RP:The Young and the Throneless

Summary: Quintessa and Ayras speak of politics in the City of the Undead. There are those who think the new baroness is too young to lead House Dragana. What does the future hold for the vampire houses?

Hanging Corpse Tavern

This once-timber tavern has been rebuilt in sturdily vitrified blackstone and imbued with powerful protective magics that prevent occult fire and several other potentially harmful spells being cast within its walls. No effort has been spared to make what might otherwise be a bleak interior comfortable. The bar is made of polished stone with an oaken inlay, the space behind filled with a bustle of attractive barmaids, sundry barrels and a dazzling array of coloured bottles that glint in the light cast by a large wrought-iron chandelier suspended from the ceiling overhead. Here, the one-eyed Steadman stands, ready to take orders for food or drink. Beyond the bar, stout tables are firmly bolted to the floor, though the high-backed chairs are freestanding. The hearth is a true feature, seeming to be cast from black lava into the shape of a colossal, laughing goblin's head, its maw gaping wide and deep, usually containing a merrily crackling fire. A delicious scent of roasting meats drifts in from the kitchens and a winding staircase leads to rooms upstairs. To the south are set cellar doors, usually kept locked unless a special event is taking place, and up the stairs are various rooms for rent. The walls are hung with thick, richly woven tapestries depicting persons and events in the history of Vailkrin and the vampiric race. There's also a notice-board near the entrance, where one may leave messages. Unobtrusive but ever-present are the security staff, staunch fighters ever ready to toss troublemakers out.

Quintessa arrives without much pomp and circumstance, dressed in a simple black corset and medium length skirt. Of course, her signature invisibility cloak made from the skin of a rune-jaguar pelt remains draped over her shoulders as she enters the establishment. Mismatched eyes of blue and hazel scan the room for a moment, looking for someone specific. She wasn't here today. With a slight shrug, the changeling approaches Steadmen to pass him a note and small amount of gold with it. "Slow night?" she asks him, to which he responds with a smile and a nod. "Oh well. I'll take a dark ale." She places a few extra coins on the bar to pay for it before she slides into a seat.

Ayras glanced up from the tome that was ever in her lap, these days, as Quintessa walked in, though her head barely lifted. Irises of silver floating in pitch-black voids followed the woman, the memory of her proclamation of taking over House Dragana still fresh in her mind. A snort escaped her as she snapped her book shut, lifting her tall, muscular frame from the plush chair that was once favored by Larewen. She made her way to the bar, a silent motion made to garner Steadmen's attention. Ayras lifted a finger, pointing at her favored wine behind the bar; her exposed arm, with its black veins wriggling beneath pallid skin, barely even gave the barkeep pause. This was Vailkrin, after all. But for those who hadn't ever seen Ayras, or for those who hadn't seen her out of her armor, the sight of the veins, trailing down to mostly blackened hands and leading up to those strange eyes of hers, might just have seemed a little unnerving. Or odd. Who knew what people considered normal, these days.

Quintessa let her gaze slowly drift over to the form of the death knight, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. Ayras was hard to ignore and even harder to forget. Indeed, there was something the hex blade found very intriguing about the vampiric elf. The kind of intrigue that led people to strap others to tables so they could slowly dissect them and categorize their anatomy. It would certainly be a great addition to Quintessa's field notes. Slender digits reach forth to take the drink that was slid before her but the changeling hesitates to drink, her attention glued to the woman who had drawn near. "You're an interesting creature," Quintessa says, her smirk slowly growing into a grin of all pointed teeth. "I remember you. You were there the day I made my proclamation. You made an interesting claim about my close allies, House Azakhaer." An amused chuckle escapes her chest, "You said you were heir. So, does the heir have a name?" The baroness turns in her barstool, letting the mug of ale slide off the table to linger above her lap. Mismatched eyes trace over the elf's body, taking note of her strange features and most attractive physique. For a moment, Quintessa looks like a snake that has just spotted a juicy rat as she sizes Ayras up.

Ayras was next to receive her drink, and her blackened fingers wrapped gently around the stem of the fragile glass in which the liquid was contained. Her ears perked as she heard the word 'interesting' used to describe her, a soft chuckle rumbling from her throat. "You have no idea," she said, her voice, previously purely feminine, suddenly tinged with a mixture of her own voice and one far deeper and masculine. And then the mention of her claim was brought up, and out barked a laugh, her voice back to normal. "Oh, my dear, you clearly need to learn how to detect sarcasm." She lifted her wine to her lips, sipping at the blood-tainted liquid for a moment before she answered the following question. "My name is Ayras Drathir. And no, I am not the heir to House Azakhaer, though Kasyr and I are...allies? Friends? From ages past. From when his wife sat upon the throne of Frostmaw and before." She turned her gaze to the woman then, finally letting that cold stare of hers settle upon the younger vampire. If Ayras were a rat, she was one that did not fear snakes. "You are too young to lead House Dragana," she told the other woman bluntly.

Quintessa finds herself laughing along with Aryas, her own sarcasm undetected as well. "I assumed. If you were a true heir, Kasyr would have no doubt told me already. Very few secrets linger between the two of us regarding his house and the Coterie." She pauses to bring the dark ale to her lips, drinking slowly as she sets Ayras' name to memory. Quintessa thinks back fondly at the memories of books written about the duo of Kasyr and Satoshi, and the loyal allies that followed them. A contented smile lingers on her pale face until Ayras speaks of her being too young to lead and her smile dissolves into a bitter sneer. "Perhaps," she says, letting her drink rest on the bar again, "But if not me, who else? Larewen is gone, most likely killed by my arrant brother, Elioyahazer, before he fled back into the desert. He's certainly not fit to lead. Neither is Artia. And where are my other siblings? No, I will not sit by and watch what Larewen has created to crumble to dust. I'm her strongest child. A monster of the swamp. The creature of Black Pond. I alone have the power, the knowledge, and the resolve to lead House Dragana." Her left hand slowly moves to clutch the hilt of her katana as she speaks, the idle movement not one meant to be a threat. "I have achieved far more than anyone else my age, far much more than vampires ten times my age."

Ayras lowered her eyes to the sword and the hand that rested upon it. When she returned them to Quintessa's, her head was cocked slightly to the side. "You alone?" She sneered, her fangs brought full to bare, though surely the pair of them are a less intimidating sight than the mouthful that the halfbreed sports. "It is hardly a bragging point. The vampires of this town are..." She searched for the least offensive word she could for how she wanted to describe her kin of this time, but pictures of those that flocked to Larewen's side, those that cowered before her, or held petty grudges, came to mind. "Pathetic." She clenched her fist, eyes locked on her black fingers that once would have been sparking angrily with electricity but now simply pulsed with shadow. "You speak of achievements. There is one you have not, cannot, achieve for some time yet; survival. There were many that shared the hubris you hold. They are dust, now."

Quintessa was ready to be angry with Aryas. Ready to fight her here and now in the tavern if she must, just to prove a simple point, but as the death knight speaks the hex blade can't help but sympathize. "You-" her pale fingers slip away from her sword to reach for her drink, a smirk of bemusement wiping away her sneer. "You certainly are interesting." Quintessa wouldn't be baited so easily. "Pathetic." she echoes, bringing the ale to her lips to take a sip. "I can't help but agree. When the Vailkrin Slayer marched through town, slaughtering vampires and their human pets alike, they could do nothing to stop him. He's still at large and the useless Houses can't get off their asses to go after him. That's what spurred me to take over House Dragana. It was not my hubris that drove me to seize power, but my desire to protect this city. I don't know about you," she slams an almost empty mug down to gesture at Ayras, "And what motivates you. But I feel like I have an obligation to my House. It is not just my own survival that's on the line, but the survival of my house. I won't let it be dust. I'll do -anything- to protect my sire's legacy."

Ayras just stared at Quintessa for a long moment. No words, no inaudible taunts, just a seemingly empty stare, though it was anything but. The fledgeling reminded her of...well...her, once upon a time, back when she held station in Frostmaw. It honestly wasn't that long ago that she would have laid down her life for the place she once called home. She tore her eyes away, shifted them to the metal arm that was grafted to her left side, flexed those fingers that had no right being able to move. She lifted those unfeeling fingers to the burn scars along the left side of her jaw and side of her neck, the sensation a strange one between not feeling anything in her hand and the distorted sensation in her flesh. She had her share of wounds from thinking like Quintessa. "And yet, to achieve this goal, your own survival is paramount. You are a fledgeling, yet. I doubt you have tasted the bloodlust so severely that it drives you mad. I doubt you have tasted war. True war, not this political bickering that the vampire Houses use to attempt to gain power. So I say again, you are not fit to lead House Dragana." She drained her wine, then, setting the glass gently on the bar top before she rose from her stool. "There are others more fit to take her throne." She didn't name herself, but the implication was clear. Without another word, the redheaded elf turned and began walking towards the door. However, she never made it there. Shadows wrapped around the death knight, and when they shrank to nothingness the woman was simply gone.

Quintessa sits for a moment, finishing her ale in silence with a cruel smile on her face. "Leave it," the 'fledgling' says to Steadman as he reaches forward to grab Ayras' glass. Pale fingers drop a few more golden coins on the bar before she stands and slowly takes the wine glass from the bar to place into her satchel. "Never seen true war," she scoffs, the baroness laughing to herself. Her exploits in the Razurath war had gone unnoticed. Her kill count. Her usefulness in targeting them and destroying them. Her unnatural talent for mayhem. This meant that her political opponents would underestimate her. A devious grin dominates her expression as she turns to leave. Quintessa knows she can use this against them. "Thanks for the drink, Steadman," the hex blade says with a final glance before she exits into the dark streets of Vailkrin.