RP:Shadows

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Another holographic appearance by the matron Laezila, and a formerly sleepy tavern turns suddenly bloody. Emrith and Laezila exchange taunts and wounding words. Nymh pledges to save Laezila from her fate, but loses control of Shatterscourge and is soon subdued by it. Tylania has observed the whole thing and wishes to help Nymh however she can.

Frostmaw Tavern

Emrith descends the stairs with slow and quiet economy of motion. The argument is still going on across the common room, so Emrith takes up a chair far from the action, far enough from the fire pit that the faintest chill eddies around him where he sits. He cannot sleep; despite the rigors of the evening, his body and brain are simply too awake to be lulled, even when a warm bed awaits him above. He sits quietly, staring into the fire from long distance, brooding.

Tylania had been hanging around frostmaw recently, it was serene unlike how most of kelay seemed anymore. She slowly pushed the tavern door open, her normally well kept hair blown around her entire face, sticking out at strange angles. Her whole face was red and numb, but she was too busy smiling to notice. Walking over to the bar she ordered herself some food, and sat to wait for it.

Nymh sat here, staring into the hearth, still working to adjust his eyes to the brightness of fire, and light. It was a slow, painful, process, but would likely save his life in the battles to come. He looked grim, yet, and pained, as though a cornered animal. Whatever was going through his mind, he was very, very troubled.

Laezila manifested by flickering into being in the tavern; her body was a phantasmal blue, half-translucent, image that was not entirely physical. She wore a sleek, backless dress that hugged taut her diminutive frame's curves. Upon her face was that faceless mask, still blue due to the imagery she was projecting, but it was definitely in reality that white one that inspired in her and her forces that distinct and horrible confidence and cunning.

Emrith sees a flicker of movement from a part of the tavern floor that had been empty a second previously and, turning his head in that direction, spots the peculiar and somewhat indistinct shape of Laezila, once more projected to a locale where he happens to be. Dread fills his heart. This is not going to go well; the elf knows it in his bones. "Out for another midnight constitutional, Laezila?" he asks, and is even able to inject a fair amount of apparent good humour into the comment.

Nymh turned when that phantasm came to be, standing, mouth open, staring. His eye watered, his posture slackened, and he looked as though he'd just been beaten. He fell to his knees. Another trick of Shatterscourge? Had it not tasted blood in so long already? "Laezila..."

Tylania turned her head towards the flickering blue light, noticing nymh and emrith both she decided it best to stay right where she was at the bar for now, almost scared to move. She hadnt brought her bow and rune arrows with her

Laezila looked far less injured, though she was still in that manner held to the point where she was slightly haunched over and one of her arms cradled her midsection; aside from that, however, she looked all the more appropriate and in command than most had ever seen her. Her expression was hidden beneath that faceless and smooth mask, but even that could not hide her incredibly brief and subtle surprise at Nymh's voice. Her head twisted lightly, and she peered upon the half-drow on his knees. "Get up." She demanded, and began to move toward the traitor, with a glance over a smooth and lithe shoulder toward Emrith, "Elves. I have trusted your kind in the past. There are two elven prisoners near me. One that Nymh here betrayed me to try to save. He didn't even think to ask me for help, as if I wouldn't have saved her for his sake." Each word was calculating and cunning.

Emrith seems content to remain quiet and let the drama between Laezila and Nymh play out, for the moment at least. He has gleaned no new information, precisely, but watching Laezila - and Nymh, by extension - will likely clarify things. He is slightly surprised by her lack of regard for him, but judges that Nymh must be of greater immediacy to her at the moment; traitors usually do tend to command immediate pride of place, after all. He does nothing except hum quietly to himself, and tense slightly in his chair. He is worn out and weary, but if violence is to happen this evening, he will rise to meet it swiftly and brutally. It is likely not apt to come from Laezila herself, but even the hint of a spark can panic an unsound mind into starting a forest fire.

Nymh could only stare, agape, at her words. When she told him to rise, he did so more out of instinct than aught else... he'd been a slave for so long. Old habits died hard. Her words crushed him, and almost drove him back to the ground. "My greatest folly." He didn't know how he continued to look at her, and not avert his gaze. Her words pulled at him, manipulated him like a marionette on a string. She had him in the palm of her hand.

Tylania gazed out and watched nymhs pain. She didnt understand, she tended to be left out of the loop a lot, she didnt even know how Nymh got here. His sadness made her want to go to comfort him, but there was nothing she could currently do. So she sat at the bar, watching the scene unfold.

Laezila was not manipulating Nymh, however; she did not have it in her heart to. The young matron merely was speaking the truth, but like the expression, her form flickered as it lifted a hand as if to cradle the traitor's jawline in her palm. As it touched flesh, however, it was nothing solid and revealed that there was to be no attack -the woman could not hurt them. Not physically. The diminutive-statured and masked drow withdrew her hand, and turned to face Emrith, her exposed back before the half-drow. "Skylei. And... Maegus? He is to be executed. I know where they are." Her eyes, even through the hologram, seemed to gleam calculatingly.

Emrith regards Laezila more critically when she turns to face him, having prepared himself to intervene on Nymh's behalf should the need arise. "Yes," he says dryly. "I do know which of our numbers are imprisoned, Laezila. The knowledge that Maegus is to be excecuted, now...that is interesting, indeed." Interesting, but perhaps not for the reason Laezila thinks; Emrith is currently asking himself what good Laezila could possibly gain by attempting to help him this way. She is still set against him in this war, and given the look in her eyes - which he can see through the eyeholes of the hologram's otherwise concealing mask - he knows that it is not the fondness of her heart that causes her to speak. His face is stony, unmarked by any emotion throughout this contemplation. "I suppose that haste is in order if we should wish to rescue Maegus alive. Your information has been helpful. But pray, let us not deceive one another...or anyone else, come it to that. If you were willing or able to rescue either of these prisoners you speak of, you would have done so by now. You know that I, at least, wish them to come to no harm, and unless your regard for me has fizzled and died, then surely I am worth at least something to you. Nymh, too...you must know where his intentions lie now, and yet instead of helping, you taunt him. And to what end? He is fragile enough as it stands."

Nymh went immediately to a singular conclusion. "Do you intend D'L'Sel D'Issan to become First House, Laezila?" That would be a dream come true... the underdark would thrive under her leadership. If she betrayed Gevurah upon the battlefield... and, more importantly, she'd be -safe-. He'd see to it himself. "Simply without the Second Houses support, D'artes will crumble in this war. Should you seek that throne for yourself... you never had any interest in Sage. You could sit atop the council, where you could begin to truly change the ways of Drow." Drow turned upon one another all the time... this was a time of unparalleled vulnerability for House D'artes. They were singularly overextended... and relying on an ally they had terribly, terribly mistreated. Nymh had seen Laezila for himself. There was no love to be lost between the first and second house, he'd assumed.

Laezila calmly scrutinized Emrith, and took several steps toward him as he spoke, before she finally did in reply. "Helping? Help him position himself to drive another dagger in my back? He does not know the pain he has put me through... But yes, let us not deceive one another, elf. What of your regard for me? Has it fizzled and died?" It was Nymh's outcry that had her snap, 'lest the First Patron hear the half-drow's singular conclusion, "Be silent, Nymh! The Second House supports the First House in its glory," that sentence was recited quickly, ultimately not at all something she meant and any idiot could decipher that she was saying it merely for any prying ears. "Do not tempt the First House's ears by calling their name..." This was said much softer; the information she was talking to them about was not exactly good for her to be giving out, and the last thing she wanted was to draw the D'Artes attention. Her eyes narrowed slightly on Nymh, "Even if I can end this war, I am not getting out of it alive. My fate is sealed." That gaze sliced back to Emrith. "So enough of your manipulation, enough of your deceit. You come clean to me, elf."

Nymh felt his heart skip a beat, his eyes narrow. There was pure, unadulterated insanity, there. He knew the game she played, her denial confirmed it. And he knew, then, what she had done. "You'll do that? Even if..." Bonded. Gevurah did not trust Laezila after his departure. She'd have forced her support by tying their fates together... perhaps literally. "I swear to all the gods of this world." It seemed not to hear another voice around him anymore. "I will save you." His stare was intense, wide eyed, filled with unbound fury and determination. It seemed he was prepared to march into the underdark, here and now, and fight the whole of D'artes himself.

Instead of remaining in his chair, appearing cowed or casual, Emrith rises fluidly and moves as if to meet Laezila as she makes her way in his direction. "I have neither deceived you nor manipulated you, Laezila," Emrith responds, deliberately using her name and keeping his voice calm as a counterpoint to the drow's own rising ire. "I have not broken my bargain with you. Nymh lives, and I have laid no blade to his throat nor obstacle in his way. My regard for you, though...it is a difficult thing to quantify. At one moment, I see a strong matron, a woman who does not hide behind a mask, a woman who is setting her plans and is willing to let people think she is weak in order to truly be strong. That woman, I regard highly. But now, before me, I see a girl in her mother's mask. I see an enemy drow first, and Laezila second. You make yourself so with your every poisoned word. My regard for you has not fizzled and died, and you need not be so paranoid as to believe it so. But I tell you this, and I say it for true: every time you insult my intelligence, every time you demean me by speaking so harshly to someone you would claim to care for, that spark grows a little dimmer. So carry on, as you will, Laezila. As you will. I will favour you with the regard you merit. You wish me to respect you? Then show me that you are worth respecting. You wish for me to love you? Then bring her back, and banish this shell from which you spit all your scorn. Be open. Be true. Till then, be damned to you."

Nymh breathed heavily, his eye filled with madness. Shatterscourge vibrated at his side, never farther in his life from finally devouring his mind. "I..." His voice croaked, then changed altogether. "I won't let you die." This was not Nymh's voice, anymore. It was the voice another, sinister, almost demonic. "I will spill whatever blood it takes, sever whatever ties cross my path." His eye was red, bloodshot, his face trembling and flushed. His breath was ragged, and he held shatterscourge... then started cutting himself with it, hissing in something like pain, and pleasure. He cut his arm, and the blood did not drip... Shatterscourge drank of its host.

Laezila's expression was well-hidden behind her mask, which made her all the more infuriatingly cunning and calculating as she watched Emrith; she was neither shouting nor yelling, scolding nor scorning, but every word was delivered in prompt and punctuate calmness delivered with more cruelty than the elf opposite. After all, what did she have to lose? "Contrary to such words, the last time we spoke, when you viewed me as a scared little girl. Insult you? All you have done is attempt to use me. You are no better than Gevurah, elf, except that she has made headway in her plans. No, I don't need you to respect me; you're nothing in my world. What I do is for your kind, not you. While you play your games, I will put an end to this war, for my House, for all the half-elves that are frightened in the Underdark, with nowhere to turn to." Nymh's words caused her to issue a distinct and sharp, "You will do nothing, Nymh! My fate is sealed, and that is that. I have done -enough- for you." Her arms crossed, "No, I do this for -my- people." Her gaze pierced at Emrith then, "And I didn't have a mother, or a father, for the record. The mask gives strength to overcome. Overcome the memories of the men that raised me, that used me. That marked my face. To overcome isolation, of the lack of trustworthiness. To overcome manipulative elves." A pause. "Skylei and Maegus are held in the D'Artes estate. But that is where I am healing. If you cross my path, I will be forced to cross blades with you, so do not."

Nymh roared, at her words. A sound to rouse giants from their slumber, a noise only a bard or a much larger being could issue forth. He tore off his shirt, his mithril, and started cutting into his flesh, staring at Laezila. "You will do -nothing- for me, but -live-. I COMMAND it." The cutting continued, and increased in pace, his body splashing blood too and fro, but every drop came back from its arc, towards that blade. His breathing became labored, as his blade abused him, took him apart drop by drop. Shatterscourge abused his weakness, and soon he was on his knees. But even after he lost consciousness, he would keep cutting. He was no longer in control. When his head dipped, it became obvious he was on the brink of death. Then, the blade raised... this time, it would not cut... it would plunge.

Emrith decides, at once and without second-guessing himself, to embrace the plan currently hatching in his head. "Very well, Laezila. Go on and delude yourself; it is what you have done for decades, and it is what will kill you in the end, I am all but sure of it. There is something I would like you to know, however." Emrith favours the holographic drow with a surprisingly warm smile. "I have a lover," he says, and his voice does not match his smile; it is cold. "She does not make me fear knives in my back. She does not make me regret finding her fair. She is strong, capable, brave and worthy of both my affection and my respect. You were paid two kisses for a bargain struck, and presumed from them both weakness and entitlements that were false. Instead, I have found happiness. I hope you will find wisdom enough to seek the same, but I regret that such is likely beyond your meager means. I tried to help you...with all my heart I did. But at bottom, you are what I say you are. Beaten." Another calculated pause. "I have the strength to do what I need to do, drow. You do not. I will make sure that you see me coming when I arrive to cut out your rotten heart." Like Laezila, every word Emrith has spoken has been calculated, and only time will dictate the effects of this confrontation.

Laezila's eyes narrowed, and even her beloved mask couldn't hide the anger and hurt in her gaze at the cold words of Emrith. All that talk of his care for her, useless. Meaningless. "You're a scumbag worse than any drow I've met, Emrith. Choke on your crap." Nymh's roar caused her to whirl her head to the side to cast her gaze over her shoulder, but the sheer volume of it loosed her power and her anchor in that hologram; her form flickered and vanished entirely, through no fault of the matron's. Emrith looks on coldly as Laezila's hurt and anger manifest in her eyes. In truth he deeply regrets the need to be so hard, so callous, but war is a struggle he does not intend to lose, and if it takes enraging a potential threat to make her erratic and easier to overcome, Emrith is willing to pay that price. Sleep will likely not come to him this night. He looks curiously over at Nymh, and the bloody spectacle turns his stomach. "He is going to kill himself! Someone take that toy away from him!" he roars, in his best commanding voice. Compared to the roars of frost giants it isn't much, but it is enough to rouse Drargon from desultory contemplation of half a glass of ale. Emrith himself is already two-thirds of the way across to Nymh, praying under his breath in elvish. Breaking off mid-prayer and speaking more firmly, he calls out to Nymh: "Drop it! Do you hear me? Drop it!" He is prepared to pounce on the half-drow and wrestle the damned knife out of his hands by force if he has to, but his memory of Shatterscourge is such that he does not relish close proximity to it.

Tylania listens to nymhs roars from the bar, hears Emrith yell something about it being a toy, but couldnt comprehend seeing her friend filet himself. She got up slowly as Drargon moved from behind the counter and followed close behind him.

Nymh plunges the dagger into his stomach, before his rousing cry can bring anyone to bear. Drargon grabs a hold of him, but immediately hollars, and stumbles back. Emrith is fast, but if he takes hold of Nymh in an attempt to save his life, the look of sheer horror in Drargon's eyes is a warning of what might occur. If he doesn't... he'll watch the half drow commit sepuku before his very eyes.

Emrith is quick, hauntingly quick. With an elven battlecry loud enough to cause pottery to tremble, he leaps upon Nymh like a wildcat, clawing not for the knife but for Nymh's hands themselves. The spell-blade seizes hold of Nymh's wrists and yanks, screaming with pain as some sort of malevolent force rips into him and threatens to render him unconscious with the agony. He twists both of his own hands and hurls his body backward, and a peculiar double snap sounds above the din as the bones in Nymh's wrists break. Unless Shatterscourge has some way of making Nymh hold onto it without the strength of his now-broken wrists, the threat to his life is likely over. Unable to maintain contact any longer, Emrith rolls away, shuddering and gasping, his own hands throbbing from their brief contact with the half-drow. "Get it away! Get it away!" he screams, no longer sure precisely what he is referring to, only hoping that there are enough patrons and frost giants to perhaps subdue Nymh by force and pry his accursed weapon away, if emrith himself has not already managed the job.

Tylania looked out from around drargon, and moves over towards nymh, she bent down to look at the wounds nymh had created on himself. "Emrith, remember when you found me in similar condition, when we met?" she only risked a glance towards him, then looking back towards nymhs open wounds. "I'm going to need you to calm down, quiet down and find me something to bandage him up with," she glanced around, looking to see if there was anything that could be of use.

Nymh is saved, just barely, by the quick, and ruthless actions of Emrith. The bones breaking evoked no cry of pain, but his gleeful face turned to one of shock, as the dagger was pulled from his belly, and clashed to the floor, only to appear on his hip. With his wrists broken, he could no longer grasp it, though the possessed half drow tried, snarling as giants pinned his tiny, pathetically weakened form down. He struggled with more strength than he should possess, given his condition, but his wounds were too advanced. Even possessed, the dagger had no use for a dead body whose soul it hadn't conquered. Emrith had stopped Shatterscourge from its ultimate victory. Nymh's eyes faded from red, and then his world turned black. His wounds bled little, and his complexion was terrible. Shatterscourge, however, glowed with power, and seemed to drip blood, though what hit the floor seemed to vanish.

Emrith gradually calms himself down, though his body still shakes from the aftershock. He understands the import of Tylania's words, but apparently a frost-giant tavern maid has heard as well, for she arrives with several bedsheets, a pillow-slip or two and a rug remnant, more than enough to bandage Nymh's wounds at the very least. Emrith is in no real position to help further, and has taken notice of the way the weapon appears at Nymh's hip after falling on the floor. He also takes note of the way it melts from the hand of a would-be assistant, and this gives him an idea. "He will likely live. I did worse to him myself, once," Emrith says grimly. "If any of you is handy with metal, a quick and dirty solution will be to make a peace-sheath for this blade. Something that will hold it by wires or clamps to his belt, so that he cannot draw or wield it. Perhaps we cannot take that thing away from him, but we may be able to stop him carving himself under its influence again. I have reports to write." Given the elf's normal desire to help, this abrupt and rather cold turn of phrase is at odds with his typical demeanour, but he cares little. He picks himself up, realizes with disgust that he is covered in blood not his own, and grimaces. He makes for the door, trusting that there are enough capable hands to see to Nymh's well-being. He really does have reports to write...but first, he needs to clear his head. Tonight has been difficult.