it actually would. Classic D’Artes arrogance. Lanlan’s magic unfurls; Gevurah’s orb of protection snaps into place around her as reflexively as a squid spurts ink. Lanlan demands her captain stand down; Gevurah swipes her wine glass, still full, off the table and lets the guard decide what to do himself. She’s more concerned with protecting her own hide, injured and exhausted as it may currently be. Luckily, the guard is smart, and does stand down. Perhaps he too carries with him some of that D’Artes arrogance and the disbelief that this will escalate any further. “My decision seems irrelevant now that you’ve made yours,” she says as she turns to go, keeping an eye on Lanlan over her shoulder as she takes a big gulp of the wine. Now it’s Lanlan’s turn to decide too. Best case scenario, he settles for the show of force, kicks her out, and Gevurah soothes her frayed nerves with a little alcohol. Worst case scenario, well, let’s just say the wine is multi-purposed.


Lanlan could feel every capillary in his head pulsating painfully; demanding that he release his control over the addictive stuff his illusions were made of. So within the span of a breath, the ethereal spear coils one loop around her captain as a viper would a doomed varmint. As if of its own intelligence, it plunged itself through the captain's chest, apparently snagging his heart on its way, and presenting it before them all; but especially before the captain. Falling victim to the illusion, he gasps, sputters, and faints unceremoniously. Lanlan grasps the imaginary heart; upon its final beat, he squishes it into pulp with his bare hands. "Wait," he says to Gevurah with sighing breath, "I'll walk you home." He finishes his wine and loops his arm around her waist and hugs her close, taking full advantage of his power in this situation. Or at least the power he believes himself to have. She might glare at him. If she did, she would notice the illusions decorating his face and torso dissipate like steam into the air, revealing his injuries. An oozing wound in his abdomen, and some blotchy bruises on his face. They would walk through the Underdark's main street for all to see their closeness, while a trusted duo of vampires followed at their 7 and 5 o'clock.


As a High Priestess of Vakmatharas, Gevurah’s sense for life and death, and who is in which realm, is innate and strong. Thus, she only believes Lanlan’s illusion for a stunted second. The moment she feels her captain’s life force unchanged, she realizes it’s an illusory trick, but it’s too late for the vampire guard of House D’l’sel D’issan nearest her. Gevurah’s reaction is quicker than her mind, and it only takes that stunted second for her to snap into the offensive. The moment Lanlan’s illusion shifts from threat to attack, she projectile spits her wine through her teeth at the guards. The wine has been converted into acid in her mouth, and hittest the nearest vampire-drow in the face by the time Gevurah realizes Lanlan didn’t really attack her captain in a manner worthy of retribution. That’s lucky for the other guards, for Gevurah does stop her very real assault from escalating any further. Good thing vampire flesh regenerates fast. Assuming Lanlan talks down the pissed-off vamp from seeking immediate revenge, this near-fight stops before it really starts. The High Priestess doesn’t bother to wake her captain. He embarrassed her by fainting and can come to his senses and return home on his own. Someone else who’s out of his damned mind: Lanlan, putting his arm around Gevurah’s waist like they’re friends, the way Laezila would force contact on the First Daughter as well. Does it run in the family, or does Gevurah exude some irresistible musk? “Get your damn hands off me,” she hisses as she pulls away from him. She takes note of his wounds as places to apply pressure should he decide to flex his power against her again. Lanlan can take heart in the fact that she does adjust her pace so that they walk side by side, just without touching. If he wants to appear close to her in public, he needs to deliver on what she wants, and so out on the street, she whispers irritably, “I hope you’re accompanying me to tell me what I want to hear, away from the ears of your house.” That hope is also why she left her guard behind; maybe Lanlan didn’t want him to hear what he has to say either.


Lanlan's arrogance got the better of him, allowing Gevurah to briefly incapacitate his guard and nearly incite chaos in the others. Not only that, but her resourcefulness surprised him, and for too long, he puzzled over what to do. His astonishment is brought down when a drop of acid spills onto his delicate hand and starts to painfully eat through; bubbling through several layers of dermis before cooling and subsiding. Worst of all, Lanlan hasn't even the wits to make his uglified hand look handsome again. So he half-willingly relinquishes his grip on her to examine his knuckle, blowing on it like it was hot food. Then Lanlan firmly orders his underling not to retaliate, and to spend some time getting his rage under wraps. The creature balks, clearly conflicted. The mage flares his nostrils; the notion that he might be disobeyed unacceptable even if it's only been seconds since he inherited his title; and not even formally yet. He hisses something into the vampire's ear, and immediately at the end of the short, one-sided conversation, punctuates it with a loud smack. The vampire appears disheveled, but before he can appear to be anything else he scurries away. "He's always been bitter about my relationship with Laezila," he explains. "She trusted me more." Down the street they walk side by side, and certainly never ever touch. "I don't know what you want to hear," he lied, "but I'm willing to negotiate. First I'll need you to publicly pledge your approval and formally inaugurate me as the new Patron of House D'I'Sel D'isaan." Probably not how it's normally done, certainly Houses would handle their own affairs in just about every other occasion.


Gevurah glances down at Lanlan's acid-chewed hands with little empathy. Serves him right. The Laezila-Guard-Lanlan jealousy anecdote is met with similar indifference. As far as Gevurah is concerned, House D'l'sel D'issan's days are numbered as long as House D'Artes's mercy. The walk and cavern air does her good. Her rage fades to a simmering annoyance. When he asks for her support and she aborts a scoff midway. "You're not in a position to negotiate, Lanlan -- especially not after today's battle, and not after Laezila has gone missing. But." Her tone softens and she regards him as a co-conspirer. "If you want to be Patron, then take it. Ally yourself to me, and I'll do what I can to prevent common enemies from dethroning you. I doubt you need me to pave the way to the throne for you," she says as they arrive at the House D'Artes. "This is where I take my leave. I trust when next we meet I'll be addressing you as Patron. May Vakmatharas guide your blade." After waiting for his send-off, or not, she leaves. Just as the gates close behind her, Lanlan will see her perfect posture give way to an exhausted slump.


Lanlan looks at her with mild vexation, "You're so wrong, Gevurah. Anyone with something to offer is in a position to negotiate. And I will be Patron. But I want the council to know I'm committed to our cause, and didn't simply inherit this position." Of course... that is exactly what happened. "I want them to know you approve of my appointment. I understand your inhibitions, yet my House is in turmoil." He turned his palms up, looking so concerned now, "And I fear that without the proper support I'll have no choice but to withdraw my forces and spend just enough time to recuperate. But after that I'm sure we'll be able to function as allies." Once they made it to her gate, he stopped and put his hands on his hips; bravely sucking air into his chest to look healthier than he was. "Sure," Lanlan said in response to her blessing. "Thanks, you too." As soon as she turned he rolled his eyes and let the air out. He let his guards help him home, where he was sure to make his lordship known...after a long rest.