RP:Rescue and Compulsion

From HollowWiki

Part of the Surface Tension Arc



Synopsis: After his defeat of Laezila, Emrith doses her with even more of the oil he and Talyara brewed the previous week. Thus compelled, Laezila is forced to aid Emrith as he rescues Maegus and Skylei and then makes good his escape. They eventually make it to Frostmaw's fort, where Laezila nearly dies from blood loss before the witch, Talyara, arrives in time enough to save her. Laezila is given a comfortable room and a promise that further healing will be forthcoming, but her status as a prisoner of war is in no doubt.

House D'Artes

Clutching Laezila to his chest, holding her shoulders down so that she cannot simply rip free his faceplate, Emrith realizes that the woman may well be dying in his bloody embrace. As the gravity of the situation comes home to him, Emrith realizes two things. First, he does not wish to kill the drow matron after all, not like this. Second, he still has a mission to undertake. Many of the guards are now dead, but the remainder are still unconscious, and Emrith's window of opportunity can only get smaller from here. He pries himself loose of Laezila's hands, but not before dragging the whip slowly up her back as he withdraws. This done, he coils it back about his waist and sheathes Nahr, trusting for the moment that he will not need to defend himself. "Laezila, you will help me. You will do as I say. I, Emrith, command you." He waits for a moment, and then continues to speak, moving to collect Heleg as he does so. His movements are jerky, his head still roars with pain and his ears are so sensitive that even his own voice hurts them. "You will bind the wound in your stomach; I will have it healed ere long, and I promise you that I will not kill you. I speak truth." He is still speaking in drow, for his disguise still holds and renders his elvish words into the language of the Underdark. "You will tell me where Skylei and Maegus are. Once you have done this, I will have more that you must do." He approaches the matron and holds out a hand to her; procured from another inner pocket of his cloak is a handful of leaves. "You will eat these," he advises. "I know little of herblore, and the taste will not be to your liking, but these will ease your pain and help begin the healing process." Normally, in the wake of a fight, a victor would do some further injury to his defeated opponent; Emrith has not the heart for such insult. This manipulation, furthered by the use of the oil he and Talyara brewed together the previous week, is more grievous than any bodily harm he might otherwise dream up.


Laezila did not scream as she was held down and further impaled upon Ilithuel's Chaos-tainted blade; what came out was a series of soft, quiet whimpers accented by crimson rivulets creeping down her lips in stark contrast to the near-purple hue of her skin. When Emrith withdrew, she sucked in a sharp inhale, before her breathing became difficult, a struggle, and her scarred face had those almost crystalline-blue eyes fixed to the man. "You never speak truth," she responded, even as she grasped the handle of the Lunar. "They are in the dungeon cells beyond the hall. Their guards are gone, I sent them away." A strange thing, but she was only compelled to tell him -where- they were. Shaking arms used both hands to, while tears freely flowed from her eyes and blood from her open lips, forcibly slide the weapon out from her stomach, signalling its freedom when she dropped it to clatter on the ground. The leaves were taken, her middle clutched, and the woman made a pained, disgusted face at the taste and yet could not stop from eating them. She tore what remains of her dress off, the easiest cloth to wield and opting for survival over modesty as she began to wrap around her middle. "You are condemning me, Emrith. Is not the knowledge of you stomping my affection enough? Are not my wounds?"


Emrith stares coldly at Laezila through his faceplate, then removes the item and hurls it aside with a clatter. Even though his face is that of a drow, the expression on it still manages an air of hauteur more common to elves. "You aided in the murder of my kin, the burning of my homeland, the subjugation of my people and, more indirectly, the furthering of monstrous ends. I will not fence with you." Emrith strips off his cloak and tosses it toward Laezila, the better to allow her to cover up her nakedness. "You will garb yourself with this. You will not run away or seek to impede or stop me in any way in what I am about to do. In fact, you will help me however your knowledge and skills permit. Come." He heads toward the dungeon, reaches the door and turns the key in the lock. The door grates open and Emrith steps through, beckoning curtly. The remnants of the gas that the spell-blade had earlier used to subdue the various guards have likely dissipated and become harmless by now. "Laezila, I care very little for you. You are broken. I will break you no further than I must, but if I must use you to free prisoners, to loose slaves and to sow a little discord before I go, then that is what I shall do. Hate me, if you will. Revile me, if you must. But you will aid me for as long as I can compel you. Come. We rescue Skylei first. When our business is done here in the Underdark, you will accompany me to the surface with Skylei and Maegus. From there, your future is uncertain. The more you attempt to argue, the grimmer that future grows."


Laezila leaned her head forward and covered her face with white tresses as she wrapped the cloak around herself with shaky arms, the glittering white locks veiling the tears and blood on her face, and the features marred by the claw-marked scar that stretched from one corner of her forehead down to her opposite jawline. "You are truly a demon," she choked, as the diminutive little matron grasped hold of her mask and rose to shakey legs, to fall in line behind Emrith. And yet, that damned spell? She had no idea it was the oil, "From the dungeon we can re-open the route that Nymh and Krice used to get out of the fortress. After that, I do not know the positioning of D'Artes in the city or Stavret on its borders." Her mask was clutched against her bound stomach, her other hand holding the cloak around her body. "I am going to seem a traitor," she murmured to herself, the young woman afraid.


With Laezila trailing him, Emrith makes his way down the hall of cells. "You will tell me which cells house Skylei and Maegus as we reach them." Expecting that she will do as bidden, he opens each indicated door with the keys hanging from the exterior of each lock, finding the occupants within. Maegus appears to be unconscious, but Skylei is partially awake...weak, it would seem, but very much alive. Speaking softly in common - which is not turned into the drow tongue, as his elvish words were - Emrith addresses the half-elf: "I am Emrith Kohl, and I am here to rescue you. I am only disguised as a drow. You must trust me. We must be quick and we must be quiet." The spell-blade offers Skylei a small glass vial, from which she drinks blindly; it is an invigorating tonic, enough to give her a brief burst of energy. "Now help me with Maegus." Noticing Skylei staring aghast at Laezila, Emrith smiles coldly. "She is compromised. For now, at least, she will help us." Speaking with a little more volume and switching back to drow, he says to Laezila, "You will show me this escape tunnel, and you will lead the way." Emrith, Skylei and Maegus make a rag-tag bunch, but there is no one around except Laezila to remark about the peculiarity of this haphazard procession. "You will be in safe enough hands, Laezila. Traitor or not, I will not simply hand you over to your betters to be butchered." He pauses. "Well, I might do that," he amends, "unless you make it worth my while somehow to keep you safe. Do you think you can do that?" There is a definite edge of cruelty in the disguised elf's words now.


Laezila did as she was commanded, compelled to do so by the oil that still the matron had no idea was the source of this enslavement. She remained silent throughout, however, not out of some defiance or hatred; at this point the young drow was simply broken. Nymh did not particularly tunnel his escape, but there were routes that the bard had told the matron in the House that guards would not be -or at least seldom be- patrolling. The girl moved as quick as she could while still being within pace of the others, her cloak taut about her injured body. Out the dungeon door, over a drow guard still asleep (likely to be quietly stabbed by Emrith or Skylei before he could rouse), and down a corridor. The corridor led to the grave of Keter D'Artes, or more specifically tomb, but along the way there was a particularly well-placed and hidden door that both opened only from the inside and opened to the Trist'Oth City Limits themselves. "Put cloaks over their heads," she said as they reached the door, "You and I are just normal drow. These are sickly, infected relatives. We are walking out of the front gate." It was their only option; none of them were in any shape to use less populated paths of the Underdark and risk Deep Wyrms and other predatory creatures. Emrith's remark, pause, and amendment caused the teary-eyed young drow to close her eyes and visibly shudder with dark memories, and she weakly muttered, "I apparently can't disobey you, so what's it matter what I think?" It was a choked response, and she aimed to open the door and step into Trist'Oth before he could elaborate on whatever cruel intentions he had for her.

Escaping the Underdark

Emrith trusts Laezila's wisdom, and quickly manages to conceal the faces of Skylei and Maegus before following Laezila through the small hidden door. He has no desire to elaborate on whatever designs he had been thinking about, but does see fit to speak softly to the matron, looking furtively around to ensure that none will hear. "It wears off. You will not be compelled forever. I would not have you that way; that would be one vileness too many." He continues following Laezila, who knows the way far better than he does, trusting her to handle or alert him of any threats they might face; drow appearance or not, Emrith is still the stranger here.


"One too many?" The girl whispered sharply in response, though between her wound and her despair, her sharpness was tempered much by keeping herself from sobbing. "You have exiled me from my own home, my own House. You have broken me. You had garnered my affection, garnered my hope, of what I could be and do..." Her voice trailed as they passed a group of guards, perhaps three, who didn't take much interest in the quartet and notably kept their distance from the two cloaked ones in fear of some contagion. The matron, apparently, had kept her face hidden enough to not be recognized by most the populace. "A ruse, from your own lips," she said as they passed their hearing, and began to approach the city gate, "If I return I will be executed by Gevurah's insistance. If I stay on the surface, your kind will murder me. I can only hope in my successor and pray Patron Tiphareth does not come to take my soul to Vakmatharas to torture eternally. What else would you have me do? Wear a collar? Grovel? I have nothing left, Emrith Kohl." As they entered the busy area of the gate, with merchants and citizens, guards, and all manner of drow alike coming and going, she finished her teary words with a simple, "You have taken it all."


Trusting that the general rabble will simultaneously mask his words and render the status of their peculiar party less odd, Emrith speaks now in common, which he knows Laezila understands; he does this to add gravitas to his message and to lessen the chance that nearby ears might understand what they catch. Some drow, at least, may not be versed in languages of the surface. "I did not snatch it all away from you, Laezila, and you may be gladdened to know that it hurts my heart to hear you spit such spite...hurts more to know that you believe it. If I convinced you to hope, you gave me no sign. If I convinced you to trust, you equally gave no sign. I saw in you only what you presented: a matron with a weakness for a fair-haired surface-dweller and a lot of ambition. You would let me see nothing else, so do not lecture me on those things I could not know. If I deprived you of chances you did not take, it is because I did not know you were considering them. You placed yourself in my way this evening. I dealt with you, and will continue dealing with you." They are now beyond the gate and into the greater caverns of the Underdark, but Emrith keeps his gaze tightly fastened upon Laezila's form. "Now, the readiest path to the surface," he orders sharply, switching back to drow. "From there, we will all be visiting a place much colder than this. You will be installed in the fortress and will be invited to stay as a guest for a time. I will be sure to check in on you from time to time. We will, I think, have business to discuss. You may be very...useful."


Laezila made a quiet noise, more akin to a sniffle, be it either by the restraint of tears from her eyes or blood from her lips. "Chances I did not take? I took one, but it has now signed my execution writ. I pulled all of my forces out of the war. All of them back down here. First Daughter Gevurah was furious." The girl made another quiet, small whimper, "Now I have aided in the escape of two elves. I don't want to die." She confessed, still bound to lead them through the Underdark by the readiest path, "Will you simply leave me in a cell? I... Stabbed myself..." They were almost at the surface now.


Frostmaw Fort

Some considerable time later, two drow and two hooded elves enter the main area of the fortress. There are frost giants everywhere and the appearance of drow puts them on high alert, but by speaking to them in common and explaining himself thoroughly, Emrith is able to convince them that he is precisely who he says he is. "I have a prisoner of war, and she is injured," he calls out. "I have also managed to free Skylei Lucindio and Maegus from captivity, and their need is also great. Please see to their comfort." Emrith is clearly flustered, and the night's rigors are beginning to catch up with him; he is reeling on his feet and feeling emotionally wrung out. He approaches Laezila before they can be separated and puts a hand on her arm. The touch is gentle. "And now to keep you alive," he says softly in drow. Emmrith does not know the best way to send for healers in Frostmaw, having only fairly recently begun residing here.


Laezila swayed under the touch of Emrith, but it was not out of affection; she was losing blood and already lost a considerable amount. The woman put a sword through her own gut, after all. The Frost Giants surely dismiss/explain Emrith's desire for Laezila to be healed that cannot be met, as their High Priestess, Leone, was currently injured and could not help them. This might leave Emrith to find another healer for the young matron, who was probably receiving jeers and threats from any elves lingering around. Though, she wasn't sure if there were any there; she was, after all, dying. Lucidity was beginning to sink in, "Emrith," she rasped, blood once more beginning to trickle down her lips, "You're not going to make it." The dark-skinned woman swayed precariously.


Emrith puts an arm around Laezila's waist, doing his best to hold her up. No elves are nearby at this hour, but many a frost giant gives the pair a hard glare from their imposing height. He walks with the matron to a bench and sits her down, then turns away without a word of comfort offered and begins to move. His legs have little haste left in them, but as long as there is mana to fuel them, Emrith's boots can speed his passage from one place to another. It is, in fact, this method of motion which seems to win over the frost giants most readily, and Emrith turns to one at random and barks, "Talyara! If she can be found, bring her! She may be in the tavern, or somewhere else nearby in Frostmaw. I would not have this matron die because she lost too much blood. Please hurry. You are in better condition to run than I am." Emrith feels a stab of pain go through his head as he turns back to Laezila. He sits down next to her and pulls her against him, hoping and praying that the witch is nearby and that she will be in time. As he waits, he murmurs gentle words in drow to Laezila, meaning to comfort her as best he may. A gut wound is no laughing matter, and Emrith cannot imagine the woman's agony, but he attempts to lessen it as much as he can. He is surprised to know that he still has a considerable amount of sympathy for her suffering.


Talyara ambles quickly into the the main room of the Frostmaw Fort, having been accompanied by some frost giants who had been sent for her. “Yes, yes, I’m coming!” She can be heard yelling as she moves at a quicker pace. “My legs cover a lot less ground than yours, you know” she can be heard mumbling. “Now what’s this about a drow in Frostmaw?” Her gaze scans the scene before her and emerald eyes fall on the injured pair before her. Swift strides are taken and her hands untie the pouch at her hip as she walks. Talyara sinks to her knees in front of them, and casts a sideways glance at the male drow. She didn’t let slip what she was thinking, but the witch could clearly feel her sister’s magic afoot and had a strong suspicion of who that was. She instead turns her attention to the young drow matron who seems to be in the more dire circumstance. “What happened?” Talyara asks in a voice much gentler than she anticipated. A shaky hand withdraws a vial, uncorked with her teeth, and given to the woman to drink. “It’s belladonna. It will make you drowsy, but it should help with the pain."

Laezila 's world was a blur of color as she rocked a little on the bench, unaware of Talyara's approach, or even Emrith's call for her. Hell, she wasn't much aware of anything anymore without having to keep still in order to focus her eyes on whatever she was attempting to realize. As the woman uncorked the vial, the matron clutched at the dress used as a bind over her gut sword-wound, otherwise naked beneath the cloak that the elf had given her now wrapped tightly around her body. Striking blue eyes, rare for the usually red-eyed drow, fixated on Talyara, or at least attempted to, and she could only glimpse elven features, "An elf!" She rasped with a trail of blood running from her lips down to her chin, "it is surely poisoned..." Her jaw soaked in blood, her cheeks soaked in tear-marks, the drow was even younger than Talyara, barely, in her early twenties-late teen's in comparison to human years. Still, she took the vial, "Poison or wound, what difference?" And she lifted it back to begin to drink it, sputtering at intervals, until either stopped or finished, in which case she'd quietly slouch, watching Talyara with intense blue eyes that, although were striking, were easy to tell did not actually see her anymore despite looking at her. "I do not want to die," she whispered finally, a confession, "I am afraid. I am afraid of what waits for me."


Emrith hears Laezila's soft words, and leans close to her ear, the better to command what little of her failing focus he may. "I promised you that I would not kill you. I keep my promises, Laezila. You will not die. Do not be afraid." One of emrith's hands reaches out to stroke Laezila's hair; it is a gesture so natural to the elf to give to someone under duress - particularly a female in such straits, it should be noted - that he is almost unaware he is doing it. He can do little to actively help the matron now; her fate is in the hands of the witch.


Talyara feels her mind move at rapid speed as images of old enchanted books and memories of her mother blur past. She can heal, yes, but this wound was something on another scale entirely. She blows a sigh out of the corner of her mouth as a memory reveals itself in her mind’s eye, a particularly difficult one of her mother attempting to save a coven member after her home town was attacked. Personal feelings are set aside as the young matron offers her confession. Talyara gives a half smile which seems more of a grimace--her own pretty face is reduced to a split lip, swollen cheek, and black eye. “I’m not going to let you die,” the witch responds resolutely. Reaching into a pocket of her cloak she reveals a small dagger. As quickly as she can so as not to alarm the woman, she drags the blade across the flesh of her own forearm. A curse slips through her lips as she raises her arm above the woman’s wound, offering her own magical blood to aid in healing. “This is going to hurt,” the witch explains before forcing her hands inside the gut itself. If Laezila allowed any screams to pass her lips, they went unnoticed to Talyara who focused all her energy on the wound, speaking in some type of tongued language that would be unfamiliar to any present. Between her own blood sacrifice as well as the ancient enchantment in which she spoke, the wound within would begin to heal. Only a flickering glance is offered to the male present, but the witch felt her own heartbeat caught in her chest.


Laezila did not scream. She remembered not being allowed to scream, when she was a child, the ones that had her would become irate. She wasn't even older than the young woman healing her, she certainly wasn't one of the ones responsible for her town. The matron now, back then would've just been a little girl in her own Hell, one that left her with that claw-mark scar of three lines parallel to one another from the top of her forehead to her opposite jawline across her face. The drow was lost in horrible memories until the moment that the fingers of the witch first touched her open wound, the wound of a sword that had cut all the way through her body. She did not scream. Her eyes shot open wide, her jaw clenched, and one hand moved swiftly to grasp along the side of the face and neck of Talyara, like a dying man's embrace. The other hand of the tiny woman gripped Emrith's drow-disguised form, somewhere, anywhere, she wasn't looking; her blue eyes were on the half-elf's face and wide with incredible pain. But she did not scream. What did emit from her were soft, tiny, quiet whimpers as tears streamed down her cheeks, and her blood down Talyara's arms.


When Talyara invades Laezila's stomach wound, Emrith feels his gorge rise. He quickly looks away, unable to stand the sight of what is happening. He clutches Laezila's fingers when they scrabble at his right leg, clinging tightly to them and taking a little comfort even while he is unwittingly giving it. The anguish this woman is going through wrenches his heart, and the disguised elf begins to shake. He does not speak and does not act. He just sits there, Laezila's little hand folded into his slightly larger one, and trembling for all he is worth. Crusted blood stipples the sides of his neck and his earlobes; his left leg is a faraway stinging pain all its own; worst of all, his head still aches terribly from the abuse it has been dealt. Emrith cares not at all for his own discomfiture at this moment.


Talyara winces as the drow matron grabs at the side of her neck and face. The witch’s jaw is clenched and her emerald gaze is unblinking as she moves within Laezila’s wound unhindered by the slight assault. “I know, I’m sorry.” Those are the only words of comfort Talyara can find to offer the small whimpers of the drow. After several painstaking minutes, the witch removes her hands from the gut which seems to no longer be gaping. Rather, a nasty wound of torn flesh remains. “Hail to the Guardians of the South, Ancient Ones of Fire, I call you to me this evening!” The witch exclaims in a breathless voice. Her familiar blue flames burst from her hands as she slowly moves towards the matron’s stomach once again. “Just a little bit more, I promise," she coos as if speaking to a younger sibling. The licks of flames seem to weave into the skin of the gash forcing them together in some mystical stitch. Exhaustion begins to creep up on Talyara as her own blood continues to drip down her arm mixing with Laezila’s on her hand. “Here,” the witch whispers softly, “this should give you some relief.” As quickly as they erupted the flames are now gone, Talyara’s hands appear to be glowing blue. She runs her fingertips along Laezila’s stomach with deft and gentle fingers. The witch had called upon the element of Water to cool her hands and help alleviate some of the pain. She would keep her healing hands on the drow until she was told to stop.


Laezila was in utter agony; the hands in her gut, among organs and muscle, were so brutally painful despite the witch's gentle touch. She whimpered in the midst of otherwise silent crying, clutching on to the leg of Emrith within his large hand and the the groove of Talyara's neck and jaw. When those hands finally exited her wound, she released an exhale that was wracked with a sob, and her chest rose and fell harshly in tune to her struggling breath. 'Just a little bit more' -"No, no, please!" She begged the half-elf, no longer comprehending that she was being healed, who she was with, where she was, or why she was there. Just that pain and the knowledge of more impending, "Please, please don't! No more, no more, no more!" She pleaded and wildly her gaze turned to Emrith, "I'll do anything, I promise, I'll be good, no more!" As flames burst from her hands, the young drow tried to use her own to stop them, though she was weak, easily held back by Emrith's grip if he chose. When the stitching would happen, as it needed to, she would clench her jaw and open her eyes wide again, forcing back her scream blatantly down to a whimper she could not keep quiet, only to bow her head and slacken as cooling hands touched at her, breathing hard, still conscious, but trying to recover.


Emrith has not precisely been tracking Talyara's ministrations, but a bit of blue light seen from the corner of his right eye tells him that the majority of the witch's healing has already taken place, and that Laezila's formerly life-threatening injury, while still quite serious, is no longer likely to kill her. He does indeed choose to restrain her when her hand attempts to free itself, seeking to ensure that no further complications than necessary are brought into play. "No, Laezila. No. Be easy. Be easy. It is over. Over." A soothing litany, mostly repetition of the same few sentiments, spoken more for its cadence than for the words it contains. He gives Talyara a single look and, speaking in common when the matron appears to have calmed some, says, in a soft, tremulous voice, "Will that suffice so that she will pass the night without risk of death? I...I do not know how much more I can stand." His voice breaks on the last word. Tears stand in his eyes, though the source of his heightened emotion is not particularly easy to define.


Talyara slowly allows her bloodied hands to fall from the matron’s stomach. The blue hue seems to dissipate gradually as the witch keeps her eyes on Laezila. She hears Emrith’s words upon her ear but does not turn to face him--not yet. She reaches down and tears at her silk shirt, ripping a length from her stomach to tie about her arm to stem the flow of blood. One last cautionary glance at the drow is given before finally turning to meet Emrith’s gaze. “I cannot guarantee anything, she did lose a lot of blood.” A deep sigh. “My instinct is telling me she has a long journey ahead, and she is still in danger, but she will live.” She swings her body around to face Emrith and gently pulls back on his tattered clothing where his leg wounds are. Without waiting for permission, Talyara reaches down and begins to stitch those up with her magic unless he would stop her.


"No more," the (maybe now-former) matron whispered and breathed as she slackened and her shoulders rose and fell with the fatigue of her ordeal. Slowly her gaze and head lifted just a bit, to sweep over the hateful glares of many of the Frost Giants present, who knew they were at war with the drow but had the discipline not to attack the prisoner of war. From beneath the cloak that was slightly open for the witch's administrations but otherwise veiled her nudity, her hand delved after being withdrawn from the witch, to shakily retrieve the singed, ivory mask. "As soon as your people know I am here, they will want to burn me like I had their homes," she croaked. Her gaze moved to the witch, silently in scrutiny. Was that -her-? Laezila didn't know, she didn't have a clue other than a woman's intuition and that now-familiar sinking feeling in her chest. Not that she had any claim to the elf previous; by his own admission he saw a fool and took advantage. He took everything. Her hand tightened on the mask, and her gaze shifted to Emrith, "Why did you do that to me?" She didn't specify what 'that' was, but it was likely she meant... 'everything'.


Emrith is at the very end of his emotional rope. Talyara's stitching hurts, but the disguised wood elf does his best not to flinch or pull back, knowing that his own injuries are not serious enough to threaten his life but more than bad enough to warrant the witch's current doings. When Laezila addresses him, he turns to her, and the naked misery on his face might perhaps give her some measure of vindication. "Because...because..." It is all he can manage at first. He gulps. Twin trails of heat, damp on his cheeks. "Because you would not stand aside. Whatever we might once have had, or thought we might have found one day...casualties of war. War." He spits that word again with especial venom. "You may think I do this because I enjoy it. Because I wish to punish you and your people. I do not. I want my home back, and I will die to get it if I must. The war that results from all these opposing viewpoints is wasteful and hurtful and stupid. Stupid!" He all but screams this last word into her face. "You stood in my way. You were stupid, when you could have stood aside! Why did you do this to me? Why?" In the extremity of his feelings, Emrith seizes the drow by the shoulders and squeezes tightly, so tightly that his grip might hurt a little. "We did it to each other, you know," he says, much more quietly, getting as close as he dares to that blue-eyed face. "not just you, and not just me. We did it to each other." This might seem particularly odd coming from what appears to be a drow, but perhaps the most alarming thing is the way Emrith's body is thrumming, as if it is full of taut wires about to break.


Talyara continues to mend Emrith’s leg wounds until they are done. She does not offer him the same cooling touch as she did for the drow matron for the topic of conversation had become tense. The witch cast her gaze about the room, feeling as if she was imposing on a conversation she should not be privy to. Anxiety seems to course through her body as made evident by her trembling form. She makes no moves to interrupt the pair, that is until Emrith yells and moves to grab Laezila. Talyara is on her feet in a moment. “That’s enough, Emrith. Leave it.” Her voice is heavy with unexplainable emotion, but it is stern. As she speaks she reaches out for his shoulder. Contrary to her tone, her hand is gentle, and almost comforting.


Laezila 's crystalline blue eyes watched Emrith, they watched as his voice lifted, his face came nearer and nearer, his emotional rope was taut and ready to snap. She did not watch with cunning, she watched with neither cruelty nor taunt; her eyes reflected fear and despair, that of a broken young girl. And then he was screaming in her face, causing the bloodstained drow female to flinch upon each syllable -he gripped her shoulders, the small frame easily fitting in his grasps pinned against the cloak that currently hides her dark body. She tried to shrink back as he whispered, tears streaming down her face and holding tightly her mask up to her chest like some sort of savior shield. "I didn't do anything!" She cried, trembling beneath his wrath; she had just lost everything -no longer a fearsome, white-masked drow matron that lead the second most powerful drow house. Now simply a scared girl, cowering behind a mask. She looked toward Talyara pleadingly as the witch tried to calm the elf.


Emrith abruptly releases Laezila's slender shoulders, scooting away from her before attempting to stand. His first attempt is a failure, but he gains his feet a moment later, wavering only slightly. Sitting there is the matron of the second largest drow house, and Emrith is suddenly struck fully by exactly what he has done. There may have been reasons; it may have been necessary. But it is not a woman who sits before him; it is a girl, a wretch only scant feet from the edge of death. "Get her out of here," he shouts, startling a frost giant standing nearby into a half-jump followed by a baleful stare. "I do not wish to look upon her anymore." And in a softer voice, "I was right. Broken. Like the finest crystal. Once beautiful, now shattered. And I." He closes his mouth with a click of teeth on teeth and turns away, face looking weary and aggrieved. "I must bathe, and sleep, and be rested," he says, and now his voice sounds flat, almost emotionless. "Laezila is not to be permitted to wander, but she may have visitors if they are loyal to Frostmaw and its cause. Please inform Hildegarde the Silver of what has transpired here. I am sorry to be so demanding, but my time is short, my patience shorter still and my stamina perhaps shortest of all." A frost giant lumbers up to the bench and stoops, making ready to pick Laezila up, the better to gently convey her in his arms to her new living quarters. Emrith has turned his back, and does not see; in his current mood, never seeing Laezila's face again might be a blessing.


Talyara feels her arm fall way from Emrith’s shoulder as he attempts to stand, fumbles, then rises once again. The witch is not used to his harsh voice barking orders and she winces slightly, whipping her head from side to side. Emrith is on his feet, leaving. Laezila is being picked up by giants and taken away. Talyara’s eyes widen and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, unsure of who to go to, what to say. “I’ll come check on you,” she calls out to the drow matron, who is much more like a young girl in her eyes. “I will continue to see to your wounds, if you wish,” she adds in softer tones. She shifts her body and catches the retreating back of the elf. With her own exhausted whimper escaping her lips, Talyara slowly does not move to follow but instead slides to her knees on the ground still covered in blood.


Laezila clutched tightly to her mask, that other persona, as if it might somehow save her. But it didn't. She flinched again as Emrith shouts, before his confirmation of her broken state did nothing to stem the silent flow of tears. Then the giant was coming to take her away, and the young matron saw what she perceived as the only lifesaver thrown to her in a raging sea. "Please, please. I do not wish to die. Y-you, you have witchcraft! I know witchcraft, I will teach you what I know!" She pleaded, as she was hauled away by the Frost Giant ignoring her, "Please!" And like that, the giant turned the corner, making the matron vanish from sight.