RP:Scars of the Forest

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Pelarin left a note on the Kelay Tavern board demanding that the drow allow the Sage Elves to return to their rightful home. Gevurah, who happened to still be topside after her encounter with Donatien, was alerted to the note by a drow scout. She made an appearance in person in Kelay Tavern for the first time in her life and decided to leave a warning to Pelarin and any other would-be champions of the forest. Pelarin happened to be present as Gevurah formulated her response. After a few quips, a show of force by the silver dragon Pelarin, and a little scar-related philosophy by Gevurah, they parted ways. Gevurah agreed to take Pelarin's plea for diplomacy/negotiation to the drow seat of power.

Relevant posts on the board:

I feel that every creature deserves a home of their own, and that none should conquer without great need. Vengeance is hardly a qualified reason, nor is blood-feud, to send a race scattering across the skin of the world. If you once lived in Sage Forest and now find yourself an exile, you have an ally in me. If you are Drow, I have quarrel with you only if you stand in the path I have set for myself and for those in whose charge I may choose to operate. Stand aside, and you will be spared; oppose me, and I will take action. I believe it is high time that this wound was mended. Seek me, if you wish parley. I will not hide. ~Pelarin

*The following note is written in common, drow, and elvish on Mesthak’s inventory list.* To those elves who fled into exile, show gratitude for your lives. To those struggling to do so, the drow will gladly beat the reverence into you. The border between the drow territory on the surface, and the paler, weaker race has been bloodless in recent memory. Do not provoke us. Any who fancy themselves as a champion of the Sage Elves are to blame for any elven blood spilled from here on out. Sage Elves are encouraged to hand over any would-be heroes, and in return the border shall remain bloodless. ~ Gevurah D’Artes, First Daughter

Kelay Tavern

The doors slam open and a burly figure strides through them. He looks a great deal like a blacksmith - well-muscled, large-knuckled and square-faced - except that his skin shimmers with a silvery hue. He gives the notice board a cursory glance, shakes his large head, then begins pacing. The thud of his feet on the sawdust-strewn floor soon becomes a monotonous beat.

Gevurah is led into the tavern through a back entrance by a drow scout. The scout’s attire mixes and matches from drow and surface fashion, but his weaponry is distinctly drow. For those savvy to such differences, the scout moves like a creature accustomed to life in the sun, but his service to the drowess behind him leaves no doubt as to his loyalties. For her part, the drowess is clothed in the trappings of Trist’oth nobility. The wooden floorboards feel foreign beneath her feet. The play of sunlight and shadow through the windows creates a labyrinth of shade that her footsteps follow whenever possible. Two more drow tail her protectively. They are dressed like rogue soldiers, and bear the same house emblem as their charge: the D’Artes insignia. The scout points to Pelarin’s note on the board. Gevurah dismisses him with a nod. She reaches over Mesthak’s bar, warning him off with a glare. She snatches a quill and inventory list and writes a response to this would-be-savior of the elves.

Pelarin has not remained blind to what is going on around him. He has taken notice of the woman and her escort, and upon her posting a note to the board, Pelarin's steps lead him, without breaking stride, in that direction. He reads the missive, looks up with his calm grey eyes toward its author, and bares his teeth. "You." His voice is calm, but in the quiet of the establishment it has all the declamatory power of a door slamming. He takes three steps toward her, but stops a prudent distance away so as not to incite too hostile a response. "Do you even know the ruination you perpetuate? Does fire know the devastation it wreaks?"

There is no distance far away enough from Gevurah that will keep her hostility in check. This is no ordinary drow, but a thoroughbred — as spiteful as she is hateful, as ill-tempered as she is destructive. She only builds for personal gain, survival, or game. Crimson eyes scan Pelarin’s full height which towers over her. She stands straighter. “I cannot speak for fire, but as for myself, absolutely.” As she turns away from him, her entourage place themselves between Pelarin and the noble, their hands poised over weapons.

Pelarin reacts with a speed of which his previously sedate pacing would not even have hinted. He arches his neck, causing the muscles of his throat to bulge quite unnaturally, and utters a single loud plosive; at the sound, a compact ball of ice bursts from between his parted lips and, true in its trajectory, sails over the female drow's head to shatter with terrific force against the wall. The blowback of icy shrapnel might be sufficiently powered to scratch the woman's face and neck, if she is unlucky, and this indeed is Pelarin's aim; such displays are not made without good reason. "Turn around," he shouts, and now his words ring with an unquestionable note of command. With shoulders squared and grey eyes intently focused, Pelarin is a striking figure, clearly used to being indulged when he sees fit to make a proclamation or demand. "Do not turn your back on a threat, for threat you make me. I will do this the hard way, but only if you and your kin leave me no other choice. I would have words with you, and I will have you face me while I speak...or else I will have to teach you respect before I instruct you in the ways of making peace." The silvery cast of Pelarin's skin has deepened, causing him to glow more strangely than ever.

Gevurah is facing off against someone as spoiled and authoritative as she. She too is accustomed to being indulged every whim, command, tantrum, and so on. Her own reflexes are quick and well-rehearsed. As the ball of ice soars overhead, she flicks her piwafwi before her face to deflect the ice shards. Snarling, she turns on Pelarin, not daunted by his size. He isn’t the first over-grown enemy she’s encountered. However, the silver glisten on his skin inspires more strategic thinking on her part. While she prefers quickly ending insolent foes with the awesome power of Vakmatharas, Pelarin’s show of force suggests he’d upset that preference. She guesses from his skin and innate ability that he is either a dragon or spliced with that race. A translucent orb flickers around her small frame then disappears, setting in place an invisible shield. “The peace has been long established. Look around you.” Several patrons, mostly human and feline, cower beneath tables and chairs, trembling in fear of Pelarin and Gevurah both. “I don’t care about these people, but you do, correct? Yet your actions may leave them all dead as a casualty of your bloodlust. You are the one disrupting the peace. You are the one looking for a war.”

Pelarin bares his teeth at the scout as he takes a single step forward. "Look around you, Drow," he rumbles, his voice now calmer since slightly more civil terms have been managed. "In this land we stand in, elves may be killed simply for returning to their birthplace. Elves who have done you and your kin no specific wrong greater than existing. I have lived long and seen much, but to put this burden of guilt upon my shoulders, as you are wont, is short-sighted and stupid. I had expected better, but I will make do with what I have." Here the man pauses, putting one hand up as if to shield his eyes. "This thing you accuse me of threatening to breach is not peace. Peace existed before the Drow decided to take Sage for themselves. They have not, in my estimation, made it a better place, nor a safer one. There is an aura of near-palpable dread within those trees, Drow, and your race is responsible." He lowers his hands to his sides, and shrugs his huge shoulders. "I do not wish violence. If I thought I could convince the Drow to simply give the Elves back their home, I would try everything within my own power to make it so. No, I do not seek bloodshed, but I am not afraid to do it if the ends justify the means. If some must die so that the greater good is done, I, at least, may be willing to risk myself in the attempt." His voice and face grow stern once more, as he circles back to a slightly more personal point. "In future, I expect at least cordiality from you, Drow. I will grant you the same. While you may see fit to favour all others with disrespect and spite, I will not have it. I am a dragon; my kind have existed before the Drow were but a flicker in the eyes of the gods, and my kind will exist long after your descendants have been buried and forgotten. We possess the wisdom of long ages, and the might to match. Your insults show your colour and bespeak your relative flaw as a race. If we are clear on this, and if we can hereafter treat each other with proper politeness, then I need belabour the point no further, and will come to the heart of it. Can you speak for your kind, and if you can, are you willing to negotiate terms for the return of the Sage Forest to its previous possessors? If you are not, in fact, armed too negotiate, then you will kindly inform those of greater rank that a concerted effort is underway to heal these scarred environs."

An aura of near palpable dread in the forest as a result of drow intervention? A disruption of peace to satisfy the drow thirst for power? A glowing drow resume! Gevurah’s heart swells with racial pride. It’s incredible what the drow can accomplish between civil wars. “I understand your conviction. We drow are also fond of killing for the greater good.” She grins darkly throughout the rest of his discourse. Patience does not come easily to Gevurah, but thoughts of plucking his scales one-by-one grant her patience enough to soldier through one of those long-winded dragon monologues for which his race is so famous. “Perhaps you are familiar with the human tribes of the Southern Jungle. I have never visited in person myself, but some regents important to my worship are sourced there. I hear the humans of that jungle scar themselves at regular intervals throughout their lives to mark their advance in maturity, strength, power, wisdom… Something to consider when looking at the scars of the forest. I will gladly take your message to the proper authority, Sir… Your name?” She cannot be sure this is the same fool who wrote the message on the board.

Pelarin folds his arms across his chest and sighs. "My name is Pelarin. And when you go to your superiors, I entreat you to sue for peace, at any cost. I will deeply regret it if I have to spill Drow blood, but regret will not stand in my way." He takes another step forward, but he moves in a casual manner and without uncrossing his arms. "As for your talk of scars and of the southern jungle, I'm afraid you bandy words without knowledge of their lack of meaning. To compare Sage Forest, and indeed the plight of the Elves, to the ritual scarring of tribesmen shows ignorance. Sage Forest is a place, free of both bias and blame. The Elves were, when invaded, not antagonizing or bothering anyone. These scars you speak of do not strengthen their people or their ancestral homeland; the forest itself may still exist, but it is a shell of its former self, weakened and corrupted and rendered impotent by its lack of capable stewardship. And the Elves? They are scattered, downtrodden and often reviled, through little to no fault of their own. You lecture about the pride of scars to such as they at your own peril, I fear." Pelarin shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Let me put this a briefer, better way. You and your kin have created an imbalance that cannot be allowed to stand; any possible good that might have resulted has long since been overshadowed by the ill that continues to exist. I will remedy that greater evil, or I will die in the attempt. This I swear to you, as an oath. I am honour--bound to see it done to the best of my considerable ability. This is a cause I believe in, and your choice is a simple one: yield, or you will be broken."

Gevurah immediately regrets bringing up the Southern Tribes, not because Pelarin has convinced her that there is fault in her logic, but because it has provoked another dragon monologue. Dragons! So unreasonable (unlike the drow). Come to think of it, her first patron likes to monologue as well. Perhaps this penchant for monologuing happens when beings are several centuries old? On the relationship between old age and monologuing she meditates as Pelarin drones on about the innocence elves. Is it a casual link, or a causal link? She starts to pay attention again as he gets to his oath and threat. She nods tersely. “Right. Then I shall make haste and let the drow seat of power know your intentions.”

Pelarin nods curtly, and speaks once more. "I trust that, should we meet again, there will be fewer words between us, and that those which do pass will be more to the point of it." He sighs again. "However, I strongly suspect that the next time I meet you, it will be because I am being ambushed. Very well; be it on your own head. The Drow will not change in a day, or a year. And neither will I.Go, as you will, and come back, as you will. Just remember that you only have one life to live; live it well. That is mmy last advice; it will probably go unheard, like the rest, but none can now say you have not been warned and counselled." Having spoken, he offers the Drow a single nod before turning slowly and walking to a table, clearly dismissing her.

Gevurah grins as Pelarin accuses her of being duplicitous. She didn’t expect to leave with a compliment in hand. Dragons can also be surprising. She doesn’t say anything as she turns to leave before giving him the satisfaction of nodding her dismissal. Outside she whispers to the head of her entourage in drow, “Find the fence. Tell him I have a contract for the most discreet rogue on his payroll.”