RP:Solidarity and the Stars
Lyros' mind is wandering, aimless, like his footsteps - it is only by chance that he manages to keep following Riselet, as if the half-elf has him on some invisible thread, stringing him along behind her like a balloon. Though he pauses here and there to window shop, his eyes darting over the various wares on display — clothes, jewellery, fine crafts, there is even a book store — the mage inevitably drifts in her direction, weaving with quiet elegance around passing people and a pair of patrolling giant guardsmen headed north to the fort. They glance at him. He glances back, frowns, and halts in front of Riselet just before she moves off around the edge of the fountain, her eyes fixed on something he cannot make out. Lyros huffs a chilly breath and takes a seat by the glowing water, turning his gaze up to the sky. Breathing warm, misting breaths over his gloved hands, the drow squints against the dimming glare of the setting sun and tries to pick out tiny pinpricks of light where stars shine faintly, high above. With another look across at Riselet, Lyros wonders what she makes of it all; the sky, the lights, the ever-changing colours fading through patchy white clouds. He wonders if she thinks it beautiful. Maybe she brought him out here to try and show him that - the drow is not entirely sure why she wanted to go for a walk, but she was rather insistent.
Laezila was on the other side of the fountain; clad not in her usual outside wear of a large, thick white coat with wolf-fur trim of grays and blacks, but rather a thick black sweater that clung snug in fit around her slender form. Her diminutive height ensured that the sleeves ended not at wrists but rather at the knuckles precedent to her skinny ebony fingers. Tight leggings were her pants, in deep blue and made evident by one leg laying crossed over the other as she sat on the rim of the fountain, with one of her brown shin-high winter boots limply suspended above the snowy ground from the position. Her glittering and glistening white hair, appropriate in accent against the snowy and cold environment as well as sharply contrasted by her scarred, dark face, was loose in wisps of locks that wildly grasped about her shoulders. Tear-marks soured a saddened expression, however, dried on insofar as the chilled air dried them, leaving the rivers visible in streaks down her cheeks. It was the sound of the approach that caused her to look over her shoulder and meet instantly the prying stare of Riselet, Lyros unseen behind the fountain's column-esque middle. "Hey..." She strained.
Riselet makes out Laezila’s face after a few seconds, her demeanor suddenly changing. The drow was so kind and accommodating to her the night before—yet she’d left so quickly, and the halfling was eager to show her the same respect. Now was the perfect opportunity! “Is that you, Laezila?” Her voice echoes well across the square, high and emphatic. She waves, bustling towards the drow excitedly. “I didn’t think I’d see you here! I mean, well, not that you don’t live here, it’s like…” she trails off, inelegantly fumbling for words. These two weeks out of Cenril were the most socialization she’s had in months—maybe years—and it shows. It’s in that awkward few seconds that she notices the tear marks smearing her cheeks. Her blood runs cold. “A-are you alright?” Her expression turns a bit frantic. “Uh, I’ll get you something to wipe your face…” On cue, she begins to shove her hands into one of her many belts, eventually finding a scrap of fabric among her junk. It isn’t the best, but it’ll do. Riselet promptly closes the space between them, holding out the cheap cloth like an offering.“What happened?”
Lyros visibly jumps when Riselet calls out— not to him but to another, seemingly seated on the far side of the fountain. Rather than the volume of her voice, it is the name she cried that he reacted to, and he quickly stands and follows his companion around the edge of the pool, trying to ignore the knot of apprehension curling in the pit of his stomach. What he finds is Riselet attempting to console the ex-matron he met late last evening, even offering her a scrap of fabric for her tears - when he lays eyes on Laezila, Lyros pauses abruptly, almost as if he'd hoped he had heard wrong. Instantly his features pale and the drow swallows thickly; he won't admit to hiding part of his face behind his hands under the guise of trying to warm them up, but that is what it looks like. Still, he approaches after that initial hesitation, looking somewhat apprehensive and casting Riselet a quick, sharp glance. They seem...close. He didn't know anything about this. A look of bemusement momentarily crosses his expression, but then Lyros actually takes note of the state Laezila is in. And he sighs, echoing Riselet's words in a softer voice. "What happened, Laezila?" His eyes bore into her, knowingly, before the drow looks over his shoulder, watching another set of guards pass on the road running by the fountain. They seem to be leaving the trio be, at least, but he is certain the number of patrols have grown over the past few days. Perhaps that is the paranoia talking.
Laezila cleared her throat, and attempted in vain to stiffen her spine in order to look at least somewhat more presentable and less demure. The question, the frantic expression, the young drow could not hold it back and her crystalline-blue hued eyes threatened to spill over with tears once more. The Underdark-accented voice of the female was strained, as if to keep from choking or cracking beneath the pressure of whatever happened; it was an event that she'd tell them. "I am to receive 'justice' for what I had done as a matron. I gave the First House an elf in exchange for them to free Krice. I didn't know who she was. But she is here. In a coma. It is my fault. I may not have tortured her, but I captured her and handed her over. I wanted Krice safe." The cloth was quickly taken and the girl, instead of immediately using it, leaned forward and boldly buried her face into Riselet's shoulder. She struggled for a moment, before the former matron lifted her head back up, wiping at her face with the offered cheap cloth. "They do not believe that I had planned to free her. I am... to have trial by combat. When the war is over. And am confined to the Fort and just around it." She didn't know what trial by combat was, but she knew what it was in Trist'Oth. And it scared her. It all scared her. "I don't even have a weapon, let alone what I'm trained in. This woman, she hates me. She wants me to die."
Riselet attempts to digest everything the former Matron says to her, but a look of panicked confusion soon crosses her face as she goes into depth. The halfling brings Laezila’s head close to her shoulders whilst trying in vain to soothe her. The name “Krice” is vaguely familiar to her, perhaps mentioned to her in passing by a couple of veterans, but she focuses more on calming the poor girl than understanding the mess of the situation. The vast majority of it goes over her head—she turns to Lyros for guidance, hoping that he can somehow shed some light on the situation. There’s a fleeting look of apprehension (or maybe paranoia?) on him as she glances in his direction—one that she’d inquire further about if she wasn’t dealing with Laezila at present. Her gaze turns back to the former Matron. It’s difficult to her to fully grasp the gravity of the situation, and Riselet can do little but ask more questions. “Trial by combat? Against who? Is this why you left the Underdark, or?...” She grasps her shoulder protectively and bends forward. “This Krice guy’s important to you, right? Does he have anything to say about it?”
Lyros' mouth is dry, and not only from the cold. To him, this scene is unnerving, almost frightening - to see a matron, even a former one, buckle and crumble under pressure like this, beneath the weight of sins and guilt and all the stress she has incurred with her actions— it's strange, like the world has been tilted on its axis. He feels off-balance, remembering her plea from before, the way she gently squeezed his hand as she whispered those words. The gears of his mind are working, deciphering everything Laezila says, the underlying meaning, the implications, weaving and unweaving all those lies and possibilities and what-ifs. This is a mess. Lyros has had no involvement in the war and he is about as clueless as Riselet on the specifics of what's been going on, worse with comfort, but after a pause the drow settles himself gingerly on the edge of the fountain beside Laezila. Fidgeting with his gloves, he reaches to place a hand on her shoulder, while meeting Riselet's gaze for just a second before lowing his focus to the ground. Somehow, he looks embarrassed. Though he tries, he cannot quite find any words to offer, and instead opts to remain as a quiet pillar of comfort while Laezila answers Riselet's questions.
Laezila shrugged her shoulders, "She said she had a champion," the young drow confessed as she felt both shoulders taken up by a pair of mismatched hands. The button nose, lined with the discolored scar that stretched diagonally across her face, scrunched with a sniffle as those teary and crystalline blue eyes lifted toward Riselet; how can she explain? How could she when the drow hardly knew more about it? This foreign land, these strange people. "I was forced to leave the Underdark. An elf used some oil thing to control my body to free elven slaves. They think I'm a traitor." A pause, a beat, "He is important. I don't know if I'm important to him," the strained force murmured in profession. A hand lifted to rest over Lyros', instinctively rather than choosing his over Riselet's, "I... am scared," she told the gray elf.
Riselet takes another glance towards Lyros, pleasantly surprised by his gesture of solidarity. Laezila’s explanation gives more answers, yet there’s lingering puzzle pieces that have yet to be put together. Riselet furrows her brows in reflection, trying to concentrate in the wake of her hungover mind’s cloudiness. “So both sides are against you, huh?” Riselet understood that feeling well; the stigma of being a pariah, displaced. She tries to brush aside the whole ‘freeing elven slaves’ bit—dwelling on it too long has her wanting to raise more questions, but that wasn’t her focus at the moment. With her free hand Riselet holds her scarf up to her face; the air’s getting chilly. “He’s important enough for you to sacrifice someone in exchange…” Her tone’s incredulous, but Riselet means well. Obviously this Krice means the world to her, else she wouldn’t have risked a life in exchange for his. She briefly wonders if she’d do the same for Lyros—the answer was a hesitant yes. “Who’s this woman you’re mentioning, the one who wants to kill you? Was she involved with the war at all?” She, herself, knows absolutely nothing about the war, besides the fact that the elves and drow weren’t exactly signing peace treaties. Riselet is glad she’s stayed out of those affairs, though; judging by what Laezila has to say, they’ve been complicated and sordid all around.
Lyros frowns at Riselet's look, spotting it out of the corner of his eye even though he remains focused on the snow-dusted ground. He catches a glimpse of his own reflection, warped and muddied in the imperfect ice - judging by the way his expression twists in a scowl, he does not like what he sees. A meek little boy sitting alongside a matron. It strikes a bit too close to home, made all the worse when Laezila lays her hand over his and, inadvertently, keeps him there. Lifting his gaze, Lyros opts to watch Riselet instead, while she attempts to make sense of the situation and does what she does best: talks. He wonders if she remembers the other night at all; he has not asked, he does not wish to look like a fool. Part of him questions whether it would be better if she did not remember. But that, too, is an avenue of thought the drow does not wish to walk at this moment, so his eyes move to their surroundings, the icy streets and darkening sky, studded with stars. He briefly tries to recall ever having met a champion, but all he can think of are various thorns in his side. Oh, and that healer boy, too— the one he still owes... he bites his lip and makes a mental note of that. "Both sides against you... now I think I see why you asked for my help," he murmurs at last to the ex-matron, finding something to say at the very least. Her hand feels cold over his and Lyros can't help but ask himself: how did things end up like this?
Laezila nodded slowly as her tears tapered off and ceased crying and her free hand (with the cheap cloth) wiped fervently at the streaks left. Displaced; of the Houses, her's was the best! The kindest, even! She accepted half-drow, cripples, drow with conditions (like Lyros), lycans, vampires. She didn't even keep slaves. And her House was the one taken from her, not D'Artes from Gevurah, not D'Jiv'Undus or whatever from Daath. No, it was D'l'Sel D'issan taken from Laezila by the surfacers. The House most like the surface realms. And now, trial by combat. "I don't know what her name. Apparently she is friends of the Skylei woman that I had traded for Krice. That's all I know of her. She hates me with such passion, blames me for it all. Not the person that tortured her friend, me for taking her. I suppose she is right." The words were all strained, and her hand slowly dropped from Lyros' as her head hung for a moment, those glittering white locks fallen about her ebony features of that diminutive and young body. As far as matrons went, she couldn't be older than Riselet, likely even younger and barely past adulthood. "I don't know what happens in the trial, but I get the impression I have to fight. What happens if I win, or lose. But the woman seemed appeased, so I think it's death. Perhaps I should just leap, and save them all the trouble."
Riselet wishes she hadn’t gotten roped into this. It all goes far over her head—and she could very well be angering some dangerous people if she swims too deep. The former Matron in front of her looks so small and fragile, almost like a doll. She definitely looks young for someone of her status, and the halfling briefly wonders if her inexperience was what dragged her into this. “So the lady’s biased. But if she traded Krice for Skylei, you’d be angry, wouldn’t you? Even if you didn’t want anyone to get hurt, you know how other Houses work, right?” She feels as though she’s starting to sound a bit critical. Riselet once again hopes that Lyros will butt in, help give the former Matron some guidance. She can’t help but get distracted by him, sensing that something’s off. Is it because of Lae’s presence? She remembers the fight they had (it seems like ages ago now) and makes the connection. Oh. Matron. Slowly, awkwardly, she puts her hand atop of his, hoping the gesture will serve to calm. It won’t calm her, though; Riselet is currently a jumble of emotions, confusion at the forefront. She can feel her temper flare at Laezila’s final comment, voice raised a notch subconsciously. “And give up? You fight for your life. Defend your worth. You didn’t do this ‘cause you’re a bad person, Lae, and you need to prove it. You’re an ex-Matron. You’re fighting for yourself and the rest of your House, wherever they are.”
Lyros knows of D'I'Sel D'issan. He once considered it a possible safe haven, a House he could perhaps defect to — and what could House Vallaire, 14th House, do about it? — but that was before...before mother went too far. Without their matron, he is not sure how D'I'Sel D'issan have fared in Trist'oth; more than likely, there will be nothing left now. Shaking his head, the drow resurfaces from the depths of his thoughts to listen as Laezila and Riselet speak, the mage himself still keeping to his silence. His free hand lies on his mid-thigh, just above the knee, and he gives an owlish blink when Riselet boldly rests her fingers over his. A look into her eyes and he realises why she initiated the contact. She figured it out. "Hm." It's a vague sound, thoughtful, but if the faint smile he gives her is any indication, Lyros draws a lot of comfort from that hand over his. It does not do much to answer his questions, unfortunately, but those can wait. To Laezila, Lyros turns and finally offers something other than quiet remarks and unspoken solidarity. Maybe his confidence is bolstered by Riselet's presence, for he would not normally speak so plainly to a woman, no matter how young she is, distraught and deposed. "You may have acted out of love, or something, trading Skylei for this Krice—" That silver-haired man, it must be. "—and you may not have intended for things to turn out like this, but you still have to take responsibility for your actions. You know how it works in Trist'oth - it's much the same here." After a pause, he stands, idly brushing snow off his cloak and sliding his hand out from beneath Riselet's. "You led Trist'oth's Second House. Would you really give in and go out with a squeak, like a mouse? Is that truly fitting? They may never believe your word, because of who you are." What she is. "So find some way to give them irrefutable proof." It's an odd thought - a matron striving to speak the truth, for once.
Laezila's eyes were caught by the raised voice and subtle flare of Riselet's temper, added by Lyros' words; "It cannot be proven. So I must win the trial." A frightening thought, but she was a bladedancer, and excelled not only in the use of her bladed whip but also magical abilities in order to bolster combat with such, both arcane and elemental. She was not one to be trifled with, and yet here she was, sad, distraught, afraid, and seemingly alone. Yet she had found these two, at least. "I am fighting for myself. My House should live on; I appointed a successor just before Gevurah claimed me a traitor. Lanlan D'l'Sel D'issan; funny. He's a gray elf, too." Came her strained voice, before she looked between the two. "Would either of you know how to get your hands on a bladed whip?" She needed a weapon.
Riselet gives Lyros a reassuring smile. There’s a silent gratitude there for his intervention—he says the things she can’t articulate in her place. She grasps for his hand again, giving it a squeeze. She isn’t quite sure where to pin the source of his sudden boldness; she can’t think much of it now, however, as the former Matron continues. “Another gray? You should introduce me.” Her heart rises at the thought of another one of her own surviving out there, growing giddy at the idea of meeting them, but stops herself. Laezila’s predicament is still yet unsolved. For one thing, she doesn’t have a weapon. “No clue,” the halfling responds, putting a finger to her chin. “I’m guessing you got yours back in Trist’oth, and neither of us can really head there to pick up one for you. But there’s gotta be a place around here that has one.” She’s a bit lost in thought, staring at the ground whilst thinking of options. Did they even have any gold to pay for it? “We could either buy one… Which means money we don’t have. Or we can, well, get one.” Grab it off of some fool’s corpse, maybe. Like there’s tons of people who use whips as a weapon.
Lyros half expected to be met with fury, denial, anger— it does not come. He tilts his head to the right in momentary confusion before catching Riselet's eye and her assuring smile, which he answers with a more hesitant one of his own. It is difficult for the mage to be wholly himself and comfortable around an ex-matron, but he seems to be adapting a bit, his shoulders straighter, his posture more upright, less subservient. "...I have some idea of where we could get one," the drow murmurs, unconsciously mimicking Riselet's phrasing and suggestive tone, when Lae mentions her need for a specific weapon. Many times he has walked beyond the western gates and explored some of the wilderness of Frostmaw, alone with his thoughts and the snow, sometimes not entirely alone - their answer may lie out there, though he knows it may be dangerous. If a safer opportunity presents itself, he'd rather take that. Amber eyes flick back to Laezila and look her up and down, studying her small, almost frail figure. "Hm..." Thoughtful this time, Lyros tilts his head leftward and rubs his chin with a gloved hand, clearly considering something. "I suppose I could help you out in another way, too. Not that we know your opponent's size or skill, but— you are rather small." Not that he's one to talk, sir string-bean. "I may have ways that could give you an extra edge." Maybe.
Laezila shrugged her shoulders, "I have fought before. I could also choose a champion to fight in my stead," she explained. But the drow's mind was already considering the different possibilities of having a new whipsword, yet there was another hitch in that; "I am not to leave the Fort or it's immediate vicinity. This is about as far as I can go," the young woman's voice strained in confession. "I should've taken those elven blades. I used 'em, but I couldn't hold on to them," cue disappointed shake of her head. Lanlan being met was not commented upon; it was not likely. Laezila likely would never see the purple-cloak wearing mage again on account of how dangerous it would be for him to be seen with someone they claimed as a traitor. That could very well end up fatal as a mistake for the new patron. "I worry. This is my only safehaven, the only place that assassins are kept out because of the war. And yet, I am not welcome here, either. It was not so long ago that I came here with a hand extended toward a half-drow, offered him place among my House and refuge from a place that was not home." Those crystalline-hued blue eyes lifted toward Lyros, the drow. "Do you have a home?"
Riselet tilts her head. A champion? She plays with the idea, but ultimately dismisses it. She doesn’t dislike Lae, but she barely knows her; the half-elf isn’t inclined to fight for an acquaintance, nice as they are. Her gaze shifts towards Lyros, wondering to herself if he fancied the idea at all. She cocks an eyebrow at his offer. What exactly does Lyros have in store for her? The mage carries all sorts of mysteries with him, most she hasn’t uncovered. Does he have a trick up his sleeve neither of them anticipated? “So since you’re stuck here, we’ll be your eyes and ears outside of the Fort.” Riselet isn’t sure if this is a smart idea—but if there’s something extra in it for her… Maybe. She reclines as Laezila starts to question Lyros, letting her hand gently slide from the girl’s shoulder.
"Whether you fight or choose a champion, the offer still stands. If you want extra speed, strength, vitality...whatever you might find useful, I can help. Nothing permanent, just— a boost, if you will. It's complicated," Lyros explains with a faint shrug of his own, lone spiked pauldron shifting with the motion of his shoulders. He is not one to fight for others and so this is all he'll put on the table, but were it a command...he shakes that thought off immediately and scowls. Dimly, the drow notices Riselet appears to have slipped her hand into his again; gloved fingers squeeze her own, gently, cautiously, though he shoots the girl a sidelong frown at her choice of words before quickly scanning the area around the fountain. They are alone, luckily - the last thing the mage needs is to be suspected of being Laezila's spy. His gaze shifts back to the matron when she speaks to him, amber meeting ice blue. A home. The wording is specific, here - not a House, but a home; Lyros considers the question for a couple of seconds, then dips his head in a nod, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. "Home, right now...it seems to be a tiny little room above the tavern. Rent is cheap and my roommate is not the neatest person in the world, nor the quietest— but I'm growing to be comfortable there."
Laezila looked briefly at Riselet with suspicion, her gaze glanced toward Lyros in catching his scowl and subsequent frown to confirm that Riselet's offer was genuine; "Just keep your ears open. I do not want to be killed." Came the soft murmur. It was thereafter the wording that was complex and yet so simple that played upon her pointed ears by the pale-splotched and lanky drow. The young ex-matron could not help but offer the small curve of her lips in a smile, and shook her head. "I should get back. They will accuse me of escaping 'justice' otherwise, surely." The cloth was held out for the gray elf in offering, "I will not forget your kindness. Thank you. Both. So very much."
Riselet is infinitely puzzled by the offer Lyros gives to Laezila, but doesn’t press him for specifics. He’d either get prickly or end up saying something vague, and both bothered her immensely. She glances at the displaced Matron with a shrug mimicking the patchy drow’s. “I’unno what Lyr’s up to, but he’s the smarter of us so… Trust him. ‘N yeah, we’re living at the— What’d you just say about me?!” She glares at her apparent roommate, her gentle grip on his hand turning constricting before letting go of it entirely. The halfling huffs dramatically before crossing her arms. “Well, I’ll have you know that my roommate couldn’t hold a drink if his life depended on it. He’s a to—tal lightweight!” She sticks her nose in the hair childishly, refusing to look at Lyros, before returning to the topic at hand. Her cheeks flush prominently when taking the scrap of fabric back, holding it in her hands rather than putting it back into one of her many belts. “Lae…” she can’t quite get out more than that, feeling very embarrassed all of a sudden.
Lyros snorts. "I said you're loud and messy and you're currently proving me right about the first— ow." Her crushing grip has him wincing; she is surprisingly strong for one so small, but maybe the mage is also a weakling. Making a show of shaking out his bent fingers, he returns that hand to a pocket in his trousers, a frown crossing his face as Riselet huffs and turns away from him. "One of us has to stay at least moderately sober so he can drag his intoxicated roommate back to bed. As if I'd just leave you there." Speaking of...Lyros recalls the other night again, vivid even through the soft fuzz of alcohol that had clouded his own mind— and his cheeks promptly flush hotly at the thought of it. He clears his throat awkwardly, disguising his embarrassment as a reaction to Laezila's gratitude, although admittedly he is surprised to hear such words from her. Worrying his lip under his teeth, the drow reaches to gently rub her shoulder, a little less cautious than last time. "Do stay alive, and safe, in the meantime." He would hate to go through all the trouble of finding her a weapon only to return to a dead matron, after all.
Laezila offered a nod to each, the gentle curve of a thankful smile, before the tiny ex-matron was headed toward that fort.
And so she leaves, quick as last time; it’s as if she wasn’t even there. Riselet is still very unsure about this whole… predicament, looking a bit lost as Laezila departs. The sky’s darkened, Riselet finally notices as she looks up. Brilliant constellations hang over their heads, only small shards of color left along the lower heavens. It’s time to drink! Or, more realistically, plan out their next move. Still a bit sore over Lyros’s comment, the halfling silently steps away from him, arms still crossed. She treks along the streets towards the tavern, seeing its faint silhouette in the far distance. Was this a good idea? Probably not; but they were roped into it nonetheless. Riselet knew better than to go back on her word, especially if her client in question used to rule a house. She pauses, turning on her heel to face her ‘roommate.’ “So what was that ‘boost’ you were talking about? Sounds fishy.”
Lyros watches the woman's back as she departs, heaving a sigh once Laezila has disappeared into the fort. Like Riselet, he is uncertain about the situation they appear to have landed themselves in, not entirely comfortable toeing the line and making life here harder for himself in the process - he knows what they look like, a drow and a half-drow conversing quietly with a deposed matron in the late evening, and lending her aid. His gaze flicks to Riselet, who is staring up at the sky, and Lyros spares a glance upwards to take in the view. Stars scattered like shards of bone glimmer with distant, ethereal light and he recalls his thoughts from when he looked at them earlier, murmuring to his companion, "Hey..." She brushes by without a word; her cold shoulder and defensively crossed arms have him blinking, but after a moment the mage snorts, shrugs, and trails after her. He follows in Riselet's footsteps, the vague imprints she leaves in the snow and over the ice, noticing dimly how much larger his feet are than hers, how much longer his stride is. At her question he halts, a little too close, having not realised she had stopped. A step back is taken to put a bit of space between them. "Er.." Cue an awkward rub of the neck as Lyros quickly tries to put together an excuse. "'Fishy' is one way to put it..." he muses, deliberately vague. "It's— you can drink it and it'll give you an adrenaline boost, make you more capable, for a little while. That sort of thing." Not the best explanation, but he's leery of elaborating too deeply into blood magic.
"Didn’t know drow had their very own snake oil,” she mutters. “You should give me a sample sometime.” Riselet isn’t buying a single bit of what Lyros is saying. She continues on, slacking her pace so he can walk alongside her—silently, if need be. She’s guided by the lights of houses that mark the way towards their home (for now), inwardly sighing to herself as the numbers dwindle with each passing moment. More will come out sooner or later; it’s hard to contain merriment without the confines of a few inns and homes, after all. Her mind drifts back to the mage beside her. She understands that drow could be vague regarding things they’d rather not share, but he seemed to make it so obvious. But she knows better than to press him further; Lyros is on edge as it is after their meeting with Laezila, and for good reason. The half-elf isn’t sure if she can be trusted, but as long as they’re getting paid for it… Speaking of, he had said something about obtaining a whip for Laezila earlier. “So d’you know where we can get a shiny new toy for Lae?” Riselet asks somewhat out of the blue, voice low enough to deter any curious ears. It took her long enough to realize how suspicious the trio looked earlier. “I’m still not really feeling this, but maybe she’ll get us a cut… if she lives.”
Lyros makes a vaguely disgruntled noise and decides to leave it at that; she does not seem to believe him as it is, and he would really rather not divulge more information than he already has. Still, at least now Riselet is not storming off ahead on her own, the mage can slide easily into step beside her as they walk back the way they came, a long silence hanging between them. Lyros, curious, slants her a sidelong look before tilting his head in a thoughtful manner. What would she make of it? His blood magic— the awful, twisted art of it, the dance of blood just as alluring to the eye as the practiced, elegant movements of a master swordsman and his blade, but gruesome, for the focus is not on the silver edge of the knife but on the gaping wound left in its wake, torn tendons and muscle, visceral and oozing. Part of him fears she may find it beautiful, like mother did, only seeing one side of the coin and ignoring how it affects Lyros in the process. Frowning, the drow shakes the thought off, then blinks at Riselet's question and leans down a touch to make sure he catches all her words. "Neither am I." Feeling it, that is. "It's risky, but...if she makes it out, she'd owe us." That could be a powerful tool in of itself, and one Lyros would do his best to make good use of. He shrugs and jerks his head in the direction of west, out over the hundreds of snow-coated rooftops to the western wall, and its gate, and the wilderness beyond. "I've seen things, out there. I don't know what they are, really, but— some of them carry weapons. Swords and axes, mostly, but I saw one, the other day, that carried the kind of weapon she could use."
Riselet sports a smile as the pair quietly make their way up to the inn’s steps. Its sign is a comfort, the bright lights and loud noises a haven among the silence, the darkness. Nighttime still makes her uneasy. Maybe it reminds her of the blood on her hands, the sort that won’t wash off. Night was her cloak, silence her sharpest weapon—more potent than poison, in some respects. Light and sound made her safe, like a sort of shelter that could hide her in a way that the shadows never could. But that was all past her now; Frostmaw’s walls don’t hold Cenril’s demons as far as she cares to know. What’s important is this job. A better job, a nicer job. A job that serves to protect someone rather than destroy them. With Lyros, though, Riselet isn’t sure if she’s doing the best. After all, the two are getting roped into a mess they’re having an awfully hard time to get out of. “‘Things’?” There’s a skepticism in her tone. “Not people or giants? Well, as long as I can kill ‘em, I guess it’s worth the risk.” Guess. She didn’t want to do this—she just wanted to see wyverns, make gold, get drunk. Hopefully in that order, but the tavern’s call is telling her something else. She reaches the steps, careful not to slip on any ice covered by the thin, crisp layers of snow. A turn of the head, eyes watchful. They’re black pits right now, head turned away from the light.“It’s getting late. We should sleep,” or drink. She’ll be doing the latter in a few minutes. “Then sooner or later, maybe we can go out there. We have other stuff to settle first, though.” Opening the door with a shove, she invites him inside. It’s déjà vu, just like how they’d walked in only a few nights past. And what had happened that night—well, that was all just an odd dream, wasn’t it?