RP:Slippery Slope
Lyros has heard rumours of this cavern, picking up word from around town of a secluded sanctuary where one can relax and, momentarily, escape the ever-present chill of Frostmaw's unforgiving climate. He thought it odd that such a paradise would be hidden in the depths of an old mine but curiosity pushed him to investigate all the same, the drow slipping into the dark recesses of the cave network. It is odd to be back in such an enclosed environment, the weight of the earth and rock high over his head and beneath his feet - it is familiar, the feeling of home, but for that reason it unsettles him. He did hesitate for a moment at the entrance before, with a snarl, he shoved past the fear of a hidden drow tunnel lurking in the darkness and pressed on ahead, heading deeper. As the air warms, he figures he's getting closer, tugging at the collar of his vest as he tries to adjust to the rather sudden rise in temperature. What he does not expect to find down here is a cavern where the ground is carpeted in ethereal flowers; steam collects in the air, coating their brilliant cerulean petals with dewdrops, and Lyros cannot help the way he pauses briefly to stare and take it all in, a little awed. Then, his gaze drifts to a narrow doorway in one wall, steps leading downward, and the drow crosses the subterranean meadow to descend the solid rock staircase, finding himself in the truly vast cavern beyond - even he has only seen a few places this size, and none this beautiful.
Riselet was dumbfounded at her own luck. The happiest mistake she ever made was finding out this place existed. Riselet’s entire journey into Frostmaw was a series of big, awful, horrible mistakes—starting with talk amongst travelers about a city of war that only invited the most daring, the most able. Surely, she had thought then, she was one of them; and if not, she could build herself up to be one. The first mistake was thinking that going to Frostmaw, alone and wholly unequipped for the journey, was a solid idea. The second was not turning back when she could feel her toes freeze through the hard leather of her boots. But that would be rectified with the discovery of this little piece of heaven—which, she soon discovered, had a source underneath. Precarious, if not giddy steps lead her further down the rabbit hole. The layer of snow that clung to Riselet dissipated as the spring’s warmth embraced her, less of a soothing breeze and more of a terrifically hot air that set her skin’s nerves alight. Face reddening, she hastily threw off her extra layers, scarf and cloak discarded in the darkness of the cavern. She’d get them later, maybe, but for now she was going to enjoy herself. The city girl, completely out of her element, never thought that Frostmaw could be anything but a frozen hellscape—but she supposed everything and everyone had their secrets.
Riselet froze for a second when she discovered the source. The sight that greeted her tired eyes was almost enough to think it was all worth the trip. Those peculiar flowers from before (that she hardly noticed, in retrospect) were the main occupants of the spring, its forebears, creeping like ivy around the scalding pools and twisting up the walls. The hot springs looked to go on forever, but a quick look down saw that there was an end… a great lake, the sole deposit of the springs. One slip and she’d tumble straight down, no doubt. She turned her attention back to the pools, not even noticing that she was perspiring heavily, subconsciously removing her boots and rolling up her sleeves. A thick haze of steam lazily rose from the springs, bubbling water beckoning her to partake in the bounties of paradise. She nearly conceded too, not even thinking of the possible ramifications of jumping into a blistering pool of water, but the faint sounds of steps combined with a shadowed figure caused her to freeze. (Hah.) There was somebody else here, no doubt. Damn. She slowly crept away from the water, shooting a glance in their general direction.
The beauty does not reach Lyros, not truly. Drow do not see the allure of all the glorious things on the surface: the beauty they see is found in impenetrable darkness, in danger and the spider-webbing lines of interwoven plots, and in the ruby edge of a blade drenched in blood. He can certainly appreciate the sights of the cavern, dotted with patches of almost luminous, unearthly blue where the same flowers from above have bloomed among the low-hanging fog— but he cannot find beauty, here. Still, the warmth is more than welcome after a week of struggling to cope with weather he is entirely not made for, and Lyros is acutely aware that he's sweating under all his heavy layers - he spares a glance around him to make sure he is definitely alone and unlikely to be disturbed, but his hands waste no time in working free the clasp on his cloak. The gauntlets go next and the mage flexes his bare fingers, feeling naked already without the claw-tipped gloves encasing his joints in their intimidating, silvery exoskeleton. Slowly, carefully, he peels off all his layers, each a facade, until he stands only in his bare skin, looking a half-ton lighter and a lot less frightening now his furs and spiked edges are lying neatly on a rock by the bottom pool. Scars riddle his body, but more noticeable are the many patches of white skin standing out against otherwise normal drow tones, and Lyros rubs his hands absently over the splodges on his stomach as if he wishes he could just wipe them away. For a moment he does not move, fidgeting, restless and wary, reluctant to dive into the water and separate himself from the safety of his gear. He is entirely too vulnerable, but... but the water is warm and inviting, and Lyros feels the ache in his very bones, a weariness he has not tended to or attempted to heal for weeks now. Living on the very edge and constantly stressed does many things to a man. Too focused on the water, or maybe too tired, or maybe just hiding the truth, he does not seem aware of the other presence in the cavern as he steps carefully into the water, slowly submerging himself up to his torso.
Riselet inches closer to that figure hidden in the fog, fanning it away with her hand as though to see better. It makes very little difference, the steam almost suffocating, but she tries nonetheless. The cavern’s already dark—the only light source is from the very passageway that brought her here—and her eyes aren’t equipped to see with so little light. She squints her way across the topmost floor of the springs, careful not to slip on stray puddles and fall into oblivion. It’s not until she can vaguely make out his facial features that Riselet realizes two important things about the mysterious stranger: one, he’s a drow (this elicits a small, inward groan); two, he’s completely naked, as far as she can tell; his torso is exposed for the world to see, the bottom half immersed in one of the spring’s gushing pools. Though at first she thinks it’s a trick of the steam, she can see his dark skin is splotched with stray white patches, random in their design and placement. Odd. But what sent a small chill down her spine was the number of scars that littered his body. What kind of drow was he? He looked frail, breakable, but the scars seemed to tell a different story. She wasn’t sure about those odd patches, either, but didn’t want to broach the subject; he looked deep in thought, and also sort of intimidating. “Uh,” she hadn’t noticed how much it echoed in the cave until she spoke. “I never knew other people knew about this place. Thought I discovered something brand new… Damn.” Riselet gingerly sat across from the drow, dipping her legs into the water, and instantly regretted the action. She never knew water could get this hot—hot enough to make her legs go numb—but it did. Damn. She’d have to keep her cool or she’d look absolutely ridiculous in front of this stranger. “So… Who’re you?”
Lyros, to his credit, does not jump a mile. His visible flinch, however, is clear indication he had no knowledge of her being here until the exact moment she spoke to him. Apprehension radiates outward from the mage in those telltale ripples as he turns to her, although he adopts the typical unfriendly scowl his kind are infamous for, almost as much as their fondness for stabbing unwelcome surprises. It is strange that a startled drow would only cause ripples, though - one might normally expect a frothing wave of rage and bloodlust, and the fear of a swift death for daring to take him by surprise. Lyros only glowers, shoulders tense, looking a bit like a cornered cat stuck in a bath. "Hardly. Half the town knows about it, I'm sure," he informs her curtly, having no real desire to partake in casual conversation. As she settles herself down, still talking, he takes the time to look the girl over carefully. At first, he mistook her for a drow (and this situation, his worst nightmare come to life), but...no, no, she lacks something key to their kind, like a puzzle missing her final, twisted pieces. A half-blood. And— wait, who is he? The question and the thought of all the awful possible answers draw something of a laugh from Lyros' throat, though it is not exactly pleasant. "Depends? Mostly, I'm a—" Interrupted, he is suddenly reminded, rather unpleasantly, that he is utterly naked when some...thing brushes against his hipbone, wet and slithering over his skin - he almost yells, thrashing in a moment of entirely un-drowlike panic, water splashing as he attempts to catch something beneath the surface. When his fingers are lucky enough to close around the slippery thing and find some purchase, he throws it away from him with little care for the direction. Unfortunately, he's aimed the eel right at Riselet's face. "Holy—" A particularly loud splash drowns him out. "—are you...all right?" He trails off, sounding vaguely confused by his own question, and quickly adopts that haughty glare again.
Riselet's expression noticeably sours at his first sentence, taking it at face value. “Half the town? Uuugh, that’s no fun. And here I thought I’d stumble on something brand new.” She huffs slightly, crossing her arms. “Oh well.” The halfling kicks the water a bit, trying to regain feeling in them after sliding right in carelessly, when her eyes catch the faintest hint of a shadow in the water. Shit, she didn’t know anything could survive in temperatures this hot. (She briefly wonders what could be hiding in that lake down there and shivers.) But whatever that thing was, it was coming straight towards her newfound acquaintance. Ignoring his scrutinizing glare and that dry half-chuckle, Riselet motions towards the depths of the pool—but the drow seems to have noticed it already, and he’s not happy in the slightest. In that brief moment of panic and confusion Riselet attempts to assuade him with a ”H-hey! It’s alright, it’s not gonna—” and promptly gets smacked in the face with the caught eel, sending her reeling. Lyros’s throw packed a punch and she sees stars for a bit, gripping for the slimy little creature in front of her before chucking it downward in anger. A loud splash echoes from a considerable drop down, and Riselet can’t help but sigh in relief. She’s glad she didn’t kill the poor creature, gross as it was. Turning to Lyros, she sports a grin that shows off an impressive set of canines. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ve faced worse than that, and you probably have too, am I right?”
Lyros now finds himself in quite the predicament: there may be more eels in this pool but he cannot bring himself to climb out naked with the woman watching. The situation at present is an uncomfortable reminder of his past experiences with female drow (sans eels, thankfully), and he is already reluctant to move or draw attention to himself or his body as it is. At least now, the pool is one eel lighter. Crossing his arms in a futile attempt to cover his patchy and scarred chest — his arms are in a similar state; his left is practically all white, from his palm to his forearm. and riddled with old and fresh wounds alike — Lyros regards Riselet with an expression of vague annoyance. "Naturally. A mere snake would do no harm to me." The amount of typical drow pride is surprisingly high for one so unconventional, but Lyros thinks nothing of it, and with a shake of his head turns to stare at the water. "Keep your feet out." It's the only warning he'll give - there comes a snap of arcane energy as the surrounding air ionises with static electricity, which collects around the mage's fingertip before he directs the volt down into the water. He flinches, clearly affected by his own magic, but the charge is not enough to truly harm something the size of a human. It delivers a direct hit to any smaller animal hiding in the murky waters, however, and to the drow's left another eel soon surfaces, bobbing on its side, dead. Lyros prods it over the edge. One of the fresher cuts on his arm is oozing blood, strangely, but he does not appear to notice or, indeed, care. "...So, who are you?" He hasn't offered much explanation to her own prior enquiry and he isn't about to remind her of it, hoping to distract with his own questions.
Riselet yawns loudly and stretches her arms, finally able to relax even with the presence of the drow stranger. She puts one hand in the water and lazily draws circles on the surface, the other propping her head up by the chin, elbow resting against her knee. The water’s cloudy but she can still see myriad scars and bruises on her exposed skin, trophies from her days back home. She grows a bit nostalgic from being in the water; it doesn’t carry the smell of salt like Cenril’s beaches, but it had the same feeling of enveloping her like a mother holding child. Mothers, huh— Lyros interrupts her thoughts with a short warning. Riselet finds herself jumping out of the water and awkwardly posed by the pool seconds before he alights it with a trail of electricity. She watches the impromptu light show with wide eyes, amazed. She hadn’t guessed him for a mage—or a surface drow, judging by the Trist’othian pride he seemed to carry—and is surprised by the sudden display of talent. As Lyros’s magic crackles and dies, a second eel surfaces from the depths, eyes bulging and mouth agape. Riselet glances at the drow, obviously impressed. “A mage? Damn, I’m jealous. I don’t have a magical bone in my body.” She slides back in without a second thought, not even considering the idea that he might just electrocute her for funsies. Drow were mean, in her experience, but not needlessly cruel… Most of the time. At his question, she gives him a good one-over, noticing the open wound. “Riselet. Riselet Eirvelhys.” A beat. Eye contact. She raises a finger. “Y’know, your arm’s bleeding.”
Lyros frowns at her for that remark. Rather than boasting of his abilities or considering to thank her for the subtle compliment, he adopts a fierce scowl and snaps, "There is nothing to envy." Again the atmosphere shifts, although the effect this time is distinctly more unpleasant than before; the true experience of Lyros' magic is a sensation of twisted, dark energies, similar to necromancy, tinged with the overly-sweet smell of dead flowers and fruit wine laced with poison. It is the creep and crawl of nightmares over the skin, the pull of the deep ocean and all the horrors lurking unseen in the depths, a snap and the crackle of breaking bones to break the silence of the steaming cavern. Riselet will not experience all of this, merely the shadow of it; the ghost of a truly awful magic hidden in the mage's veins. "This? This is hardly magic." He spits the words out bitterly as though they are mould, his voice full of thorns. "It is a curse. Perhaps you are lucky not to have any talent for it." Blood flows freely from his arm, the wound seemingly opening of its own volition - Lyros submerges it with a sigh. The unnatural aura around him appears to die down as the drow forcefully buries his anger and reins it in, returning to a state of relative calm. He glances at Riselet, meets her eyes. After a second, his gaze slides back to the water, seemingly focused on the gentle ripples and her reflection. "..An elven name. You have lived on the surface all this time? You do not look like a slave." The comment about his arm is passed over as if he did not even hear it - he's obviously more than a little avoidant by nature.
Riselet is more than a little taken aback by his retort. Her muscles tense at his tone. With that she can feel the air shift around her slightly, like a change in pressure but something different. An expression of magic, no doubt, an art so far out of her grasp she could barely sense it. Magic was like that with her: something intangible and fleeting, like trying to grasp water. It always bothered her that she had no affinity for it—such a betrayal to her heritage—but it doesn’t get to her the way magic seems to bother him. She hadn’t guessed that he would respond with such ferocity concerning something like magic, though. It was absurdly common among most drow, right? Was it just something personal? Either way, his response annoys her and she tries to brush it off, preferring that over blowing up at him. At a certain word—talent—she grimaces, hoping to drop the subject as soon as possible. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks away. “Okay, drow boy. Whatever you say, I guess.” Riselet’s sentences are clipped as she keeps her temper in check. She doesn’t bother to make eye contact but could feel the stared daggers from the stranger. As the mage finishes and she gives her name, the heavy atmosphere is gone in tandem. She slowly breathes out, expecting another lapse of silence, but instead blinks at his sudden question. “Slave? Nah, I’ve lived on the surface all my life. If I stepped one foot in Trist’oth I’d get an arrow in my skull, y’know? Tainted blood and all.” She leans back and stares at the ceiling, watching the haze from the pools steadily make their way upwards. She looked for shapes in the steam but found nothing, blue eyes restless in spite of the informality in her voice. “Never met my dad. I thought for a second you could’ve been him, but you seem fresh outta the Underdark. And way too young to be having kids. That’s kinda obvious, though.” He still hasn’t given her his name or explained the weird gash, but could she really expect anything from someone like him? It was more interesting to figure out these things as she went along, anyways.
Lyros is all too happy to drop the topic, answering those short words with a noncommittal huff. It is no surprise for a person barren of magic like her to take an interest in what she cannot wield, but this mage is not one willing to indulge her in a show of fanciful lights and tricks. If there is one teaching he abides by, it is that magic must not be used without good reason— and Lyros is very good at making excuses for himself. While Riselet talks, Lyros inspects his arm, sighs under his breath, and pushes lazily through the water to return to the pile of his clothing, which he left within reach of the pool. "Some of your sort are slaves, down there. Born in the dark without the proper ability to see in it...they rarely live that long." He fishes through a pouch on the front of his satchel for a small vial, the contents of which are a dark shade of amber, like finely aged whisky - wasting no time, the drow rather unceremoniously upends the vial and spills the liquid over his injury. It sizzles instantly upon contact with his flesh to cauterise the wound and stem the flow of blood, although Lyros barely reacts to the pain, tucking the empty vial back into his bag. Now it's fairly clear where some of those scars came from. After a short pause, he slips back into deeper water and swims the length of the pool, coming to rest with his arms laid crossed over one another on the wet rock, his chin atop them. He is noticeably nearer to her than he was before; perhaps a sign that he does not particularly object to her company. But when she talks of children, he can't help a derisive snort. That is also a subject Lyros is reluctant to discuss, though he does know for certain that those numerous attempts never bore fruit - easy pregnancies are not something the drow seem overly blessed with, and for that he is thankful. The fact it pissed off the women who dragged him into their beds only made it that much sweeter. "You'd be surprised." He shrugs, light-spotted shoulders rolling languidly and a small smile playing across his features. "...Though it's true, I have not been here long. A couple of weeks, at most." Another pause, this one longer as Lyros closes his eyes, thoughtful. "My name is Lyros," he says eventually. "Just Lyros. I claim no House." And that is telling, if one knows anything about drow society.
Riselet makes a vaguely disgusted noise at that description of her enslaved kin. She’d be more upset about it if she actually knew a gray elf, but the thought of enslavement—especially by those whom she’s vaguely related to—leaves her unsettled. “Well thank whoever I was born on the surface, I guess,” she answers with a noncommittal hand wave, sitting back up so she could take a good look at him. She lets the time pass as Lyros heals his lesions, always impressed by the way those mysterious salves can so easily fix any wound. A lot of things she doesn’t quite get hold her attention too easily—like those patches and scars on his skin, so natural but so out of place. They weave a story on his skin that she can’t quite get, just like magic, leaving her a bit mystified but entirely intrigued. She catches herself staring at his (admittedly exceptional) figure but stops, a bit red, figuring he’d notice and get annoyed. He doesn’t, as far as she can tell. Instead, he swims closer to her, enough for her to get a good look at his features; standard for a drow, but something seems off—maybe the eyes, she isn’t sure. When he gives her a proper introduction, name and all, Riselet can’t help but return his wry smile. “Lyros, huh. No House?” She cocks an eyebrow, surprised. All she knows about the drow are those Houses and their constant struggle for power. Wouldn’t someone from a House generally wear their insignia with pride? She decides not to pry, accepting what he gave her. “Eh, it’s no big deal anyways. Ly—ros. I wonder if I can make a nickname out of that.” Riselet puts a hand to her chin, almost thoughtful. She didn’t quite have the creative capabilities for such a venture, but gods be damned if she didn’t try. Her gaze shifting from him to the far end of the cavern, Riselet stares distractedly at the haze and recounts the days gone by. “I’ve never been out of Cenril myself ‘til a week or two ago. It feels weird. That city’s been my whole life, y’know? It feels… Weird. Like I’m outta my element, without a doubt. But it’s better than being stuck there.”
Lyros tilts his head in what may have been an attempted nod. "Indeed," he murmurs. Truthfully, he has discovered in his short time above ground that the surface is a fascinating world, if often peculiar and confusing, and sometimes entirely too vast and open for his liking. Born and raised in the Underdark, living underground all his life, Lyros is a touch agoraphobic and is still having trouble adjusting to the change; he fears the sky may one day swallow him whole. This secluded retreat may be little more than a local secret but the drow feels safer and more comfortable here than he has anywhere else, recently. The company is optional but the fact he isn't trying to stab her says enough. His supposedly ever-present glower appears to have faded in favour of a more relaxed demeanour as Lyros succumbs to the warm haze seeping through his body - weeks of built up tension and stress begin to melt out of him, soothing the ache in his joints and tightly knotted muscles. He is still quite alert, however. While Riselet watches him openly, Lyros also studies the half-drow in his own way, though his scrutiny is a little more subtle, the mage listening closely as she talks and drawing any information he can from the words. "A nickname... you can try, but I may have to kill you." The smile broadens into a bit of a smirk as if to play off the casual threat as a joke, but with drow you can never tell. "Cenril?" The name is familiar - Lyros recalls the maps he brought, always kept close in the event he ever finds himself lost in this expansive world. It helps him stay away from the memories of his own home, let them fade into the depths of his mind again. "Cenril is a port city, I think? You're a long way from the sea." He tilts his head, pushing wet hair out of his eyes to study her face, squinting through the steam. "...You know, I'm surprised you haven't made fun of me yet." He gestures to his skin, absently. Perhaps he noticed her wandering gaze after all.
Riselet keeps her mouth curled in an inquisitive grin, cobalt eyes glittering with curiosity. It looks to her that the grumpy little mage might be more receptive to conversation than before, much to her delight. Friendly strangers—much less those that looked to bear a history with them—were in dreadfully short supply, she’d observed. Those who carried their past on the back, as it looked like with Lyros, were of utmost interest to her; what secrets did they hide? It was another venture into the unknown, a break away from the tedium she’d grown used to. The halfling briefly considers it strange that she was getting along so well with a drow, but dismisses the thought as her newfound companion continues. Riselet laughs against when he jokes(?) about killing her, louder and a tad more obnoxious than expected from someone so small, but suddenly feels another pang of nostalgia at his mention of Cenril. The seaside is infinitely distant in that quick moment, and strangely, she doesn’t mind at all. “Yeah, porty as they come,” as she unwinds, her voice goes up an octave, unable to keep up her gruff, distant facade. “Nice place to live, ‘sides all the bird shit,” another guffaw escapes her lips as she wipes tears from her eyes. Riselet always laughs the loudest at her own jokes, a deafening howl that she finds inexplicably hard to calm down—perhaps her own obnoxiousness is what deters others from swapping stories with her. Only when Lyros starts speaking again does she find the willpower to calm herself down, stifling the last bits of mirth to hear him properly. At his comment she grows a bit contemplative, reflexively feeling for the closest strand of hair to place with. The spring’s moisture has made her hair a frizzy mess—in any other instance she’d be up in arms about it, but for now she’s focused on answering him. “Usually, I would,” she admitted frankly, “but when it comes to stuff like that, I kinda… I ‘unno, feel sympathetic. I mean, I don’t imagine lotsa people look like you, right? And I’ve never met someone like me, so…” she trails off, taking her hand and bringing it to her face. Riselet’s eyes trail faint white lacerations exacerbated by the heat, a sharp contrast against her ashy skin. Neither too light or too dark, a monotonous grey. Yeah, sympathy was the word, wasn’t it. “I guess it feels wrong to make fun of stuff like that. Doesn’t look like you’re too proud of it.”
Lyros, catching her gaze, responds with a soft frown touched with hints of doubt and apprehension, rather than the common rage present in many of his kind. He searches her, briefly, looking for some hidden sign, unsaid words, or a flicker of something he can trust— but for one so paranoid, such a security is notoriously difficult to even find, let alone consider putting faith in. He has little reason to trust anyone especially in this city; he gave his name only out of courtesy, or so he'll tell himself. Lyros dislikes half-blood drow as much as the next pureblood noble, yet here he is, uncomfortably aware of the fact that they seem to be finding a common ground to share together. This is the friendliest conversation he has been part of, the fiasco with the eel aside. "I've never seen the sea," he murmurs eventually, sounding distant, his thoughts carried away by the pull of the tide, the universal allure of the ocean enough even to capture this drow, momentarily. He shakes it off after a few seconds, tugged back by Riselet's raucous laughter, and it takes him a bit to realise that she's...laughing at her own joke. Despite it all, he is able to smile. But following his comment regarding his skin, Lyros slinks back into the water and pushes away from the side of the pool, drifting into his uncertainties once more. He lurks there as she speaks, distinctly wary, although the drow's face betrays nothing - his amber eyes flick to her own scars, the many marks she cannot scrub away and has to live with, similarly to him. It strikes him as odd, somehow. She seems so vibrant in comparison. Maybe she is lucky after all. "I'm not." There is no snapping about not needing her sympathy or pity, only another faint shrug. "I'm not proud of a lot of things."
Riselet studies him in the brief lull between answers, riveted by the peculiarities he shoulders but more so his expressions, his eyes—skin conditions aside, he is markedly different from the other drow she’s had the (dis)pleasure of encountering. Maybe it was in the eyes, or the way he spoke, or those scars. Something, after all, was enough to make him seek the blighted surface’s consolation in the first place. She dares not pry into it, not now. Watching him slink back into the murk of the spring, Riselet can see that her words had some effect on him. With most drow, it was difficult to tell, but Lyros was being notably candid. She kicks up her legs and lays by the edge of the pool, one hand dipped into the biting water, the other a pillow to rest her head. She lets loose her hair, a curled mess. “I don’t think there’s anyone out there who isn’t ashamed of themselves for something they’ve done.” She’s speaking more to herself than to the drow, eyes fixated on the fumes once again. Still no figures in the steam, just mindless contours that hung above them as though to watch. She continues, all half-murmurs that barely rise above the soft rumbling of the water. “I definitely’ve done things I regret. Maybe that’s why I left in the first place,” she ends with a glance towards him. “I’m sure you have your reasons, too, but I know better than to be nosy with a drow.” That elicits another snicker, this one more controlled than the last. The same wry smile tugs at her cheeks, confident. “If we get out of Frostmaw alive, how ‘bout I show you the seaside? It’s damn pretty. Less eels, too, I think,” she tries her hardest to suppress another belly laugh, small chuckles resonating throughout the cavern. “Seriously. For all you know, it’d be the most fun you’ve had on the surface. Better than wandering this frozen hellscape.”
"I don't think there's anyone out there who isn't ashamed of themselves for something they've done," she says, and he answers with a soft sound caught between a sigh and a weary laugh. Something he's done... Lyros' lips quirk in a half-smile but this one is distinctly strained and bitter, and his eyes are shadowed with traces of sadness; the sort of lonely emptiness of a lost soul who only has his self-hatred for company. "Yes. Something." It's more for who and what he is that Lyros harbours so much buried loathing and guilt, but he won't tell her that. Not now. Although he has not tensed up again despite the current line of conversation, the drow does not return to his previous place nearby Riselet, instead headed for his gear once again. Perhaps he's running away. Arms plunge into the water and pull him the length of the pool, until he reaches the shallower side by his pile of clothing. "Don't look." He throws that back over his shoulder with a bit of a frown, though there's no vehemence in his words - then, whatever the answer, he'll push himself up and out of the water, rivulets running between his shoulder blades and down the length of his back, over wiry muscles, down all his shapes and curves. Truthfully, Lyros is relatively used to being seen naked, but that does not mean he is comfortable with Riselet seeing the entirety of his heavily marked body all at once. Not on the first date! A quick stretch and he shakes the excess water from his hair before bending to pick up his underclothes and pants, pulling them on as his skin steams with the temperature change. The air is warm and humid, but compared to the water, Lyros feels quite cold all of a sudden. "Maybe I'll tell you some time," he offers back, voice quiet, then after a beat continues as though he never said anything. "I was told this is a land of opportunity where anyone can make a new start, but all I've run into so far is people refusing to sell me food because of who I am. Or who I seem to be, maybe." He turns towards her, still shirtless for the moment, and cants his head slightly to one side, wet hair in his eyes. "I have always wanted to see the ocean. Though the eels, I could do without." That sounds strangely as if he might be agreeing to accompanying her on a trip some time...
Every word that he speaks, each smile, each expression seems to hide something. Riselet isn’t sure if that’s just normal for drow or unique to Lyros considering how vague his answers have been so far. She lets their conversation lapse back into silence, taking a moment to sit up and stretch once again. The humidity does wonders for her; she feels limber, invigorated, perhaps enough so to go out and brave the raw chill of Frostmaw that threatens to swallow them whole. It was strange how a place so inviting could be hiding right under their noses, and counted her blessings for stumbling upon these stepped springs. Riselet takes care to turn around as Lyros changes. “I wouldn’t even if I could, but I’ll cover my eyes just in case,” she responds sarcastically with a sort of derision that poorly hides her own amusement. Facing the nigh-endless bowels of the underground, the half-elf unrolls her sleeves and tights, idly wondering to herself where she left the rest of her clothes. Hopefully nothing rolled down into the abyss below, but the darkness that permeated the lower depths made it difficult to tell. Either way, she felt it was time to gather herself and face the world once again. She takes light, careful steps around the springs, stealing awkward glances at Lyros see if he’s changed— attempting to act casual causes her to nearly trip over her clothes, which were thankfully right where she left them. The halfling grabs her boots and slides them on unceremoniously, all the trapped heat threatening to melt her. With this comes the gloves—not nearly as impressive as his gauntlets—and the finishing touches: small rings, bracelets, and other knickknacks from past heists she keeps on account of fond memories. Half-listening to Lyros, Riselet ventures to her mass of grey hair into a ponytail, muttering swears to herself all the while. “Well, it’s all ‘cause you're a drow. Hate like that runs deep. That’s life… I guess,” her last words ring bitter, and she quickly changes the topic. “But yeah. Ocean. Definitely. First, though, we gotta get outta here.” She looks up towards the passageway that lead them there, seeing the faintest outlines of more discarded clothes near the top. She takes the first steps, but stops and swivels on her heel, turning to face him. “You’re not going out there alone again, are you?”
Lyros leaves Riselet to draw her own conclusions about him, mostly. He's well aware she has her eye on him, stealing glances here and there, though for what purpose he is not sure— likely trying to pick him apart at the seams, figure out his weak points, and all the pockets on his armour where he might hide precious things. He shrugs it off and picks up his shirt. Though he wears many layers, it does not take him long to redress, his movements practiced and methodical: first the shirt, then the first of three belts that holds the small pouches on either side of his hips, over which goes his sleeveless leather vest. The second set of belts — those with the sheathes for his twin daggers — go over that, the blades crossing at his lower back to sit snug and secure against his body. He pulls on his boots before moving on to his various metal pieces - for a mage, he wears quite a bit of heavier armour, although rather than for physical protection, Lyros seems to wear them as a form of intimidation, using the wicked spikes and shiny black steel to make himself seem more dangerous than he may be. Soon, the drow is throwing his cloak about his shoulders and flexing his clawed fingers once more, feeling more confident now he is no longer stark naked. But the weight of all this clothing in the humid cavern is already causing a sweat to break out across his brow - he looks to Riselet, blinking at her last words and making no attempt to disguise his surprise. "Ah, wait...you meant right now?" He had not expected her to start their journey so suddenly, but it is clear she also lacks a fondness for Frostmaw's frigid climate. Lyros' expression shifts to a frown and he almost looks reluctant, casting his gaze off to the side. "Suppose. Alone is generally how I go."
With his armor on, the drow is different; it doesn’t hang on him awkwardly as she expected, but instead clings to him, makes him fearsome. If she’d encountered him like that and not entirely bare, she would have been more inclined to leave him be… Or maybe size him up, see if he was all bark and no bite. (And, being a mage, Lyros had a fearsome set of teeth, so to say.) Clutching the last bits of her ensemble, she studies him for another brief second before donning her bags—still full of food and other necessities, which relieved her—and her cloak, which didn’t serve much but to make her look smaller. Riselet wonders to herself how practical it is to lug around all that metal and hide. He’s so thin without those layers. If Lyros didn’t break under the duress of living on the surface, his armor alone would suffice. Her worn scarf was thrown on in one swift motion, completing the outfit. Her clothes aren’t precisely fit to combat the cold, bits of chill sneaking into her gloves and boots, but they’re fashionable for a wanderer and that was the most important part. The echoes are more concentrated here, the clacking of her boots amplified as she ambles her way up, occasionally checking to see if Lyros is following along. Dark eyes gleaming, Riselet waits near the top with one hand on her hip. She grins at his wide eyes. “Not right now, of course but—eventually. I’m just keen on getting outta here,” she explains, sporting a look of distaste at the thought of trudging through the snow again. She’s a bit stunned that he’s gotten this far on his own, almost a bit afraid that he’ll end up hurting himself. Lyros is a drow, a member of one of the most tenacious races in the land… But he looks delicate to her underneath, like porcelain. Is she really that concerned about a stranger? Enough to accompany them across an icy hell? Well, if there was something in it for her, maybe. “Listen, I’ve seen how you look under those layers. I bet you’re a tough fighter, Lyros, but you’re straight outta the underworld. There’s some stuff here that could rip you and me to shreds,” she takes a couple of steps down, continuing. “I think it’d be safer if we went together. You know Frostmaw better than I do, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get caught off guard. I’m also a pretty tough fighter, and probably the only merc out there who’ll serve a drow boy fresh from Underdark.” She wants to add a ‘also, I need work and I haven’t had a good assassination job in months’, but refrains, putting out her hand instead. A wide Cheshire grin goes from ear to ear. “So, how ‘bout it?”
Lyros does indeed follow, his footsteps softer than Riselet's, the drow prowling behind the girl like some lurking shadow. He halts on the stairway when she does, as she is effectively blocking his exit - his amber eyes flick up to find her blue, quietly questioning the sudden pause. In this narrow passage, the steam drifting up from the hot spring below fills much of the space, moistening the walls and making it a little difficult for Lyros to make it out properly, her edges blurred like he is seeing her through misted glass. The air is stifling. Bundled up in all his heavy gear, the drow seems to be overheating fast, swaying slightly. "'Eventually' suits me fine. I still have things to do here." That and he is not certain his body is quite up to the task of the rough travel to Cenril, as the gash on his stomach has yet to fully heal and his shoulder still feels tender and weak. Frowning lightly, Lyros takes another step up, hoping to silently hint to her that he'd prefer to keep moving while they talk - he is a little affronted when she decides to retrace her path back down, however, until she stands on the step just above him. They are almost equal in height and it is with that realisation that Lyros realises how small she actually is— and yet here she is proclaiming her skill as a fighter and offering to accompany him on his journeys across this accursed surface. He looks her up and down, his gaze lingering on her extended hand. "...I appreciate the offer," he tells her reluctantly after a long pause, not looking up. Perhaps he is not entirely truthful, but that is likely due to him assuming she thinks him weak and in need of help - being the prideful thing he is, perhaps he took some offence to her words, although he does not seem particularly annoyed. "I mean— you say you're a mercenary, and those usually get paid for their work. I don't think I have the money to pay you, is all." Ah, that might be his problem.
Riselet finds it funny how Lyros follows her behind like a shadow or a stray cat; now that she thinks about it, he doesn’t have a home to come back to like she does. Riselet is somehow flattered by this and the movements that echoed her own, taking pride in the fact that she’s made a friend so quickly. Of course, whether or not Lyros actually reciprocated was another matter (he didn’t even accept her handshake!) but she would concern herself with that another time. “Alright, that’s a done deal then! We’ll be working together from now on,” Riselet proudly announces, placing the unshaken hand under her coat. She notices that he’s heating up rather quickly, and with her last statement begins the climb back up, lending him an ear as they continue to the top. “Oh, if you can’t pay me in cash, that’s fine. Then…” she pauses, putting a gloved finger to her chin. A devilish thought comes to mind and this time, she decides to say it aloud. She stops again to face him, stare stone-cold as if she’s serious. “You can pay for me with your body. I’m sure you’re experienced, right?” The halfling can only manage for a few moments, just enough for him to react, before breaking into another fit of laughter, nearly deafening. Riselet holds her sides, eyes watering and face red—it takes her a minute or two to catch her breath, still light-headed. The hot air doesn’t help and she stumbles a few steps upwards, searching for a cooler breeze, taking care not to step on the small blue flowers that guide their path. When she meets eyes with Lyros again her expression much less serious, catching stray tears that roll down her cheeks. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Of course you don’t have to pay me, doofus. We’ll make enough money together as it is,” she assures him, the same cheery—but not mocking—grin on her face.
Lyros is not sure how it turned out like this. Part of him wants to protest but in the end he decides against it and just keeps quiet, throwing Riselet a thankful glance as she begins to walk. He follows in her footsteps, ascending the final part of the staircase to emerge along with her in the cave above, amidst the ghostly wildflowers and glittering walls. He is quickly learning that Riselet is a girl full of surprises - again she stops him in his track, doubly so with her suggestion which Lyros, unfortunately, interprets as being completely serious. It shows clear as day in his face and posture as he blinks and then quickly averts his eyes, drawing slightly inward into himself, shifting on his feet. He looks down, suddenly a little smaller and a bit meek, but he'd blame the heat colouring his cheeks on the steam. His mouth opens to offer some sort of reply when her mask crumbles and Riselet breaks down, her laughter echoing off the walls in a manner that is almost grating to his sensitive, burning ears. The drow's face pales with the abrupt realisation that he was completely and utterly played for a fool, and for a moment he can only stand there, completely silent with his mouth hanging open. Perhaps she expected him to see straight through her, or to laugh it off, but Riselet is unlucky — or cruel — enough to have hit a particularly sensitive spot connected to a string of unpleasant memories Lyros would rather not recall. Her mirth only rubs salt in the wounds and he scowls, his typical blackened mood resurfacing as though it was never gone. "You'd make a Matron proud," he snaps, annoyed, pushing past her and headed for the exit, leaving a trail of crushed blooms in his path.
Riselet expects any sort of reaction but the one handed to her. She had briefly noticed that he had taken her seriously—right before she was gasping for air—but doesn’t anticipate to be greeted by a scowl when she finally calms down. It takes a white for it to hit her, that she’d stuck a nerve, but doesn’t immediately react until he shoves her aside. Ouch. Riselet fumbles with words for a second before sputtering out, “Lyros, wait! What’re you—... Matron? What?” She stands dumbstruck for a while, eyes wide and mouth gaping with some unseen, unknown fear. All of her pride and ego is so easily eaten whole by this single feeling, something she’s unable to describe. Her heart sinks with each step he takes, silently berating herself. Damn it. Damn it. She goes after him, gait tentative and anxious; the complete opposite of her demeanor only a few moments ago. She remembers feeling like this when her mother spoke, glare sharp, or when she came home empty-handed, or when she walked in on dear mother doing...— any of those other times in Cenril when she was a fool and knew it, and didn’t care that second before. That was why she left the city, to abandon those emotions entirely, but here she was confronted with her own stupidity again. (It wouldn’t be so bad if her mother’s face wasn’t the only thing she saw when she got like this.) Lyros left for a reason too, and whatever she said must have had some part in it, surely. Riselet tries to catch up with the taller drow, walking briskly alongside him, voice pleading. “Okay, okay, I said something wrong, didn’t I? Listen, Lyros, I’m— I mean— I just wanted to crack a joke, you know? I…” she struggles to articulate, finding it incredibly difficult to say ‘sorry’. Is it on account of pride or just fear of rejection? Is it both? She can’t tell in that instance. “Please, c’mon, just listen, okay? I— I’m sorry. Really, I am,” a deep breath. Walking and talking isn’t easy with all this added stress. “I just wanted to make you laugh, Lyros.”
Lyros ran from many things. Some are so monstrous he is not sure he could ever speak of them, preferring they remain in the depths of the Houses they were committed at. His overbearing mother and her madness, the scathing looks he could not escape even in his own House, all that fear and loathing, the self-destructive nature of his kind; and the clawing hands that tore at him from all sides, wanting this, that, cut yourself open for me, deeper, rip that one apart, take off your clothes, yes dear— with a vicious snarl he tries to push it to the back of his mind, fleeing the glimmering cavern and all his ghosts, desperate for once to be back under the open sky where he can breathe. Dimly he hears footsteps trailing after his, feeling Riselet's presence as she pleads him to stop, to calm down. Lyros whirls on her, bristling at the edges like some angry thing. Suddenly his armour looks all the more intimidating and the air about him has changed, charged, electric, and awful. But...rather than rage, Lyros seems more frightened than anything, and it is certainly a strange emotion to observe so clearly and genuine in a drow. "You have no idea, you—" He reaches for her, almost, maybe to grab her, maybe to gouge her eyes out. "You have the same face, you say shit like that to make a joke? It's not a joke, I'm— I'm not a joke." He thought, perhaps hoped, that she would be different - a surface-dweller and a half-blood resembling a drow only in looks but lacking the twisted personality of a priestess looking to coerce him, dominate him, make him bow to her because she is higher in station and he can say nothing about it. He hides behind that cracked wall of fury, wide-eyed as he stares at her, fixated on that face, fearing her concern might be another facade hiding yet more laughter and lies. Vipers, all of them. Snowflakes sting his cheeks and the cold air is like knives in his lungs, and Lyros wishes he believed his own words. Wishes he believed hers, too.
Riselet can’t tell what’s going through the drow’s mind, but she can tell he’s far from sated with her careless apology—something’s gnawing at him like it’s gnawing at her. Scenarios race through her mind, none of them good; surely, after this, she will be alone again. The gray elf finds it hard to keep up with his pace, trudging behind and whispering pleas that vanish in the air. The snow grips to her feet fiercely and her legs barely make it above the drift; snow seeps into her feet, frost pinning her in place alongside her own anxieties. Riselet can feel the same shift in atmosphere appear, unchanging in the face of drifting winds. Like the atmosphere at home when she angered dear mother, icy eyes boring into her, through her. No doubt, he was upset. Her entire body freezes as they make eye contact, gripped by paralysis, unable to do anything but watch. She hates how he raises his voice. It’s not the loudness—irritating as it is—but the tone that brings back fond memories of mother. Like scolding, but faced with execution rather than grounding: his hand, wrapped in steel and leather, is the garrotter. Her mouth is dry. Can she speak, still? Her words are weak, like how she was as a child. “It was a joke, but I— I, I don’t think you a joke, Lyros— I didn’t know, I mean… shit,” she could feel hot tears forming at the edge of her eyelids, nothing like tears from laughter. How long has it been since she cried? Years, maybe. When mother had still hit her. Riselet didn’t even know she had it in her, but this drow—this stranger—he just… does something. Dives into her ego and rips it to shreds. Is it because he’s a drow, she wonders? Or is it because he resembles her in some abnormal way? The tone, the magic. Wiping at her eyes with the cold, itchy leather of her gloves did nothing but aggravate her. Damn it, she was bawling. This was pathetic. “I—I’m sorry, I’m really, really… I’ll be a good kid, I—” she fumbles at the last part, back-pedalling. “I don’t mean… ugh… Lyros, I, I just wanted to be friends. With you. I messed up again…” It’s hard to keep talking, she realizes, with this bile forming in her throat. She sees stars. Something’s ringing in her ears.. The tears sting unbelievably. She coughs, shaky breaths hot in the frozen air. She manages a few words, barely audible even to her. “Give me another chance…”
It doesn't come. The peals of mocking laughter he'd expected are nowhere to be found and instead it seems as if, in their absence, Riselet can do nothing but crumble and fall apart. It takes Lyros far longer than he should to look past his paranoia and understand that he is not the only one upset here, and by that time Riselet is in tears and begging him to forgive her. He thinks he sees her, then— a hint of the real her, that is, not the face he had presumed would only show the same twisted smiles and cold eyes as those before her. She didn't know. And it must be that something in her past is chasing her, too, stalking her all the way here to the frozen north to surface in his eyes and his mannerisms, his harsh words and anger - what else would draw such an intense reaction from her, the same as how he had responded to her joke? Lyros falters, his magic snapping into oblivion; then as suddenly as he'd turned to face her, the drow spins on his heel and walks away. A little distance, a little breathing space. He does not trust himself to catch her wrist and pull her along behind him, so he'll just have to wait and see if she'll keep following him. He does not run far, merely to the side of the road and a few metres down a narrower side-street, where he promptly falls to sit on the massive steps outside a house and buries his face against his knees, arms wrapped around his head. His anger is difficult to control, sometimes, but it is his fear and anxieties that he has more trouble with - both he often conceals as rage, hiding his weaknesses as any drow would. Lyros looks scary, looks like he knows what he's doing, but deep down inside, he's terrified. Eventually, after a few minutes of controlled breathing to try and calm himself, the mage lifts his head, his eyes lightly rimmed with red and his expression settling back into something more neutral, although his eyes flick this way and that, anxious. She wanted to make him laugh. She wanted to be friends. Lyros is not even sure he understands the meaning of that word and all it entails, but if she hasn't run off on him...maybe, one day, he can find out.
Riselet is a mess for a little while. Or maybe a long while—time as it stands has no bearing on her right now. The cold air makes her throat hoarse, each caught breath a sparked fire in her ribcage. The tears are smaller now, the residue icing over her cheeks as they form, and they burn just as hot. Crying in general is something she hates to do (truly, the grossest display of raw emotion), and crying in the middle of a frozen wasteland now tops the list for her as the most awful place to cry, ahead of disgusting sobs under her sheets or in one of Cenril’s alleys. Her eyes, irritated and bloodshot, can barely make out the mage departing, heading somewhere, no response or death sentence. Not a single word even as his anger still peals in her ears. All traces of magic fade; curtains closed prematurely, the show is over, no encore, no applause. She can still feel mother’s bony, lithe hands wrapped around her neck like apparitions, and they do nothing but serve to terrify. She is gone now. So is Lyros—and why? She thinks for a moment that he’s given up on her and Riselet almost breaks down again, only saved by a hidden resolve that tells her to go after him one last time. She does. It’s hard to tell where he’s going, and Riselet is thankful that his footprints are still fresh in the snow. She puts her powder-covered boots inside the imprints one after the other. The halfling’s his shadow now, teetering as though just learning to walk, and when she peers down she can see how much larger his feet are compared to her. It makes her feel safe, somehow, even as the ice and cold wants to devour her. Without Lyros’s stamps in the snow, she’d surely trip and fall and just lay there forever. Still sniffling, Riselet looks ahead and can see the same gangly, armoured figure from before. He’s sitting—she likes to think he’s waiting for her, just to try and justify stumbling after him, but with Lyros she can never tell. The streets are mostly free of snow, yet she puts her feet inside of his footprints all the same. A few last coughs to get the gunk out and she stops a few feet in front of him, wild and red-faced. Her ponytail’s gone loose. What a terrible impression. She does not befit the look of mercenary, not even of knight. Even if he said yes to her offer after this, could she really hope to protect him? She feels a bit calmer now but still grasps hopelessly at words. “I, uh… I’m sorry, again, Lyros, and— do you hate me?”
Lyros looks at her long and hard, but once again does not have an answer. The situation itself is new - he has never had to deal with anyone else's tears before, only his own, always bitter when he tasted them, always regretting having let his emotions get the better of him in the first place. Crying is the worst, truly. He rubs at his face again a little absent-mindedly, just to make sure nothing is lingering, his cheeks raw from the cold and dried tears. He does not look his best right now, but then, neither does Riselet. Somehow, Lyros takes comfort in that. After an extensive silence the drow looks away and heaves a sigh, one of those full-bodied ones where his shoulders sag and his posture slumps with exhaustion, as if he just exhaled a great weight. "I don't know." His voice is quiet, weary, almost hard to hear over the skirling wind and muffling snowfall, light as it is. Maybe it speaks volumes to her all the same. "Hate is one of those emotions I'm very familiar with but— no, I don't think I hate you. You didn't know." He reminds himself of that fact repeatedly, silently, like a mantra in his head with a beat to match her occasional sniff and cough as she stands before him like some lost thing, stepping in the footprints he left in the snow, and Lyros has to fight against a soft laugh. She calls herself a mercenary, a bodyguard, but right now all he can see is a young girl with a heavy weight on her shoulders and her heart, who just finished bawling her eyes out. Rather like him. Rubbing his jaw, he considers her then glances away, murmuring, "You know of drow society, don't you? Matrons— no, women have all the power in Trist'oth. Or they did, until recently...but they still have most of it." Another sigh - Lyros does not enjoy talking about his past, nor will he reveal all of it, but he'll tell her this much. He figures she deserves it. "I couldn't say anything about it. You don't...you don't say no, because they remind you of their station, of how low yours is as a male, and how you have no right to say no. That's partly why I hated it there. Feeling stifled, used, like I only existed when it was convenient to one of the matrons or a priestess or— or my mother." Making a vaguely disgusted noise and dragging a hand down his face, Lyros pushes himself to his feet, dusting snow off his cloak. He stares up at the sky for a moment, amber eyes searching the grey haze, but soon enough he returns to watching Riselet - after a brief hesitation, the drow extends a hand to her.
Riselet watches him with bated breath as though his words hinge upon the fate of the world. And in this instance, to her, they really do. She takes quiet steps closer, terrified that she could miss as much as a single syllable from him. Clasping her hands she looks timid and withdrawn, furrowed brows and quivering lips. Lyros is dishevelled, too, and she’s silently grateful, as though he’s revealing a side to her unseen by most as she is to him. She hopes that he’ll still be willing to drag her around after this, but nothing is certain until he speaks. When he does—when that quiet ‘I don’t think I hate you’ reaches her ears—she feels relieved, though not excused. Her world is brighter. Something still blackens it at the edges; her own guilty, perhaps. The weight of paranoia is heavy on her shoulders even as his trust in her seems to be renewed. Riselet still cannot handle to bear a smile, not yet, and listens, hands by her sides. She can only nod in response to Lyros, suddenly shy after her unsightly display of emotion. He is leaving himself wide open for her to take in. It’s difficult to speak of the past, she understands, and is moved beyond compare by the few words he gives; the short, vivid description is the means to an end for her. The explanation. She knew vaguely of Trist’oth’s matriarchy—like how she knew a lot of things vaguely, dismissively—but knew not a sliver of what Lyros had gone through until now. That joke she had made was fleeting, entirely on impulse. She wasn’t looking at Lyros as a drow fresh from the surface in that instance, not putting into account the load he bore, and that was her downfall. Guilt still leaden in her heart, Riselet nods again but does not speak; in any other situation she would offer sympathy, but that isn’t what he needs right now, is it? The blues of her iris are lighter after crying, studying him as though attempting to predict his next move. What comes is unexpected—Riselet’s face lights up with the outstretched hand, gawking for a second. She takes it with gratitude and feels the cold of the steel through thin, scratchy leather. Her smile is faint, but it is beaming. “Lyros… Thank you. For, um, the explanation… And everything else.” Her voice wavers, a bit unsure, and the harsh air reignites the fire in her throat. But she’s content. “I’ll make sure you won’t feel like that ever again. I promise I’m more competent than I look,” she adds sheepishly, free hand scratching the back of her head. “No pay. You don’t owe me anything. Just a companion is enough... Am I talking too much?”
Lyros has always been a good listener: it pays to be aware, and in the Underdark, he relied almost as much upon his ears as his infra-vision. The eye can betray you, after all. He listens here, too, to all her words and their slight inflections, the things that give her away even more than her face. She is very expressive, he thinks, allowing himself a small smile. "Just enough, Riselet," he answers her final words. In a gesture that he has rarely used, and only to drow children, Lyros reaches with his free hand to gently muss up her hair a little, almost affectionately. He is not one for words or long, deep conversation, but he does not seem to mind her rambling - the drow clearly listens to everything she says. "There is one thing, though," he adds after a second when the realisation hits him. Slowly he withdraws his hand, careful not to scratch with his claws, hoping he didn't come across as strange. "Do you, um— where are you staying? I think I've rather overstayed my welcome at the clinic, and..."
The way he tousles her hair makes Riselet feel safe, and for a second she just closes her eyes and lets him. She is somewhat picky about touching and being touched—maybe because she simply isn’t used to physical affection, a rare commodity back in Cenril—but with Lyros, it’s fine. She doesn’t feel the need to put her guard up around him at all, this odd acquaintance of hers, and she lets out a deep sigh of relief. Good. “Just enough, huh?” She snickers lightly. She tilts her head at his question, unable to give a concise answer. She’s been more or less drifting up until now, her longest stay in Kelay—that was barely a week, and she doubted that he would be welcome there amidst the elven-drow war. Would Xalious be accommodating, she wonders? Or maybe that tavern in Frostmaw. Putting a hand to her chin, Riselet’s eyes scan the ground as if it could give an answer. “That’s the thing. I’ve just been bumming at inns here and there this whole time. I can pay for rent and stuff if I hafta, it’s really no problem, but I ‘unno where you’d be most, er, welcome,” her tone is soft, hoping not to offend after such a heated conversation. Her gaze goes back to Lyros, and only then does she first notice how he towers over her. With all that armor, he’s a lot more intimidating than she could ever be.
Lyros smirks a touch. "Just enough not to annoy me." Judging from his tone, he is most likely just teasing her. To Riselet's words he offers a faint shrug and a nonchalant, "I'm not sure I'm welcome anywhere, up here, but..." He does not appear to take offence over this, likely because he is so used to suffering some sort of prejudice; and besides, he's spent a week or so in Frostmaw already, so Lyros has had more than enough chances to learn for certain that most do not approve of his presence. "From what I can tell," he continues, "the tavern is the only real place you can find bed and board here, unless you're horrifically injured or...an elf." His nose wrinkles a touch as he turns and gestures in the vague direction of the exile camp across the city. "They have a refugee camp or something, but I'm almost guaranteed a knife in the back if I go there." Hand on his hip and head slightly tilted, Lyros regards Riselet with an appraising gaze, clearly scheming something. Yes, she is a half-blood but for all intents and purposes, she more closely resembles an elf - and she is smaller, less intimidating, likely a thousand times more friendly... "You could probably get a room at the tavern easier than I. I'd pay for my share of the rent, of course." The drow is not one for sharing small spaces with other people but if he can help it, he'd rather deal with just Riselet than be left out in the cold.
Riselet lets Lyros decide what to do next, the honorary brains of their little operation. The halfling barely knows her way around the City of War and trusts his insight enough to know that she’s in good hands. Hands—she’s still awkwardly holding his and lets go, somewhat embarrassed. His grasp felt comfortable, and she regrets letting go for a brief second, but the two are still little more than strangers (for now). The snowfall is lighter now, she notices, and their shared footprints haven’t yet been completely covered by new drift. Even Frostmaw could be peaceful at times. She listens to him appraise their possible lodgings with an open ear but a distracted mind; she has little idea as to why elves were turned away or exile camps existed, but at the moment she isn’t interested to know. A creeping hunger is starting to gnaw at her stomach now that she’s unwound. Riselet looks towards Lyros as he evaluates her—definitely planning something—and returns it with a blink. She casts a glance towards the general direction of the tavern. “That place? Yeah, sure, no problem,” the half-elf assures him, grinning. “As long as I can get something to eat. I’m starving. You think they have anything good there?”
Lyros barely noticed they had yet to let go of each other, but when he does, he quickly disengages himself too, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away again. He mentally reprimands himself but— it had felt comfortable, enough that he had forgotten about it entirely until the exact moment Riselet began to release his hand. How odd, he thinks. Nodding to Riselet, the drow begins to walk, his strides long and his pace slow, allowing his companion to keep up easily. "I'm relying on you, then." He offers a small smile, before answering her question. "The other day I had...a really great stew." By the sound of his voice, tinged with hunger, he's craving some again. "It's not exactly elegant food, but who cares if it tastes good?" As they head east, the streets become more crowded and they leave Frostmaw's peaceful atmosphere behind in favour of loud markets and marching guardsmen, a few exiled elves milling about in their shadow. They throw their glances and frowns but Lyros ignores them, headed for the tavern. "Do you like dragons?" The question is given entirely out of the blue as he looks sidelong at Riselet, then pauses, tapping his chin. "Or, should I say, wyverns."
Any traces of Riselet’s breakdown are completely gone by now. She carries the same air of confidence that she possessed when she first walked into the springs (albeit then it was more one of desperation than any sort of aplomb), adrenaline running high at the thought of adventuring with Lyros. The drow beside her looks more animated as well, much to her delight. “Stew is good, stew is good,” she nods in agreement. “I think the most elegant think I’ve ever had was this bottle of Rynvale brandy, really rare stuff apparently, but it tasted like sewer water. In my honest opinion—” she brings a proud hand to her chest, smirk dancing on her face, “—you can only enjoy eating if the food you buy is worth the price. That Roc bull wasn’t even worth a copper!” She chuckles to herself, pleased. Lyros is a surprisingly good partner for conversation; at the very least, he doesn’t point out the fact she laughs at everything she says (or any other idiosyncrasy). Riselet barely notices as the quiet streets make way for a bustling intersection, milling with people of all creeds and cultures, too self-absorbed to notice the exiled elves and their furtive glances towards Lyros. At his question she snaps out her languid state, nearly gasping in surprise: “Wyverns? I love ‘em! They’re so cool and super powerful! I once met a guy who said he fought one, but that’s just hogwash, y’know? I wish I could see one for myself.” In that moment Riselet has the glee of a novice adventurer, eyes sparkling with curiosity. The next second she tries to compose herself, acting far too serious for it to be natural. “I— Uh, yeah. Why the question, though?”
Lyros moves easily through the crowd in spite of their opinions of him, at least, deflecting a glower here and there as he weaves between frost giants and smaller residents alike - always making sure Riselet is close by, of course. Perhaps he should not have let go of her hand. While he mulls that thought over to himself, the drow listens to the half-blood talk, noticing the way she has become gradually more animated and confident again and feeling a strange sense of relief. He thinks about that for a bit, too. "All this has made me hungry, honestly. I could do with some stew," he admits. Though he has not much to offer on the topic of brandy aside from a short laugh, Lyros grins along with her enthusiasm regarding wyverns, and then her failed attempt to compose herself. "I met some the other day," he tells her after ducking around a particularly stubborn giant, then falling back into step by her side. "Out in the wilderness. They were...interesting? A King and a Princeling, or so that woman called them— you'd probably like them."
Riselet watches the proceedings of the town with curiosity. It’s a silly fear, but in the back of her mind she’s a bit afraid she’ll get stepped on by one of the giants. The presence of Lyros placates her, makes her feel a bit less alone. Maybe it’s the spiky steel or the reassurance that she has someone to watch her back. Riselet didn’t expect to make any allies when she left Cenril (but was she really expecting anything?), but managed to find a companion in someone as unlikely as him. “Yeah, I’ll treat us both! Wonder if the meat’s different than back at Sage. Maybe more muscle-y… Or furry,” that last comment has her fake-gag for humour, but her attention immediately turns to Lyros with his next comment. She gives him a look of disbelief. He’d actually met some wyverns? Multiple ones? She always thought envy was above her, but in this moment she’s fiercely jealous. “You aren’t pulling my leg, right?” Riselet asks, eyeing him with incredulity. “‘Cause if you aren’t… I’ll take up on that offer,” she grins, patting him on the back—a tricky manoeuvre on account of his armour. “You should introduce me to that lady you mentioned. After drinks, of course!”
For Riselet, sticking closer to Lyros is a good idea if she's looking for an easy path through the bustling streets. The majority of people seem to be giving the drow a wide berth, although when he approaches from behind to squeeze through narrow gaps in the crowd, there is no much room to step aside. Whether their avoidance is due to his armour or just because of who he is, or both, is uncertain. He throws in a few elbow-jabs and shoves here and there, which won't help his situation and earns him a couple of curses and slurs, which Lyros largely ignores. At least he's on Riselet's side. "Multiple ones," he confirms with a nod. "A whole...flock? Pack? I walked into a nesting ground, essentially." Frostmaw's tavern is in sight, a massive timber structure visible above even the heads of giants, its windows glowing with warm orange light and its door opening regularly with the steady stream of patrons coming and going. Lyros heads towards it, skimming over the icy ground where snow-trodden streets have seen so much wear that it has compressed into a single sheet of dangerous black ice. "If you want to go, we can go. Tomorrow, maybe?" He tilts his head to peer back over his shoulder, slowly spinning on the ice. "Though I don't know about meeting her...I never caught her name." Hopping up the short flight of steps, the drow pauses beside the tavern door, which is seeing a brief lull in use. Even from here he can feel the heat sneaking out through the gaps in the hinges; he's eager to get inside and chase away the chill again.
Riselet sticks to Lyros like glue as they navigate the crowds, appreciative of his rough handling of the strangers—she’d do the same if she knew the area and was in the mood to start a fight, usually both. The steady stream of people brings back memories of Cenril, if vaguely, but she dismisses the thought. Frostmaw is as different from Cenril as can be, the touch of the giants reminiscent in the hardy stonework of buildings and the streets, built to last against what the mountains offered. Her eyes aren’t on Lyros but she listens intently, watching swarms come and go. The tavern, however, is a sight for sore eyes; Riselet races to the steps—nearly slipping on ice in the process—and heartily agrees: “Yes, tomorrow, without a doubt!” She’s almost childish in her glee. “I hope we see that lady. I wonder how much she knows about ‘em?” Putting herself in front of Lyros, she opens the heavy tavern door and invites a gust of cool air inside. Riselet ushers him to come inside, giddy with excitement. All things considered, today has been a very good day.