RP:Pride and Prejudice
Lyros had indeed called in at the clinic earlier, some time in the early afternoon. Far too early for him after the night he had, personally, but one must keep to their appointments or risk the wrath of a doctor. Eleenin's parting words to the drow following his usual check-up (which Lyros continued to insist was unnecessary, as always) had mildly unsettled him: "Watch out for nurses." That almost sounded like a threat, but then, he'd had plenty of time during his visit to pick up on the whispered shared between nurses and patients alike, even if they were reluctant to speak directly with him. A woman accosted at her workplace— the witch was brave, to say the least. Satisfied that the giant's comment had nothing to do with the idea he'd been entertaining of skipping his next appointment, Lyros had allowed all that to drift out of his mind as he'd gone about the rest of his day as normal, eventually finding himself at the fort again. The sun hangs low in the sky, its light no longer carrying whatever paltry warmth it deigned to give throughout the day - the mage is bundled up in a scarf and thick coat as he walks through the gardens, hoping to keep away the chill of oncoming night, for he is not yet acclimatised to the weather of the frozen north and not particularly fond of cold, actually. He carries a crate of miscellaneous supplies in his arms, held against his chest, destined for some store room or perhaps the makeshift infirmary that was set up within the fortress. Perhaps he might have passed Josleen by without a second glance but there is something, some angle in her face, the shape of her nose, her eyes, that feels oddly familiar and gives him cause to turn his head towards her after that initial glance, his footsteps faltering as he tilts his head in bemusement. He is reasonably certain they have never met, but at the risk of sounding like a stale romantic novel, he thinks he saw her in a dream, once. But that can't be true. He's had his fair share of rough, medicated nights over these past few weeks - it's safe to say he might have caught a glimpse of her in the clinic before, though Lyros has yet to make that connection. Unfortunately, he's too busy trying to work out just where he knows her from that he forgets to look where he's going, and walks straight into an empty bench and trips over, landing sprawled awkwardly on his box.
Josleen loves stale romantic novels, for what it’s worth. The only reason she’s reading this ladies-in-high-society tripe is to woo the judgment of the public eye in her favor. Normally she reads condensed romance trash, but this anecdote is neither here nor there. Josleen looks up from a sexless ballroom scene at the sound of what could be a drunken waltzer tripping into the wine cellar, but turns out to be a man sprawled over a box that is surely brimming with his shame. From where she sits, and with Lyros’s skin bundled up as it is, she can’t make out Lyros’s race and thus does not delay in scurrying to his side. “Are you alright?” she asks as evenly as possible, so as to not deepen his embarrassment with her alarm (or so she presumes). But upon closer inspection his ebon flesh strikes fear in her heart, and she gasps, jerking back as if he were a viper ready to strike. She’s about to shout for the guards — the fort is under attack again! — when her mind completes yet another quick calculation. Her hatred of Laezila has earned her few friends and more detractors, and the guards can see this drow plain as day and yet do not strike. He must be safe. Josleen swallows a lump of racism, wears a synthetic smile, and says, “I’m sorry, I thought I saw a spider.” After a quick scan to see who’s watching, she reluctantly offers Lyros a hand (gloved, let’s not get ahead of ourselves) to help him to his feet. She is sure to remove her hand as quickly as it is released. Similar to Lyros, Josleen is bundled from head to toe in far too many layers: wool hat, cream gloves, a floral scarf, a pink scarf, a plum peacoat on a floral dress on tights in boots more fashionable than practical. “If you’re in one piece, I should get back to my duties in the medical ward.” She observes a sentence too late the contents of the box and privately curses herself. “Ah, were you heading that way?” Now they need to walk together, and for Sven’s sake, the regret sets in quick.
Lyros would bury himself in this box, if he could. He is a man of contradictions in many ways, most obviously in how he moves - elegant then clumsy, always at the worst times. It's partly the reason he has found himself in the clinic so often, and also why Eleenin has got him under city arrest. Left somewhat winded from his fall, the mage struggles for a moment before resolving to just roll sideways off the crate, which likely only survived the impact due to the lack of weight landing on it; Lyros is not the sturdiest thing, like a plant grown in the dark, all long and lanky. Landing on his back in the snow, he's met by the woman who got him into this mess, figuratively speaking at least. "Ah, I'm—" His voice is softer than you might expect for a drow and cuts off abruptly when Josleen jerks back, his slightly wide-eyed and unguarded expression quickly hardening, amber eyes fierce and faceted. That is a look he knows well, and though it vanishes almost as soon as it first formed, Lyros finds it more difficult to let go. Still, he swallows his pride enough to accept that hand (also gloved, but at least it's not clawed) and climb to his feet, before bending to retrieve the supply crate after brushing himself down. "I'm fine.." the patchy drow finishes quietly, pondering the hidden meanings of that comment and wondering if she chose to say spider on purpose. There's a flush in his cheeks that is either the fault of the cold or his shame, perhaps both. "Medical ward?" His focus, too, falls back to the box and he disguises a smirk by clearing his throat. "I was. You're running low on gauze and salves, I think?" That's what he assumes, given the contents of his burden.
Josleen notes the fierceness in his eyes and submits her chin and gaze to him, hoping that drow males like human men are easily appeased by a submissive woman. Another moment, another calculation. Though it’s doubtful he’d be threatened by her even without the act. The half-elf’s five-foot-two stature and civilian gait inspires fear in few, though none would describe her as a waif. She’s hale, with just enough curves to land herself in trouble from time to time (the past 24 hours being one of those times), but not so much that she would make women clutch their husbands upon entering a room. Not that Lyros can make out much of her figure thanks to two sweaters and cardigan puffing up her coat. If it wasn’t for the fineness of her face, he’d likely think she’s plump. “Ah, yes. Let me see.” She plucks a jar from the crate and reads the label. “Yes, for Dame Hildegarde.” Normally Josleen fetches the supplies she needs herself, but present circumstances being what they are... “I could take this up to the ward on my own,” she says, already circling Lyros to reach for the box and giving him a wide berth. The circling is unnecessary. She could have extended her arm across him to tug the crate closer to her, but doing so would bring her closer to a drow than she cares to be. Whereas most smiles are inviting, hers seems to repel. No need to get closer, drow. Her eyes narrow on his white patches of flesh. Correction: No need to get closer, diseased drow.
Lyros has been confused by surface women ever since he ventured out of the Underdark, honestly. Their attitude throws him off completely, often leaving him in an uncomfortable situation where he has no idea how to act - he is used to the opposite, to domineering girls who hide monsters behind their false, saccharine smiles, but for the most part he's uncovered none of that submerged beneath the faces of women here. He is equally wary of them, however, and also of the whispers. He's done his best to be good and give no one an opportunity to spread terrible rumours about the patchy-faced drow, because he knows those words could destroy him much as they might do the same to that nurse he heard about. For entirely different reasons, naturally - Lyros has mostly kept his hands to himself. And he is not about to write off racism for a pretty face, no matter how small and unassuming she might be compared to him, though she never said anything outright. Suspicious all the same, he'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was simply startled to see a drow doing something so mundane as delivering goods. After the recent attack on the fort, her reaction is quite justified. "No, it's quite all right." He is cordial and polite, if a touch curt, rough around the edges as he is. Given the typical attitude of drow, the mage is quite subdued. "It's a favour to Eleenin, anyway." Lyros owes the gruff shaman quite a debt by this point, and he won't have a stranger do these things for him. "I'm not contagious," he snorts in afterthought, obviously noticing her reluctance to touch or get close to him in any way.
Josleen laughs like a sparrow after Lyros’s final retort until a dainty cough brings her up short. She lifts a palm to excuse herself as she clears her throat against the back of her other hand. “Excuse me. Sorry if I gave offense. I’m the contagious one.” She smiles disarmingly as she waves a hand for Lyros to proceed down the pathway. Normally she’d take her leave now, but having already declared herself en route to the ward, and considering Lyros’s racially-sensitive reservations, she feels obliged to remain in his company. No matter; this may help her reputation. Maybe. How in the world is befriending a member of the enemy race during a time of war a public-pleasing stunt? But Josleen knows this to be true of Frostmaw’s socio-political climate right now, and it’s just one more part for the actress to play. Suddenly she remembers her nurse friend, Eileen, mentioned a drow patient at the clinic (Ansel didn’t mentioned a thing thanks to Josleen’s anti-drow lean). “Say, you mentioned owing Eleenin a favour. Would that be an old debt, or a more recent one?”
Lyros is slightly tempted to question that remark further — how exactly is she contagious? — but opts instead, perhaps wisely, to pass before he's inevitably deflected or made fun of for not getting a hidden joke. A shrug answers her words as the drow begins to walk, making sure his pace is slow enough that she can keep up with his much longer strides. "It's fine, no worse than the usual." He's used to it all; the stares, the apprehension, the way others give him a wide berth. It can be as much of a blessing as a curse, for the mage is not hugely talkative to begin with, but when he does want to get to know someone...it can make things difficult, all that racial prejudice and stuff. Still, his lack of anger is almost disconcerting - Lyros is a strange one in more than just looks. His posture is somewhat stiff, though, as though he's wary, almost awkward. Around them, the air is quiet and still, heavy with impending snowfall, and above grey clouds roil and curl in preparation to dust Frostmaw's rooftops with white during the night. The sun is sinking, slowly, behind the mountains as the world darkens, the first stars unfurling over a watercolour sky. "Recent," he answers with a blink and a slight tilt of the head, giving her a sidelong glance, briefly catching her gaze before looking away. He tips his head up to stare at the stars instead, fairly safe to do so given they're on a straight path for now. "I haven't been here long, but I've already spent half my time in that damn clinic, with all those staring eyes. But he saved my life, him and his mentee." What was his name again... Lyros' memory of that night is fuzzy, given he almost died and woke up heavily medicated on painkillers, but he remembers Ansel's face clear as day.
Josleen does her best not to stare at Lyros as they walk side by side, but she can’t help but steal a few furtive looks. She’s never seen such a tall drow. He doesn’t look particularly bloodthirsty( ;-) ;-) ;-) ). If she’s reading this correctly, she’s making him uncomfortable rather than the other way around. Weird, reassuring too, but weird. With each successive glance she lowers her defences, until not before long the atmosphere around them feels normal and appropriate for strangers acquainting themselves with one another. Lyros searches for a name that Josleen keeps on the tip of her tongue these days. “Ansel?” she asks. Internally, she kicks herself for sounding a little breathless and very flustered. “Oh he’s very good at his job,” she says with distance and indifference, as if Ansel is just a colleague.
Lyros huffs a chilly breath, either unaware of the glances Josleen steals or not bothering to mention it. The latter is likely as he'd look a little hypocritical, stealing just as many sidelong looks in return. His past experiences have made him warier of women than most, even if they are small and demure, tucked up in bundles of layers, entirely unassuming. If there is one trait he shares with typical drow, it is their lack of trust in others. "That's it," he affirms with a nod, hitching the box a little higher in his arms and jostling some of its contents in the process. "He's good with his...hands...? Wait, not like—" Despite himself he laughs, and it is a strange thing for a drow to laugh so freely, without any unpleasant or harsh notes to his voice. "Not that!" There's a chuckle as he shakes his head, face heating enough at the thought to melt the light dusting of ice crystals on his cheeks. "Erm, but yes— he saved my life, with Eleenin. I owe both of them a great debt. I'm not...the easiest to heal. He did a good job."
Josleen laughs too, just as freely and like a bell. “I wonder if he is good with his hands like that!” She doesn’t need to wonder, but she pretends for the sake of appearances. Laughing with a drow, how unexpected. But it doesn’t last, her mirth giving way to unease as the memory of his hands collide with the uncertainty of their future. She rolls her lips together and rubs at her collarbone in her typical nervous tic. Her boots click on the stone and ice floor of the fort, their rhythm as tense and impatient as her sudden mood. “There’s a shortcut through the training yard. They’re not using it at this hour,” she says as she leads Lyros on a route only a resident of the fort would know. Reflexively she nods or waves at various guards and staff, only greeting those closest to her by name. “Jorr” “Hannith” “Evening, Bellose.” Behind the salutations, her mind dwells on Ansel. This won’t do. She searches for a distraction, and the obvious candidate is Lyros himself. “Why do you say you are not the easiest to heal?”
"I was too busy passing out to think to ask, unfortunately." Lyros' remark is light-hearted but he also trails off into silence, the smile fading in favour of a more neutral, hardened expression as they pass a pair of guardsmen. His mind lingers on the memory of those hands, too, if for entirely different reasons. He can still feel the phantom touch of what they unwittingly wrought upon him, the static charge of magic fighting magic within his body, in that healed wound at his neck and the still-tender scar across his stomach. The recollection of how his blood reacted to Ansel's work leaves an unpleasant itch in his skin, the sensation akin to bugs crawling and burrowing through his flesh. If he had a free hand, the drow would probably be rubbing his neck. Half-distracted, Lyros trusts Josleen enough to lead them through the fort to their destination - he greets each of those they pass by with the same indifference, his gaze passing over them as though they do not exist. It's clear the mage's thoughts are elsewhere, but he snaps out of it at his companion's question. "Ah..." He was just thinking about the very topic she brought up, his preoccupied mind wandering various pathways as he tried to work out whether his magic's hold on him as grown worse recently. A breath is drawn in, a pervading chill in his lungs to make him cough. "It's a bit difficult to explain, but— the way my magic is, it doesn't react well to healing energy. It's kind of out to get me." His laugh this time is notably lacking in its prior warmth, tinged with bitterness.
Lyros’s shift in mood reminds her of Ansel, the one person she was trying not to think of. To be fair to Lyros, everything reminds her of Ansel right now. She clings to what Lyros actually says to keep from sinking further in the quagmire of her feelings — anger, disappointment, betrayal and suspicion, all counterbalanced by an equally fierce love (with lust as the cordial cherry on top). Curiosity breaks through, and she looks up at Lyros, way up, as she asks, “What do you mean, ‘your magic?’ As in…” she drops her voice, looks furtively to and fro, and whispers, “dark magic?” She leads him into the medical ward and gestures for him to set the box down on a table near the cabinet. Medical personnel and patients share this space, but the fort’s ward is considerably less crowded than Eleenin’s clinic. The nurse rifles through a dozen keys to find the one that unlocks the cabinet. The keys confer upon her a certain status as a trusted ally of the fort, though it’s unclear what title, if any, she holds.
Lyros almost grimaces at the words, 'dark magic,' but after a furtive glance around himself, he responds with the barest hint of a nod and a reluctant sigh. Soon enough, the tales are certain to spread of this strange drow and his twisted magic taking up residence in Frostmaw, and eventually it will reach back to his House...but his reluctance to speak of his blood magic is less due to that and more down to his personal opinions of it. The former he will face when it comes, because it undoubtedly will; the other is a different story. "It's probably not what you're thinking. I'm not in the business of raising the dead." The reality is far worse, something implied through the underlying hints of shame tangled in his voice, all his buried secrets that linger just below the surface. Into the medical ward they go, Lyros dutifully following Josleen past a couple of beds - having spent more than his fair share of time at Eleenin's tent over the past couple of weeks, the mage is quick to take notice of the openness of this space, which feels neither too crowded or claustrophobic. He can't help an exasperated huff, remembering many a restless night spent in Frostmaw clinic, overly aware of the slightest movements of the others in close confines around him; their gentle breaths and the rise and fall of their chests; the soft rustle of bed sheets; and their dreaming murmurs all sharp and cutting, like thorns against his skin. "By the way, who are you?" Lyros asks as he sets the crate down on a table close by the cabinet, golden eyes lingering on Josleen and those keys she holds. Whether her ownership prompted the question, or the simple realisation that they had yet to exchange names, is something the drow leaves unsaid.
"I was thinking that. Relieved to be wrong,” she says in a cadence that deftly dismisses necromancy, but not Lyros. It’s an uncanny talent, this ability of hers to communicate multiple thoughts distinctly and at once; and one detected by only the most attentive on their most vigilant days. “But my imagination runs wild with guesses that are surely worse than your truth. Would you put my mind at ease? Whatever do you mean?” As she speaks she sets apart on the keyring three small keys of similar design. The first key won’t fit the lock, the second slides in but won’t turn, but the third does the trick. A victorious smile boasts over her shoulder at Lyros. “Like a fair-haired girl with a fondness for bears, hm?” Her smile falters as the darkness of his skin reminds her that he likely won’t understand her cultural reference. She turns back to the darkness of the cabinet and the darkness of his magic. Her light grows fainter each time she confuses his flesh for an abyss wedged between them.
Lyros slants her a sidelong look for that first comment, and perhaps he detects the underlying meaning - he is, after all, a drow, and words of layered intent are part and parcel of the society he spent his life growing up in, lies within lies tied with deadly bows. Unwrapping them is a careful and potentially dangerous process. "I can put you at unease," he replies in deadpan tones, coupled with a shrug that would seem almost nonchalant unless one were to notice the tension in his posture. "I'm— what?" Bears? That takes him aback completely, if his bemused blink is any indication, and the drow is fairly certain he's missing out on some joke, but this is one he cannot decipher. He tries, but can find no connection between bears and keys, or their current location; he settles for assuming that was a response to his question. "I meant your name," he tries to amend with a slight frown, prodding around in the box's contents and picking out a few pots of salves which rest on top of everything else. With a sigh, he admits to her back, "And I'm a blood mage." It is likely a form of sorcery Josleen will only have heard of in whispers and rumours, none of them telling of good things - stories of wizards who wield their own blood and body as their weapon, using it to poison, maim, even control others' limbs and minds with their malign art. Judging by his reluctance and the mildly concerned look on his face, Lyros can only guess what she might have overheard.
Josleen makes eye contact over her shoulder with a percipient stare that is framed by a deceptively soft smile. She knows what he meant, but her father taught her to be wary of giving her name to dark mages for her name on their lips could be a curse on her head. Provincial and wizardly superstitions underpin more of Josleen’s choices than she would care to admit. But his flustered reaction to her reference, and his humanizing slow-blink, disarms her and she gives in as she resumes stocking the cabinet from his the wares in his box. “Josleen,” she says, and immediately regrets it as he reveals himself to be a blood mage. Hopefully he has no use for manipulating her body. Her legs clench at the thought. The fact remains that he is a guest of the fort and a patient of Eleenin, and to this she clings like its her safety line. “I see,” she says with a swallow. “And who are you? How is it you came to Frostmaw?”
Josleen. Lyros mulls that one over and is surprised when he detects traces of familiarity— not in its taste, as he's reasonably certain it is not a name he has ever spoken, but in the poetry of each syllable strung together to make it up. Has he heard it before? Handing over a few vials of restoratives from the box, he glances to the woman and presumes the gossips at Eleenin must know her, or at least of her. She's familiar enough with the medical ward and seemingly has keys to half the rooms of the fort; she's likely a nurse herself. "...My name is Lyros Levasca." He almost regrets admitting the truth, watching the hint of unease pass through her posture. Well, he wasn't lying. Were he more eloquent, he might attempt to persuade her that he means no harm but the mage has always been a believer that actions are worth more than words; he will just have to prove it instead. "Erm—" He arrived through a portal spitting blood and gore, but Lyros wisely decides against being too specific this time around. "—Accidentally, really. My teleportation is a little unreliable." Even an outcast drow would be reluctant to step into the City of War, especially when it is currently making good on its namesake against his kind, and it was not Lyros' choice to end up here. "I might not have stayed, but...it has its benefits, living here."
His demeanor continues to win over her prejudice. She detects in his honesty a vulnerability that empowers her. Precisely in the places where he fails to navigate this encounter, her ego swells. Blood magic, all magic, may evade her command, but she can't help but feel that in this setting and under these circumstances, so long as Lyros is not provoked to act on his knowledge of the dark arts, she has the upper hand. This slight advantage has a way of blanching the color of his skin before her eyes, and it is with a newfound confidence that she teases, "A dangerous place for you to appear in times like these." The box is now empty and the cabinet restocked. She locks it, stands, smoothes her floral dress and cardigan, makes all the little motions that signal the end of a conversation. "If Steward Hildegarde has welcomed you to this city, then I suppose I should too," she says with the cordial indifference of a well-bred woman. "Farewell, Mr. Levasca. I should tend to my duties." She starts to leave.
He's supposed to be trying to gain the trust of people, to prove he is safe(ish) to move freely around the city without a constant set of eyes upon him, not to scare them all away. At least Josleen does not appear to be running yet; if anything she is doing the opposite, gaining ground, and Lyros feels vaguely unsettled for some reason. It's like the balance has just tipped, oh so slightly, and it is unlikely to be in his favour. The mage manages an amused snort at her comment all the same, even if he can't quite shake off that strange notion. "Indeed. It's not been the easiest time." Still, he's alive, and against all odds he is starting to gain some traction in this city, whatever prejudice its people may hold against him. "Ah, yeah. It was—" Nice? "—good to meet you too, Josleen. Have a good evening?" A hand is raised in a sort of farewell wave as Lyros ponders why he bothered with the niceties, which feel awkward, foreign and clunky on his tongue no matter how often he repeats them under his breath, no matter how genuine they are. Hanging back in favour of avoiding an awkward walk out of the medical ward alongside Josleen, he busies himself by settling the lid back on the box, taking far too much care with the simple process. His eyes are on her back as she goes, the drow's gaze sharp and calculating, briefly tracing the vague outlines of her form, her swift pace, the sway of her hips, the neck of a sweater peeking out over the lapel of her coat. She hides a lot under all those layers, and with a faint sigh, Lyros finds himself unsure if he should dare attempt to unwrap those secrets.