RP:The Fate of Tristoth (is still in flux)
Summary
Most recently, its been ravaged by Alithyk Caluss. Though the god of undeath is a tree now, the damage caused has been catastrophic, for none more than the drow in Tristoth. Much of their population was turned into ghoulish undead things and stolen away to Vailkrin where they still remain. Monsters have begun creeping into the city, emboldened by the diminished dwellers.
Lanlan invites what’s left of the leadership in Tristoth to meet with him in the drow embassy to discuss the future of the city. He and the others are surprised when Laezila not only returns alive, but she brings Kasyr with her. This first conversation is unproductive, and is little more than a test of boundaries.
Drow Embassy
In the heart of the Underdark, within the cavernous depths of a hidden subterranean citadel, Lanlan waits. His garb and what of his skin that is exposed blends into the stone seamlessly and his external temperature would be cooled to the same degree, rendering him invisible even to a Drow. And though his eyes are closed, he maintains awareness through other means. The room chosen as a neutral ground was carved meticulously from obsidian and adorned with intricate silver filigree. Softly glowing orbs suspended from the ceiling cast an ethereal luminescence, illuminating the chamber with a bluish radiance that danced off the polished surfaces, creating an otherworldly ambiance.
At the center of the room stood a large, circular obsidian table, its surface shimmering with an enchantment that seemed to swirl beneath the skin of the stone, subtly drawing in those who looked upon it. The table was surrounded by six high-backed chairs, each crafted from the same black stone as the table itself. These chairs were positioned equidistantly, emphasizing equality and fostering a sense of unity among the leaders who would soon be seated there.
Yet the occasion marked a necessity for this place to be somewhat close to the surface. Closer than would normally be comfortable, now it was the deepest place of safety. Just as the single audacious ray of twilight slithers through a matrix of impossibly fortuitous seams and cracks in the stone, the other leaders began to arrive. Master Trivacea is first. Another Drow archmage, this one of the Arcania, enters the room with a regal gait. His adamantium staff glinted ominously from a crimson gem set at one end, and in the soft light as he took his place at the table.
Next came Anareldre, the enigmatic leader of the once-banished Drow group who worshiped the spider goddess. Perhaps now it was time for them to return. Her slender form was draped in spider-silk garments, intricately woven and adorned with glistening threads. As she took her seat, a palpable aura of energy seemed to emanate from her, casting a web-like shadow around her.
Next was Balok, the leader of the Drow warriors of House Stavret. He enters with a controlled intensity, stern and authoritarian eyes peering out darkly from a scar-striped visage. His muscular form was clad in adamantium armor, etched with ancient glyphs of battle prowess. The haughty glint in his crimson eyes hinted at a fiercely competitive spirit, ready to demand his stake.
They glare at each other suspiciously as they wait for the remaining three (for they do not yet know of Lanlan), each seeming to dare another to break the burgeoning silence as if it might point to a weakness in resolve. They do appear to have come alone, as requested. Though a coup may never be so simple to achieve, the stakes were never higher for them, and there was never such a time as now to find common ground. But could one ever overcome one's nature?
Kasyr finds himself checking the mirror again, his fingers finding the knot of his black and midnight blue tie not to loosen it as per the norm, but to try and correctly cinch it, the motion far less familiar than it ought to be. The effect isn't that bad, and the silver tie clip bearing his signet certainly compliments the whole, as does the finely tailored spider-silk suit and accompanying dress shoes. And yet, whatever small feeling of accomplishment he might have felt feels a bit emptier. One last attempt at slicking back his hair is made, the tousled locks only partially tamed, before he offers his reflection a half smile, "I'm sure there's something I've forgotten. You'd know." And then he's stepping away, his hand sliding over the fresh papers that had been left on his desk, now that his black mood had simmered down enough that the servants saw fit to move more freely around him. If the report was to be believed, this particular event would be soon, which meant now was as good a time as any to 'act neighbourly'.
Reaching over to the desk, he plucks a letter opener off of the top- planting it into the seams of the world with a bit more violence then was necessary, and shearing apart the space between. A simple smooth tear, that only seems to last as long as it takes him to step through, and which already begins to knit together behind him, even as he intercepts Laezila along her journey. "Afternoon." His left hand moves to his pocket, a motion meant to also pocket the implement he'd used, even as he offers a crooked right arm to the matron, "I do believe you extended an invitation, madamoiselle. I hope the timing isn't too inconvenient."
Laezila doesn't reply to the little conversation Kasyr has with his reflection; the small masked woman has her own stuff to deal with internally, let alone walking into a viper's den of ambitious runner's up. Laezila is, one might suppose, the person that has been on the council the longest with D'artes relatively gone, certainly out of members of the council she's got the most tenure. The matron slips her small, dark-skinned arm through Kasyr's when he offers, "Thank you for escorting me," she tells him. "The council needs to hear your offers, regardless of who leads it. I am not sure what deals Lanlan made, considering his stepping up running my House," she reveals of her 'successor'. The revanent may be 'escorting' but the matron is the one leading him through the pitch black, into the chambers and breasting that threshold to see, in infrared, the gathered members and table.
The atmosphere of the embassy was heavy, pregnant with tense unspoken emotion. Surviving Alithyk Caluss’s cataclysmic incursion left them with an invisible and oppressive burden. It shows in how defiantly determined each leader is to bear the weight straight-shouldered. No, not in this. The crushing weight of the circumstances is demonstrated most perfectly in the mere fact that they were desperate enough to show up. Each had the independent realization that they were going to have to rely on someone else. They’d have nothing resembling a society at all if they couldn’t find common ground. Yet the only one they shared was one of distrust. The silence might speak volumes, but it wasn’t enough to rebuild Tristoth.
Lanlan wasn’t sure what he would expect when they all gathered. It might’ve been violence and blood, or he might’ve been here alone. He’s neither disappointed nor pleased, but he couldn’t simply shatter this tension with a charismatic reveal, nor could he continue to let them cook like this. His arrival is heralded in a subtle whisper that comes from beyond the solid stone wall. As the leaders’ attention is drawn there, the wall warps inward gradually, until it forms a tunnel. Lanlan’s footsteps echo closer and closer until he steps out of the tunnel and into the softly glowing room.
All eyes turn to him as he appears. He wields an amicable smile and empty hands. “I thank you all for coming, esteemed leaders of Tristoth,” he says with a voice like honey and silver. “I am Mr. C.,” he confirms for them, “of course most of you know me better as Lanlan, but I sent the letters.” They remain silent, but Lanlan believes he detects a hint relief, an exhale of tension. But something else too. Lanlan is an outsider. These leaders were ones he’d saved and who saved him when Caluss was at the apex of its destruction, but that didn’t give him permission to lead their council meeting. He vies for a more passive role. “When there was no where and no one else to turn to, some of you elected to call upon me for aid. I’m here to let you know that you still have it.”
Kasyr wasn't wholly blind- as his empathy allowed him a pre-emptive awareness of individuals, and any murderous intent leveled at him. And what it might fail to reveal, a carefully measured pulse of static electricity would more than adequately fill in the blanks. Still, that awareness in itself was a weapon- and one which felt wise to hide, and so he's more than content to allow Laezila to continously lead, and even direct him to a place. "Je vous apprecie." A threadbare whisper meant for her alone , though whatever faint warmth was there is soon suppressed.
Lanlan's speech is observed passively, the manner in which he arrests their attention, dangles the promise of future aid and stability before them. Whether or not the archmage intended to, he'd certainly made himself a centerpiece to the conversation at hand- though the swordsman would, no doubt, need to feign ignorance in the ever-so-likely event that the speech happening in drow. At least, if he wanted to glean the unfiltered thoughts of those present. Hence playing dumb, he instead directs his attention sideways, the current stavret leader. While the man was hardly familiar, the soft glow of the room would at least showcase the insignia.
Laezila didn't expect the presence of Lanlan, considering this 'Mr. C' called this meeting, and moreso expected an ambush. Perhaps some low borne house attempting to kill the council and taking over in a single fell sweep. So Lanlan appearing, introducing himself, was both good and bad- the former because the matron believes it might solidify her. The latter? It's been a long time since she's seen him more intimately, and their last meeting he represented Xalious. Mask set in place, arm in the loop of Kasyr, feigning being daintier and escorted by the revanent, the vampiric drow scans the council and then the person who brought them. "In what form, Lanlan D'l'Sel D'issan?" She asks from behind her Vega-esque mask, pointedly using that House surname to further illustrate her own power, psychologically.
As Lanlan wraps up his introduction, the doors to the Drow embassy become aglow, signaling silence from the leaders. Balok of House Stavret rises to his feet and leans forward, pressing one hand on the obsidian table between them as he maneuvers his fingers around a hand crossbow kept concealed underneath his piwafwi. The others weren't as decisive in action, but soon they were ready too. Glances designed to appraise triumph or anxiety are shot from each leader to each other, quantifying the likelihood that one of them has seized the easy opportunity to take power. Then Laezila enters, and she isn't fired upon with bolts of adamantium nor deadly magic. Nothing but accusing and tired stares. Then she ushers in Kasyr after her, attached at the arm.
Balok, as expected, is the first to demand an explanation, breaking his silence with a gravely hiss. "Why would you bring an outsider here?" His form and stance, while certainly aggressive leaning on the table toward the door in such a way,carried no threat. In his muscle and metal there was only assurance that he would do what he might need to.
But Balok wasn't alone. There were few that didn't know Kasyr by sight, even down here. If one person was to cause each of their ends at once, it would have to be someone like him who might be capable. And so the other leaders gathered up their mettle as if a fight would erupt any second. Lanlan sighs, as aware of the prospect as they are. But it would be such a waste of his efforts to have them all die now, so he prepares a contingency of his own. "They don't mean any harm," says Lanlan reassuringly. "At least not directly. It may have gone underreported, but Laezila and Kasyr were negotiating for some kind of arrangement." If Lanlan truly wanted to hush their doubts, he failed.
They do seem to have heard at least part of his introduction, importantly the promise to provide aid. Laezila asks for specifics. For a moment Lanlan merely stares at her. At the mask specifically, as if the glow from them might burn it away. Was it really her? He's tempted along memory's path to another life, one of danger and excitement, and betrayal. But the whim is summarily dismissed before it can take hold. Now he's all affability. "Not very gracious are we! Of course Xalious continues to send food and supplies," he begins. He didn't feel like revealing his hand just yet evidently, and pivots to simple courtesy as a distraction, waving Laezila over to the table. "Come Matron, take a seat at the table with your fellows."
"Excuse me," interjects Lady Medra of House D'Artes, and makes a slight move to prevent the masked one from sitting. None back her up however, and she falters quickly. "Matron Laezila was exiled from these lands." It seemed by her tone that it was a point of pride that someone of her name might cause such a fate. The others silently agreed to forget that Laezila was exiled. For now at least.
Anareldre, leader of the hidden Drow village of Spider Goddess worshippers, did not seem to willing to offer such grace to the one who spoke against Laezila. "Exiled ones may return the moment their judge can no longer uphold the order," the matron at the opposite end of the table reminds her in a voice of such sweet venom. Everyone recognizes the threat, and the generosity in which this threat was phrased. The subject is quickly dropped.
Master Trivacea, Another Drow archmage, takes his turn to speak. "We'd better let the tardy Matron explain why she's brought the king of another land here as a surprise guest. I hope it's with good tidings?" He looks expectantly at Kasyr, holding his adamantium staff as if it was simply a walking stick.
Kasyr may not have a spot prepared for him, but that hardly stops him. Trickles of dark energy culminate at his feet, gradually building up into a seat that looks more reminiscent of a gauntlet- A chitinous scaled surface, angular and ending in jagged points. While doubtful, there may be some who recognize the design, a remnant of an infamous weapon, whose memory was best left buried.
As Kasyr takes his position adjacent to Laezila, Medra's reaction gives him pause, coaxing him into leveling the full intensity of his gaze in her direction, and the subtlest smirk. That moment passes, however, leaving him once more to don a facade of civility. Trivacea's even-handed reply proves somewhat more promising, and so, after a brief nod to the man, that could just as readily be mistaken for courtesy than any sort of comprehension- Kasyr redirects his attention towards Lanlan. Less to gauge the expressions he can so fluidly falsify, and more to sift through whatever emotions might be simmering- and who they're all directed at.
A passive role on the whole, save for one small detail, a very discreet tap of his knuckle to Laezila's leg once she's seated, ideally unseen by her peers due to the table. A motion followed by a quick series of familiar handsigns. An affirmation of the initial discussion they'd held, and a request for her to continue the pretext of his linguistic ignorance.
There's a specific and very real danger that presents itself in the flash of Laezila's blue eyes when the current D'Artes, Lady Medra, voices her objection to the vampiric drow's presence. It's a sharp stare of warning that isn't verbally voiced but quite clearly conveyed. When she backs off, the masked woman eases her slight frame into the seat. "My exile is over, officially," she claims, asserts, and demands all at once, speaking their native tongue. "As our delightful host has mentioned, I've been working on a deal with this man. I've brought him here so that I do not speak for the council as a whole," she says before switching to common, "So he can negotiate terms of aid with the council directly." One leg crosses over the other, "Same as we'll be negotiating with Lanlan, no?"
Lanlan doesn’t address the brief stand-off between Medra and Laezila immediately, apparently remaining as passive as the others in this potentially volatile dispute. His eyes do eventually settle on Laezila as she alludes to his purpose, and he seems reluctant to speak. But he would not have anyone else speak for him. “Yes,” He agrees, eyeing each member of the coalition. “The Mage’s Guild and Xalious has long maintained a relationship with Tristoth. That cooperation need not end.”
Through a rather enigmatic and (by Lanlan’s standards) abhorrent connection to Kasyr, Lanlan is able to discern a lie through the vampire’s own feelings. Or the beginnings of one. The words he isn’t supposed to understand leave an impression on his feelings. “Since we all understand the undercommon, I propose we continue to speak in the one language, rather than needlessly switching back and forth. It’s not as if we’re trying to deceive anyone is it?” Lanlan shifts his eyes toward the various members of the council, to see if his words had the discouraging effects he’d hoped for. They land on Kasyr knowingly. “The vampire can speak for himself,” Lanlan asserts, making sure to paint him as an outsider.
The leaders turn a suspicious gaze on Kasyr, and it’s Balok of House Stavret who leads the charge. “Well vampire king?”
Kasyrs' doesn't particularly seem perturbed by this particular development. If anything, there's a sense of amusement- because however Lanlan made that judgement, it was an intuition born in the moment. One which stood in clear juxtaposition to the blatant lack of care he and Gevurah exercised in their use of hand gestures when around him. The archmage may have hoped to earn animosity, but what he gets is a gracious smile, and a surprisingly fluid use of the language. The sort that would certainly allude that this was far from a new development, "I appreciate both speaker Lanlan, et house Stavret, for their invitation to speak with you as a peer. I'll admit that though I've taken great pains to learn the language and culture, The decorum for this proceeding was unfamiliar territory. Though, given the particulars of this situation, there are likely uncomfortable elements for everyone here."
Some faint part of him waits, for some small antic on Lanlan's sort, some acute act of pettiness still left in the wings- and yet, he also finds himself hoping that whatever armistice they'd found continues to hold. "What Laezila says is correct. I come to offer aid, much in the same vein that I historically have, both as an individual, and as Vailkrins leader. Yes, I acknowledge some of you may hold grievances with me." The Stavret patron may have gotten a rather particular look there, "And yet. When the Razurath occupied your streets, I personally came to your aid. When Ryeanna of Archmosia governed over your city, et left the Kiss Of Death to run rampant through it's streets like Vermin- I was the one to negotiate their withdrawal. To hunt down their members." Theres likely pangs of animosity there, reminders of weakness, but he presses onwards, "We share a common problem. I'm here to help solve it, in a manner that might help both our cities thrive- et return to the glory they once held, before the rest of the continent decides to use this tragedy as an excuse to bury us." Because it barely took any time at all.
Laezila remains quiet as the others say their piece, folding her hands on the crook of her lap with her legs crossed at the knee casually, an unbothered appearance despite the mask that veils her face from betraying any emotion. When the two are finished, she finally speaks again, "Macon didn't negotiate, we cannot consider Larket's trade 'deals' legitimate. For those of you unaware, he sought to bring Trist'oth under heel during our time of weakness," she glances aside to Kasyr briefly and then to Lanlan. "We all have different goals. Different religions. Different Houses. But we are drow. We won't be brought under heel." A pause, then her hands lift to be placed flat on the table. "Manpower to clear out our tunnels, spidersilk and ore to rebuild and remake. These are our needs, so what can we offer for them?"
Lady Medra raises an eyebrow toward Kasyr in feigned surprise. “Oh, what charm! And you’ve learned our language so quickly,” she purrs. “And forgotten so much… I remember the last time you were a guest in House D’Artes. An ally then. Is it that style of aid you wish to provide to us again?”
Anareldre, Leader of the hidden drow city, masked her genuine feelings with a subtle smirk. She’d heard rumors of an assassination attempt, even far away under Gualon. She eyes Medra, cunningly, but doesn’t address her.
"An interesting offer to a people whom you’ve painted as ‘invaders’, too," Lanlan interjected smoothly, his voice a calm melody. "It seems that misunderstandings are commonplace." His tone held an edge of amusement.
Master Trivacea, the Drow archmage, leaned back, his expression unreadable. "It is an intriguing offer,” side eyeing Lanlan, “and one we shouldn’t quickly dismiss." They simply aren’t in a place to refuse help. "But it’s one that requires careful consideration. Our enemies have dismissed us. Associating with Vailkrin and Larket now could do more to provoke them. Or make new ones.”
Balok, the leader of the Drow warriors of House Stavret, flexed his fingers, trying to suppress his rising annoyance. "How amusing," he retorted, his voice composed but with a hint of frustration. "You're very willing to disregard our past misgivings and then echo these dubious accounts of generosity. You sound like a beggar.” His stern eyes land on Laezila, then. “Tell me ‘Matron’. What promises have you already made to the Beggar King in return for these ‘needs’ we have?”
Kasyr cannot place Medra, nor her stake in the matter- but the jab, at least, is recognized. "An ally, until someone decided I'd outlived my usefulness, and decided to express their impatience with my continued lifespan, in front of me." While Medra's smirk had been directed at him, the Kensai's grim amusement was wholly directed towards Lanlan, "It had never occured to them that I was fluent, at that point. Sloppy."
But why defend D'artes here, draw that line in the sand, unless-, "Or are you here to celebrate D'artes weakness? Peut-etre it's inability to continue fighting against Caluss, when things became difficult?" An enemy, then. Simple enough to navigate, unlike the woman scrutinizing Medra- whose stance was difficult to parse.
Ah, but here was Lanlan, providing him the perfect avenue, "I would not paint the wayward Blackwell's words as representing myself, or even Vailkrin. She had decided your people would serve as an adequate scapegoat, a rallying point for her own attempt at the crown. Et she was exiled for it. Even as I provided resources, space, even border guards to keep away the feral undead, for those displaced into the dark forest. This 'generosity' es not without precedent." His hand taps against the table, ever so briefly, "But I suppose your willingness to continue harbouring her at the mages tower in a position of power es likely a misunderstanding too, non? Despite her actions playing havoc with the continent, her longstanding feud with the underdark?"
And then there was Trivacea and Balok. The former was likely some form of whatever passed as a moderate in the underdark. Perhaps less chained by pride and tradition. Stavret, however, they would never be a friend. There'd never been a bridge to burn in the first place. Which meant, "A lofty place of judgement from Stavret. Then again, perhaps the best you can hope to look for, is an easy victory in war of words, after failing to defend the city time et time again? Perhaps it might salve the embarassment from being bested by a bunch of pathetic lizards."
Trivacea perhaps earns the kindest response, the swordsmans expression less pointed, and more thoughtful, "Dismissed, or simply waiting for a better opportunity? Vailkrin has already demonstrated a willingness to help your people. I imagine that serves as an adequate deterrent."
Laezila, legs crossed, raps her polished fingertips against the grand table that they all are seated at, but those sky blue eyes are watching every individual despite anything anyone's said and the issues put forward. Each one gets a long, contemplative stare, before the young matron speaks, "Nothing yet. Still awaiting their proposal to the council."
Her blue eyes slice from matron to patron and back, watching each leader with a cruel indifference that might relay her lack of care for her own kind. She takes a long moment before speaking again, "Hence why I brought them both to the council." Now she's taking credit for Lanlan's presence.
Lanlan translates Kasyr’s response to Medra in the simplest terms: “I hurt his feelings, it’s true. But what better way could there be to test his hearing!” When it comes to Quintessa’s actions specifically against the drow, Lanlan remains casual, as if he’s got nothing to defend himself against. “Oh, does she no longer act under your direction? As I’ve said, the misunderstandings coming out of Vailkrin are so many.”
Balok lurches out of his seat, his tense muscles springing forcefully against the ground as his heavy chair scrapes backwards against the stone floor. For a moment he merely heaves and seethes. Then without a word, he takes his leave of the embassy. Whatever terms would be proposed, they wouldn’t come with his blessing. He was in charge of nothing when it came to the Razurath attack, Gevurah saw to that. Yet he was unwilling to risk House D’Artes as a casualty in his defense against petty insults designed to provoke him.
His departure immediately brought a sense of disruption to the meeting, as if the entire thing had abruptly been revealed to be a farce. Master Trivacea at least, has the diligence and poise to continue where the conversation left off. “Quite the contrary, my friend. Vailkrin is in a state of upheaval itself, and your apparent allegiance with Larket has earned you more enemies than friends, hasn’t it? Far from a deterrent, it would be an invitation.”
To Laezila, Lanlan cocks his head to the side and one of his delicate and long eyebrows curls almost into a question mark. “You invited me?” Unsure of how to weather this, he merely eyes her before breezing past it. The council would make up their own minds. “Perhaps you did. At any rate-”
Anareldre interjects at that moment, taking liberties she might not be able to if another member of the council was talking. “Forgive me, there’s actually something rather important I need to attend to.” She left her seat too then, and with an urgency that was only barely disguised in the grace of her steps.
It was a signal to the other council members. One of them leaving was possibly disappointing, but two of them leaving seemed to signal the potential for something nefarious, something that might be done or discussed that was unsavory enough to be saved for the shadows. Lady Medra was next to leave, and didn’t bother to provide an excuse. Master Trivacea does, but only once she’s gone and the door has closed behind her. “Better not give them the impression that I might be negotiating solely for my own benefit,” he says as he rises, tapping his nose twice. A surfacer expression he must’ve picked up somewhere. Then he’s gone too.
Lanlan falls in one of the seats and draws a cigarette from seemingly nowhere, and it appears between his fingers and lights itself. “I can’t help but wonder what either of you were thinking,” he says with some amusement.
Kasyr might have cocked a crooked grin in Lan's direction. This exchange lacked the particular depths of spite, the heat, that marked so many- this was simply a matter of going through the motions. A challenge, perhaps, but one that lacked the intricacies of his more dedicated acts of sabotage.
And perhaps, that smile may have even remained at the sheer difficulty in which Balok failed to master his own emotions. That complete and utter lapse in composure. And yet, it was slightly tempered by the simple fact that he walks away, burning- but not overwhelmed by his own ire, "More in control than Kuzial, au moins."
Still, whatever else there was to soak in, it's lost in the face of those simple words that exit Laezila's mouth. His composure breaks, replaced instead by a certain incredulousness that he struggles to master. It's all he can do to avoid grinding his teeth together, but it's the one lapse he cannot truly help. Bit by bit they trickle out, and only Trivacea's words are there to mull over, his departure slower- whether out of genuine self-interest, to hedge his bets, or even to simply gauge the reactions. Why not all of the above? "Peut-etre. I can understand waiting until the dust settles a bit more, to see how much leeway you may have. -But-. A path forward might serve well to defuse that upheaval your concerned about. An upheaval, that if left to boil over- could endanger both our cities, as it already has." There's something akin to a crooked smile at the all-too-human expression, the swordsman offering a final, "A bien tot, peut-etre."
Which just leaves him, Lanlan, and Laezila. Taking a cue from the archmage, Kasyr produces his own smoke, a few errant sparks setting it alight, "I figured a politician would be more well armed for difficult questions." He exhales and a serpentine trail slithers between his lips, "So, how have you been? I imagine the death camps & extermination squads have been keeping you busy." Laezila's given a sidelong glance, the swordsman flicking the cigarette partways in her description, "Was that really your plan, by the by? Heap everything haphazard on anyone but yourself?"
No smile goes to the eyes of the woman, which is the only thing visible beyond that mask, startlingly vivid blue eyes. Those same eyes flick to each leaving 'member' of the council, one by one, as they depart, before they move to Lanlan, then Kasyr. Addressing the latter only after several very long moments of contemplation, a pregnant pensive moment, she lays her hand flat on the table. "No, they are all of no import, merely lesser players in the game of the drow." That hand lifts to gently palm, then remove the faceless mask. Her feminine face beneath is youthful, but marred by that familiar claw mark, three discolored lines that run from the corner of her temple to the corner of her jaw on the opposite side, across her face. "They're too foolish to seize anything due to their own egos, and we've just assured their... stunt of growth. Seems you two have a history?" She asks. "Vailkrin alone might invite attack, but Xalious as well? The duergar?" The young drow matron eyes the empty seats thoughtfully, "I don't need the council to negotiate for my own house. And frankly, their faces disgust me."
Lanlan maintains a cool facade, but there is a measure of pride in him, an acceptance of some responsibility for the way things turned out. If anyone thought that things weren’t proceeding exactly how he wanted them to, he would let them. Balok’s departure felt more like a disappointed patron leaving the show early, as if the farce wasn’t worth the dignity his presence granted it. When it’s just Laezila, Kasyr, and himself, Lanlan feels right at home and appears to only get more comfortable. “You’re all going to need each other,” he says as a cloud of smoke billows up out of his mouth. It smells like cotton candy for some reason. “Sure you might be able to win someone’s house. But you’d be alone. Six different isolated islands all alone in a tumultuous sea of monsters.” It was an opportunity for anyone to seize, he could recognize that. But the prize of a husk wasn’t worth the price of blood and bone.
Kasyr had his own words for Laezila, specifically, "That's an optimistic interpretation." Beyond that, however, Lanlan's words summed things up neatly enough. It's only when he's done that the Kensai deigns to add, "And even united, if things went poorly in Vailkrin, or some other region decides to bury a longstanding grudge with the drow et their way of life? Trist'oth in it's current state es easy pickings." Some vicious part of his mind even wonders how readily some of the undead, so hungry for land, for influence and spread- would jump at the opportunity of a shattered kingdom, ripe for the pickings. He takes in a sharp drag, sickened at even the thought. "Et you're going to need to bring something else to the table, other than myself, or even Lan. I'm an outsider, et even if I can provide opportunities, et resources to bring stability- that es -never- going to be enough on it's own." Likely, the archmage will have some other comment to insert here, et the swordsman will even pause to allow it, but, it's not long until he resumes, "Plus, even if you grab the reins, et solidify things- without a solid backing, followers, or staying power? It's just a waiting game until one of them overthrows you, et rules from the foundation you set."
Laezila lets her small, pink tongue roll over pearly, elongated, vampiric eyeteeth as she contemplates what ex-Patron Lanlan D'l'Sel D'issan and Kasyr Azakhaer or whatever he calls himself currently say to her. But they're not nearly as optimistic as her, to which she exhales almost irritatedly through her nostrils. "I am not a pretender. I took my house at eighteen." Her fingertips rap against the tabletop, "Patience. Patience will win. I require the help of both of you," she reaffirms, pushing herself from her chair in order to circle around the table. Presumably the other two are sitting, and she drags her fingers along Kasyr's shoulders, from right to left, as she passes. One might assume the move is sensual, but with Laezila, it is dangerous, not seductive but almost annoyingly reminiscent in her previous reign. She does the same to Lanlan as she passes him, "Do either of you have faith in Trist'oth being an ally if one of these other Houses take control? I can handle my kind, what I need is resources. My house and our people may have suffered a lot of losses, but the Second House is still one of the strongest among them, half due to our... nature." She pauses at Lanlan's shoulder, lingering, "I am surrounded by enemies enough," the girl says as she looks to her mask resting on the table, "But I remain alive. For now."
Lanlan doesn’t say anything to disagree with the fate of Tristoth if things ‘went poorly in Vailkrin’. They were already going poorly in both places, and if anyone wanted to profit off either of the shadowy cities’ predicaments, they could with nothing more than a firm hand. But Lanlan’s is relaxed, and he plucks harmlessly at a spec of dust on his gloves before blowing the particles away from him. “Resources already aren’t enough on their own,” he reminds them both. Cenril and Xalious had already committed to sending supplies of food and materials to Tristoth, and while some inevitably went missing, the majority were able to find their destinations with careful coordination. Lanlan pushes his shoulders away from the chair as she approaches him, trying to make it more difficult to be touched. When she feels him anyway, he lets out an exasperated sigh, but tries to forgive quickly. “I don’t think anyone doubts your ability.” He relaxes again as she slides her hand away, but doesn’t forget her presence just near him. “But I can work with any of them if they’re willing to be pragmatic. At this stage, I think that’s all they can afford to be.” The city was already on its knees by Lanlan’s estimation. If the coalition could truly unite, even briefly, they could take back the city and perhaps even reestablish borders to some degree, rather than holing up in their hollowed out pillars and creeping out a few at a time. But could they? Not if they suspected each other member was cutting secret deals and obliging themselves to foreign powers. But he doesn’t say this. “You are alive,” he says, acknowledging the simple fact of it for the first time, with a long exhale, and even a hint of contentment. Maybe some buried guilt too. “It isn’t the easiest thing for ones of our nature,” he says, assuming she was referring to their half-bloodedness, though she could’ve disappointed him by meaning the other thing she is now. “But you should make allies within the city as well.” It would go without saying, so maybe there was something like an offer nestled within the simple statement as well. After all, the other members of the coalition did call upon him in their most critical hour, and he delivered. Then they showed up to this meeting, and he could only test to see with how much regret.
Kasyr may have involuntarily bristled at the touch, his posture shifting forward into one which sees him resting on his elbows- a pantomime of thoughtfulness, of being relaxed. "Their economy has been built on slavery for... what, Centuries?" It's not much of a question, as he directs his attention to Lanlan, "Even with supplies from Xalious et Cenril, it won't be enough to restore even a shadow of their way of like, unless they can replace their workforce. Et I am fairly certain Cenril won't be partial to them re-establishing slavery. They'd be -especially- vulnerable to any sanctions or restrictions if they unilaterally rely on them." He taps the cigarette onto the table, and then shrugs, "But all those mindless undead. Hundreds and hundreds of years worth? That helps to resolved some of Vailkrins infrastructure, certainly- but it also provides Trist'oth with a sustainable work force that does not need to eat, to sleep, won't complain or conspire to escape terrible conditions. Can be pushed to the absolute brink, "Provided he can deal with sociopaths like Lefty, " Et not a single sentient es harmed- which allows the illusion of civility."
That there is a history between Lanlan et Laezila isn't missed, the swordsmans' attention flickering off to the way he came, "That said, I don't think it matters what I say. I think the only thing I have left to do is wait for things to get worse. Though, if they do- I don't imagine the terms will be quite as favourable. But I imagine the cost of their pride es a steep one." There's a shrug, and the Kensai pushes away from the table, "A bien tot, most likely." And it's on that note he's aiming to leave, unless there's something further to be addressed. Doubtful, though that may be.
Laezila seems unbothered by either of the men being bothered by her touch, though she continues moving along the table to the other side. "I suppose that is all true. I'm curious why you brought the hidden city leader," she asks Lanlan, squinting her eyes. "Were they ravaged? Seems risky to bring the strongest and show them how their rivals are doing." Her gaze flicks to Kasyr as he moves to leave, but she doesn't follow or seem inclined to give the surly vampire a goodbye.
Lanlan settles back into his chair with something akin to triumph. “Oh…so that’s your scheme is it? To take the help I’ve given you out of charity and use it to profit at my people’s expense? It is a tidy little proposition, I’ll give you that. One they might even accept, because of course you are correct.” He sighs dramatically as if he’s truly, truly wounded by this double dealing. “I am disappointed that you would manipulate my generosity like this, Kasyr.” He tsks, but seems to accept it, and moves on. Laezila had an interesting question for him, and one that seems to hint at some feeling of foreboding on her part, but he can try to put it to rest. “In fact they were completely spared,” Lanlan informs her, sensing that it might cause some dismay. “But they need not be rivals. In fact,” he begins and then hesitates. “In fact they may even be your strongest allies, considering certain similarities of your past. They too were exiled by D’Artes, and though you may blame them for what else Gevurah did to you,” he says hinting at their role in stealing Laezila’s pyromancy. “I think you should forgive them. Besides, they’ve managed to survive all this time without slaves, and there numbers are far greater than any one house in Tristoth. Who else can be better equipped to help take the city back? Of course that is another reason why the surviving leaders must remain united. So anyone who tries to take power, will face a coalition.” Lanlan then plants his hands on the table and pushes himself up out of the chair. “This was obviously not an ideal turn out, but I think given some time, they’ll come around. Hopefully they won’t be so surprised next time, hmm?” He’s about ready to depart now, but in passing, he adds, “We should meet with them again. By the way, where are you staying now, Matron Laezila?”
"I dare not say lest the walls have ears," the young matron playfully scolds, but the earlier words definitely seem to be being contemplated by the woman. "Are you offering a spare room?" Contemplatively, she looks over each empty chair, lingering on the House of the Spider, and the one of Trivacea, latter mostly. "The Second House before my own grudges. Care to walk me out?"
Lanlan is halted and perplexed. He eyes her shrewdly, conducting some hidden calculation, but then relents. “Of course!” He says jovially. “There would be one available for you in Xalious if you wish. And I’d be happy to walk you out.”