RP:Three Boons He Will Ask, Part 1

Part of the A Line Drawn in the Sand Arc

Open Market, Cenril

The southern path though town opens wider to the east, as the sea comes into view. The air is thicker here, but carries with it the fresh scent of the seawater and breezes.

Laezila had to take the good with the bad. The war was won. Hildegarde reclaimed Frostmaw, was crowned Queen, and Laezila was given her home back there without the worry for racism, for prejudice and more specifically the threat of violence against her for both her past as well as for being a drow. These were good. The bad? She had failed. She had failed to rescue many prisoners, was thrown from a cliff and had her entire body mangled, as well as bore the guilt of the injuries of Kelovath -as well as the ire of his new girlfriend, Laezila's frienemy Josleen. On top all that, the girl also still had to keep her attention over her shoulder for the onset of bounty hunters, as Kasyr had managed to get her bounty raised and Frostmaw was the only city that was relatively safe from the reach of those that sought to collect such a life-changing amount. That was the reason her hair was dyed a deep raven, and her ebony skin was caked with makeup, combined with the natural pallid tone of vampirism, to lighten the black to a light gray. Her eyes, however, were still bright and intense blue, and despite the way she managed to fade the claw-like scar that crossed her face, it was still present. The young, diminutive and petite woman moved gracefully through the open market, her head cowled with a hood; her movements weren't so much elegant in their grace as they were a sort of bestial, predatory stride -less nobility, despite her past, and moreso survivalist.

Mcracken had come in search of the Uyeer. All he really knew about Kreekitaka, beyond that the oceanic chimera was bold to the point of foolhardy, was that Kree was also every bit as obsessed with land-walker coin as the land-walkers themselves, and so the market seemed a very logical place to start looking. In his raggedy garb and drooping hood, mandolin hanging from a shoulder-strap, Mac was mistaken more than once for an impoverished, wandering minstrel, an error that had often served him well since he’d surfaced from the abyss. Occasional buyers flipped a coin and requested a tune as they waited to purchase fresh oysters or a new fishing-net, which gave the kraken a good excuse to be loitering, all the while scanning the crowd for sight or mention of his erstwhile companion. He’d been there for hours now, in the too-dry air, amid the stink and bustle of land-walkers, and though he’d come prepared with a skin of sea-water to help stave off inevitable dehydration, his flesh ached for the soothing balm of the sea. As a fat, impatient housekeeper to one of Cenril’s wealthier homes asked Mac to play the latest popular tune, penned by no other than Wentworth Ponsonby-Smythe (who’d achieved no little fame since the presentation of his epic song at the Frostmaw coronation), the man-shaped kraken waved her off with a flip of deep-webbed fingers… for he’d spied not the Uyeer, but the very reason he was seeking Kreekitaka out in the first place! Ignoring the housekeeper’s clucking disapproval of his manners, Mcracken kept his mismatched gaze set on the woman he knew, thanks to tavern-gossip, to be a well-disguised drow… one who may hold the answers to several vitally important questions. He trod after her, as the eyes of good citizens either delicately avoided him or were averted to their well-clutched purses as he passed them, cutting through the crowd in Laezila’s wake.

Laezila was accustomed to looking over her shoulder; it wasn't unreasonable to say she was both a bit paranoid and overly cautious. The mixture of these two was what led her to the glance that caught the glimpse of the visage of an ambling and vaguely, though not entirely recognizable form that was tailing her. Well. She wasn't certain and had zero proof that this bard-looking nomadic man was actually trailing her. But she didn't need proof; she didn't stay alive this long waiting on proof. Her pace through the crowd became more fervent, more frantic, and her path wilder; no longer did she take any logical path, but unnecessary winds and turns -the sort that would indicate someone following them were they to blindly travel her route without realizing that it made no sense. It was several lefts, several rights, and so forth, all to leading straight ahead in the end of the destination by some roundabout manner. Yet, the rapid pace and more frantic movement had her lithe and small frame ducking and dipping through moving crowds and milling shoppers gave attention to her, although it threw random bystanders into the path behind her as it created chaos and turmoil. In all likelihood, she very well might've done such even without anyone seeking to catch her.. But the probability of her bounty in pursuit was high; it was a sum of gold that wasn't at all paltry, but rather life-changing. Neither was Mcracken the only one tailing the drow, however. It became apparent when three large men began to shift the tide of customers as their towering forms moved through the crowd all in apparent direction toward her. The woman stumbled, feathers flew as she knocked over a chicken coop, and lithe little vampire was flung forward, crashing against the ground.

Were Laezila a sea-creature, Mac could have followed her for weeks with her none the wiser. Here on land? Well, not so much. However, he’d managed to gain a little ground, for the milling crowd would part like icebergs before a floe-breaking ship, averting themselves from the ragged man’s path for no reason they’d ever think about, the inaudible sonic pulses Mac emitted repelled people almost as well as it did sharks, as it turns out. Still, it took him some relatively deft footwork to keep up with his quarry, and was but a half-dozen yards from Laezila when she met her feather-strewn fate. The triad of opportunists, lumbering hulks all three, were converging on her like a pack of odiferous, gap-toothed wolves.. The kraken knew this formation, many sea predators employed it as well.. all he needed to do was take down one prong of their trident, and that would offer an avenue of escape with his ‘prize’, assuming said prize would actually comply, that is. By the time these thoughts were processed, Mac was standing over the fallen drow even as floating downy feathers settled on her, with a webby hand outstretched. “Come. Now. Thou art at bay.” Whether she took the hand or he took hers, he’d be pulling Laezila to her feet when the first goon closed in, quicker than his companions, some sort of knife glinting from his meaty fist. The thug had time to offer the pair a snaggle-toothed yellow grin before he was literally flying backward with the ‘oof’ still halfway out of his mouth, his bulky frame picked up by some invisible force and thrown like tennis ball against the nearest wall. He did not bounce. “This way,” Mac said, as the other two hunters halted in confusion at the fate of their companion or rival, whatever he was. That gained kraken and drow a precious few extra moments to flee.

Laezila wasn't going to just remain idly downed, especially by a mere stumble that had felled her and had her hands scrape against the stone tiles of the marketplace, upon which was littered all sorts of dirt and rocks to scrape at her palms when the lithe and diminutive drow caught herself. Her cloak was askew in display of light gray skin made such a tone in contrast to her former dark ebony by a mix of Frostmaw's climate and heavily-applied makeup; both were stark in comparison to hair dyed a deep raven, which was startling transition from the glittering snow-white that it used to be. Yet, even with the makeup, the discoloration of the scars on her face, like a claw swipe in that they were three parallel lines across it, was not erased entirely but only diminished. Her eyes, however, remained a vivid, intense bluebell hue, and those swiveled with the turn of her head over her slender shoulder up toward Mcracken, and more specifically, the webbed hand held out to her. There certainly was fear present, but also a survivalist's cunning that could only be bred in the slums of Trist'Oth and the drow's ruthless community -beyond Mcracken, and due to the sea-dweller (which hadn't been connected yet by the ex-matron, despite the webbing), Laezila witnessed the first of the people more hostile to her than Mcracken, and on cue she twisted her small body to take hold of the offered hand. People were panicking now, those in direct vicinity -further from the two the crowd was beginning to converged with the assumption a fight was breaking out. "Go!" The girl urged Mcracken as she used his limb to pull her barely-there weight up to her feet.

Whatever protests the drow may make at the indignity of it, Mac grappled the grey-painted woman and slung her legs-first like a vicious and probably highly unwilling dance partner around his shoulder, so she’s suddenly appended to his back. “Hold tight,” he instructed, as the crowd began to bottle-neck their locale, presenting less opportunity for a clean getaway as every moment passed. The kraken dragged dry air into the voluminous sacs that serve him for lungs and from his mouth erupted a weird and insensible string of phrases which followed some sort of musical progression in tone, thought it was nothing familiar to anyone who was not well-versed in arcane sonics and, with it, alive for the past several thousand years. A vast shadow swooped overhead, blocking the sun with every pass and breathing gouts of fire, smoke billowed, a host of avians circled the dark shape, blowing horns and shouting war-cries,. Chaos ensued in general, for the kraken’s song summoned this vision of Cenril’s past from the days when it was known by another name and great forces fought to the death daily amid stormier skies. Terror, panic, confusion, it all served Mcracken well, for he was not about to allow this precious source of information to be stolen away from him by anyone, or any means. If Laezila had indeed swallowed her pride and held on, she’d finding herself riding the kraken through the abjectly horrified crowd who hopefully –and collectively – had forgotten all about the apparent brawl in the street and were either cowering from the terrors above or preparing for a larger battle.. that it was illusion would take time sink in. Meanwhile, the getaway would be in rapid progress.

Laezila 's protests came in a furious, fervent flurry of curses in the drow tongue as Mcracken slung her over his shoulder with the antic that she most certainly least expected from him -how foolish, she had thought him to aid her and blindly had put her trust in him, and it appeared that he was merely looking to collect the bounty himself. Rather than immediately holding tight, the woman's small hand came up to her hip, whereupon from she pulled forth a simple stiletto dagger by a grasp around its squat, leather-wrought hilt. The drow thought herself to poise it up and drive the sharp steel through the base of the kraken's spine, to send him to the ground and free her from his grip without necessarily killing him -too much blood. She had spilled far too much of it. But the antic's intent and actual follow-through was interrupted, and the blade never even completed its ascension into striking pose; there was suddenly chaos all around them. Laezila was not privy to the knowledge of its illusionary state, but rather, like the rest, believed Cenril was suddenly under seige and war was breaking out around them. That Mcracken was probably kidnapping her to deliver her to her worst enemy was no longer at the forefront of her mind, distracted by the overwhelming scene, and somehow -unbidden and without command from her mind, surely- the woman was holding on tight to the seaborne with a white-knuckled grip, which was the only indicator of her fear -aside from her wide eyes darting about at every masterful scene around her. Young by drow standards, she hadn't lived long enough, let alone had experienced any, of those ancient days -she was in bewilderment.

And her bewilderment too served Mcracken, not only in escaping an abrupt knife to spine but in keeping Laezila relatively quiescent as she was squiddy-backed through alley and lane in a rapid zig-zag toward the town’s northern shoreline. The illusory ancient war would by necessity fade, the further Mac and his dark passenger got from the market, more ghostly and faint as the kraken’s strange song travelled with him into that northern distance. He’d not give Laezila a lot of opportunity to clamber down off his tall frame, for he wrapped webby hands tightly about her ankles as he ran, bare fleet slapping on stone until there was no more paving, but only soft sand littered with washed-up shells and other sea-detritus. Only when there were no more land-walkers in sight would the seaborn ancient halt and deposit Laezila to the ground, but before her feet could touch the beach he pre-empted her probable flight from him with a single word, a powerful and weirdly compelling directive, “Wait.”

Laezila , upon fading sounds and scenes, began to come to that inevitable realization that the visions that were beget upon the marketplace not only were illusionary, but also set upon by the man that had her ankles in his grasp. So when the bare feet of the seaborne hit sand and he finally allowed her to be set down, she was not going to run; she had her dagger bore, as her grip on it was tight throughout, in the hand that wasn't clutching deathly to Mcracken. The little lady took a step in actually -toward- the offending snatcher, but the powerful and weirdly compelling directive made her action halt mid-motion; the blade and its point trembled lightly just inches away from being stuck and shoved into the gut of the man. Her intense, blue eyes were wide, and fixated on the man. She didn't move. She didn't even dare breath.

Mcracken met that rabbit-in-lamplights stare with his own unevenly colored gaze, perhaps the more unnerving for the way its one sea-green eye, with its entirely milk-pearly companion showed the drow no trepidation whatsoever regarding her threat himself, but only a fathomless, implacable calm such as that displayed by the treacherous deeps on days when the gods smiled beneficently upon the little ships of men. “Thou needst not fight nor flee, Deep-Elf, for I mean thee no harm,” he said, his bass tone redolent with the truth of it. “But only to speak with thee on matters of vast import.” That odd-hued gaze lifted from her briefly to scan their environs for a less exposed position, in the case that Laezila agreed. Spotting the spent hull of a washed-up boat, the very one he’d camped under during his first days up from long, abyssal solitude, he gestured to it. “Come, sit. Thou art safe, in mine company.”

Laezila remained still, even as the blade was held so close the man and he showed no sign of trepidation, hesitation, or wariness -her wild gaze matched the uneven and unnerving one of the kraken, and the intense blues faltering, her confidence and resolve faltering, as they wilted beneath him. As he moved away from her, she did not stop him; instead, those eyes tracked his movement from before that drow form and toward the ship. Even the thin stiletto blade she held slowly lowered, but before he finished his destination and as a prompt reply to his statement in concern of safety, she spoke, "Safe? I'm not safe anywhere," she finally said. It broke her silence and she stepped to the side, as if uncertain whether to approach or flee. "Gevurah promised the world enough gold to change lives for bringing me in. The witch, these fools don't realize she won't pay them. She'll kill whoever hands me over right after I'm in shackles."

Mcracken made a short and rather dismissive chuffing sound, “The sea is filled with gold..” His lips bore a faint trace of mirth as he lowered himself beneath the weather-worn timbers, the broken hull a timber shell shielding him from three directions on this little-trod stretch of shore. There was plenty of room for the drow, if she chose to oblige and join him there. In any case, he’d continue on smoothly, the name ‘Gevurah’ being at this point unknown to him in any important capacity. “And there be many hidden places in this world, for the sea is wide and enjoys its secrets.” This enigmatic portion of his speech ended, he came to the point. “What I seek from thee is knowledge of a Deep-Elf, who may go by ‘D’Artes’ and doth wield the power of a great and evil god. Grant me this, and thou shalt have gold to pay the hunters higher, and a place of refuge none may enter that I do not wish.” As if to sweeten this deal, he rummaged in the sand, retrieving an item that he’d proffer out to Laezila. The striped candy had a thick coating of sand, perhaps a few bits of shell adhering to its sticky surface. “Humbug?”

Laezila blinked thrice. The first time she blinked was as a response to the short and dismissive chuffing sound coupled with a cryptic colloquialism -little did she know that he was not even speaking one at all, but rather was quite literal and serious in the words he offered. The second time she blinked was of the knowledge request -D'Artes. Gevurah? She literally had just said her name. Plus, he was offering her all of the gold she needed, an impenetrable refuge. She had two, now; with the Uyeer, and in Frostmaw. Another would not at all hurt. The third time she blinked, was at the offer of a striped candy, adorned with sand. That blink grew into a wrinkle of her nose by the small scrunch of its bridge, "No, thank you. Gevurah. Gevurah D'Artes." Her eye narrowed lightly, how could she believe him? He looked like a mad vagrant. "The one that offers all gold for bringing me to her. Whose 'great and evil god' very much would rip me apart if she gets me." She still remained without moving either closer or further away. She still wasn't quite sure.

Mcracken’s three hearts all beat a little more quickly for the gaining of this knowledge he had so desperately sought, the solution to his quest presented by this drow fugitive in the space of one short breath. He wouldn’t show any of this excitement outwardly, however, seemingly intent for a moment on picking the beach-lint off that sweetie Laezila rejected as he replied, “Then thine enemy, as it happens, is also mine.” Scraping at a stubborn sand-grain embedded in the humbug, he lowered his voice to the point where Laezila would just have to get closer if she wanted to hear what he said next: “This witch, as thou name her, hath taken a castle dear to me, and mine, and summoned upon it the touch of death with such power that it must only originate in the will of a god. I want the witch gone from these shores, and her wretched deity with her.” Popping the mostly-clean candy in his mouth, he lisped around it, “Aid me, and perhaps we shall both prevail.”