The silence in the little room was palpable, deafening in it's own way. The tension was thick enough to make Yukale realize the validity of the old cliche. Too bad she didn't have a knife. Her mother didn't move, and neither did she, as Faette lowered her hand. The priest backed up, then scrambled out the door, closing it in her wake.
The sound of the door resounded around them, though neither woman seemed willing to back down. Yukale's finger protested, but she ignored it, exhaling sharply out her nose. Finally, she spoke, "What now? You can't keep me forever. We don't even have forever, anymore."
"We have a long time, daughter-mine. It could be centuries, perhaps even Millennia before our mortality begins to show," Nithil'Zir, replied, smiling. "Without the moonwell, eventually, you will become like our High Elf cousins. And then you will age, and you will eventually die, like the humans you so love."
"You already look much like our wayward kin. I suppose the effects of so many years using magics?" She eyed the ever present demon, "Or that thing."
Her mother shrugged, "I do not really know, nor do I particularly care. We have a very long, but limited time together, Yukale. Perhaps we should make the best of it and put this pettiness behind us."
"I don't know," Yukale replied. "Which of us is more stubborn in this."
Nithil'Zir picked up her glass of wine, sipping it, "Drink up, relax. You do have a reputation of being a heavy drinker."
"I prefer grog, and this stuff makes me ill to my stomach." The rogue then added, barbing her words, "Besides, I only drink with friends."
"Yukale, drink the wine, and maybe, just maybe, we can sit down and have a civilized conversation?"
Reluctantly downing her glass, Yukale said nothing.
Frowning at her daughter, Nihtil'Zir scooted two chairs close together. She gave Yukale an almost imploring look, the imp looking disgusted, "Please, give me just a small chance? Of the woman my daughter has become, I only know rumor, hearsay, and what I've learned from spying!"
Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, and not a little guilty, Yukale nodded. She sat down, folding her hands in her lap, "What do you want to know?"
The smile her mother gave her brought back fond, if now somewhat painful memories. Nithil'Zir leaned forward, asking, "So why the path of a rogue?"
Yukale's answer was simple, and matter-of-fact, "Nothing suited me, so I chose nothing. Rogue is such a broad term.."
"Lovely!" She waved a hand, her grin very much like the one her daughter often wore, "Now that that is out of the way, tell me about your Kiska. Start from the beginning, I know you were friends for a long time before anything grew from it," She knew some things, obviously. Perhaps, in a few instances, more than Yukale herself.
Flushing slightly, the rogue started to talk, "How we first met, then? We ran into each other one day, and started to talk. She had just picked Thrall's pocket..."