RP:Walk With Her

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: After escaping the Underdark separately, Krice and Nymh are unaware if each other has survived. They chance upon one another at the eastern edge of Sage's ruins, where Krice is gazing upon the devastation wrought in his absence encounters Nymh. As they talk, a familiar matron emerges from the shadows, sans her characteristic mask. Matron Laezila becomes emotionally vulnerable, and this side of her entices Nymh to see her as more than just a cruel drow matron. At Krice's urging, Nymh follows Laezila.

Road to Milous

Krice stood to the east of the wasteland that once was Sage Forest, staring at the devastation. Having been trapped in darkness for three weeks immediately following his battle with Laezila's lycan hybrids, the warrior had not witnessed the fire that had consumed the home of the elves. This was the first time he had seen the aftermath. His expression was unreadable, relatively neutral, and a couple of wayward leaves had settled in his long hair; indicating that he'd been there for a while. With a sword not his own clutched in his left hand, the man gazed on, scrutinizing the battlefield's expanse with wandering eyes.

Nymh had come to the surface to find that battle had devoured the beautiful forests of Sage. They'd been untouched for most of the Drow's occupation... he found himself wandering through them, towards Kelay, with a sickened feeling in his stomach. He had gone back to the underdark through a different entrance, and had been spared this sight until now. He was on his way to Kelay, to seek out Krice, but found it prudent to move along after a few stones had been thrown at him. In the dark of the night, the bard wandered ocarina in his hands, his heart heavy. He was glad he'd found a home, but the drow were still... the drow. Still. He was in the only drow house that did not own slaves. And, as fate would have it, the one who's matron possessed Krice's sword. By chance he found him, staring at the devastation. He approached him slowly, carefully, his eye mirroring the sorrow in his heart. He'd only seen the forests once... but they'd been beautiful. "Hello, Krice."

Krice tilted his head just a fraction, left ear turned toward the sound of another's approach. Seconds later, a familiar voice greeted him and he turned to attach a visual to the sound. At length, the man dismissed his neutral expression long enough to arch an eyebrow, expressing subtle surprise at the little drow's appearance. " You made it out, after all," he observed.

Nymh nodded. "I did. After you saved my life, my accursed dagger led me astray. Tylania found me, in the depths of the underdark, Gods knows how. She got me out." He looked back to the forest. "I went to Frostmaw, to seek refuge. Before I could seek allies among the wood elves, something strange happened." He looked up at Krice. "Laezila came to me. In Frostmaw. Holding your sword. She welcomed me into her household. The only drow house that doesn't keep slaves." He shook his head. "Perhaps, a brighter future for drow. Perhaps." It was hope. It was a home. "I'd see your sword returned to you, but I am not willing to cross the one who gave me a home." He looked back to the forest. "This war..." Nymh shook his head. "All war is foolish."

Krice was attentive through Nymh's recollection of how he escaped the Underdark, though the moment his sword was mentioned, the warrior diverted his gaze. He stared pensively at a tuft of untouched grass, green and alive. Laezila... He didn't seem too surprised by this revelation but it certainly caused him some unease; his left brow twitched into a pseudo-frown that dissipated when he mused, " War is almost always pointless." And then, " She'll come to see me. Hopefully she'll find it in her big, compassionate heart to return the sword, herself."

Nymh smiled. "She is more compassionate than most drow." He would give her that much credit. "Matron of the second house, and she came to find me, alone, to welcome me. With no strings attached... I'd thought it a trap. But she didn't hand me over to Gevurah. And she doesn't keep slaves." He shook his head. "I think she will find you, too. She... thinks highly of you. I do, as well, but... perhaps not so much as she." There was a slight of a coy smile on his features. There was some humor in the situation, though he realized it might be well short of humorous to Krice. "Anyway... I'm glad you're alright. You saved my life. I owe you a debt."

Krice found little amusement in Nymh's jest, if that's what it was, because his mind had already engaged in several other thoughts; most of them dark and depressing, thus not allowing much room for the light of humour. Upon hearing of Nymh's apparent debt to him, the silver-haired man turned to face the drow more completely and shook his head. " You owe me nothing," he said, and he meant it. Nymh nodded, expecting those words of the warrior. "Be that as it may, I am grateful, and hope to have the privilege of calling you friend. It's not a word many drow ever employ freely... if at all. I suppose it's the... wood elf in me, that makes me who I am. If so, perhaps it was a mistake to return to the underdark. But I lived, and grew among the drow. They are my people, for better or ill." Even if he was a slave to them, his whole life... and was fortunate to have been allowed to live at all. "I hope more change will come to them, for the better. I hope to help make that change come. Perhaps the Bae'qeshel will turn more drow to accepting that there is more than evil in their hearts."

Krice's expression was mostly unchanged through the duration of Nymh's reply, showing neither tendency toward nor against becoming the drow's friend. Eventually. By Nymh's conclusion, the silver-haired man appeared curious, and voiced a query attached to the change in his expression. " The 'Bae'qeshel'?" Nymh nodded. "Darksong. It is an elven art... long lost to the drow. Their inherent evil made it impossible for them to use musical magic, I believe. I am the only one of drow blood in Trist'oth capable of musical magic. of Bae'qeshel. Music coming back to the dark elves... might make a difference. The second house of Trist'oth keeps no slaves, accepts those cast out by society, and accepts song into its halls, in which the drow of the house find peace. It is like nothing I've ever seen among Drow, and they are the second most powerful house in the underdark. If change will come to the drow, it will be through them. Tiphareth and Keter D'artes overthrew the matriarchy, and the worship of the spider goddess among the drow, something once thought impossible. Perhaps we shall see the next step in a longer revolution, though I doubt we'll see it by the end of this war." He looked back to the forest, sorrow in his gaze again. Krice listened attentively to Nymh. Gone was the neutrality in his expression, replaced instead with apparently genuine interest in the information he received. The Bae'qeshel... It sounded like a thing that could fill drow not with dread, but with hope. Maybe then they wouldn't be so damn grumpy and violent. Quietly, though in a tone that reflected his intrigue, the warrior said, " That's interesting..."

Nymh nodded. "I would invite you to come and visit, but I 'm sure you've had plenty enough of Laezila's hospitality. Still. I wish I could help see your sword returned to you. It is odd to me. She holds onto it as though in desperation. What manner of obsession does she harbor for you?" He shook his head. "I'd never think a drow capable of understanding concept as foreign as love, after all. Not even those of this house." Krice arched an eyebrow at Nymh's change in topic. From the intrigue of Bae'qeshel to the mystery of Laezila. The warrior lifted his chin and looked out across the wasteland to their mutual west, almost as if he expected the Matron to emerge from behind a charred tree stump. " She claimed to love me," he answered, surprisingly frank with the little drow (how tall is Nymh?). " Perhaps if she brings me my sword, that'll prove it." Nymh thought on that. "Did she truly?" He seemed in awe. Could a drow love? Let alone one who wasn't even drow? If any drow could, it would likely be her. "Perhaps... I could relay that message to her. I think she would... appreciate the opportunity to see you again." If he could bring happiness to his matron, and perhaps even grant his savior back his sword in the process, it was worth the risks.

Krice shook his head, dismissing Nymh's offer to help. " No," he said, explaining further. " Don't get involved. If she wants to see me, then she'll come. Just enjoy your new home for what it is." There was no sense in disturbing the waters now that they had calmed for Nymh. Tilting his head, Krice directed his gaze over the drow's cranium and into the shadows of the east, more specifically northeastward. He seemed contemplative, almost gentle in thought. Was his mind on the matron of the Second House?

Laezila pushed herself out of being veiled and onto the road, as well as into sight, but there were several things different about her than one might expect; for one, she lacked any and all guards. Completely, she was utterly and fearlessly alone. Another thing that, especially from Nymh, might not be expected was that she lacked her ivory mask that was half-way charred and blackened; she was maskless. The young and enigmatic drow matron's face was much like her body in its smooth and slender curves, but where her entire frame was very small and diminutive, her face was flawed. From the top left of her forehead to the bottom right of her jawline were three distinct and pale lines in the discolored scar as if wrought by a claw. In her hands held tight against her body (which was clad in that tight, open-back and open-shoulder dress) Krice's katana.

Nymh heard her, and turned in shock. He knew her footsteps, her gait. He said her name before he even laid eyes on her. "Matron!" And behold, for she was without her mask! He blinked, looking upon those scars, mouth agape. In her hands, Krice's katana. Had she followed him, here? Could she do that, without him having noticed? He was too dumbfounded to do more than stare, and worry... he hoped Krice would not move to violence against her, but anything happened... he had to protect his matron. With his life, if need be. That pendant around his throat wasn't just an all access pass, it wasn't just his show. It had given him his freedom, and earned his loyalty.

Krice's fingers flexed around the scabbard of his borrowed sword; having only just left Gualon, he was as yet without a strap to secure the weapon to his body. As Laezila emerged from the shadows, his gaze drifted the short distance from its original point of focus to land on the familiar woman's face. He had seen those scars before, so they bore no significance to him now. Almost immediately his attention drifted to the woman's arms where, clutched tightly within them, she held his sword. His -sword-. The warrior took a deep, calming breath upon sighting the weapon. Though he was filled with conflicting emotions upon seeing the matron, the most dominant was one of deference; not really for himself, but for Nymh to abide by. Reaching out, the warrior curled his right hand atop Nymh's head to gently push it down. " Don't stare. Bow, instead." It was not spoken with malice or any real firmness, but rather in gentle suggestion that Nymh not make a thing of the woman's maskless appearance.

Laezila did not expect Krice's quick acclimation to drow custom, but then again, she was not here for Nymh or really any House-related business; she was here solely for the silver-haired warrior that she loved unrequited. Her diminutive body shook slightly as she almost absently glanced toward that familiar bard with striking and azure eyes before they glued back to Krice; it was as if her mask was a more confident Laezila altogether, and without it, she appeared just a young, scared girl. She hadn't personally followed Nymh, nor did her spies, but as it was made rather clear that his path would intersect with the matron's mysterious crush she was alerted immediately. She took another step toward the two, trembling hands holding the sword in an almost desperate fashion, as Nymh had suggested, "I... Why?" Did she have to give it back? He could certainly fight with a different one. Eyes glanced to Nymh, still so enraptured in her meeting with the larger, more authoritative Krice that she didn't seem to notice that her own House member was witnessing her in such a vulnerable state.

Nymh knew he'd seen a sensitivity in Laezila already... he'd witnessed the way she grasped the sword, he'd seen her eyes, even behind the mask. He'd refused to believe it, though. It clashed too strongly with his view of matrons of great power, with drow as a whole. As Krice pushed his head, he bent low into that bow, offering his respect. She was frightened, vulnerable. It only made the half drow with a poet's heart love her more. "Matron Laezila. Krice saved me, when D'artes warriors would have done away with me behind your house. I owe him my life. If not for him, I never would have been there to receive you in Frostmaw. It was through his strength that I escaped slavery, and after, you became my salvation." He stood looking to her. "With your permission, matron, I would make a selfish request. I would play a song for the two of you. I feel the need to express my gratitude, through music." There was something steely and determined in his eyes, now. Few would say of Nymh that they'd seen a strong sense of resolve in the gray elf, but here, he showed another side of himself.

Krice removed his hand from Nymh's head when he bowed, letting it fall to his side. He took note of the way Laezila was holding his sword. It was a weighted weapon; surely her arms would have started to ache by now? Perhaps her devotion to him really did run so deep. The warrior did indeed seem to be stronger in stature than the smaller Nymh, both in the obvious ways - height, in particular - and none-too-obvious. However, seeing Laezila brought back memories of his time in the Underdark, trapped in almost complete blackness with nothing familiar, supported by no true allies, beaten and secluded. It wasn't one of his more favoured holidays. And yet here he was, seemingly without any post-trauma symptoms. So calm, so in control. Nymh broke his thoughts by taking the whole 'bowing' thing to an entirely different level - by grovelling. The warrior looked sideways and down at his little rescuee, but flicked his gaze back to Laezila before long. 'Why'? What was she asking? He squinted an eye in reflection of his contemplation before Nymh offered to play a song. Adopting a slightly unsteady smirk, Krice muttered, " Those D'Artes guys, I tell ya..." As for the song... Well, Krice left it up to the matron to decide whether or not they'd be warmed by a Nymh's talent.

Laezila 's striking blue eyes sought and succumbed to piercing Krice with an unwavering, reverent, and quite in-love stare that almost absently didn't register the words of the resolve of Nymh. Luckily, they had, and after a moment succeeding his request, she flicked her gaze toward Nymh with an expression that was entirely forlorn; it was of a love unrequited. Krice, after all, did not love Laezila the way that the mysterious and powerful young drow loved him; he was the unattainable hero, the perfect man that she would never have, as proven already in her custody. "No... please don't," she said softly, as if the sound, the song, would hurt her. The young woman, likely younger than the drow male in the company of the present, clutched to her chest harder that familiar weapon, "It's..." she whispered, "all I have of you."

Nymh would bow his head, at Laezila's decision, and speak no further of it. Perhaps he could soothe her pains later. This was between her, and Krice, now. He would stand aside, and fold his hands before him, to respectfully bear witness, and give due diligence to the matron's safety. He knew Krice to be a monstrously powerful warrior, after all. If the man decided he wanted his sword, and was less gentle than Nymh thought of him, then he'd be ready should things take a turn for the worse. If matron Laezila assaulted Krice... he wasn't sure what he'd do. He thought, though, that this probably... hopefully... wouldn't come to violence of any sort.

Krice clutched at the other sword in his grasp and lifted it, gazing down upon the scabbard where his thumb and pinky met. Poor Nymh was denied his chance to feel his way through a song, but at least the denial was a gentle one. Returning his gaze to the diminutive and unmasked woman, the warrior extended his current weapon and nodded to the one she held. " Have this one," he suggested, brows arching in expectation of her reception to the idea. " It's also mine, and I'm -giving- it to you... Which surely means more than you simply finding one?"

Laezila took another and hesitant step toward the steel-haired enigma of a swordsman, only briefly to cast her glance toward Nymh with acknowledgement and perhaps subconscious reminder that the bard was, indeed, there. But her glance was also somewhat vacant in her azure eyes; she did not, fortunately, think about him present or the idea that, technically, the bard could blackmail her to death. As certainly that'd be the reason for an attempt -her love and desperation for a surfacer, let alone one without an inkling of drow blood. Her arms ached to thy kingdom come, but she would never ever risk even loosening her hold on that weapon, "It's not the same one. It's not one that killed the man that..." Her striking blue eyes watered subtly, "Did things to me. It's not the one you carry everywhere. I..." She inhaled, a quaking, girlish inhale that was not at all reminiscent of the deadly, powerful, and mask-wearing mystery that the currently-maskless, scar-faced, almost scared looking drow girl was. "I know it's yours, but..." How could she explain? Another step; she was now in arm's reach of the male. "I -should- give it back, but... It's..." There weren't words to how safe it made her feel.

Nymh learned things in Laezila's words, that he would take to his grave rather than see used against her. What he saw here was not weakness, but hope for the future of the drow. The ability to take fear, and vulnerability, and learn from it not how to manipulate, not hatred and maliciousness, but trust in, or hope for another. She sought, desperately, a companionship that may be foolish, but it was a tale untold among drow, and one he hoped indicated a fundamental shift in the way the drow thought, and evolved. Her passion was love, desperate and full of need and desire, and he ached for her.

Krice did understand. Laezila found safety by holding the weapon that he had used to save her, more than once, more than -twice-, but it was -his-, and he -needed- it. As she took that step closer, he lowered his left hand to remove the other katana from the space between them, allowing her a hint of the closeness she sought. Nodding to the weapon held so tightly by the quivering young woman, Krice urged her to see -his- point of view. " But I'm -not- carrying it everywhere, since -you- have it." He turned the other katana to indicate it once more. " I -have- been carrying -this- one, however. And I'm -giving- it to you, Laezila. I want you to have it." Again he extended the weapon toward the matron, his knuckles level with the height of her clavicle, the hilt extending to the top of her head. " It's lighter, too, so you can use it to protect yourself whenever you need to."

Laezila craved that closeness and when it was offered she eagerly took the opportunity to come well-within arm's reach of the man though she did not touch him; he did not like being touched. Her bottom lip was sucked into her pink mouth, and desperately she looked from weapon to owner, to weapon, to owner, to offered weapon again. It was -his-, of course, and it was stupid to think she'd be able to hold on to this weapon, but it was the one he had used to defend her more than twice, to help her when she was about to be killed, to protect her when she was defiled. It was painfully apparent that she knew she'd have to return Krice's sword, as well as horribly familiar that she was so reluctant to release it. "This one?" She asked, hesitantly, indicative of this new weapon -this weapon that Krice did not carry everywhere. That he did not save her with. "I have to give this back," she murmured, though it was far more toward herself, and literally shaking hands began to outstretch that weapon for Krice, while her blue eyes looked up toward him, "I know you don't love me. But I do love you. I promise." Came her hoarse voice; Nymh was, for the moment, a fly on the wall -luckily. So vulnerable was her moment that she couldn't even fathom him being present to witness her subdued, maskless persona -it was something men far more intimidating than the bard were killed for the notion thereof. Yet, Nymh was so... opposite of hostile, so opposite of cruel, that the thought of him betraying the matron never even occured to her.

Krice did not rush Laezila through her understanding of his words, nor through her indecision. When at last she extended that weapon and stated that she needed to give it back, the warrior nodded, a gentle gesture to accompany his reply. " Please," he said, not begging, but certainly upholding civility. As his sword came closer to him, he extended the other one closer to Laezila, and something in his eyes shifted as he offered her an earnest, " I know. I believe you." Indeed, she -did- love him, regardless of the strange and violent things that had happened since her first admission of as much. His right hand sought to take hold of his katana but did not pull it free of Laezila's grasp, whilst the other, lesser-used sword was close enough for her to transfer her touch in such a way that she would never be without holding one of his weapons. He was too focused to glance in Nymh's direction, perhaps too enamored with the matron to risk glancing elsewhere.

Laezila could not help the salty streams that ran valleys down the young contours of her scarred face, momentarily halting and regrouping along the ridges of the permanent facial marks before continuing one their way both silently and unaddressed; the matron stood with her most courageous, and strongest facade, which was just an obvious and desperately-attempted lie in the face of her heart's horrible, terrible ache. Even as the trade of katanas followed through, she could not tear her eyes away from their longing stare at the steel-haired man, not even to put them toward Nymh. "Don't hate me..." she begged quietly, "I just am trying to survive." As Krice knew, it was a more difficult thing in the Underdark, especially as a person of power perceived as vulnerable, or that might actually be vulnerable. She stared him for several long moments, before with his offered sword in hand, she turned to begin to leave, uncertain her crush would want to hear any more.

Krice did not dare divert his gaze from Laezila's, gilded crimson locked on bright blue, until their katanas were swapped and he was once more greeted with the familiar weight of his own weapon. Cue a calm, relieved sigh. He blinked down just once to look at it, but then back up when the matron spoke, following her movements as she turned away. Her words did indeed remind him of the horrors of the Underdark, and it was with a wistful shadow in his eyes that he watched her leave. Before she got too far, Krice said to the drow bard, " Walk with her."

Nymh only inclined his head in reply to Krice, as he walked a respectful distance behind the matron, quiet as a shadow. He hoped his music would help ease her burdens this eve, and was glad that Krice had been able to get his sword back. The man did good things, with that blade. He'd just witnessed some proof of it again today. But his focus was on the matron, and his own possibly sour position in all this, should she worry for his trustworthiness. Understandable, with him being new to the house. Gevurah, if she cared of his escape at all, would surely welcome a taste of his blood. He hoped his matron would find comfort in his music, and from what he'd seen, he thought his odds better than they'd be with any other matron. She was young, she was in love, and perhaps heartbroken. Hurt, of course. The ocarina in Nymh's sash was all he had to offer, but it did well at mending such wounds.