RP:Picking Up the Pieces

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc

Summary: Recovering from her time spent binding Corruption, Larewen works toward restoring House Dragana. In the meantime, Emrith returns and the two begin to talk. Plans for assassination are made, but in the process Emrith, convinced Larewen's affections are meant to distract him, spurns her. Not wishing to fight, Larewen simply goes to her room.

House Dragana

Larewen isn’t in tip-top shape by any means, but the necromancer is up and around. She’s not the only one though, for the clamoring of pans in the kitchen and the coppery smell of wafting from that room indicate at least one other. The scarred elf’s wounds are slowly knitting themselves together and the Lady Dragana rests upon the couch that isn’t stained. With Margret’s help, she has cleaned up and changed into a simple black gown. Her neck is bandaged. In her hands, the elf holds an obsidian goblet that is encrusted with emeralds. Sigmund is busy dusting whilst Aisen works on sweeping up the leaves and cleaning the webs that have gathered within the manse. Steam rises from the bowl of the cup.

Emrith is only just now returning to House Dragana, after a brief scouting mission to ensure that the surroundings are secure. There were, of course, other reasons for his disappearance, but of those he does not plan to speak. A little blood has been spilled, a little information has passed from one set of lips to one set of pointed elven ears, and Emrith is perhaps the wiser for it. Things are still far from concrete in his mind, however. When he re-enters the great house to find it bustling with activity again, he is somewhat startled. This surprise turns to pleasure when he sees Larewen up and about, and his eyes fasten upon the steaming cup in her hand. "Tea?" he asks. "Because of the steam. Unless you prefer your blood so hot it nearly boils, that is."

Larewen arches a brow at Emrith. “I prefer my blood quite hot, actually,” she replies. “Fresh from the spigot is best, but there aren’t an abundance of living around here so I sent Sigmund out earlier. Margret warmed it for me. Would you care for a cup?” Even as she poses this query she is studying him, almost warily. The curse is still alight, though duller than it was the night before. Her skin is less feverish and.. well, to put it this way: coupled with the tha-thump of her heart, she’d pass as living. Even as she speaks the goblet is being lowered to an end table and she rises to her feet, a tentative step drawing her nearer to the familiar male. She reaches out, seeking to touch him if only to savor he feel of his nearness.

Emrith does not withdraw, but lets Larewen touch him when she reaches out. "No, thank you. I have fed much in the last while, and do not prefer hot blood unless it comes from something living. I still believe that I take it more from necessity than pleasure. Oh, there is some pleasure in the hunt, the kill, even, but as far as the taste?" He wrinkles his nose theatrically. "Give me a dark elven wine any day. I consider myself something of a gourmand, and simple blood, no matter its vintage, simply does not thrill my palate as it might yours. I doubt this will change." He looks Larewen up and down, making no secret either of his scrutiny or its avidity. "You appear to be looking better," he quips. "But that is not saying much, after what I put you through, is it?"

Larewen rolls her shoulder, contemplating taking his mouth into a kiss. Ultimate, she’s turned back to her glass of blood though and reseated herself, watching him. “I’m alive. It’s more than I could have hoped for, considering. Now that I am no longer necessary to keep Corruption in place, it is imperative that I regain my strength as quickly as possible. The Houses know the threat that looms over them in the wake of their actions; I wouldn’t be surprised were they to start sending assassins as soon as they realize I have truly returned.” She finishes her glass. “Wine aged with blood is better, and a mulled bloodwine with spices is perfect for the season. I’ll have Margret make a batch, once my wards are back in place.” Her gaze lowers to the empty goblet and she places it on the end table, grabbing the small silver packet of cigarettes instead. “You’ve put me through Hell,” she says, pointedly. “Yet my heart still belongs to you. Love is a damned funny thing, isn’t it?” She winces, as if something pains her. Likely the curse.

Emrith is not ignorant of Larewen's wince, and his eyes grow hard and uncompromising in the wake of recognition. "One way and another, there must be a method of ridding you of...of that." he says, and there is clear distaste in his voice. "You do not expect to become powerful, to gain what was taken from you, with chains on your ankles and a noose around your neck, do you?" He waves one slender hand. "As for assassins, however, they are not the only house with the potential to employ them. You are speaking to a man who stole a stone directly out of King Macon's crown in the room where he slept, and got away without anyone ever knowing the identity of the thief. There is much we can do in order to ensure that your vengeance is successful. None should dare make a challenge upon any house unless they are certain of success." He narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. "I should warn you, however, that reaching too far usually results in an amputation of sorts. Take what you can, and guard it. Protect it. Strengthen it. But do not presume, then, to spread your influence beyond its means. I should hope that you know this already. I may help you regain the honour of your house, and the control of Vailkrin you seek. I will not stand by while you attempt to destroy the world." In his head, Emrith adds an extra sentence, one which makes his lips twitch as if they might grin if he would only let them. His thought, unvoiced: "That may happen in other ways."

Larewen tilts her head. “Stole from King Macon, did you?” she echoes, clearly bemused. Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth momentarily before places a cigarette in her mouth. With a gesture of her hand, she moves it. “Trajek’s curse is not the first one to mar my flesh. Gheneroc sought to control me, too. He’s still sour over my betrayal - yes, I’ve toyed too much with the politics of dragons in my time as well.” She takes a long draw. “Destroying the world would mean nothing for me to rule over; I might as well end my life now and save myself the failures that may come, if that were my intent.” Finally, she gestures to the space beside her. “Come, sit with me, my love.”

Emrith moves to take the offered seat, moving slowly and perching as if he might at any time lunge upright again; it is, unfortunately, a product of the last few days, this increased reticence, and Emrith hopes it fades soon. "That is good, then. Controlling your own corner of existence ought to be good enough for any ruler, I think. Too many lives are lost when people attempt to take what is not theirs to have." He falls quiet a moment, running a hand back through his blond hair. His face sets itself in something close to a frown. "You cannot have an unfortunate curse leaping up to bite you at a critical moment. The undead, above most else save perhaps lycans and dragons, will see weakness as too tempting to pass up. You do not need to appear frail or pained before them, Larewen. But again, I need not tell you so, I suspect. I simply believe that, if possible, it is high time to prove, to everyone I mean, that you are not to be subjugated."

Larewen rests her cigarette in a groove carved into an obsidian ashtray. Then, turning upon the settee, she faces Emrith and listens with surprising attentiveness. A frown weighs on her scarred lips. “Perhaps the Shade might see logic in freeing me of Trajek’s curse,” she says after a moment. Before he can protest, the necromancer raises a finger. “I say this because the Shade can help provide me with tools I need. But if I can convince him that, in the wake of Trajek’s absence, that his curses are hindering me, then perhaps I might have a chance at freedom from them.” It’s logic, really. She reaches forward then, leaning toward Emrith as she cups the familiar curves of his face. Both augmented brown eye and deep emerald left focus on his. “Do you truly mean to stand beside me, Emrith? Can I count on you for that?” she asks. Her head dips slightly, mouth seeking his before her lips brush the lobe of her ear. “I truly desire to have you at my side; I have never lied to you about that.”

Emrith enjoys Larewen's proximity more than he lets on. He keeps a cool mask of reserve upon his countenance even as she cups his face and then kisses him gently. When she draws back a little, he lets the silence spin out...a calculated social ploy, to make hre realize the depth of what she is asking, the the import of the answer. "If it is as you say, then yes. You can count on me. But let us be clear, Larewen. If I am to stand beside you, that is a phrase I take literally. Not above you. Not behind or beneath you. Beside you. Perhaps you will be the one to make decisions, and unless something goes horribly awry, I will not circumnavigate you or get in your way. I will not second-guess you in public and thus erode your base of power. But there may be things you should like to do with which I disagree. I may have ideas of my own. And I expect a fair hearing, because I will give you the same. You may be the power behind Vailkrin, and I have no desire to make you into a figurehead. But I will not simply be a hired sword who happens to share a ruler's bed. If that is understood, then we are agreed. If you have questions or concerns, voice them now, because I am unlikely to listen with an open mind later." He falls quiet again, waiting to see what Larewen will say.

Larewen frowns at Emrith. “You think I’d do that?” Her tone is incredulous as she draws back slightly to meet his eyes again. “I have never put you beneath me, you are too strong and stubborn a soul to allow that. I mean it precisely as I say it: I wish you alongside me, as not only my lover, but my King as well.” As she says that, it strikes her how ridiculous she sounds. Did she not spew the same garbage to Trajek, to Shishi? How can she expect Emrith to believe her, when she knows they’ve been through this rigmarole before?

It is, in fact, precisely because this has happened before that Emrith is hesitant, and attempting to make Larewen declare her intentions this way. He gives her a moment to stew, then responds. "If it is as you say, then I will agree. I reserve the right to change my mind if it comes to pass that the past indicates the future. Please understand this." To his own surprise, Emrith puts out his right hand and rests it on Larewen's shoulder. "I apologize, love." His voice is a little softer now. "This is not pleasant for either of us, and I did say there would be doubts on both sides. You can be hurt by my desire to guard my back, or you can recognize it, for now at least, as a necessary part of the process. I am meaning you no harm, though. This is not a method to hurt you or to undermine your trust or confidence. It is merely self-protection. Nothing more, and nothing less." His thumb rubs the muscle just above her shoulder-blade in tight little circles. "But I think we have gotten things mostly cleared away, at least on that score. So I would have you tell me how you think I can help you. I intend to stand beside you, as you suggest, but perhaps not in the declarative way you, or others, might expect. For now, stealth and secrecy will serve us better than boldness. What is it I can do for you without tipping our hand?"

Larewen does not pull away from his touch. In fact, she leans into it as he speaks. “No, it’s not pleasant at all,” she agrees. “But I think you’ll find that, as I expressed the last time, I have no desire to willingly threaten what we have.” That is truth. She turns her head, pressing her lips to the cool flesh of his arm. “They will question, if you were to be seen helping me anyway,” the elf murmurs into his flesh. “There are some targets I have, which I intended to ask Shishi to take care of. Perhaps you could, instead?”

Emrith weighs Larewen's words for only a moment before nodding. "Explain," he says curtly. "Who is it that needs dealing with, and, more importantly, why?" He shivers a little when Larewen's lips touch his arm, but refuses to let himself be distracted. "Eventually, stepping-stones will be replaced with bridges. Take that on faith, if it does not yet look likely."

Larewen moves her lips up along his arm, over his shoulder, and to his throat. The kisses are tender yet filled with a longing for the spell blade. “I will give you the list later; it is key opponents among the aristocracy. All guilty, I assure you dearest,” she whispers quietly. “Right now, I just want to bask in your presence, if that’s alright?”

"All guilty. That is not enough." Emrith pulls back a little, unhappy to do it but clearly bent on the task ahead. "There is going to be more than enough time for indulgence later. We do not have to talk business right now, but your attempts to distract me when I am asking important questions sets a bad precedent. There is, after all, a part of me currently asking whether or not you are trying to seduce me so that I go where you point without thinking. This may not be your intent, and I do not presume you guilty of it without proof, but it is a worry nevertheless." He puts a hand up to the side of Larewen's head, tracing one tapered ear with a fingertip. "In future, it might be wise to remember that mixing business and pleasure is dangerous." His rebuke is gentle, but it is still clearly intended as a form of reprimand.

Larewen draws back. No, she recoils in lieu of Emrith’s words, pain evident on those scarred features. She reaches for the smoldering cigarette and takes a drag from it before she shakes her head at Emrith. “Forgive me for wanting to spend my first conscious moments back inside my body in the arms of the man I love,” comes her barbed reply, the notes of her voice echoing her hurt. “They are key members among the noble houses that frames me for their slaughter of innocents at the ball. Ones that, once they are gone, will make their loss or surrender far easier. I have no desire to destroy Vailkrin’s nobility, and they will be given the opportunity to answer for their crimes, but I shall see to it that they do not hold an advantage. Is that good enough?”

Emrith does not flinch from Larewen's outburst; in the past, he might have done, if only because he understands the hurt in it. Now, though, he simply nods his head in affirmation, not addressing her own counter-attack directly. "Yes. That will suffice. I was not, after all, planning to run out right this minute and find them. But your timing, Larewen, leaves a little to be desired. First you mention that you could use my help, and then, only then, do you seek to sway my attentions with passion. I am not averse to such, under normal circumstances, but surely you can see how this looks. It was poorly choreographed, is all. I will attribute it to your lack of a corporeal shell, and to the emotional turmoil of the last little while, and we need say no more on it."

Larewen continues drawing on her cigarette until there is no more left and she crushes it into the tray. She allows Emrith the moment to speak and when he’s finished dual-colored eyes rise to his. “Stepping stones,” she murmurs under her breath. “I’ll have to keep reminding myself of that, and perhaps one day we’ll cross the bridge where you’ll realize not everything I do with you has an ulterior motive. I am capable of loving, Emrith.” That hurt is still very visible in her eyes. In fact, her voice cracks slightly and the runes carved into her flesh flicker brightly for a few moments. She inhales, exhales, and shakes her head.

"You are also very capable of using people, even - and perhaps especially - those you love, Larewen Dragana." There is steel in Emrith's words, and his face is firm, full of resolve. "This is not to say that you are, merely that you can, and have. You are a strong woman, not ever to be underestimated. One day I will trust you more or less completely. That day is not yet. You have not earned that yet, and I will not apologize for your hurt feelings, either, so please do not expect me to." He does, however, rein in his own slightly risen temper at this point. "Let us leave business behind, however, at least for now. I know enough to begin with, and what more I need, I can get later. I trust you this far. And I am not unaware of your charms, nor immune to the knowledge of your nearness. I have missed you too, after all, even though until recently I had thought you beyond all reclamation. It is good, in this instance, to know that I was wrong."

Larewen responds only with a lift of her chin as she rises from the settee. What precisely can she say? Emrith is not wrong to be skeptical and wary of her, but that does not lessen the pain she feels. Instead, without a word, she departs from the foyer and meets Margret in the Kitchen. There, she fetches another goblet of warmed blood, needing desperately to provide her body with the nutrition it needs to heal. When she comes back through, her eyes meet Emrith’s and she does not mask the emotion there. “Perhaps I am a fool for not being cautious enough. Your room is still available, should you desire it. My room is open, as well. In the meantime, I think I will retire to it while you… relax. I am trying, Emrith. You have to at least have a modicum of faith in me for this to work. I’m not asking you to trust me as you once did - you have every reason not to, and I understand that. But pushing me away, rejecting my affections, only makes us both suffer. I have never used you, and I never will. Think on the past, you’ll see it’s true.” And with that, the necromancer and grabs her pack of cigarettes too and ascends the stairs.