RP:Of Emeralds, Image and Imminent Violence

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Talyara happens across Emrith literally as Emrith is in the process of leaving the tavern after a fortuitous conversation with her sister. They talk briefly, and Emrith gives her a small emerald which will alert him if she should shatter it, which she will try to do if her quarry gets her into trouble. Suddenly, they are interrupted by an unexpected guest. Laezila - or, more accurately, a holographic representation of her - appears and engages Emrith in painful and philosophical talk of duty, weakness and forgiveness. The interaction between these two is, in a word, complicated.

Kelay Tavern

Talyara opens the Tavern door, her chestnut waves flowing gently in the air behind her, being picked up by a passing breeze. Her nose was stuck in a book, as usual, and her emerald hues were darting across the text quickly, and she was not paying attention to where she was walking.

Emrith avoids colliding with Talyara only because he, unlike the witch, is paying at least some rudimentary mind to where his feet are taking him. The door opens about half a second before he can touch it, and the spell-blade whirls to the side and steps away from the door as Talyara enters. When he realizes who he has nearly collided with, Emrith breaks into a smile...or rather, Emrith's best approximation of a smile, which is a thin line with the barest hint of a curve. "Miss Talyara," he murmurs softly as she passes. "A pleasure to see you here. And still safe, I warrant."

Talyara lifts her head at the mention of her name and looks around confusedly for a moment before realizing who spoke. A sweet but slightly embarrassed smile pulls at the corner of her lips and a slight flush crawls upon her cheeks. She closes her book and turns to speak, "Oh, Emrith, I'm so sorry! I need to stop reading as I'm walking." She tucks a curl behind her ear. "I am doing well, and still safe. How are you?"

Emrith nods toward Talyara, noting her sweet smile but not changing his own expression; an echo of Lanara's voice, heard only a few moments ago, comes back to him, telling him of Talyara's comparative naivete, and that simple expression of open friendly regard tells the story all too clearly. Brief but vivid, Emrith's mind is overlaid by an image of that face, beneath a caul of blood, ruined and moveless and dead. He shivers a little, but does not notice it. "I?" he stammers a little. "Well. I am well. I have just finished speaking with your sister. I have set her a task as well. I am a man with many irons in the fire, as it is often said."

Talyara hugs her book to her chest, her head tilted to the side slightly. It was brief, but Talyara noted a slight change in Emrith's energy, a brief shiver. She, however, decided not ask what thought crossed his mind to bring it on. "Well it sure seems as though you are a busy man. I hope you have not tasked my sister with some overly dangerous task. She may be older than me, but that does not mean I do not worry about her. She is all I have."

At Talyara's last words, "She is all I have", Emrith shivers again, and this time he catches it. It is only now catching up to him just how much he is already asking of people he hardly knows, and if the wrong ear gets the wrong idea, great trouble could threaten either one of them. In a low voice, stepping close to Talyara to deliver his message to minimize the chance that it is overheard, Emrith speaks in elvish to further confound would-be listeners, hoping that Talyara, like her sister, is fluent in this language as well. "Your sister, I asked first about a potion which would disguise a heat signature. When that proved problematic, we determined that disguising someone as a drow might be better. A spell instead of a potion, something to sink into the target and be virtually undetectable unless the subject gives themselves away somehow. She claims she can do this, and that you may be able and willing to help her if it is necessary to perform the spell on more than one person. I have a mission of Underdark infiltration in my future, to free Skylei Lucindio and Maegus, the elven council member, both of whom are languishing in D'Artes dungeons as we speak. I am rather uniquely armed to avoid much detection, but being disguised as a dark elf might be the one advantage they are not counting upon. Hers, then, is not particularly risky. She has simply bade me call her with a brown dove when I have need of her."

Talyara catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and listens intently as he speaks elvish to her. Despite being of mixed blood, her mother had been adamant about her daughter learning her native tongue. Talyara was no empath like her sister, but it was clear this whole ordeal was weighing heavily upon Emrith's heart. She sighs as he explains her sister's task and nods, speaking the elven tongue just barely above a whisper, "She is most likely thinking of some type of glamor spell. That would be more ideal than a potion because it will not wear off as easily. I'm sure we could alter it to even make it more impenetrable." The grip on her book tightens as she considers her sister's brown dove. "I suppose we should figure out some means of communication when we aren't near in case something comes up with...the man."

Emrith has been tinkering with something for several days now which might turn the trick. Reaching into a pocket of his cloak, the spell-blade retrieves a small piece of emerald, approximately the size and shape of a green eyeball. He puts it on his palm and reaches toward Talyara with it. "I have exhausted many a stone, and have found that emeralds are good for this. It is far more brittle than you might think, and when it shatters, I will know. If you are not in range of a shout or a whistle, and the man gives you trouble, try and find a spare moment to throw this stone at something against which it will shatter. It will, at the least, alert me that you are in trouble. I cannot spy on you with it, I cannot read your feelings or your actions. Until it is shattered, this is a simple enough stone. I have infused it with a bit of my blood and with a peculiar spell taught to me by an illusionist in the past, so that its destruction will send a sharp spike of pain through my head. the character of this pain is something I have never encountered elsewhere, so I am unlikely to mistake it for something else. Pray that you do not destroy this by accident, however. I would hate to think you hurt only to realize that you have been clumsy." This last, still in elvish, is delivered in a slightly harsher tone, as if he is half-scolding Talyara. When he stops a moment, emerald still held out, he realizes how his words might have come across and looks down between his feet. "I apologize, Miss Talyara. I have no cause to speak to you so. You have not demonstrated yourself incompetent, and I trust you. That was no way to speak to an equal. I cry your pardon."

Talyara slowly reaches forward and takes the emerald from his hand, her fingers gently brushing his palm as she does so. She holds it before her eyes, the firelight flickering against the gem and her Doe gaze of the same shade. Her brows furrow slightly at his harsh sounding words but her features soften almost just as quickly. She waves his apology off nonchalantly, hoping he didn't notice the glimmer of hurt she had felt a brief moment ago. She lowers her eyes to her feet as she returns his elven speach, "I nearly knocked into you as I entered the Tavern. Your concern is warranted, but I will be careful with this stone."

Emrith gave 1 emerald to Talyara.

Emrith nods his head, having honestly forgotten about the near-collision in the tavern doorway. "I just hope it works. such magic is not my strong point; nearly all of our kind have at least a little aptitude, but as I believe I told you, most of my expertise lies with my blades, and with my body itself. I know how to fight, and how to be both quick and efficient about it...and that is most of what I know, sadly." He sighs, a soft little sound.

Talyara leans back on the heels of her boots and looks up at the elf. Normally she would reach out a comforting hand, being apt with energy transfer by touch, but remembering their encounter the other night and his slight tension when she reached for his hand, she withheld. "Those are not bad skills to have. I might have magic, but without it I am nothing."

Emrith looks down at Talyara from his relative height of five feet eight; he is not extremely tall by elven standards, but few among their kind overtop him. "Each plays to their strengths, I suppose," the spell-blade agrees. "One day, I hope to learn a little more of magic; my knowledge of short blades, in particular, is perhaps as good as it will ever get, and I am in the physical prime of my life. Perhaps a little study in other pursuits would be to the good." He now wears a pensive expression, his previous worries and transient bout of sadness quite forgotten.

Laezila appeared in ironic time, well-suited to the discussion of magic, her form flickered and came into being before Talyara and Emrith. It was not her, so to speak, but rather the manifestation of her visage, colored entirely in a phantasmal blue and half-transparent, as if some sort of astral or supernatural projection. Absent any mask, she appeared as if a young drow female, adult in her years but barely so; three lines ran in a scar of a claw swipe from her forehead to her jawline, beneath a hood drawn over her head and masking the most of her long locks. Petite and diminutive, the girl was relatively tiny, but it was quickly evident by her light leather-armored outfit that was taut to her small form, by aesthetic and design, that the girl was no elf, despite pointed ears evident by the protrusions of her hood.

Talyara ponders his words for a moment, her eyes widening, as she was a struck by an idea. "Perhaps when all of this is over we can work out a trade of some sorts. I can assist you with certain magical learnings and maybe you can help me learn some more physical attributes." She proposes the suggestion but then finishes, rather lamely, "If you're interested in an arrangement like that."

"I would be interested in such an arrangement," Emrith agrees. "It might be beneficial to both of--" All other thought is simply cloven off, to fall into the void where unfinished thoughts go, as the peculiar form of Laezila appears. Emrith is, to say the least, flabbergasted. The last time he laid eyes on this drow, he had not so long before bestowed unto her a kiss...done in trade for as much withdrawal as Laezila could mannage without raising ire, but not an unpleasant show of affection, to be sure. Talyara takes second fiddle for that brief moment, until Emrith gets his breath back. The mirage is clearly defined as such by both its transparency and its colour, and Emrith recoils from it, tensing immediately. "Laezila!" he hisses through clenched teeth. "How did you know I was here? And why have you come? This is peculiar art you wield." Turning to Talyara, Emrith nods grimly in the phantasmal matron's direction. "And this," he finishes, "is Laezila. Mark her well. She is dangerous."

Laezila's movements were choppy, as if the image were attempting to catch up to reality, or there were some delay between what she was doing and the projection of herself. It was difficult for her to see, and that was betrayed by the way her large eyes swept back and forth without seeming to focus on any one thing. "Emrith?" She asked, and her voice was much like her true one -a young woman's- but also was distorted, as if disembodied and echoed throughout some vast and empty plane. "I don't know where you are... My body has not yet awakened. The Spider Goddess attacked Gevurah and I..." She took a step toward Emrith's general position, and reached a flickering hand out, as if blind and unable to see.

Emrith takes a compensatory step backward, meaning to avoid being touched by that flailing illusory hand. He does not understand the arcana at work here, but does not wish to fall afoul of it if he can help it. "The spider goddess?" he asks, eyes fixed firmly on the phantom face before him. "What were you doing that would have placed you within shouting distance of that entity, much less striking distance? I had thought you cautious, Laezila. I may be forced to review my beliefs." there is little gentleness or compromise in Emrith's voice, and if Laezila's image can process sound well enough, it will no doubt be able to read both displeasure and active disappointment in both the message and the mode of delivery.

Laezila wrenched her hand back with a step in the same direction at the way Emrith's voice sounded, as she felt much akin to a child that has disappointed a parent, "It was not my fault!" She protested, "Nymh betrayed us -I had vouched for him, protected him from Gevurah, so he was my responsibility. And thus, I was to be punished. The Spider Goddess had her own intentions!" Her eyes swept around wildly, as she seemed to shrink back; the fact that this young woman was extremely dangerous could be well overlooked by the way she looked as if a frightened girl.

Emrith wishes to press the attack; dangerous or not, a mirage is unlikely to have the full strength of its possessor behind it. Stepping forward, getting into Laezila's face, seems the most logical course. Before he can take a step, however, the spell-blade thinks better of it, and decides to deliver his rebuke. "Laezila, when last I met you, I took you for someone wise beyond your years. I was wrong, and I apologize for assigning you the credit of your betters that you did not earn." Emrith's face is set in a scowl, and a small part of him hurts to have to speak this way, but speak he must. "Nymh deserted you, it is true. But for Gevurah to punish you for Nymh's desertion is akin to punishing a man when his sword breaks. First, you find a new tool; then, you find out how best to ensure that the new tool does not break. If Gevurah punishes you, do you not see that she is only attempting to make you small? Do you not see that she is wasting time on you when she could be remaining set on her tasks? You are no more responsible for Nymh than I am responsible for you. I cannot believe that you do not see this. It would have been better for you, maybe, if I had simply slit his throat, or dosed him with a powder in his sleep so that he would never wake. But I spared him. I have gained an ally, it is hoped, and you have gained...what? A punishment, an angry matron and a play for power? Is that it?" Emrith scoffs, a dismissive sound, quite rude for one of his kind. "You have things she wants...your house, your servitude and so on. But instead of demanding what is yours, instead of being strong as any leader should be, you fold in two as if you have no spine. You are no matron. You are a child too confused by the complex game you play to know when your oppressors are using you."

Laezila's maskless face held none of that confidence that she had felt when was able to veil her scarred features behind the ivory object; there was no cunning and strength that was well-known of the matron without that object's symbolism fueling her pride and confidence - lacking it, she was insecure. Weak. Afraid. Each scoff, each scowled word caused the girl to shrink back away from Emrith, to cower and flinch. But the young matron's antics belied the danger and terror that she brought, well-hidden beneath that cowering posture was the woman that rose to power and annexed control of the second house of the Underdark at a young age, has a reputation of being among the most feared down there, and whose soldiers are among the most elite that the drow have to offer. While Emrith exploited this and the vulnerable state that the young drow was in, there was only a certain point that she was pushed to before, like in the unfortunate acquisition of the scars on her face, that naive and young exterior was broken for the cruel and cunning drow nature to assume control. As every word came out rudely and dismissively from Emrith, she shrank back further, cowered more, and became a step closer to that deadliness. "What is mine? What is it I demand from her?" She pleaded, "Why are you saying these things?"

Emrith watches Laezila cringe and back away, and a small, savage part of him is glad. The larger part, however, is hurt by the effect his tongue-lashing is having, and so he moderates his tone. His words are no less forceful and meaningful, but they are softer now, as if Emrith is trying to reason instead of flay. "Gevurah likely wants something you have, or will somehow benefit from punishing you. Unless being punished has served you in ways I do not understand, you only stand to lose. Do you remember telling me that your house is strong enough to almost take down the first house, with heavy casualties? Well, as ruler of the first house, Gevurah probably wishes to exert more control on you and your house by grinding her heel into your neck. Do you want to be second to her for eternity, or until some brave soul has the temerity to kill her? Does being downtrodden serve you somehow? Because all I see before me is a half-broken thing. Maybe she is stronger than she looks, but when you play at weakness, there will come a point when play ends, and weakness has become real. I fear that you wander very close to that line." Here, his tone softens even further. "Laezila, I do not hate you, nor your kind. I have no strong feeling one way or another. What I do hate, though, is to watch anyone be broken down, subjugated, and blamed falsely for someone else's gain. It sickens me. I speak harshly to you, of this, because the way Gevurah treats you simply turns my stomach. I wish you could end her and be done with it. Slink away into the dark, if that is what you wish, and have no more dealings with the surface."

Laezila stopped cringing and cowering beneath the verbal onslaught that was being lashed and whipped upon her as the tone gradually became softer, and yet the words became no less harsh in her perspective, neither less forceful nor more comforting. Those eyes finally were able to affix to Emrith, and she stared at the frame she could make out through the projection as the man continued to speak; half-broken, weakness, downtrodden, sickened... Her scarred face slowly contorted in the moments of being thrust upon those harsh, sharp-edged words, from fear and cowardice to a juxtaposed isolation and cunning. It was the face of one with no allies yet retaining the grim resolve of utterly destroying her foes. "You are correct. Weak. I have been weak..." Those eyes dangerously narrowed, "To trust the words and fake comfort of an elf. I have been foolish to believe you, Emrith, were anything other than an enemy." She nearly choked on that last phrase, no mask to hide emotion or thought behind.

Emrith raises his thin shoulders, then lets them lower again; it is a slow, definite symbol, a gesture of weary surrender. "You will believe what you wish to. I have, in my way, tried to help you, Laezila. If you call me enemy simply because we have differing viewpoints on what is and is not necessary to further your aims, then you must have many foes eager to spill your blood. You were not weak to trust me, and would not be weak to further trust me. You would, in fact, be weaker by turning away as I believe you intend. Maybe it will make the future easier if you can call me an enemy. Maybe that is what you need in order to save you pain. If it be so, then let it. I cannot wrestle with your conscience this way. It wrenches my heart." Emrith speaks plainly and truthfully, and his face is about as open as it ever gets; weariness and sorrow are at war on those angular planes, creasing them with normally-nonexistent worry-lines. "Speaking for myself, if I must call you enemy, it is only because you seek what I cannot abide. Were you to cry off, were you to simply exist below ground, then you would not be my enemy. You would be a woman wishing to live her life in her home, as I wish to live my life in my home. We are at odds only because your people have taken my home from me, and because I have both the means and the mettle to try and get it back. Simplified, it does seem a bit ridiculous to be enemies, does it not?" When he finishes his latest speech, Emrith's voice softens further yet. It is not a whisper and still ought to carry, but there is real tenderness in it now. "You need not hate. Hate is the largest and deadliest engine of both war and death. It helps no one. Whatever you do, wherever you go and whichever tales you end up telling yourself, remember this for truth: I do not hate you."

Laezila's jaw tensed as she stared dangerously at Emrith, despite his words, and perhaps it is only -because- of his words that she does not snap and issue more words of threat and anger at the man. 'Hate', he had said. It had kept her alive, kept her enemies being felled, keep her house in control and her power with extensive reach. She wanted very badly to hate the elf, her ego bruised and cut as it was by his words, pummeled and bleeding by his verbal onslaught. The thought of it began to belie and shadow his tenderness, "No, you don't hate. I am nothing in your world." She paused, and then said, "The Spider Goddess attacked because I openly defy her. I openly defy Vakmatharas, current Underdark deity. Gevurah is not ruler of the First House. She merely is commanding it. I chose to take the punishment for Nymh to avoid her investigation. No, Emrith, you don't hate me, not because I must fight alongside my kind. You don't care, because I am not an elf."

Emrith is finding it more and more difficult to fence with this hazy representation of the drow matron, mostly because his emotions are torn in multiple directions and because she has said so many things to which the elf wishes to respond. He takes the most important first, and when he addresses that point, his eyes fairly blaze, their normally mossy green turning bright and jade-like for a moment. "I do not care because you are not an elf? You know me so little? No, Laezila. My heart is with my people, to be sure, but that does not mean that I only care for elves. They are the aggrieved, and so I fight with them, for them, and will die for that cause if I must. I hope it does not come to that, but if needs be, and if a greater good is served, then I will sacrifice to see my people safe in Sage once again. You speak out of pique or perhaps out of spite. I care for you more than I care for any other drow, bar none. Take that as you will. I can do little more than I currently do, because your needs and my needs contradict one another. I will not lie down and be vulnerable when a threat is nigh. If you want more from me than this passing regard, you cannot have it without sacrifice. I cannot trust you if you are at war with me, if you are working at cross-purposes to me. Could you truthfully tell me any different?" He waits a beat, and then addresses the only other point worth mentioning. "You took the punishment so that Nymh would avoid investigation? This is to the good if Gevurah keeps her word, and does not gain more from your punishment than she would have gained from Nymh himself. However, do you expect her to keep that promise? Unfortunately, I believe she will act in her own best interest, and if she wishes to know more about Nymh, or capture him, or lill him, or make sport of him to further humiliate you and your house when it suits her...she will do it, if the time and place are right. Bear you that in mind; your act was tender-hearted, which I can respect, but it was shortsighted, and that might get you into trouble."

Laezila shook her head, "No. I took punishment so that -I- would not be investigated further. To keep my front of her ally, her confidant, her -friend-." She replied; the beat, however, mid-aside was unperturbed. She had no response, he had bested her logic, certainly, but it did not vanquish the hurt she felt for his harsh words. She remained quiet for some time, staring at the weary man, emotional and dangerous, yet without her mask to veil her thoughts and expressions. "Gevurah does not have authority over me. Not by Council, not by might. My only superior in all of the Underdark is her patron, Tiphareth. But she has pull. Politics are at play that you do not understand, you will not understand, and you do not need to understand. That you do not need to know." That would, hopefully, effectively end their talk about politics and drow infighting, as instead she offered more silence as she stared at the elf. "I have sacrificed and endured far more than you know. I have lead, I have lost, I have gained. What right do you have to call me weak? To judge my actions, to condemn my orders?" She was, apparently, still upset and hurt at him.

Emrith sighs again, and it is evident by the sound that he is growing weary of heart. "Laezila, you do not need to know a man's history to call him weak. If you were strong in days past, I can believe it. You have it in you to be strong. You are not beaten, and if you seem broken, you likely still have steel left in you, however deeply buried it is." Now he does take a pace forward, narrowing the distance between them by a foot or two. "If you want me to respect you, to see you as you are, then part of that will mean I do not lie to you, and do not tell you things to flatter you simply because you would not hear the truth. If you want someone to fill your ears with sweet things and cheap praise, I am sure that many of your own house can serve the purpose. If you would have someone who at least paid you the compliment of telling what he sees, then perhaps I could help you. No, I am not aware of much drow politics, and that makes me both fallible and weak in my own right, to assume and guess as I do. I freely admit it. I have areas of weakness." He throws his hands in the air, then lets them drop. "A piece of advice for you, if you would hear it: if you have a point against you, do not let others wound you with it. Use it, and prove them wrong; make it your armour, if you will. I claim that you allow yourself to be manipulated too much, and that you may be losing more than you realize. Maybe I am right, and maybe not. Instead of being angry with me, prove me wrong, if you can. I will admit when I am wrong, if I am still alive to admit anything of course. You do not convince me by becoming petulant; you will convince me with actions. The same way, if you should ever want me to fully trust you, I will have to see actions to back your claims. I will not simply take your word...not when you are largely responsible for the burning of so much of the forest, and are still opposed enough to our re-occupation efforts that you will fight against us."

Laezila frowned as he spoke, though it wasn't out of anger; it was a frown of contemplation. "I allow you, too, to manipulate me. Already I yearn to throw down my weapons if it would garner affection." She snorted derisively at her own words. "But I cannot do that. Just as you cannot while my kind stay in Sage. Perhaps one day we will have to cross blades. I hope not. But I can promise that I will appeal the First House to withdraw, but there are two things you must do for me."

Emrith looks at Laezila warily. "Appeals are for naught if they are denied. What are the two things I must do for you before you will consider this appeal you speak of?" At her mention of manipulation, he simply nods. "You are right, and I had not thought of that. I am not deliberately attempting to weaken or harm you, but I am sure Gevurah does not necessarily think so either. I am bending your ear and she is bending your back, so to speak. What difference, I wonder?"

Laezila shrugged a shoulder, "Nor are my conditions difficult. The first is to find and tell the silver-haired warrior, Krice, my intention to appeal the war. Just that I intend to appeal the war. Nothing else but that. The second, that you forgive me."

Emrith nods readily enough to the first condition. "If I find Krice, I will tell him what you have said. I have met him but once, but I am good with faces and will remember him." As to the second, it causes Emrith to go silent for several moments. "As for forgiveness...that is a thorny thing. When a person knows a thing will hurt someone but they do it anyway, then the person who is due to be hurt cannot forgive. Put another way, Laezila, I cannot forgive you, because you do not think that what you are doing is wrong...or, at any rate, you do not think it is wrong enough that you need to stop. You say you will appeal, and I suppose you might, but the word no is very, very powerful. It closes doors and locks them. And that single word is all it will take, issuing from Gevurah's lips, to render it moot. And there you will be, forced to choose between your heart and your...I do not even know what the rest of you would be. Your avarice? Your inborn need to play political games? I know not. But I tell you this, and I tell it plainly: I will forgive you if, and only if, you can make me believe that you think this war is wrong, and that you are fighting on the wrong side...or, at least, fighting in a war in which you wholeheartedly do not believe in. I suppose having you fight for the elves would be a good deal too much to ask. If this means that my lack of forgiveness stops you making your appeal, then so be it. I cannot and will not bend on this."

Laezila shook her head once more, though her gaze went elsewhere, her expression soured not in anger, but in hesitation. "I do not fear Gevurah. I do not fear the House. I do fear Patron Tiphareth. I have seen what happens to those that oppose his House. I have seen the fate of their souls, a fate far worse than death." Her small body trembled lightly, briefly, "You ask me what I am choosing between that keeps me from choosing my heart? I am choosing between my heart and not just my life, but the lives of every D'l'Sel D'issan in my House. Not just the soldiers. The children. The laborers. The teachers, the cooks, the scholars, the students, and every last person of drow blood that has been shunned, hated, or oppressed for not being of full drow blood. Can I condemn them to an eternity of a hell that I fear the thought of? Could you do so in my position?" She bit her bottom lip briefly, "It is a sacrifice I cannot make. Appealing to Gevurah may be denied, but she does not sit on the Council. Were it just my life on the line, perhaps I could turn against D'Artes to stop the war. I nearly had once, for Krice." The first and thus far only man to have cared about her well-being and proved it by saving her life. "The second is that you forgive me," she repeated, and looked at the man.

Resolute and stoic and utterly unflinching, Emrith's eyes focus on Laezila. "You sue for sympathy. You have it. Sympathy is not forgiveness. I cannot forgive you if you do not wholeheartedly believe that you are involved in a war you do not believe in. If I knew that to be true, knew that you wished no harm to any elf so long as they did you no harm, then I could forgive you. You are in a difficult position, and I can understand that. I can sympathize, but forgiveness is a much much higher wager."

Laezila met the man's eyes, her own saddened, "Then I will bear the burden of my sins without forgiveness. Perhaps, if my appeal is accepted, you may change your mind. Until then, my hands will remain stained, and I choose that to keep alive those in my House. To keep their souls intact. Know that even if you don't forgive me, I forgive you." Her visage began to flicker, as the maintenance of keeping the projection finally began to become increasingly difficult.

Emrith steps forward at the first sign of the image becoming weaker, wanting to impart two messages before Laezila fades. "I need not be forgiven. I do what I must, and I pay for it. You have my promise that when Sage belongs to the elves once again, I will not spill a single drop of drow blood unless I, or someone I am close to, should be first attacked. I will bear you and your kind absolutely no ill will, so long as we are left to our devices. What is more, I will do everything I can to stop the racial hatred of your kind among my own kinsmen; it is self-serving and gets us nowhere. That is my promise to you. I, like you, will do what I must." He pauses a moment. "Something to go on, if you will. You still seem passing fair to my eyes, even if you are blue." It is the elf's best attempt at levity on short notice, and his own lips quirk into a smile; a wholehearted attempt to end this peculiar meeting on something that doesn't taste quite so sour.

Laezila snorted in amusement at the man's offered compliment, "Were I only truly there, elf, you'd have a choice between killing me with steel or with your lips." She cocked a grin at him then, "You don't need to be forgiven, no. But you are anyway. Just answer me one thing, Emrith." Her form flickered. "If we had to cross blades, would you be able to take my life?"

Emrith considers Laezila's question long, well aware that she might pop out of existence at any moment. "That is a difficult question, and depends largely upon why we were crossing blades. If you could not be stopped short of killing, then yes...I could end your life, if I were to defeat you. I would regret it, but I could do it." He pauses here, running a hand back through his blond hair. "I would, however, try everything in my power to stop you instead of killing you. If that meant capturing you, disabling you or otherwise making sure you could no longer get in the way, I would do those things before slaying you, if I could. I ask that you not take this personally. I am very stern of resolve, and my ability to say truthfully that I could kill you is nothing more or less than that resolve showing its face. I do not wish you dead. I do wish you to not be an impediment to my cause. I will stop you being such an impediment in any way I know how. Does that answer your question?"

Laezila cocked a grin, "Good. Because I could, too." And like that, the flickering image was gone.