RP:The Price of a Kiss, The Cost of a Sword
House Stavret
Unlike most drow houses in the city of Trist'Oth, House Stavret is not beautiful to look upon, nor is it framed in the faerie fire so many use to proclaim the skill of their mages. Its beauty and grace comes from a sense of lurking menace; the almost tangible essence of hidden malice that flows from the sharp spires of the stalagmites that've been moulded into the large halls of the drow's home. Many dark-elves move around the grounds, though very few of them are visible even to drow eyes. It is protected from the horrors of the Underdark by a pair of large and finely crafted adamantite gates. Behind them is a path which winds through the grounds occupied by House Stavret and enters into the throne room where the Patron's grotesque throne sits. It is carved from a single piece of obsidian; its edges are twisted and grate upon the senses of any who are not steeped in malice. And from it the Patron of House Stavret rules this home, protecting both it and Trist'oth from the many, many dangers that are always close here in the Underdark. If you come uninvited, now would be the time to leave.
Kuzial sits upon his grotesque throne like a spider in its web; activity happens around him, drow come and go with the wary trepidation of all those in the swordsman's presence, while he just sits there, still. The throne itself is carved from a single piece of obsidian, its angles are all wrong; twisted, grating, but only to those few from the surface who have gazed upon it. All dark elves, steeped in innate malice as they are, would find little problem in looking at it. He has left express orders that when Laezila arrives, she is to be allowed into the Throne Room without hinderance, a room has also been set aside for any guards she may he brought with her. Kuzial is not known for being patient at all, quite the opposite, but for this matter, he seems content enough to wait.
Laezila would not arrive alone, of course; she didn't trust the fifth House's Patron with that reputation of violence and anger but didn't find it necessary to rebuke his invitation. After all, the young Matron of the Second House D'l'Sel D'issan did not get to her status, or her House to its status, by cunning alone. She also employed strength. Four guards accompanied her with each step of her slender, ebony legs upon heels that resonated throughout the building with each haunting footfall. They were clad in drow mail, but two were much larger than the other and bore axes, not swords; two were vampires, and the other two were lycans, and they did nothing to hide their eyeteeth and canines, respectively. The lithe and small drow woman did not speak as they broke away from her in two pairs in the room set aside for them, and the antic did not hinder her steps; shimmering white hair glittered on the movement of her strides and brushed even against that white and faceless mask that hid her face. She looked like a young girl, the body of a petite teen, save that mask -it only revealed ice-colored eyes that betrayed a wisdom and cunning far beyond her years. As she approached the throne, her steps waned, until they finally stopped before Kuzial, yet she didn't speak first; she looked at him, expectantly.
Kuzial spends a long moment silently eying the female drow, his simmering hatred of all females not hidden, but not overtly threatening either. After a while, he stands and offers the matron a slight nod of his head. “Welcome to House Stavret, Laezila D'l'Sel D'issan.” He motions with his arm to a small table which has been set up, knowing there's no way the woman would remain if she was forced to speak while standing to a drow sitting upon his throne. And Kuzial has no wish this day to make an enemy of the matron of Trist'oth's second House. “Leave us,” is said to his guards, all of which are quick to obey the order, before Kuzial moves over to the table, his exquisite chainmail armour flowing like a second skin, all of it stained black, ensuring that even here, with the dull fires that burn in the corners of this room, he has the appearance of being able to vanish into shadow with an ease reserved for highly skilled dark elf warriors. He makes an absent motion for the woman to sit if she wishes, before languidly dropping into one of the lush chairs. He didn't bother with refreshments, no drow would drink them anyway; poison is a killer far too swift and easy for many of Trist'oth's malicious inhabitants to fall for. “There are matters we should discuss. But first, how fares your House?” He grins as if he doesn't really care, but even in the chaotic society of the drow, manners should at least pretend to be adhered to.
Laezila knew full well that Kuzial didn't care about her House as he spoke and languidly dropped his form onto one of the lush chairs; her own slender legs brought her body toward the seat offered in absent motion before far more gracefully twisting and easing her small and petite body into it. One shapely knee was brought over the other lazily, but the cunning and calculating gaze of ice behind her mask was blatantly both scrutinizing the antics of the Patron as well as her surroundings. Even that nonchalant and faux grin was brought under assessment. Any expression she afforded him would be lost behind that faceless and white mask, and the apparently teenaged matron finally spoke after several long moments rested in the wake of Kuzial's question. "It is strong. It is always strong. Your House flourishes, I can see-" she didn't have to ask, "-and yet your reputation precedes you far more than you know. I am the Matron of the House of Outcasts, but the House that reigns feared. But to you I am still just a little girl," her voice was augmented by the physical contours of the mask, making a naturally muffled but also echoing sort of sound that seemed to give it more authority and mystique, "and your hatred of my gender is not lost upon me. A foolish notion; my breasts and body do not affect my strength, nor do your lack of them and presence of," she waved a gloved hand absently in the direction of his groin. "So either you have realized you cannot bear a child with a male and seek to get between my legs to do such or there is something that threatens you enough to seek -my- counsel."
Kuzial's single eye twitches. The only outward sign of his burning anger at the woman's haughty words, though to a drow it is as good as shouting the fact. His fingers itch with the desire to draw forth one of his many hidden daggers and show this woman there's only one way he will ever impale her, and it's far from what she envisions. But he refrains. Psychotic, he is; angry and perhaps insane. But none have ever accused him of being stupid, and attacking a woman brought into his home under his protection would lead to the eradication of him and his House. No death was worth that price. “It's not your breasts and body which earns my hatred, Laezila. It's the false pretenses of which your gender used to rule this city for so long under that w***e of a goddess.” He grins, then. The look is far from joyous, so bathed in hatred it is. “And understand me well. If ever were I to father a child, it would not be with some...” He stops, then. His smile shifting to one more sly and cunning. “Let us just say, I no longer need care for an heir to my House.” That said, he leans back a shade in his chair, eyeing her still with his single scarlet eye. “I seek your counsel, yes. Something was stolen from me. I wish it returned. I had intended seek your house for aid in this venture, for it was stolen by the immortal who spends more time with pixies and dress-wearing mages than he does down here.” The drow has no fear of any listening into this conversation, for his house is well protected against all scrying magic. But even still, he refrains from speaking the man's name directly... potent mages have a habit of hearing such things.
Laezila 's calculating gaze watched that eye twitch; her icy stare saw easily the burning anger and the itch of his fingers, as well as the grin so bathed in hatred. It was calm, intelligent, cunning, and most of all it was cruel. It was as if Kuzial was torn open, dissected, and all of his organs, emotions, thoughts, and plans were laid bare before the mere teenager of a matron that managed to wrest the control of the most bestial and ruthless of Houses -a reputation upheld even with the knowledge of House Stavret's psychotic tendencies. "Some what, Patron Kuzial?" She asked, neither her tone (as augmented by the physical contours of the mask as it were) nor her eyes betraying any sort of anger, taunt, or even curiosity. "Perhaps you misunderstood my words for a desire for what dangles between your legs. The shame of such an act would lower my House's standing for sure," That, that was an intended insult slice, still said so punctually and matter-of-factly. "w***e of a goddess or not." She wasn't religious and her House wasn't either. "And you expect House D'l'Sel D'issan to what, exactly? Retrieve this thing from the first House in favor of the fifth? You should've started with what mine would gain from aiding this venture." A small and gloved hand brought fingers idly down in a rap against her knee, in a feigned impatience perhaps to further incite Kuzial's rage.
Kuzial moves with the languid grace of a warrior born, one who was molded and forged within a city that slays all who are weak with a cruelty and glee that cannot be matched by any city under the sun's cursed light. He draws forth a dagger as he sits forward, before driving it down into the table before him. It quivers for just a moment with a quiet hum, the sound mixing with the 'thud's echo which reverberates around the empty room. “Let us get one thing straight, Laezila D'I'Sel D'issan, Matron of the Second House. Your reputation for strength, born by the grotesque freaks you allow to pollute your House's bloodline, is mirrored only by your reputation for intelligence. You are feared within Trist'oth, more than my wrath is, more perhaps than the ire of the First House... more than the many denizens of the dark which so often plague our fine city. Your reputation is well earned, I do not doubt. But hear me well... if you insult me or my House again,” He lifts a hand to stop any words which may be coming, “or you continue to bait me, I will kill you far more slowly that you can comprehend. One piece of you will die at a time.” He sits back, then, leaving the dagger on the table where he stabbed it. “If I wanted some kind of pissing contest with you, I'd have shown you male superiority first hand. I do not.” He grows silent for just a moment, quelling with great concentration the simmering anger within him. Finally, though, he speaks again as if his outburst never happened. “What would you gain?” He frowns, “Intelligence you are gifted with. Do you think I would use your House and not my own so blatantly? You would aid me personally with one thing, a minor thing, then reap the benefits of the First House's... potential destruction, or at least reputation faltering. Is that not enough? Or do you find joy in destroying lesser houses than your own, knowing yours could never match D'artes' might? If so, tell me, and we'll discuss whatever petty notions your sex has for interesting conversation before you leave, and I'll find a house with literal and figurative balls.” He stops talking then, berating himself for being manipulated by this woman so easily, but without real vehemence; he doesn't care enough to worry over such things.
Laezila , despite her age, despite her dimunitive form, and despite the show of prowess and anger so furiously displayed before her, didn't flinch from her seated position with one slender leg hooked over the other when that dagger drove into the surface of the table in front of her; the only indication of any surprise was the extremely subtle and likely unnoticeable narrowing of her icy gaze for just a fraction of a moment, as if she expected the blade to be struck into her. She didn't interrupt his words, nor made any indication of intention to albeit her mask disguised her facial features; they were listened to, analyzed, and mulled over both forward and back. At least the psychotic patron seemed to hold in the restraint not to act foolishly even with the baiting of the young woman that sat before him. When she finally made a motion she still didn't speak, but instead arched her lithe body forward in order to reach outward and use a gloved hand to gently curl her small fingers around the hilt of the dagger. With almost a preternatural ease and directly in spite of Kuzial's strength in his rage, the blade slide free under her gentle exertion to be claimed by the woman and brought up toward her mask and eyes as if to be examined closer. As that last happened, she spoke, calmly and without the ire displayed by the vehement and stab-favoring man, "Do you have any idea where the broken blade you lost is? Or do you simply presume to know it within Patron Tiphareth's walls?" There was one thing stolen from him that he never was seen without, and it coincided with the reports of the attack within the drow's borders; she would be an idiot if she wasn't well-informed. Those icy eyes immediately locked on that scarlet one of Kuzial's with a cold tenacity of a cruel ingenuity not oft seen; it was an icy fire that spoke of inflicting not pain, but years upon years of misery. "I will look into this matter at your request. I do not promise you your blade's return, nor do I promise to not return it. But should you," that dagger tapped against the mask of the girl three times, slowly, "decide to threaten me again, I won't just ensure you dead." The dagger was slowly and gently lain upon the table now, "I'll kill your name as well. You've seen it happen before. Now," she leaned forward slightly, and boldly actually reached out to brush a gloved thumb across the psychotic man's cheek, "This could work in both of our favor; a minor thing for a minor thing. For I have need of you, too, slayer."
Kuzial twitches again as the sly and cunning matron voices so casually what he wants returned; in truth, it is the sword's sentience incarcerated in the soulstone which makes him act so... brashly. Despite his unending anger, without the influence of the blade's malicious consciousness hanging around his neck in the now ebon insignia, he never would have threatened this woman. If he wanted her dead, he'd have sent assassins or gone himself. It was foolish, but the notion of such a thing is lost to the dark elf, once more arising the question within himself of who truly is master, sword or swordsman. But such thoughts are washed away as her words and actions contradict themselves with all the wonderful complexity of a dark matron. That thumb run down his cheek like a lover's touch after her own promise of destruction is made, followed by her speaking of a need. It causes Kuzial to again lean back in his chair, before at last speaking; he doesn't bother responding to her quiet assurance of his destruction. In truth, if she wasn't capable of such things, he'd not have bothered bringing her here. “The weapon was taken by House D'artes. Tiphareth would not give it up again. He has never in his cursed life relinquished anything which could be of use to another. He has it.” There is a finality in that, though in truth Kuzial isn't entirely sure that's where the sword is, despite the dark assurances coming from his soulstone. “With that in mind, Matron Laezila. What... minor thing do you require of me?”
Laezila kept her thumb brushed lightly against that cheek like a lover's touch, even as her icy gaze denoted the cruelty and homocidal capability within them; it was the beautiful danger and deadliness of her reputation and intelligence. "Nothing major, of course," she nearly crooned, though it was easily more mysterious than any sort of affection and the matron finally eased back, "If I bring to you this blade, this sword that you need, you will give me a kiss. Just a kiss, and you will do it before your House." It wasn't meant to be a kiss of affection, but the ulterior motive of a kiss that would likely show disfavor from his underlings, to whom mostly share the ideology of the psychotic patron; male superiority. It would be a blow to that theory -there was no gender superiority. There was only strength. And it was something that the teenaged matron possessed and wielded -she was cruel, in this way, in her diplomacy among the other Houses, to ensure that such a ruthless reputation was upheld. It wasn't the worst that the matron has had heads of other Houses do -among those lines, it was actually pretty lenient. "Only because I find you pleasing to look upon," was her explanation to those thoughts, as her leg crossed over the other again, "But that blade will be your downfall. Be wary of it, Patron Kuzial. I'm already running out of males I like to watch fight, I do not need you to meet a premature end as well."
Kuzial understands the moment she speaks the words of his 'task' the true motivation behind it. He scowls, though the look is one he intends rather than one born of honest emotions. A small price to pay, the whispered words within. Too high a price, his own thoughts. But that promise of a returned sword... of a power shackled once more, yet also freed; removed from the drow to once more taste flesh and blood as it carves a bloody legacy throughout the Underdark... it was too tempting. So he speaks, his usually euphonious voice tight. “A kiss.” His look turns sly. “With or without the mask?” For her words against the sword, he doesn't answer. He wants to.. he wants to agree.. he wants to beg she help him remove the taint of the weapon from his corrupted, blackened soul so he can go back to being merely a cruel, vicious warrior. But he is drow. He is Kuzial. He will not ask this woman for more than he has, with or without the nefarious influence of the weapon. He will live with the decisions he made, and spend no time at all dwelling upon the bloody suicide of the weapon's last owner, Keter D'artes.
Laezila 's icy eyes might've seen through the intended look and into the inner monologue of Kuzial the way that the stare was so analytical and calculating, so undeniably dissecting. She had seen Keter D'Artes wield such a blade as a little girl, she had picked up on the way it seemed to manipulate him; it made Kuzial all the more unpredictable a combatant in this verbal joust, even as he boldly looked sly. Her smile wouldn't be seen behind the white and faceless item that made her all the more mysterious, hiding emotions and expressions to give her the advantage over those she interacted with. But she did lift a gloved hand in order to tap at her mask like how she did with the dagger, "I have one just for the event," came her part-muffled and part-augmented words. She was already scheming -but it wasn't in terms of the kiss; she was thinking of whom to speak to and whom to threaten in order to imbue that husk of a sword with something that might keep such an influence at bay. A vicious warrior motivated by the unknown is far more dangerous than the predictability of one motivated by his spoken ideals. "I suppose you'd like my departure now?"
Kuzial offers a smile to the woman, one which is ambiguous in intent, though once again it is far from pleasant. “I am sure you do, Laezila D'l'Sel D'issan. Just make it a pretty one.” That said, the dark elf stands, ignoring the dagger which is still on the table. “There is nothing else which needs be said. Let us not draw this out longer than required. You will find your guards are as safe as they were when you entered.” That said, he would wait for her to rise before walking the woman to the large doors which lead into this room. He knocks on them once, causing two members of his guard to pull them open. Warriors which present a stoic face to the female; well, drow stoic – they are sly, of course, but that's the norm down here. “Glad I am we did not meet this day, Laezila D'I'Sel D'issan.” A traditional farewell for council members. “Send word when you have it, and what you seek shall be yours.” Let his guards ponder that. With a slight nod of very grudging respect, the patron would turn and stalk back to his throne, there to process through the words shared by the two dark elves, with the firm reminder that this particular female is a very, very worthy opponent indeed.