RP:The Price of a Meal
Ayras strolls through his city's streets - yes, he thinks of the place as his city, despite the fact that he holds no title in the place anymore - this very fine day. He meanders the market, eyeing the goods displayed in the shop windows, in the carts the street vendors have on display. He's in a right chipper mood, to be honest. He jokes with this shopkeeper or that shopper, speaks pleasantly with those who remember him and stop him. But then he comes upon the drow and the food cart he's having trouble at. His joviality fades, his trademark smirk flees, and he approaches just in time to hear that last snippet from Lyros. "The problem," he says before the merchant can, "is that your kind are currently at war with my former kind." His former kind? He still has pointed ears, dang it! "It's natural for those here to be wary of your kind. For all that merchant knows, you plan to poison the food you purchase and present it to the ruling body of the elves under false pretences." Now where would Ayras get an idea like that? It's like he spent time with the subterranean elves before.
Lyros is highly considering just hunting for his food again - the convenience of a market is slightly undermined by the fact that many of the merchants refuse to serve him at all, or if they do, charge exorbitant prices. His pockets are not all that deep, currently, despite his attire having an air of worn nobility about it, bits and pieces hidden in the faded fabric that hint to finely-tailored, expensive clothing. He is glaring at the merchant when an unfamiliar voice answers his words instead, and Lyros turns to face the newcomer, levelling his steely gaze upon him instead. A look of distaste crosses his patchy face. "Do not take me for a fool, elf." Ah, perhaps he's judging on appearances today. "I would not be so obvious about it." Such talk is not going to help him in any way, however - leaning his hip against the stall, much to its owner's displeasure, the drow sighs. "Nor would I bother, given I'm stuck here. I'd rather not incite the wrath of both Frostmaw and its elves." He refocuses his glower on the merchant, muttering, "All I'm after is something to eat. After the elves came here, you'd think they'd be more eager to help exiles."
Ayras stares at Lyros for a moment before he starts to laugh. Not a kind, jovial laugh, but a harsh, mocking thing. "Boy, the elves here haven't had it as easy as you think. From what I've heard, a handful of them almost got the lot of them kicked back down the cliff." He turns to the merchant and hands the fellow some coins, afterwards taking a loaf of bread and an apple. Is he being nice and purchasing the drow food? That's certainly ki-...oh, nope. Despite not needing it, Ayras takes a bite from the apple. Crrrrunch. "And I've heard word that whoever it is sitting in for Kit has decided to take up arms against your kind. I think. I'm not much for rumours that don't involve myself." Another taunting bite. "You want to get food without being treated like a leper? Stick around long enough to prove you're not out to kill the citizens, and then prove your worth."
Lyros' brows raise at that. "Really?" He certainly hadn't known, but then again, the drow has only stayed vaguely updated on surface events recently, overhearing information passed down through his House, from other Houses. Mulling that over in the back of his mind, he looks on with interest as the man pays for the bread and apple, a faint flicker of hope alighting in his eyes— and extinguished almost immediately to be replaced with a rather nasty scowl. "I am not involved in this ridiculous war, and I must struggle to find food like a beggar," the drow hisses bitterly, his anger flaring. "Understandable. Even here, inadvertently, 'my kind' cause me trouble." With a snort he turns to walk away, throwing the merchant a last glare over his shoulder and trying to ignore his grumbling stomach.
Ayras chews more on the apple as the drow walks away. A look is shared with the merchant, who just shrugs. "I ain't feedin' the twerp," the stall keeper says before Ayras responds with a shrug and moves to stalk after the drow. This is Ayras' home, after all. He's not going to risk a drow causing trouble. Or, at least, no more trouble than is usually caused in Frostmaw. The dark elf says he has to scrounge for food like a beggar. Ayras wanted to see just what sort of begging the fellow does. Is he the murderous kind, or the kind that digs through trash bins. This is a question the vampire needs answered.
Having lost his appetite to bargain with merchants but still needing to fill his belly, Lyros stalks away from the market plaza, his stride purposeful. It does not take the drow long to disappear into the narrower, less frequented streets between and behind the houses, where the snow lies thicker upon the ground and the air is close and quiet around him. He backtracks and takes various winding detours as if trying to lose someone, though it may simply be down to typical dark elf paranoia that he goes to such lengths. Perhaps he is...hunting. Like a true top predator, it does not take him long to find his prey - Lyros halts briefly in his tracks to stare at the open window, a hungering look burning in his eyes even as he frowns, conflicted. Still, driven by instinct, he hesitates for only a moment before slipping by the house, snatching the plate of resting cooked meat off the window sill and leaving behind a small pile of coins. Maybe more a thief than a beggar...but at least he left fair payment. He walks briskly away from the scene of the crime but stops to huddle in a doorway just a street or so later, the plate on his knees as he hungrily bites a chunk out of the meat.
Ayras knows these streets, these alleys. Frostmaw, despite his absence, has been his home for years. So it was hardly a thing to follow the drow through his twists and turns. He almost thinks the drow is trying to lose him, but then he spies the dark elf taking a plate of food from a window. Electricity charges around his hand...until he sees the coin left in the plate's place. Ayras frowns, but he recalls his the lightning that was being summoned around his hand, a quiet - but audible - boom of localized thunder sounding for the effort. As the drow strolls off, Ayras passes by the same window and leaves a handful more of coins. Proper recompense for the food. The vampire continues to stalk until he spies Lyros plop down and begin to eat...which is when he throws the fellow the loaf of bread he purchased earlier. "Don't scarf down your food. You'll make yourself sick."
Lyros snaps a word in some esoteric, arcane language and the loaf of bread promptly halts in midair before it can smack the drow in the face - were it not for his mouth being full of food, it might have drifted down to land gently on his plate, but instead flops rather pathetically to one side and rolls into the snow at his feet. Lyros frowns at it, then lifts his amber gaze to glower at Ayras instead. "Don't you have better things to do than stalk me, elf?" he spits in return. He is sick of the eyes on him constantly; the city guard are always close and keeping watch, though the drow finds them relatively easy to avoid, but he cannot avoid the wary glances of the other patients in the clinic. Swallowing, he takes another bite, wishing he'd removed his gloves and claw tips prior to eating, and continues to observe the stranger from over his plate.
Ayras watches the magic take hold of the bread and...dump it in the snow. Well, that's a waste of coin down the metaphorical toilet. Ayras can almost hear the flush. Oh, wait, that was from the house next to them. "I owe this city after my time away," is all that the elf says in reply to the drow's snappish question. Ayras almost wrinkles his nose at the sight of the drow's eating habits. But then, the vampire doesn't have the best of them when he eats his proper food, either, so...he doesn't. "I have advantages that the regular guards don't, in regards to agility and mobility while following the smaller races. They might be able to keep up for a time, but I know how the elves and your kind can move. I take it upon myself to make certain there's no mischief from you lot on my watch." Right. Says the vampire who has a reputation in Kelay for eating up the bar wenches.
Lyros swallows again, and sighs. He can feel the warmth of the meat spreading through him to drive away the chill in his bones, which he's just as thankful for as the food itself. The distant sound of flushing makes him grimace but the drow is too hungry to be entirely put off - he'll have to have a word with the residents about their unfortunate timing for toilet humour, though. When he's finished one chunk of meat, he reaches to snatch up the loaf of bread — 30 second rule! — and set it on his plate with the rest of his meal. To Ayras' words, he offers a shrug and an entirely unpleasant, unfriendly smile. "So you're the city guard's pet dog, trained to go after the rats. I still think you have better things to do than follow me around. Arrest someone for assault, chase down a murderer, maybe piss on a tree somewhere?"
Ayras starts to summon that lightning to his hand again. Oh, how he wants to shock the drow! Such a mouth on him! What Ayras doesn't realize is that he actually has his lightning arcing around his forearm and hand, building and building. Such a temper. "When I am given proper authority to do so," well, isn't he presumptuous about how whoever leads Frostmaw now will treat him, "I will do such things, likely. For now, I just take it upon myself to make sure no one causes trouble. And you, by your mere presence, are trouble."
Lyros is quick to take note of the rising static in the air and visibly bristles, his body tensing in preparation for a fight. This is what he gets for being unfriendly...entirely warranted aggression in return. He snorts, tries not to think about that, and also does his best to reign in his temper and refrain from retaliating. For a drow, his lacking eagerness to get into a bloody fight is a bit surprising - Lyros glares, but other than that he only draws his knees closer to his chest and pulls his plate closer to himself. "My deepest apologies for being stuck here, then," he growls, voice low, the bitterness entering his tone once again. After a short pause, though, he glances at the man again, his eyes drawn to the play of electricity and static up his arm. He can't hide the flicker of intrigue. "...You're sparking, by the way." Hm. Sparky.
Ayras looks down at his hand and the lightning that flickers around the metal limb from the elbow-down. He clenches his fist, which only makes the lightning angrier it seems as it builds and builds...until it arcs in on itself and sinks into his hand. Another localized thunder clap. A head sticks out of a nearby window and peers up at the sky. It certainly doesn't look like it's supposed to be thundering. "How did you get stuck here, drow?"
Lyros observes the shift and jump of lightning over the man's arm and also glances up at the sound of thunder, frowning when he sees nothing and then, with a similar jolt, staring back at Ayras' metal hand. "Electromancy?" he enquires, sounding half-bored, the look in his eyes the only indication he may be disguising genuine curiosity. The question on his current predicament earns him another shrug as Lyros quickly looks away, feeling avoidant. "It's easier to say 'stuck.' I'm not necessarily trapped here or forbidden from leaving. It's more like I have nowhere else to go." He pokes at the meat, sullen. "This city is unfriendly and distrusting but...it's probably safer than anywhere else."
Ayras cocks his head. He sees the look in Lyros' eyes, sees the disharmony with the expression on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, keeping that mithril limb in view. Whether it's out of warning or letting the dark elf examine it further is anyone's guess. "As long as you don't cause trouble, I won't have to kill you." Fancy that, the elf's talking about killing the drow. Go figure, huh? Typical elf.
Lyros is too busy watching snowflakes spiralling down from above, now, the drow staring up at that bleak grey sky— or perhaps beyond it, his thoughts and focus drifting like the light snowfall. Whatever the case, he seems to be avoiding looking at Ayras entirely. He does not answer the man's remark and its underlying threat immediately, but after an extended silence the mage heaves a weary sigh, shoulders rolling in a shrug. "Like I've said a thousand times already, I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm just here to..." The words trail off into the cold air like his clouded breath; there one moment, gone the next.
Ayras turns his eyes skyward, following the drow's gaze. There's something off about this drow. He doesn't match the vampire's experience. But then, most of his experience was at the hands of females during the reign of the Matriarchy. "You say you're not, but you took a family's dinner. You may have left coin in return, but now they have to wait longer to prepare more, or go without if they don't have enough food."
Lyros cannot finish that sentence and continues to stare into oblivion for a minute or so, as if hoping he might find an answer to his own words. Ayras gets a huff and another shrug, the drow's voice still somewhat distant as he replies, "I would hardly consider that 'trouble' compared to what you expect me to do, 'guardsman.' And it's not as if I wanted to— you saw the reaction I get in the market. Aren't you supposed to look after visitors to your city?" Speaking of that dinner, Lyros has returned to picking at it, as if trying to select the juiciest portions of meat. He holds a sliver up to his mouth and finally slides his gaze back to the man. "Starving to death is rather troublesome, you know."
Ayras turns away from the drow and looks back down the alleyway from which they had come. He can hear the ruckus from that window that the meal had come from. The occupants were livid, no matter that there is coin there. They were calling for guards, for anyone, for help to spot a thief. No one cares if someone else starves. They only care if they eat for the day. That's the thought that passes through his head as he shuts his eyes and exhales through his nose. "I'm not a guardsman," he says as he returns his attention to Lyros. "I am the former Knight-Captain of the Knights of the Black Ice. I was not intended to play watchman. That is just something I took upon myself. Don't twist things to try to mock me."
"'Former'?" Lyros smirks at the man. His tone is light and mocking but the drow's sharp eyes and ears have picked up the ruckus from further down the alley; it is no longer safe to linger here and he certainly has no intention of hanging around until the city guard shows up. Moving silently, he slips to his feet and off the step, standing with the platter of meat and bread still clutched in his arms. "How cute!" he laughs, voice taking on a cruel, cutting edge. "Did they throw you out? What are you hoping to do— hound beggars and kick drunken fools until they decide to reinstate you? I was wrong - you're not even their dog, are you? Just some wannabe." His eyes narrow with each verbal taunt, wielding the words like a knife, a metaphorical stab to the gut.
Ayras listened to the man go on and on with his assumptions. The elf ignores it for the most part, listening like one does to background noise while waiting for something important to be heard. His eyes are set off to the west, into the wilds of Frostmaw, where once there was a hole filled with mutated, flightless avians. The price he paid while he was in that hole comes front and centre to his mind, the very reason why he no longer holds a title in the city. "When you decide to stay in a pit killing monsters for the good of your home, you'll find you won't hold on to your titles, either. I would gladly sacrifice the rank again to keep this place safe." The sound of armor, large armor, can be heard coming closer. There's probably only a handful of minutes before the guards show up, but Ayras makes no move to flee.
Lyros' patchy features remain settled in a dark frown, his gaze hard and cold as the northern icefields. Who is this man? He pisses the drow off, at any rate - he can feel his anger rising as his jabs are shrugged off with nonchalance, his own weapons inadvertently turned against him. The beat of heavy armour and footsteps draws closer in the distance and he snarls at Ayras, who has yet to make a move to detain him, leave, or do anything else. Drow do not flee, stubborn as they are, so the mage's next move may come as a surprise. "You want to keep this place safe? Then take it back to them!" he snaps as he pushes the platter forwards suddenly, throwing it and its contents for Ayras with enough force to leave a bruise or two. Chunks of meat and bread fly through the air, the massive plate careening behind them, while Lyros uses the mess as cover to sprint in the opposite direction, racing away from the alley. Barely leaving a bootprint in the snow, the agile drow leaps over drifts and piles of white, bounding up the side of a stack of boxes piled high to pull himself up onto the roof. He pauses for a moment to take a breath, before he launches himself into the air toward the slippery slope of the adjacent building's roof and easily darts along the top of it, his feet deft and quiet.
Ayras dodges aside as the meat and the plate comes flying towards him, wincing as he hears the metal crash with a resounding clang on the ground. He'll have to repay the family further. He doesn't run after the drow, however, instead staying behind to wait on the giant guards. They find him there with the fallen food and begin to question him. He tells them the circumstance, that he witnessed the theft, that he pursued. What he doesn't tell them is that the fellow was a drow, that he stopped to talk to him for a time. He doesn't tell them he gave the dark elf a loaf of bread. He hates the drow, hates them with a passion that none know, that goes beyond mere racial prejudices, but he knows what it's like to be in Lyros' position. He'll let the fellow go. For today.
Lyros is long gone. All that remains of him is a faint impression on someone's doorstep, a few footprints and displaced snow on the top of a roof, a clear section where he slipped back down into the maze of alleyways and took a sheet of white with him— and a memory. With any luck, he thinks, he won't run into Ayras again. But as is obvious from today's misadventures, it is clear the drow is in short supply of that commodity.