RP:When Your Secret Admirer is a Drow Matron

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopisis: After arresting Krice, D'Artes jailers find around his neck a medallion with the emblem of House D'l'Sel D'issan. Assuming Krice stole it from the Second House, Gevurah invites Matron Laezila to House D'Artes to discuss the prisoner, and to hand Krice over as a gift for Laezila to exact her punishment. The First Daughter gravely miscalculated the relationship between Krice and Matron Laezila, and the teenage matron is furious with Gevurah, threatening civil war. Eager to retain House D'l'Sel D'issan as an ally, Gevurah is quick to release Krice into Laezila's custody. Grateful, the Matron promises to deliver an important elf to Gevurah in chains. During the release process, Krice chops off a jailer's arm. Two slaves are ordered to clean the blood. One of them is Nymh. Laezila sees Nymh and informs Gevurah that she would like to purchase the half breed. Gevurah doesn't commit to the sale, but agrees to discuss the matter later.

House D'Artes Foyer

Gevurah leaves her room to meet Laezila at the foyer as soon as she hears word that the Matron is on her way and near. Instead of her usual formal wear, she dons a narrow double-slit black skirt and loose, black top. The High Priestess and Second Matron have developed a good rapport over the past year, and thus their interactions have grown increasingly casual and, by drow standards, collaborative. “Has the prisoner woken?” She asks her closest guard, the captain of her entourage. He is the only member of her personal escort present. Two house soldiers stand sentry near the door as is the usual estate protocol. The captain nods. “He is unwell. You saw to that, mistress.” They both grin darkly, satisfied with Krice’s near broken condition.

Laezila was not happy with her confessed 'friend' and her actions against the object of her obsession; she would certainly be unhappy with the state that Krice was left in, and the letter offered proved no need for any subtle threat or implication. The Second House, that feared and ruthless house whose support of the First House was both unique and rare within Trist'Oth history, was a large reason that D'Artes could remain in power; the history of the Drow often had the Second House in cunning ambition to reign and overthrow the First, and more prevalently opposed them on all stances. But D'l'Sel D'issan did not; they were far more interested in being feared than ruling, and had no qualms with the D'Artes reign. This put D'Artes in a rather unique and powerful position, but Krice's capture threatened that very foundation. A civil war between the two houses would not result in D'Artes destruction, but the Drow as a society would be crippled so definitely that Skylei alone could conquer them. It was with quick and sharp movements that she arrived, and not alone; a quartet of massive, nearly monstrous lycanthropism-afflicted Drow flanked her, standing head and shoulders taller, arms wider, and far more armored than the D'Artes casual guard. Mask was present, half-burned like some ying-yang along its smooth surface as a result of her victory on the surface. The medallion was thrown at the feet of the captain and the First Daughter, "Is this your appreciation of my support in -your- war?" One of the massive, sheerly muscled and dark-steel armored lycans stepped toward the captain, to force him into a retreat. "To attempt to manipulate me?"

Gevurah goes wide-eyed as Laezila and her small army storm into House D’Artes. Her guard refuses to stand down. He squares his shoulders and stares back at the lycan, one hand resting on the hilt of his poisoned blade. The mismatch in size and strength is comical, but his loyalty to Gevurah conquers fear. A dozen more D’Artes warriors, including two mages, flood into the foyer and stand ready to brawl should this escalate any further. Tiphareth’s magical enchantments suddenly hum at the ready, waiting for a trigger to set them off. As for the High Priestess herself, she is too shocked to react with aggression. She did not see this coming at all. Manipulate the matron? The High Priestess is at a loss. When her jailers found the medallion, the First Daughter assumed that Krice stole it from House D’l’Sel D’issan. Blinded by her own racism, the priestess would never imagine that the Matron is smitten with some human, and Krice never revealed his secret admirer. In fact, even now in the face of Laezila’s rage, Gevurah cannot guess at Laezila’s motive. “...What?” She raises her hands, palms open, to calm all tensions around her. “I am clueless and cannot explain your anger,” she speaks in drow. “I sent you the medallion in an act of good will, to return to you a stolen item. The prisoner is alive so that you may be the one to punish him, because it is your house that was aggrieved by his actions.”

Laezila 's guards might be ruthless and augmented with preternatural strengths gifted to them by the very things that caused their social pariah'd statuses in Trist'Oth, but even the ruthless, bloodlusted fiends of the Second House were not a match for the peerless defenses of House D'Artes. Though certainly they'd take many a foe with them. As it were, however, they had still both the loyalty and the discipline to not strike, particularly in for the case of that massive lycan that was literally snarling and growling down into the face of the captain, who was dwarfed by the beast of a drow. Not to say the other three weren't massive; they were all looking at the D'Artes living bodies like they were haunches of meat to be torn apart. "We are best friends, yes?" The matron asked the First Daughter, her voice suddenly, terrifyingly calm and tempered, collected and cool beneath her mask -a thing that obstructed and veiled any evidence of expression. However, she pushed forward in a slow gait that had the young, teenage'd woman's diminutive little figure on slow, almost seductive strides toward the other. "It is hard to believe that you have not figured it out yet..." As she reached Gevurah, both hands gently, gently grasped the D'Artes' elbows, so that she could lean in and whisper a soft series of words that even Tiphareth might have difficulty hearing, let alone any of the drow that surrounded them. "You must've smelled him, no? Do thieves take baths in mansions?"

Gevurah cants her head to the side as if to say ‘sure’ in response to Laezila query as to whether or not they are biffles. Yes, they are, but that doesn’t mean the priestess likes to utter the word. Friend? Sentimental sap. The words ‘best friends’ mortify her. She tenses when Laezila touches her — she always tenses when the matron touches her and the matron always insists on touch, but this time her tension is warranted. A moment ago the petite drowess was ready to rain hell on House D’Artes for reasons that continue to— oh, the baths. Oh. OH! Gevurah’s eyes go wide. She blushes deep purple. Her mind conjures a mental image so vile that she tastes bile at the back of her throat. Gevurah has invented a dozen theories as to how Krice found himself in a bath — a spy in the mansion, a servant with deviant sexual preferences, or simply got lucky and wasn’t caught in a massive home — but none of her theories found the Second Matron in the bath with him. It’s possible that Laezila did not bathe with him, but the mental image persists. The horror! She repeats, this time horrified, “...What?”

Laezila was, in reality, smaller than Gevurah; she was younger, but only insofar as her appearance was deceptively girlish rather than womanly. It was a well-speculated and undocumented enigma how she had succeeded the previous matron, of whom she had no blood ties to, and how she garnered such fearless and gravebound support of her monstrous outcasts. In fact, it was likely that House D'l'Sel D'issan did not quarter half-breeds and afflicted before Laezila's claim of leadership; such a young, diminutive-stature'd woman took a House, filled it with the social outcasts, and brought it to become the Second House. It was truly an odd, amazing feat, and could put into perspective her disgusting, if by drow standards, preference in men. "Well," she said, "The idiot refused, but you get my meaning. So I ask you again, dearest, most trusted Gevurah D'Artes," her tempered words cool and collective, "Is this an attempt at manipulation? Because if it isn't, your spies have -failed- you. Perhaps even wish to make a fool of you. And if it is... Well, you get the idea." Her hands slid down Gevurah's forearms to take hold of her hands, gently; the closeness of the masked matron was altogether beautifully dangerous.

Gevurah narrows her eyes at Laezila’s bold insult. Her tongue itches to return an insult in kind, but Laezila is one of the few genuine allies she has in this war. ‘D’Artes Beasts’ was how the matron herself described the relationship between the First and Second houses. Envisioning Laezila as a beast, angered over a threat to its chew toy, helps Gevurah reign in her fiery temper. In a sugary sweet tone she lilts, “Yes, my spies failed to notice what happens in the privacy of your bath. Your spies failed to notice when I captured him on a public road.” Well, she tried. It’s impossible to reign in her temper completely. “We should purge our Houses of such useless spies by rounding them up in the arena and feeding them to the deep beasts. Wouldn’t that be fun?” She smiles falsely as she slips one hand away from Laezila’s clutch and waves forward a terrified jailer. “Bring the prisoner and his sword.” Laezila may be willing to start civil wars over humans, but Gevurah is not. She’ll find another, blameless way to kill him. Drow are quite good at that.

Laezila was certainly more than willing to start the civil war over one specific 'human', as obsessed as she was over him; she was certainly akin to a beast angered over a threat to its chew toy. Such an analogy did not upset the matron, because it is an analogy that she supported -the House D'l'Sel D'issan were one of the few genuine allies of House D'Artes entirely, war or not, and lacked the ambition to rule the Underdark; it was a secure, luxurious position for the House to be in. That Gevurah saw that the life of a single human was not worth losing such a comfortable position was just another credit to the wisdom and stratagem of the First Daughter. The matron did not follow who she professed to be her best friend, but rather did something rare; displayed the most subtle show of emotion even with her mask on, with the concern of Krice made evident by the very, very slight rock of her weight from foot to foot. Anxious. "Ah, that would've been fun," she said to the retreating woman, "But in my anger at their failure I fed them all to one of my beholders. So... if you could, have you any slaves befitting of my house? For a price, of course," she assured Gevurah; she knew the woman was much more comfortable with bargains and favor-trading than threat and intimidation, it was the best way to make Gevurah feel as if she were in control. "And, of course, House D'l'Sel D'issan will show its gratitude to House D'Artes' kindness concerning its exotic guest. I will arrange a 'special' gift for that, my favorite Gevurah, one of your true enemies, an elf, in chains." Just to figure out one important, and capture them…

Gevurah is quite pleased with how quickly flared tempers have cooled. Grey in exchange for an elf. Trade negotiations over slaves. Excellent. Drow politics at its finest. “Of course. I can recommend two slaves. As for the price…” She notices Laezila’s girlish anxiety and her brows lift in mild surprise. It’s worse than she thought. “...We can discuss that later.” Given the scene happening in the foyer, two jailers hand Krice like precious cargo. One explains in common, “You’re being released. Don’t put up a fight, and we won’t rough you up.” They light faerie fire in his cell and bring him a hairbrush, washcloth, bucket of water, and mirror. “Don’t want you going out in the Underdark looking like that, eh?” They also offer him standard, brown bread and a glass of water. If Krice refuses to wash up, eat, or drink, they’ll not press the issue. The goal is to make him look better, not worse. They’ll settle for ‘not worse’ if he’s uncooperative. “You’ll get your sword back at the exit,” they explain, hoping to settle his nerves so he looks nice and calm and respectable for Laezila. They keep the cuffs on him until they are just outside the entrance to the foyer. There they uncuff him, so that when he enters the foyer Laezila sees him unrestrained. A third jailer fetches Krice’s katana, its tip dulled thanks to Gevurah’s carelessness after their battle, and holds it horizontally for Krice to take at his leisure. Gevurah smiles at Laezila and fans a hand towards Krice as he enters. “There he is. I hope we can put this misunderstanding behind us.”

Krice was seated upright against the wall of the cell when those guards entered. He blinked his eyes open, struggling to focus as lethargic as he was, but they got his attention with their announcement that he was to be released. Well now why did -that- happen? The offer to clean up and eat was something he considered, but in the end, all he did was drink all the water in that glass, dismissing the rest with a cool, " I'm fine." The addition of faerie light was a pleasant surprise; having been in the dark for days on end, any kind of reprieve soothed his mind. The guards would find that Krice couldn't stand on his own two feet, however, and as such, would be forced to support him on their way out of the cell. With his upper arms encircled by their capable hands, the warrior's own appendages dangled low and he grimaced at the pull of his skin over his broken ribs. Passing the cleaning drow slave, Krice twitched his hand downward to wave goodbye to the poor youth before they passed the threshold into the foyer beyond. was a mess; he still wore the black silk clothing received at House D'l'Sel D'issan, which made it impossible to see if any injuries were opened up - or new - beneath them, but what -was- visible was his face; old, dried blood covered his eyes, which were droopy at best, and the corner of his mouth harboured evidence that he had at least once voided his lungs of the sanguine fluid. He definitely looked worse than the last time he was in Laezila's company. The guards were mostly dragging him along, but the warrior had intermittent bursts of strength that allowed him to put one foot flat beneath his weight to walk himself; for the most part, he relied heavily on the guardsmen to hold him up. Upon reaching the foyer, whether they released him or not, he forced his legs to solidify beneath him so that he could lift his chin to the presence of his first matron captor, dull crimson eyes locked on her face despite all the other interesting things he could have looked at - like that hulking lycan. When the third jailer entered his field of vision and presented his sword, Krice stared at the other male's face first, and then lowered his gaze to the weapon. After a momentary pause, the warrior reached out with his left hand and took the sword by its hilt, avoiding sudden movements - until the weapon was clear of the jailer and he could slice its blade through black flesh and bone from the air above his right shoulder to the air above his left. Whether or not the warrior's abrupt attack decapitated the D'Artes member, the movement caused pain to flare through his right side and he grimaced, wheezing, and grumbled a quiet," Just wanted to see if I could." Immediately following the attack, the weapon was lowered to show that he posed no threat to anyone else in the vicinity.

Laezila was just as pleased with Gevurah's switch in demeanor as she played the situation into the court where the First Daughter felt more comfortable; she was, after all, the closest thing to a friend that the matron had and despite her obsession over Krice, she wasn't so willing to let that thin bond break so easily. "Of course," she murmured behind her mask in an almost absent pact to the First Daughter concerning the slaves, "I will return later to barter for them." When Krice arrived, however, the girl's eyes narrowed briefly and subtly in a very slight, very momentary display of anger over his state, melded quickly back into the unreadable and striking stare of azure eyes. Well, again briefly, because Krice was quick to attack and potentially behead that guard; her eyes widened then steeled -she wanted to strike him for his lack of tact! "And tribute for that one, too," she would say quickly, before Gevurah could really react. "Come," she demanded of Krice, as two of the massive lycan-drow came to approach him in attempt to help (escort) him toward the matron and away from more of the D'Artes.

Gevurah knew it was a risk to hand Grey a weapon within striking distance, but she was more concerned with Laezila’s mood than the jailer’s life. Sucks to be born low on the totem pole. Thankfully Krice’s injuries slow him just fractionally enough so that the jailer loses his arm but not his life. The drow screams in pain and drops to his knees, blood spewing out of his stumpy shoulder. No one bats an eye or rushes to his side. The drow don’t care. Those of equal or lower caste as the jailer quake in fear. They know they are all just as expendable, but are powerless to do anything about it. Those of higher rank, such as Gevurah’s captain, smirk to themselves with the knowledge that they would never be disposed of in this way. If Krice looks to Gevurah, he’ll notice she doesn’t seem to care. She nods to Laezila’s offer of a tribute. “A kind gesture.” She signals for two cleaning slaves to come clean the blood in the foyer, one of those slaves could be Nymh if his player wants in. The guards clear an exit for Laezila and her entourage, Krice included. It’s nice to have friends in high places. ...Probably.

Nymh came along with one other, looking for all the world like a pure born drow. There was the texture of his hair, the bend of his ears, his facial bones... but his skin was as dark as that of the next drow. And he wore black spider silks, which he maintained somehow, in spite of spending his time scrubbing the dungeons with a horsebrush. He was a bit bent of back, his knees shaky, as he came with bucket and brush and sponge to begin cleaning the blood of the jailor from the floor. He briefly glanced around the room, noting the lycans... the second house matron was here, then. She took odds, and misfits. Perhaps, she'd even take a talented half drow, and make him more than a slave. He wore that red bladed, cursed dagger at his side still, though he'd been relieved of his ocarina.

Krice did look at Gevurah, though what he thought of her indifference toward her injured jailer remained to be seen; as Laezila's men approached to assist him, he slumped into one of them and found his right arm caught by that male, whilst the left weakened enough that his katana wobbled in his grip. The second D'issan guard retrieved it in one hand and used the other arm to hoist up the warrior's unsupported side, his healthy side, before both escorted him closer to Laezila. The warrior was exhausted and hurting, but the only sign of this was the subtle tension in his jaw and a bead of sweat that descended over his right temple from his hairline. Crimson eyes passed in a daze over the various faces of the room, and the room itself, before returning to the surprisingly welcome face of Laezila. What a breath of fresh air, down here in this depressing cesspool of outcasts and maniacs.

Laezila 's 'face', for the record of the audience, is covered in a faceless mask split down the middle between the colors of white and burnt black. But she was also quite situationally aware, despite her obsession with the steel-haired warrior; Nymh was noted in arrival like a slave. He was noted and committed to her memory, because he looked like a drow, which meant a drow slave, which meant he was an outcast and a social pariah. Maybe lycan, vampire, half-drow even? "That one," she said as the massive drow-lycans would escort the enigmatic warrior beyond her and likely to the Second House's estate. Her words were toward Gevurah, "I'm interested in purchasing that one. His dossier would be appreciated, if he survives until we meet to barter." Slowly, she crossed the distance between Gevurah and herself to give a cordial embrace, and gestured to gently touch her mask to either cheek of the D'Artes daughter as if in mimicry of social kisses. "I am relieved that you are wise and cunning, still, and our Houses remain in good standing. May D'Artes continue to reign, and should Patron Tiphareth ever step down then it is my hope that he realizes your abilities, and my support that you succeed him." Should he step down wasn't a common term with the drow, but pointedly said as if to imply that the matron had zero intent on rebelling against the powerful overlord; she was not an idiot, after all. With Gevurah's response, she would turn to leave with Krice.

Nymh looks up when Lae speaks, and singles him out. That was good. He would look to her, then back to his work, knowing it wasn't his place to talk here. But he would whistle... a sweet, gentle melody, infused with magic. It was weaker without his instrument, but would tingle as it brought forth emotions oft suppressed among the drow, joy and gentler passions. His abilities would have a small chance to speak for themselves, though it might earn him another kick in the ribs.

Gevurah‘s glowing eyes follow Laezila’s stare to Nymh. “That one? He’s more trouble than he’s worth,” she mutters non-committally. In truth the slave is worth a heck of a lot more, but headaches and troubles he does bring the First Daughter. That much is true. “We can discuss it later.” Over time Gevurah has grown accustomed to Laezila’s air kisses. She bends forwards awkwardly, still unsure of what she should do with her lips. She does not resist the farewell, a first for the pair. Just like the last time Laezila suggested Gevurah should succeed Tiphareth, the High Priestess scowls at the mere suggestion. “The Patron shall rule eternally. His immortality is a blessing to Trist’oth. But I appreciate your flattery and am also glad our two great Houses remain allied. I will visit you shortly to discuss slaves. May Vakmatharas guide you.”