RP:Laezila To Be Tried

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: After another explosive argument between Laezila and Josleen, Hildegarde tries to settle their differences with reason, but Josleen will not be sated until Laezila faces justice. Josleen challenges Laezila to a trial by combat, in which she will call upon Eliason as her champion. Emrith volunteers as Laezila's champion.

Kelay Tavern

Hildegarde was ready to speak to Johnny when Laezila approached her in an evidently worried and panicked way. The Silver rose from her seat and sheathed the short-sword immediately, for bare steel would undoubtedly only add to the panic of the former Matron. “You look frightened,” she observed, “come, sit, sit. Food and drink, I think, is what you need. It’ll help calm your nerves, m’lady,” she said kindly, urging the drowess to sit in one of those ever so comfortable armchairs. Her eye lifts up again to look at Johnny, “Oh, poor thing. Er, sit yourself and that youngling next to the hearth; it shall heat you up nicely. If you ask Drargon, he will offer you and your little companion some food, good sir,” she said kindly; a generous hostess as always. “Laezila, tell me what troubles you,” she said, sitting down beside her.

Laezila didn't feel too comforted by Hildegarde's words, though it wasn't necessarily anything to do with the Steward herself, and it was made more apparent by those hands held protectively over her middle as she was urged and eased into a seat. Zakkure, she recognized him briefly beneath her crystalline-blue stare, the man looked so at peace, so apathetic, so calm and relaxed; perhaps he knew things. Johnny came under her bewildered stare next, and the drow scrutinized this one with a degree of suspicion; that cloak, that jovial attitude, surely he was hiding something from her. Surely he had some plot. But her gaze came back to Hildegarde and was able to calm somewhat by being anchored to the silver's face. It was one that didn't look as if it held any malice. "Please don't let Emrith find out," came her strained whisper; the girl remembered clearly the way the rat moved under the heat of the pan. If she was not doing enough, it'd -mittens pressed tighter as she paled slightly. "The -the Second House. I met with Lanlan, my successor. He. Well. Gevurah... I." She shifted with a pleading look, "Gevurah is going to try and succeed at making me look to be a traitor, already she has the drow in belief of this. Lanlan, he can't help Frostmaw; the Second House can't support Frostmaw, because of the scandal. Because it'd put them all at danger. But... But I can still help!" She quickly added.

Josleen has been stewing over her last meeting with Hildegarde. Her thoughts drift from incredulity to a desire to patch things up. They linger longer on the latter. Drow suck, but being at odds with one of her few true friends is…well, not worse. In Josleen’s current frame of mind, there is nothing worse than the drow. Still, it’s bad, and so she followed the word-of-mouth trail to the tavern where she expects to find the silver knight. Clothed in more layers than sense as usual, she pushes into the pub, smile at the ready, only to find Hildegarde fraternizing with The Enemy. The smile evaporates, leaving behind a salty snarl for Laezila’s benefit (residual effects on Hildegarde also welcome). The bard maneuvers on the fringes of Hildegarde’s line of sight and beyond, and takes a seat near the pair from which she can eavesdrop — behind Hildegarde, naturally, the dragon shield. Her plan is to be a fly on the wall and listen, but Josleen’s hatred of Laezila in particular, her bitterness over her last experience in the tavern, and her resentment over Frostmaw’s handling of a political prisoner, have been cooking inside her under intense pressure. Laezila’s hand-wrung confession blows the lid off the bard’s self-restraint. She whips around to face Hildegarde and Laezila and scoffs at the latter, “You’re full of it. You never intended to act against your own miserable race. Even now you look out for your kin.”

Zakkure moves with a purpose, using a half flap of his wings to project his body between Laezila and Josleen with a quickness. His stance is defensive, his eyes narrwoed towards Josleen as he keeps them seperated. As his robes settle from the swift movement, there is the softest sounds eminating from his form as if tiny bells were ringing somewhere in his robe. "I think we should all calm down and take a moment to let tempers settle a bit. People should be taken at their word until reason is given to not do so, yeah? So why don't we all just have a seat and pretend we're friends? There are things in this world bigger than some war and the paranoia it breeds."

Hildegarde listened carefully to Laezila, taking note of her fear and worry that Emrith would discover the truth of the situation. “Oh, m’lady,” she said softly and with sympathy, “Emrith will not do a thing against you,” she’d sooner geld him than let him so much as lift a pot and rat. The Silver very slowly moved her hand to settle it gently upon Laezila’s slender shoulder in a sign of comfort and solidarity, “M’lady, you needn’t fear. I have you here in Frostmaw and I have *you* to assist me, not your House. I asked only for *your* help, not that of your House. Have no fear,” she said kindly, until she was interrupted by the raised voice of Josleen. Oh, would she ever please that one? It seemed that with matters of Skylei and Josleen, the Steward would never make the right decision. Yet before she can even intervene, the winged mage has placed himself between Josleen and her table. “A good suggestion,” she said in agreement, “and one I thank you for, m’lord,” she offered a grateful nod of her head in Zakkure’s direction.

Laezila was shaking her head at Josleen's words, far more concerned with their volume and context than that the woman was upset and made it apparent by her hands lifted in surrender as she pleaded, "No, no, that's not it, please, he'll hear you..." The drow woman's slender shoulder, her diminutive stature quite evident especially so with Hildegarde's antic, was offered place for the settlement of the Silver's hand and it seemed to quell her trembling spine and hastened breath. It did not convince her eyes to narrow from their panicked wideness, or her body to release its tension in her muscles as if ready to fight or bolt, but it did hold her still -and quiet for several moments. She knew that Zakkure should be shown gratitude, and surely the former matron should've, even wanted to, but she could only manage a brief stare at him in set process of trying to comprehend what, exactly was going on. Then things began to click in her head, and her gaze snapped back toward the Steward; crystalline blue eyes had recognized Josleen. It took until now to realize where. "I captured Skylei Luc- Lucy- Lucren?" Cue hopeless flail -she didn't know the woman personally! She tried to recover, "Skylei the Ranger. I traded her to Gevurah D'Artes. I allowed her to be tortured physically, mentally, and emotionally. I did not think about her life. The people that it would hurt. About that I would be regretting it for the rest of my life. I chose her because I fought her in Sage. I did that to her, I traded her life for Krice's." The drow confessed, and her head bowed, and her eyes shut, "I accept responsibility and justice." Her body was tense; anticipating pain. It was evident she expected 'justice' to be delivered, not any pardon.

Josleen looks at Zakkure utterly stunned. Really? He isn’t the first to get between Josleen and Laezila. The fact that the people of Frostmaw back a drow Matron, former political prisoner, and abductor and abuser of Skylei, over a volunteer nurse who can’t throw a punch, yet has a history of taking real action as an ally of Frostmaw, makes Josleen feel like her brain is coming untethered. That pressure cooker of emotions is roiling back on high. It isn’t helped by Hildegarde’s further defense of and sympathy with Laezila. It so completely ruins her understanding of her environment and community that she can only survive this moment through a surreal, out of body experience. Her gaze grows distant, her movements mechanical. This can’t really be happening right now. A lucid nightmare? Someone slip her some shrooms and she’s having a bad trip? She watches Laezila’s trembling, frightened act as if watching bad actors on a stage, with a sense of unrealness and an inability to believe. She starts to step back towards the door, squinting in utter confusion at the aliens before her.

Hildegarde watched as Zakkure retreated: his temporary peace and part done in this political furore. The Steward rose from her seat and assumed her battle voice; a voice that could be heard across the battlefield, the voice that said ‘I am in command’. A voice so rarely used, yet had been expertly copied by the bard who backed away in her state of confusion. “Enough. Laezila, Josleen: you will attend me in the fort and I will brook no argument in this matter. You will attend me in the throne room and you will do it immediately. Justice and politics wait for none and this is certainly not the place to speak of either. Attend me in the throne room, attend me now.”

Laezila flinched slightly at the voice employed by Hildegarde; the whole situation sounded... Foreboding. Justice. Was she so wrong in her actions? The thought had never crossed her mind before that damned silver-haired warrior, before that damned Emrith, before this stupid war. Slowly she rose, to follow the Steward.

Josleen flinches reflexively, but there’s little focus in her gaze. She’s heard that voice before, imitated that voice too. Unlike Laezila, Josleen has no justice to fear, for she has always been in Frostmaw’s corner. Risked her life to secure its victories in war, patched up its wounded, sung songs to build morale, wrote poems to celebrate its victory. That’s what makes this so jarring. She believed she had inserted herself in a new community, only to look up from her duty to find herself standing alone. And what more, it terribly embarrasses her, to be scolded at in public, after being treated like the enemy for the past week by winged and half naked strangers and crying women and Sven knows who else. Nothing to do now but see it through. Unable to withstand the glare of other patrons, she walks out onto the street before Hildegarde and Laezila, waits for the knight there, then continues to the throne room without saying a word.

Frostmaw Throne Room

Hildegarde did not seem bothered by Josleen’s exit, but there had been a so very brief wounded look when the bard had flinched. To frighten a friend, a close friend at that… it gave her heart no joy at all. Yet she had a kingdom to rule, a war to win, people to protect. She had to harden her heart, painful as it may feel. The Silver proceeded into the fort and the throne room with unhurried yet powerful strides: her sole eye glancing between each member of the Queensguard before settling her gaze upon the throne. Should she sit there to discuss the matter? Or should she stand before them as an equal? Ruling such as this did not come naturally to the woman. She was not worthy to be a Queen, but a Steward… A Steward she could just about manage, perhaps. Halting before the throne, the woman turned on her heel to gaze upon Laezila and Josleen both before waving a hand at Mikael of the Queensguard. The giant disappeared and returned with a wooden board, chunks of bread and a wooden bowl of salt rested upon it. “Guest right,” the Silver said gently, grasping a chunk for herself and briefly dipping it into the salt before taking a bite. The giant presented the board to Josleen and Laezila in turn; a tradition carried out in any fort or noble hall of honour and decency. The Silver would chew quietly, mulling over her thoughts as Mikael presented the offering to bard and drow alike. Once they had accepted the offering, the knight finally spoke: “Josleen. Laezila. You are both a part of Frostmaw, yet… there is conflict amongst you – and not unjustly so,” the Silver said, looking to Josleen with understanding and sympathy. She knew full well that if it were her in that position, she would fight as ferociously as the bard did. “Laezila captured Skylei, that is true. Though she did not do the abusing or tormenting. Yes, she is responsible for the capture, and yes, this handover does not atone her of that taint. But Gevurah of House D’Artes is our enemy here. Laezila acted out of… out of love; out of heartsick affection. And while that does not justify what she did, do you not think you would do the same, Josleen? If you had no other option but to trade me for Skylei… Would you do this trade?” The Silver offered Josleen a gentle smile; a smile loaded with affection for her friend. “My sweet lady, you have acted out of love too. I have helped you act out of love. I have killed many an exile giant in your mission to rescue those you loved. I have spilled blood for your love. We do mad things for love, but… it does not make us taintless.”

Laezila didn't have a throne when she was matron, neither by furniture or a room to house it. The grand hall of House D'l'Sel D'issan served as a sort of House common-area where members would come to socialize with one another among its arrayed couches, chairs, tables, and so forth, and that was where Laezila would've been found in order to have an audience with the young and diminutive-statured woman. Frostmaw's traditions confused the exiled drow, and her crystalline-hued blue eyes flew nearly suspiciously overed the offered board; Hildegarde took a bite, and therefore, certainly it wasn't poisoned. So, out of mere politeness, the ebony-skinned and white-haired female broke a small piece to pop into her mouth and chew slowly, in her own contemplation. It was at the words issued by the Steward that her hands moved toward her stomach, folding over the taut abdomen covered by that thick winter coat. "I..." She spoke up, only after the Queensguard finished her piece, "The day that Emrith bested me and forced me to aid in his plan. It was easier to escape because I had sent away the guards. I had no knowledge of his coming, but Krice and I... We were going to free them together. After I 'left' the House, so that no suspicion would be cast to any involvement." Her gaze slowly slid toward Josleen, "I -am- extremely sorry, if I could change what I did..."

Josleen takes the bread out of propriety but doesn’t eat. She wouldn’t be able to hold it down. Hildegarde says her piece and after each line Josleen mentally fires off a response, but doesn’t say a word. There is nothing to gain in rebuttals. There is no productive avenue for her here. Grin and bear it, with the whole of the fort knowing. For a woman as concerned with appearances and reputation as Josleen, that final fact weighs heavily on her mind. Laezila’s words fall on the ears of a non-believer. She was going to save Skylei, but Emrith beat her to it? How convenient. She’s the one who sent the guards away? Need proof. She’s sorry? Not much Josleen can do with that even if she believed it. To Hildegarde, she says “Understood.” Which she does. Hildegarde is so very sorry to let Josleen know that Laezila is untouchable in Frostmaw. Somehow, infuriatingly so, them’s the brakes. It’s a bitter pill for Josleen to choke on. She just wants this over with so she can go choke on it alone.

Hildegarde looked to Laezila as she spoke, raising a hand to quiet her. “Enough, Laezila. If I want to hear from you, I will ask. For now, however, your silence is of benefit,” she cautioned with whatever regal grace she could muster. Josleen’s silence was foreboding: the knight knew it meant the bard was most certainly a perfect mask externally and a raging storm internally. She had seen Josleen in action, she knew the way this worked. “In Frostmaw… It is down to the victim – if they live still – to accuse their aggravator. If the victim cannot speak for themselves, such as Skylei cannot, a family member,” she looks to Josleen, “or a close friend, may speak and demand justice on their behalf.” The woman paused for a moment to let that information sink in. “Laezila. You are of use to me in this war and I intend to win it. There is much that occurred in the Underdark that we do not know; there is much that occurred in the capturing of Skylei that only you and the scholar will know. And with one comatose and the other frightened witless… we are in a poor position,” the Silver explained gently. “As a citizen of Frostmaw, you are held to its laws and traditions. Josleen thinks you guilty of cruelty to a beloved friend of Frostmaw and I have trusted in her judgement before. But I am not so cruel as to condemn you… I would, however, bid you to stay here in the Fort or within the immediate area of the City of War. Justice must be delivered, even during times of war. None can escape justice.”

Laezila's mouth snapped shut upon the regal graced command of the Hildegarde, and her arms entwined fully over her midsection now. The words that came subsequent of them aused her eyes to widen slightly, in a subtle panic as she slid her gaze toward Josleen. Justice. They demanded justice. They wanted her head, she could tell! That one, accusing her so vehemently, over that damned Skylei. She regretted it! The drow regretted so much Skylei's capture -but it was Krice on the line. It would be Krice in that bed if she hadn't done that. Silence reigned, 'none can escape justice'. Justice wasn't her confinement -her confinement was surely simply the prelude. Justice would be administered when there was time for it, surely. A sword in the throat? A dagger in the back? Poison, face-melting, burning at the stake? Perhaps... even the rat eating through her stomach. Her mind raced. There had to be a way out. Her eyes flung wildly about as she felt dizzy, searching panickedly for some way out. "I can heal her, I can't wake her up, but I can heal her so she won't die, so all she needs to do is wake up," she was grasping, to speak out of turn despite Hildegarde's command. Her mind was racing down paths of imaginary terrors and hypotheticals that were blatantly not at all like Hildegarde, but the drow mind was made for survival -to paint everyone in a paranoia. Guards were staring at her. They were going to close in around her, she just knew it. The woman turned abruptly, and broke into a sprint as fast as she could toward the door.

Josleen nods along with Hildegarde’s words — her favorite all week. They’re like a warm stone of hope placed in her chest, thawing the ice there. Justice, it’s within her reach, maybe. She’s about to speak when Laezila offers to heal Skylei. The bard turns on her like a wild beast protecting her young, face twisting in rage. “YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER!” She shouts in a voice well suited to projecting itself throughout an auditorium. Her body trembles for a moment, but she manages to regain control. It’s one of her strengths, to control her body and expression. She lowers her stare to Hildegarde in silent apology for her outburst. As Laezila flees, she says to the steward (assuming the guards will fetch the drow back), “Aramoth knows the truth. He should weigh in on this in a trial by combat. I’ll reach out to my champion of choice. If he agrees, it will take him some time to arrive. Hopefully she’ll have been of use to you in the war in theinterim.” Time to write a letter to Chartsend. Butterflies fly in dizzying circles in her gut, all nerves and trembling anxiety. It’s worth it, for Skylei.

Hildegarde is not dreadfully surprised that Laezila elected to run, yet a small part of her is disappointed that the drow has chosen to run. Yet the woman would not get very far. Two of the Queensguard had already blocked the door, their massive spears criss-crossing in order to very clearly say ‘the way is barred’. Hildegarde offered Josleen a little nod of her head, “It must wait until this war is won, Josleen. I bid you to understand this,” she needed this level of understanding. That said, the knight stepped forth with a confident stride; her halberd passed off to Mikael so she could approach Laezila without a weapon in hand. “M’lady,” she said quietly, her voice lowered so as to only be heard by the former Matron, “M’lady Laezila, take my hand, please. Take my hand, m’lady, and let us sit a while in your chambers; you and I. We must talk about your future, we must still your worried heart a little. Come with me,” she said sweetly, “please.” Her kindness and courtesy never faltered.

Emrith quite literally does not know what he is walking into. He steps through the hidden door behind the throne and into a scene of chaos; owing to the soundproof quality of the chamber beyond, Emrith has been privy to none of what has occurred. He and Aeth have been speaking privately, and judging by the chastened expression on the younger elf's face, it hasn't been going all that well for him. His green eyes take in at a glance what is happening...Laezila fleeing, Josleen looking furious, Hildegarde attempting to make peace, and a man he does not recognize, and he immediately breaks into a lope, moving toward the lone drow. "Stop!" Aeth shouts after him, voice reedy but powerful. "Emrith Kohl, for heaven's sake stop!" Emrith pays the man no heed, even going so far as to pick up his pace a little. His impulse is to draw steel, but he knows better. Instead, he simply makes a beeline for the big doors, but rather than attempting to barge through them and past the guards, he stops short, about five paces from Laezila. Breathing hard but not precisely winded, Emrith gasps, "What is the meaning of this?"

Laezila 's booted feet screeched to a halt, tears freely and uncheck running down her cheeks as those guards crossed their weapons in a thunderous show of her entrapment; she vaguely heard Josleen's scream as she took a step back from the guards. Wide, wild blue eyes that were wet with her panicked tears flung around -an escape. There had to be an escape! Her spine trembled, her form quaked -justice was trial by combat. Her words weighted by victory or defeat against an opponent. Fight. The drow way- Underdark pits, blood sport, and cruel faces twisted as adult, child, and beast alike fought for survival. Hildegarde's quiet voice made the young drow whip her frame around to pin those wild, tear-stricken eyes in their panick upon her. It wasn't the sweetness, or the courtesy; it was the promise of comfort. Emrith, in detail, arrived to gasp winded breath five paces from her; Emrith. Justice. Was he going to deliver justice?! He had said, he had claimed -promised that he wouldn't hurt her! Her mind screamed 'lies'. The girl hyperventilated, Hildegarde was approaching. So calmly. Like an anchor. A bouy to cling to. A rope thrown out to her. The young, scarred-face'd ex-matron reached to grasp the Steward's hand with both of her own, to pull herself against that armored frame, clutching and clinging like her life depended upon it, sobbing words of her fear of death, fear of being hurt, pleas for Hildegarde's help.

Josleen nods to Hildegarde’s request that Josleen not push for the trial until the war has ended. “I understand.” Hildegarde seeks to meet with Laezila in private, Emrith shows up and is… She never understood that one. She doesn’t bother trying now, for there is a letter to write and rewrite and destroy and write again. While those who wield arms and wear armor deal with the drow, Josleen makes her exit, already drafting her justice in her head. Bye, felicia (Laezila).