RP:Krice Meets the Stavret Patron
Kelay Dirt Road
Krice ventured along the dirt road from the east, dressed in the usual black attire and harbouring his sheathed katana on his back. A whisper of wind caressed his chiselled features with contrasting softness, and for just a moment, he felt as though he was a part of the land; at one with Nature Herself. This peacefulness was reflected in his features for, although stoicism reigned over all else, he seemed... content, indomitably calm.
Kuzial was stalking the streets of Kelay, clearly unimpressed. The drow is a mass of bloodied burns, but the arms in which he holds Shattered Dream, a sword woven with illusionary magic, are strong. He glares at any who pass his way, sending most fleeing back to their homes, but as he sees Krice walking with that languid, warrior's grace, the patron of House Stavret stops his pacing and speaks in his unconsciously euphonious voice. "Stop." His grasp of the surface tongue is not great, but the word is spoken clearly enough.
Krice felt a chill exit his subconscious and curl around the base of his spine. Not the kind that told of fear or uncertainty, but the kind of chill that warned him of another nearby; a sense of danger and battle. He didn't stop as commanded. He was the master of his own fate, ruler of his destiny and destination; no one would change that. The silver-haired warrior did slow, however, and cast a speculative glance across the unfamiliar drow's features. Gold-freckled eyes land on red ones and he narrowed his left lids in subtle contemplation. Kuzial would have to speak further if he sought more than speculative glare from Krice.
Kuzial never really believed the man would stop at the command and as Krice casts his gaze towards him, the drow quickly steps to his left, his own movements are graceful and sure; a betrayal perhaps of his formidable skills, then he turns himself around, so he stands now in the path the warrior will walk if he doesn't turn or slow. The katana, Shattered Dream, remains lowered, yet everything about the dark elf patron screams of violence; though he is handsome, it is a beauty marked with a faintly barbaric and altogether primal rage. Yet still, when he speaks again, his voice remains melodious. "If you do not stop, I will stop you." He speaks the words carefully; ordering him did not work, let us see if giving him a fair choice will change his mind.
Krice felt a 'whoosh' of contentment leave him as his surroundings permeated his previously pleasant mood. The tension of people who had gone home before they intended just to escape the death that this drow brought with it - Krice could sense it all and it warned him to listen. His eyes studied Kuzial's fluid movements and he knew all too well that violence and rage lurked beneath the surface; for he too harboured movements of grace and fluidity beyond the norm for a human of his size, and yet he possessed a violence all his own. Since he listened in part to the man of Stavret House, Krice must have wanted to avoid as much. Though he seemed more than capable of dealing with conflict simply by how he held himself, it wasn't a preferable outcome. Red eyes locked on red, periphery noted katana, and lips parted for a smooth, steady voice to calmly inquire, " What's the problem?"
Kuzial shrugs his shoulders in a languid gesture before taking a step closer to Krice. He stays well out of reach of the man, and never once does the weapon in his hand move... it is perhaps too still; like a coiled snake waiting to bite. But though the psychotic drow is well known for sudden bursts of cruel violence, he was waging a war without allies against an enemy who cannot be defeated. For now there were enough people seeking his death. So when he speaks, though his voice is far from pleasant, it is at least more civil than most would get. "Who are you, warrior?" A grin follows those words, showing the man that Kuzial was far from afraid of him, "There are many new to this land of late, and all of them seem eager to scurry about, afraid of the bug's bark, for surely he has no bite. I am simply curious as to whether you need to be... squished." He ends those words with another grin, this one altogether sadistic, showing Krice clearly which path Kuzial hoped he walked down.
Krice sensed in Kuzial what he had sensed before; violence, rage, malice, pure evil, along with a distinct lack of fear. This drow had run free without a clear enemy to keep him at bay, possibly for most of his life. Krice would not be a victim of that. Lifting his chin just a touch, moonlight cascaded through his silver hair and down over his strong facial contours, illuminating the distinct presence of -confidence- in the face of a volatile adversary. The warrior was not afraid, either. Noticeably more cautious, yes, but not afraid. Despite the deathly grin beaming at him from the darker features across the way, despite the drow's advancing step, the apparent-human did not withdraw, nor was he goaded. " I've no interest in making you my enemy, Drow. Stand aside, and we both can go on our way without incident."
Kuzial 's grin fades very quickly as he hears the man's words. "You do not understand." The drow slides his left leg back and slowly lifts the hilt of his weapon up to his chin, while keeping the tip of the blade still. Holding it in two hands, his muscles tense for the thrust; his violence held in check by the same chains that bound him to seek a truce with Satoshi. "Do you have any idea what it is like, foolish human?" As he speaks the words grow more guttural, and though he speaks to Krice, it is clear he is venting his frustrations more to get them out, rather than wanting to share information. "I hate this forsaken surface world. I hate ever damn fool who walks about it; their petty problems and lifetimes measured in mere heartbeats... I hate them." The drow drops a little lower, then, as his knees bend down. "And here I am, -talking- to you instead of tearing you fool head off to ensure I do not kill the wrong person. I am forced into the role of being a hero to everyone I hate... to everything that I hate... And here you are, a human, refusing a simple question..." The drow draws a deep breath then as his face twists into a grotesque mask of seething anger, but he doesn't go for the strike just yet, he remains as he was - ready to drive his blade forward, but unwilling to dance that dance with Krice tonight.
Krice’s pupils almost visibly shrunk, and the golden freckles that so typically kept his features warm and welcoming – despite his stoicism – started to succumb to the red pools in which they floated. He was slipping deeper into his warrior’s mind, more acutely aware of Kuzial’s potential for violence as the seconds ticked by. The silver-haired man watched his would-be foe with the keenness of a vampire, of an eagle, noting each change of angle and height in the drow’s limbs without so much as flicking his eyes to each point specifically. As Kuzial descended to his haunches, the warrior casually curled his right arm behind him, bent the elbow at his waist, and submerged his forearm from Kuzial’s view behind the surface of his midriff. Almost as if he intended to bow. As the drow spoke, Krice squinted subtly in blatant bemusement; rivalled only by his watchfulness. What was the Drow going on about? Why did he feel a need to divulge all these words with a mere stranger? In particular a ‘foolish human’ who lived in a world that Kuzial himself claimed to hate? Eyes slid along the length of the threatening katana held out before him, down the ridge of steel to the face behind the butt of the hilt. With that same level of calmness in spite of the tension that pulled taut between them, he said, “ Rest assured that if I wished any harm upon you, I’d have attacked. Your actions are threatening enough to warrant my own.”
Kuzial snorts with derisive anger, "If you wished it? It wouldn't matter if that was the only thing you wanted in this world, fool. It is beyond you..." Without further word, Kuzial focuses his concentration on the soulstone-insignia around his neck; summoning from within the powerful sign of patronage over House Stavret his innate powers. Between Krice and the dark elf a sphere of darkness is born into the sky, and into it Kuzial quickly steps. He devoids himself of the need for sight with the practiced ease of a seasoned drow warrior; a leader of the House which defends all of Trist'Oth from the horrors of the Underdark. Quickly he erupts into a short series of thrusts with his sword, a quick high, mid, low routine to see whether this warrior was worthy of his time, and not until they are played out does he snarl, "All you had to do was damn well answer, you ingrateful son of a..." The rest of the words are lost to a guttural grunt, but rest assured they were far from complimentary.
Krice anticipated a flurry of violence opening up on him the moment Kuzial’s snort cracked the silence in-between phrases. As such, he was not taken by surprise when the attacks came. However, what –did- seem to catch him at least slightly off guard was the drow’s magic. The warrior stepped his left foot back so that he was half a body away but his right side was angled to Kuzial, and he lifted his left hand up to the hilt of his katana, reachable over his shoulder. His acute sight squinted as the drow’s magical orb erupted with between them, not because of any light it produced—if it did—but in simple protective reaction. And then, with a forward step of Kuzial into the resulting haze, Krice was forced into action. His right hand, previously positioned behind him, brought to the forefront a Tanto Dagger, which he thrust upward into the drow’s flourishing steel to dissuade his aim; sparing his head a grievous injury. Just long enough to twist, unlock, and pull free his katana. The moment that longer blade was released, he swiped it down in a tight arc toward Kuzial’s blade, again to deflect the attack, and shuffled a quick step away to place distance between them. His Tanto Dagger sheathed, Krice was armed just as much as his opponent. He held the point of his katana toward the ground between them, fingers loose but sure in their grip around the hilt. That gold-freckled gaze was now almost a solid plum-purple, colour shifting from red under the glare of the moon, and narrowed subtly upon . He said nothing, perhaps waiting for Kuzial to either elaborate or back down.
Kuzial is not surprised his opponent evaded the attack. He allows the globe of darkness to fade from the air between them, and there is upon his cruel face perhaps a hint of enjoyment; the rush of a true challenge... something this warrior has lacked of late. “You do not fool me, warrior.” The Patron of House Stavret begins to slowly pace, then – he keeps the tip of Shattered Dream pointed at Krice, but he stalks like a caged lion, ready to erupt into furious violence. “A truly humble man would have answered my questions.” The drow feints a forward thrust, but pulls up early enough to continue speaking with the warrior, out of harm's way. “A man who desired solitude would have spoken more politely than you did...” The drow stops then, for just a moment. “I know you do not serve the bug, for none of them would be as aggressive as you have been. I see through your veils of false modesty, warrior. You cannot fool Kuzial. This is your doing, not mine.” The drow flashes a dark grin, before once again he steps forward, sending his weapon through a quick series of slashes and stabs, each coming from a dizzying angle. He does not expect to break through the man's guard, it is more like an extension of his speech; a flowing of motion from talking to battle. Always testing... always ensuring he is in control.
Krice seemed more baffled by Kuzial than anything else. The words he spoke, the way he moved... This drow was clearly aggressive, but also completely confused. This bemusement showed in the warrior’s eyes but never once did he allow it to sway him from his focus. When Kuzial feinted, Krice twitched back instinctively, always at the ready to parry a blow should he need to. All at once the confusing words, accusations, were forgotten and the warrior was forced into defensive actions once more. He lifted his elbow, rotated his shoulder, thrust his katana up and down and jabbed it forward, all to deflect the drow’s aggressive attacks. He followed his defence with a deft thrust, delivered in line with the hollow of Kuzial’s throat, musculature of his left arm – the wielding one – rigid and taut and accentuating both the accuracy and swiftness of his retaliation. He stepped forward on his right foot, gravel scruffling under the grooves of his boot, and his features were hard with a mixture of focus and determination.
Kuzial flows through the swordplay like an eldritch spirit; his movements are languid and pure, the very epitome of fluidity. The patron drow was a former weapon master of his house, and is regarded around Trist'Oth as perhaps their greatest warrior. Yet he still finds himself almost twisted inside out by the stoic warrior's attack. So true is the blow, so sure is the attack – it makes it deceptively hard to defend against. But he is no novice to battle. As Krice's foot slides forward, the drow's own slides back across the road. Never once losing his balance, he leans right back. The tip of Krice's sword manages to lick the skin on his chin, sending a small trail of sanguine flowing down his throat, but in the midst of battle Kuzial hardly notices the wound. Instead the drow quickly snaps Shattered Dream up. A resounding 'clang' echoes through the streets as the two katana's meet, before the drow pushes out enough to give him room to get back to solid footing and once again take a step back from the man, ending the brief combat almost as quickly as he started it. “A worthy rival of Kuzial, perhaps? Another Cornelius, who will share that dandy's fate...” The drow sheathes his sword then in the scabbard that rests between his shoulder blades, before he talks again, this time more clearly, making it clear the earlier words were not really meant for Krice. “Who are you?” The drow seems entirely at ease without his weapon in his hand, yet the casual way his arms rest at his sides betray him to be ready to pull forth either the E' et-Nilah Blade or even one of his many fine daggers. Yet he doesn't, he waits for an answer from the man – fully expecting one, in fact, and no longer seeming to be as enraged as he was before... this is not entirely natural. The drow, having played the game of houses in Trist'Oth for years, is a master at keeping his opponent guessing to his next move, and always unsure of what his motivation truly is.
Krice felt his katana knick Kuzial’s skin and knew that, in spite of his aim being elsewhere, he had at least met his mark to some degree. So tuned in was he to the steel extension of his arm that he felt the moment it connected with flesh, and the moment it withdrew. He pulled his sword back and did not advanced upon Kuzial, perhaps sensing that at least for now, the quick flurries of violence were over. No, not over – paused. Curling his weapon, Krice angled the steel upward along the length of his spine, the point sticking up past his head, his knuckles against the small of his back. In this way, he showed no aggression, but maintained his caution around the volatile dark-skinned man. The silver-haired male held himself well, confidently, comfortably, as if he was lounging on the soft cushions of a high-quality sofa; devoid of tension and rigidity. Kuzial’s repeated query inspired in Krice another squint of thought, before he said, “ I am Grey.”
Kuzial shakes his head slightly as he continues to stare at the man, “Not too difficult, was it.. Grey...” The drow is silent for a moment, before he begins to slowly pace again; almost as if the burning rage that lurks forever beneath his surface cannot quite handle being still. “I am Kuzial Stavret, Patron of House Stavret, Fifth House of Trist'Oth. I am hunting the parasite...” The drow is careful to note any changes in Krice's demeanour as he speaks those words, before he carries on. “If you tell me you do not serve him, I will believe you, and you can walk out of here alive. If you do, you will die.” The words are not spoken in an arrogant way, nor are they confident; they are spoken as simple fact, and in their wake the drow remains still; it is uncertain which one the drow would prefer, but what is certain is he is ready for both.
Krice barely changed at all. As Kuzial took to pacing once more, the silver-haired man shifted ever so slightly, his head turning to follow the drow, always held in the centre of his gaze. When his dark-skinned would-be foe made mention of ‘the parasite’, Krice’s left brow twitched in thought, as if for a split-second moment he didn’t quite understand to whom the drow was referring. It all became clear before that moment hit a full second, however, and his moon-purpled eyes showed that comprehension. Despite that Kuzial’s following words sounded like a threat, the warrior did not perceive them as such. After all... “ I serve no one,” he said, his tone speaking of truth through his stoicism. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his katana, still held at his back, though whether he would sheathe the weapon or attack with it in the next breath remained unclear.
Kuzial stops his pacing and offers the warrior a slight nod of his head. “I believe you.” The patron drow does not move, though. He remains in the path where all this started, ensuring with his posture that Krice doesn't just walk away. “I will tell you this, Grey: Were this any other time, I would gladly test your skills against my own.” He waves away the unsaid notion that they already have tested their skills with an absent gesture that is almost unconscious. “Even now, the confidence that lurks within your stoic demeanour doesn't trick one such as I. But you are not yet an enemy of mine, so on this day I give you a gift.” The drow moves then, off to the side to let the man leave if he wishes. “I give you the gift of your life.”
Krice studied Kuzial in silence, remaining still in spite of the darker man’s movements. Whilst the drow seemed to harbour the restlessness of insatiable anger, the apparent-human was calm and collected. When Kuzial stepped aside to offer Krice a free path, he lifted his chin and flicked his sword into view, angling it over his shoulder shortly after; his right hand on the end of his sheathe holding it still so he could more smoothly slide his weapon into place. A two-inch clockwise twist of the wrist ensured that his steel was locked in place. His eyes never left his would-be foe’s face. “ My life was mine already,” he said, refuting Kuzial’s offer of his freedom as ‘a gift’, and took the necessary steps forward to venture on his way.
Kuzial follows the path of Krice's weapon with a practiced eye. To the twisted perception of the drow, the moment it was almost in its sheathe was the moment it was most dangerous, for that is when the unwary will relax. But none have ever accused Kuzial of not being wary; he sees death and destruction everywhere, he is just confident enough to be sure that it is what he will leave in his wake, and not a fate he will share. When the man begins to walk off, the Patron of House Stavret speaks again in a quiet voice that lacks none of his always euphonious tones, “You do not understand, foolish Grey. The moment you were close enough for me to strike, your life was mine to take or give. I have chosen to give it this eve', do not make me regret my decision.” The drow is strangely sombre in his words, but there is a hint of steel layered throughout, making them seem more than the ramblings of an arrogant fool.
Krice continued walking in spite of Kuzial’s final word. Whether or not he heard it, listened to it, remained to be seen for he did not waver in his step, or change his demeanour, or shift in any such way as to alert the drow to his understanding of them. If without interruption, the silver-haired man stepped quietly and with that same warrior’s strength in grace along Kelay Way, moving into the sporadic darkness beneath the trees that flanked the road.
Kuzial briefly considers drawing one of his hidden crossbows and sending a bolt into the swordsman's back... but he doesn't. The man had earned the drow's attention, something that is not always good, but for now the powerful patron has business to attend to in Frostmaw. So with a final glare to the streets of Kelay, a place he hates profoundly, the dark elf stalks off to the mountainous peaks in the distance, within moments he is lost in shadows and once again the street is safe...