Chapter Two: The Trial of Wits
Maevril was moving more recklessly than usual from shadow to shadow across the streets of Neverwinter. She didn't know what to think. She knew the feeling she had, it was that transient state of satisfaction and emptiness that came with being a love-sick fool. Or just a sick fool, she wasn't sure yet what was going on. She wished she possessed the obvious forward nature of her ancestors in seducing males, but clearly her growing up with only humans and a dead-to-the world foster father made her incapable of such seduction. Not that it would be a good idea anyway.
She walked back around to the alleyway behind the Sunken Flagon that she had been in earlier. The tavern was dark and blessedly silent. Making quick work of the window's lock she snuck in, completely invisible. She made her way up the stairs and into the oil-lamp lit hallway between rooms. She noted that some of the lights were still on and she could hear muffled talking, they must have just concluded discussing Maevril's fate and were moving on to each other's. Her room was at the end of the hallway, door slightly ajar.
"Wonderful," she muttered under her breath. As she got closer she saw a glint of grey-black armor. Gods, not right now. She peered in and saw the paladin standing over her sparse pile of things, including her rapier. He was muttering under his breath. Casting something...casting...detect evil?!
"My evil didn't wait for me while I was away, Casavir," she hissed. The paladin looked surprised at her sudden appearance before him and slightly abashed that she'd caught him attempting to sense her non-existent evil. He stood up straight and bowed slightly.
"My lady, I was merely sent here to see if you were asleep and safe." She didn't believe him, but could paladins lie? She wasn't sure.
"I was out for a walk," she smiled as believable as she could but with a hint of if-it-wasn't-true-there's-thing-you-can-do. He shifted nervously, creaking. She wondered if he ever changed out of that iron-golem-looking suit he wore every day. It would be highly uncomfortable to sleep in.
"It is dangerous out there, Maevril. We do not want--"
"We? Or you? I can assure you Casavir that I am highly capable. Some even think I'm capable enough to destroy an entire village," she seethed, her pale eyes boring into Casavir with enough scrutiny to make him flinch. He sighed very loudly causing his armor to creak with the exhale of air. She thought she heard the small rodent running on a wheel in his head almost choke from exhaustion at the difficult predicament. She snorted indignantly and moved her rapier off her bed and onto the floor. She began to unlace her bracers and looked up at Casavir expectantly.
"I will tell them you were here the whole time. Goodnight, my lady." And at that, he left, shutting the door behind him.
Well, paladins can lie. And they can lie for you! Excellent...
She gained a bit of respect for the paladin. Not much, but just enough to consider him more palatable than Bishop. Which wasn't difficult.
She grinned to herself when the door shut and began to remove her things. It took ages, as always. She removed her leather armor, two bags of poisons, three daggers, four darts, two healing potions, six scrolls, and a small pouch of oddly sentimental personal belongings. Even without her rapier she was amazed at how she managed to move silently with all that junk on her.
The drow climbed into the small, rough bed, scanning the darkness of the room for danger like she always did before she slept, it was a new habit but one she took to quite well. Getting killed while sleeping was such a boring way to go hence she took all costs to avoid it. She took one of her daggers and placed it beneath her pillow, as she always did, and tried to force herself to sleep. She was unsuccessful. It wasn't until the pale light of dawn appeared that she managed to sleep at all and soon after that she woke to the sound of arguing again below her, or Grobnar's singing. Sometimes she couldn't tell the difference.
Sand's eyes narrowed in indignation and hate. His hands clenched on the podium so tight they slowly began to turn an undead-like pale. A hissing noise escaped from him as he turned to Maevril.
"That banshee..."
She had to do something. Maevril looked up at Torio and glared, letting her voice sound as loud and sure of herself as possible. Which, she had to think, sounded fairly intimidating for her size.
"Are you saying that anyone from Luskan shouldn't be trusted? If so you negate your own case Ambassador!" The audience murmured in satisfaction and Callum agreed. Torio glared at the drow through layers of makeup and ire. With confidence Maevril smiled to Torio, her eyes meeting the Ambassador's in a nod of mutual distaste.
She knew that all of the bantering, arguing, and debating that she spent doing as a child would help. She learned to battle with words first, then if there was no choice but to fight, to not get hit. Stabbing and winning fit somewhere in the middle of that, along with making a good show if it at the same time.
Sand looked at the drow approvingly and with more then a tad of shock. Whether he was impressed that she came up with such a retort or that she didn't act confused at his involvement with the Hosttower was the true question. Was it that obvious he craved power enough to at one time be slightly less than good? But it didn't matter, the trial has to continue and Sand understood he owed their glorious leader an explanation afterwards. If there was an afterwards.
The glee she was feeling from Sand's comment on Torio's choice of clothing was quickly cut short by the newest announcement of a trial by combat.
"You're kidding," she muttered, her face suddenly emotionless.
"Gods I was hoping she didn't know about that..."
"You were hoping she didn't know about THAT?!" Maevril screeched at the elf, flailing her arms over his head. Sand looked slightly abashed but for only a moment, quickly regaining his composure and slowly pushing her arms down.
"Do not worry, Maevril, no one will..." his regained composure was quickly lost when he noticed who had spoken on behalf of Ember.
"Oh and look it appears your combatant will be Lorne..." he muttered, fear beginning to seep into his normally sure voice. Lord Nasher, sitting high on his imposing throne, looked down at Maevril with sadness and what she assumed was pity. Lord Nasher's eyes darted to the trebuchet-sized Lorne and Maevril swore she saw him cringe.
"Gods this is going to be a long night..."
Some priests talked to her. Khelgar ranted and waved his stubbly arms about frantically while talking about justice and bar fights and how he could fight for her. But, Maevril turned him down. If anything they blamed the murder of that entire village on her, perhaps she'd be able to convince Lorne that if she'd wanted to she could have actually done it after slitting his throat. Not that she wanted to hurt the people of Ember anyway, she liked innocent people alive, oddly enough. Though she didn't enjoy spending too much time with them.
She decided to begin her "reflections."
She examined the stone behemoth in front of her, glaring at her with scrutinizing and archaic-looking eyes.
The statue of Tyr was hideous. Absolutely hideous. It looked like a frost giant who'd eaten some particularly fibrous kobold-kebabs and had to use the privy in the middle of a battle. Maevril made a note to herself to not allow any Tyr memorabilia into her keep once she was either dead and in the hells, or alive and in the favor of the Neverwinter nobility.
The room was utterly silent except for the light hissing of the torches around the statue. It was just an empty, silent, stone room. The floor was so polished she could see her dark face in it reflecting in the torchlight.
Well, I'm reflecting, she though wryly. If anything it made her notice she'd pulled enough of her hair out during the trail to leave her braids falling apart. She glared at herself in the reflection and began to undo them, realizing how entirely long her hair had gotten. When she finished her long, blood-red hair nearly reached past her chest.
"Huh," she looked at the reflection and marvelled at how different she looked. Her hair made her skin look less grey and more pale in the torchlight. For a fleeting moment she didn't even look like a dark elf.
"So, quiet enough for you? I mean, now that Khelgar is done ranting...I heard it from several streets away. Actually helped me find this place."
She bolted upright, her hair almost choking her as she caught her hands in it. Sand had already walked in holding what looked like a sack of potions. For a brief moment he stared at her, his eyes roaming over her loose, chaotic hair. He was either amused or aroused, or both. She wasn't sure if that was a good combination.
"I hope you don't mind if I come in here and start just speaking my mind. Otherwise, this place would seem awfully dull. Though you seem to be enjoying yourself," he added wryly.
"I don't know, Tyr and I were just about to talk about the finer points of hair-braiding when you came and interrupted us. Turns out he's quite good at it," she grinned, gesturing at the braided locks of the statue's beard. She felt more relieved to see the moon elf than she thought. She did however have to hold back any jibes involving his time at the Hosttower for the time being. Maybe after she survived certain death.
"I must say," he began silkily, "I didn't expect that we would be able to force Torio's hand like this. Trial by combat is rather a desperate maneuver, quite unlike her," he paused, his eyes searching over the temple and finally landing on Maevril. He had an almost vicious look in them as he spoke. This, of course, didn't bother Maevril at all, she got that look most likely more often then he did.
"It's rather quite pleasing. And if you were to beat Lorne…"
"...When I beat him, dear Sand, when." She smiled.
"Yes...when. Well, that would make me simply ecstatic. I could help you, you know."
"Hmm, anything to tip the odds I'd say."
"Here, take this," Sand walked up to her and handed her the small sack full of potions. She looked inside seeing at least 5 different bottle of multi-coloured liquids. "It's a few special concoctions I whipped up to help you tomorrow should Lorne decide to poison, cheat or simply give you several gaping chest wounds."
He paused, flattening his robes down with his hands and looking at the ceiling. Maevril grinned inwardly. Was that nervousness? She saw him look down and his eyes rest on her hair again for a moment.
"And, uh, no need for thanks – it would just be embarrassing. Let me leave you to It." He turned to leave and quickly turned around on his heels, looking at her again.
"But..there is one last thing,"
Oh gods she knew it, she wasn't just hallucinating or fretting like a young girl in spring he might actually be interested in--
"Our good friend Torio," Maevril looked visibly dissapointed. "I think she's rather close to breaking. It's what happens when one is tied to an ill-conceived plan...as I once felt." Guilt seeped into her. He actually sounded sad. Or distraught, she wasn't sure. She made a mental note to pry into his past after this whole combat nonsense was over. If anything it would be an entertaining battle of words.
"...and I think Torio is one who prefers to be on the winning side. Worth thinking about, especially if she is at our mercy later."
"Thank you Sand, if we can use her talents of treachery for our own needs I'm more than willing to give it a shot." She knew she would rather just stab the evil wench, but Sand seemed to think she was useful.
"One of the many things I appreciate about you Maevril, always willing to compromise good but have enough sense to not be entirely evil. Well, I'll be off. Good Ni--"
She hugged him. Sand's eyes went wide as he felt his usually vigilant personal space bubble shatter under the arms of the slender drow. He looked uneasy for a moment, more like he'd choked on something pleasant rather than unpleasant, and then lifted his arms around her. He felt like he had to, she was there, his arms were there, there was nothing sentimental about it. But, it was nicer than pushing her away...and it was lasting a bit longer than he would have expected. She was surprisingly warm. Why didn't he say anything? She smelled less like Duncan's Inn and more like...well, he still couldn't decide. But there was definitely something vanilla about it, or perhaps honey. Or both. He touched a curled piece of her red hair absently from behind her back...
Something clanked in the doorway. Normally it would have been unnoticeably quiet but Sand and Maevril jumped like children caught stealing sweets. It sounded suspiciously familiar to the paladin's armor. Sand retreated from the drow's embrace and looked cautiously in the direction of the door. He didn't see anything. He regained his senses and composure as quickly as he'd lost them.
"Dear girl, you will be fine. I am confident in your abilities as a rogue to stealthily deal death to that poor brute before he even realizes you've killed him...Now I'll be going before the paladin comes in here and thinks we're compromising Tyr's ability to judge with our sarcasm. Farwell." Sand walked out of the room a bit too hastily, before Maevril could look at him or say anything else.
She thought she heard him run into something metallic in the hallway and then hiss an insult. Not long after Casavir appeared in the doorway. He appeared bearing gifts, chivalry, and moodiness. She didn't turn down the ritual flask, that was useful, but she made a point of turning down the chivalry and moodiness.
She would have taken wit and sarcasm over that any day.
Soon she was left alone again to reflect on the poorly-carved and constipated face of Tyr and her own hopeless attraction to an emotionless moon elf wizard. She was pleased that for a few moments there she had almost forgotten about her impending doom.