She was a nondescript figure, but that was said of anyone these days. These were hard times, getting even harder as the pressures of daily life increased. Strife, misery... that was the world. Which provided a peculiar, sad type of business for one of her persuasion. Called to the black arts of necromancy by birth, Troile had always walked a fine line between darkness and light. Those who seek the dark, cannot control the dark. For all the quest for power these days, there weren't many that understood strength came from within. A trite saying, but apt. One doesn't just become what one desires. Non nolus sed solus.*

A pint of beer sat before her which she had hardly touched, and a soft, detached look played across her features. Experiences undefinable bloomed and died in the back of her mind, a vertigo that try as she might to make sense of it, remained elusive. She reached for it, probed the memories, lost herself within her mind as she gazed into the fire, and returned with nothing but a throbbing headache and more questions than answers. But it was something to do while she waited for her new experiment to mature.

No time wasted... every new discovery has an application. Every experience coalesces...

Gradually, Troile felt herself lulled to trance as she retreated into the furthest corners of her memory. There everything was a stark plane. Colors, bright and luminous, stretching out into oblivion like a living color field. The static experience was heavenly and terrifying. Amorphous shapes seemed to appear and retreat as she took in the surroundings. Here, as a nonentity, she was everywhere.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp sound brought her back to the present and she tensed, immediately on the defense, and relaxed as she remembered where she was and what she was doing. Safety. Relative safety. I need not worry, for now.
----
*Nothing new but improved.

Looking for someone friendly, at the moment. Everyone else, you'll get your chance later...

(OOC: Sorry if kinda long, got carried away. ^_^;)

Every other month she comes and visits the Wilwarin Inn and Pub, sitting by herself in a remote corner leaving her to her own thoughts, deciding whether or not she should take a boat out of the port city of Lómëdor to her home, the island of Aldaríon, the place she hasn't visited since the horrid incident that took place on the very same island. She sat, and contemplated, a glass of fine wine being felt and traced by her gloved hand, the same kind she's ordered for the past several years when visiting this establishment, and each time never taking a sip from the maroon liquid.

Her black, emotionless mask laid on the table in front of her, and she could feel it staring at her, mocking her, telling her how empty she really was. Her scarred face was shaded by the cowl of her cloak, but you could see her teeth grinding in some annoyance, frustrated by her own thoughts, her hand beginning to squeeze the wine glass until it shattered loudly in her hand, everyone in the pub given a scare as they jumped at the sound, herself included. As the many faces of the patrons stared at her in question, her head sank into her shoulders, keeping her face from sight.

That's never happened before. Are you losing your edge, Clarissa? She asked herself in her mind. Every visit she made was becoming more and more agitating to her, the memories becoming more and more bothersome. This was the first place she met her beloved... now ex-betrothed. He was so handsome on that day, and he was so taken with her... she shook her head, releasing herself from those vain thoughts. I cannot dwell on the past, the future is where my vengeance lies.

Sighing, her vivid, emerald green eyes seemed to glow as they looked around the pub, her face only covered by shadow, studying the others in attendance. She liked to evaluate other people, seeing how they were living their lives, wondering if they were taking their life or even other lives for granted, and most of the time, they were, one way or another. At that time, if she felt like it, she would teach them otherwise, but tonight, she wasn't in the mood for such a major confrontation. In all honesty, she wanted someone to talk to, to chit-chat with... she hasn't had one of those in a very long time.

Her stare rested upon a somewhat unremarkable female elf, but her intuition screamed that there was something about the woman. Sensing a strange tingle in her right hand, her attention shifted to her limb for examination to find broken glass that managed to slice itself through her glove and into her hand, all while evading her detection. She was surprised, obviously, and the feeling of pain never really triggered until she saw the wound. Without a second thought, she took her glove off, revealing her hand and snowy white skin, which was also scarred, similar to her face. She proceeded to try and painfully pry the glass shard out of her skin, grunting from the effort, but it was to no avail. Great...

Troile did not notice the advent of the newcomer, but what caught her attention was the prescence of blood. Her eyes snapped open and scanned the area until she pinpointed the source: a cowled figure not far away from her. Even her strong infravision was not enough to make out the details beneath the shadows of the heavy cloak, but that would improve, in time. I don't think this one is a thaumaturge, but one never knows. For now, Troile let herself notice that her interest was reciprocated. Strange.

Well, she didn't begrudge anyone their curiousity, although Troile did not find herself a curious figure. The goal was to remain unobtrusive and blend into the shadows. It was easier to work, that way. The closer one was connected to the mortal plane, the more difficult to manipulate the planes beyond it. And how liberating it felt to shift planes! So liberating that she often looked down on her corporal form in dismay when returning from the state of change. Losing oneself was easy, but losing one's form--impossible, for any length of time. It was a hypnogogic state, but one couldn't sleep forever.

"Hi," Troile said absently, to the woman. Perhaps I could learn something. She took a swig of beer, wondering if she would sit down. To be friendly is to court danger. This could be a mistake. Solution: more beer. She raised her hand to catch the bartender's attention, who refilled her mug. This one was a tall, dark man who never gave her a second glance. He took the stein and held it under the fountain, pressing a button as he chatted amiably with other patrons. That's right.

There were so many other people here tonight! People of every race and color, from all walks of life. Big cities were diverse. It was possible that in this place she might find another practitioner of the art... someone to avoid, or work against. Most necromancers earned in blood and bones the hatred they received. The dark is hungry. It will feed.

She stared at her wounded hand, pondering how to deal with such a pesky injury. She didn't want to damage her hand even further with her sloppy efforts to pull the shard out, but it was like a bad itch, it was begging to be scratched. If only she practiced the magics of healing instead of shadow and illusion, she wouldn't be in this messy predicament, but then again, it wouldn't suit her personally.

"Hi." It came as though it was from a general direction but aimed at her, and Clarissa stopped herself thinking she accidentally made that sound with her magic somehow, but to her ultimate realization, it came from an actual person, the same elf she eyed earlier, in fact. Maybe her initial suspicions about this lady were true, that there was more to her than what her outward appearance suggested.

Her face remained hidden by the cowl's shade as she looked to the woman once again, wondering if she caught her staring earlier, because whenever she visits this pub, no one bothers to talk to her, which was fine at times, but she couldn't help feel a little lonely... she was human after all and she didn't cut herself off completely from the social standard... just severely. So, in response to the woman's salutation, she raised her injured hand in a half-greeting, but gave no verbal indication of such, instead she said in a semi-friendly voice, "You seem like a useful sort. Would you care to help me with this? It's quite irritating and I'm no good with cuts, you see." She realized how awkward she sounded just then and slightly cringed at her words. She was never really good at initiating conversations, despite her countess heritage.

Troile was taken aback at her words. Asking me for help? If this is a simple cut, she should be able to fix this on her own. "Yes," Troile said, her demeanor changing completely now that she was presented with a problem. "I can, but not here. Let me return with something. How did this happen?" Mentally, she went through a list of what she would need-- cloth and maybe a little bit of soothing aloe vera, and, of course, an adhesive.

At this distance Troile knew she could see the woman's face if she wanted to, but Troile kept her eyes averted. Some things are better left a secret. She took the lady's hand and turned it over, examining the wound, noting the glass to be extracted. Glass can be extremely dangerous, but the wound is not deep so she is safe. As she looked at the skin, Troile couldn't help noticing the intricate lacework of scarring. Old trauma, but not that old. Not burning, too pale for that. What in the world did this?

She let the woman's hand go, not wanting to stare at it. It's an abomination of time and matter. But life won't to cede to old age and death so fast. The skin is still firm, will age only a little faster than normal. I'll have to remember this for later to determine if this is indeed a temporal curse, and deduce how the magic works.

Her cold eyes rested at the top of Clarissa's cowl, as she waited for an answer.

Clarissa watched as the elven woman held her hand softly, examining the problem, apparently knowing what she was doing. As the woman studied the cut, Mae found herself fairly absentminded as the scars on her hand were totally exposed to the woman, but her instincts told her that she won't care as much as some, she had a... similarity to the countess.

Her eyes gazed to the black steel mask that sat on the table, wondering if the cowl would be enough hide her face from someone so close, for her hand was one issue, but her face was something completely different. She was very self-conscious about it; she never liked to discuss about it, let anyone see it, or have anything to do with it. It was a form of pity that she would not accept, she would much rather stay concealed for the rest of her life by the mask she wore. However, this time, she opted not to don the covering, feeling that she'd be rude and scare off her new acquaintance.

After the moment of thought, Clarissa decided to answer the elf's question, "I got in a fight with a wine glass." It was very sarcastic but very true at the same time. Perhaps she meant it as a joke? She didn't know, it's been so long since she's told one. In any case, she gave a small, very discreet, chuckle before adding on, "I didn't want to pry it out myself, for I fear of only making it worse as I am very clumsy with medical procedures. But if you can perhaps make haste, miss? I don't want infection to take its course. It'd be difficult to cast a spell or handle a weapon without the use of my hand." She noticed she was talking too much, giving more information than needed. It was one of her faults when it came to social situations, but at least she chose her words carefully to some extent.

"Right," Troile said, satisfied. She realized that Clarissa made a joke, and smiled a little bit in response. I recognized the joke. I'm improving! "Naturally. I will help you." My hands are nimble, but I prefer using tools. Micro tweezers to extract glass. A disinfectant-- I would say her drink had already done that, but alcohol's disinfecting power when mixed with anything but water is marginalized. That red crystalline powder should do. Made from pyrolusite and potassium carbonate mixed together, it is an effective sanitizer with minimal pain. Aloe vera, too. Like I originally planned. That will be better, the best.

"A moment," Troile said, and disappeared into the crow of people. The muted colors she wore functioned as a weird camouflage in this drinking arena. The pathway to her room took only a few minutes to navigate. The bag, safely in storage, was retrieved. Inside was a small wooden box with supplies.

Covered by the image of a serpent entwined around a oak tree, the box was a symbolism of strength and change. The serpent, in shedding its skin, represented rebirth and fertility. The oak was timeless strength. Their union was a bond of the generations. At the bottom of the tree lay a featureless skull, a reminder that immortality was not within oneself, but within one's works and one's legacy.

Troile retrieved the necessary supplies, all wrapped carefully but disguised to appear less valuable. The box from the bag rarely traveled with her, but Troile used its individual contents daily. Returning to the table, she resumed her seat, and withdrew the micro-tweezers.

"Give me your hand."

(OOC: Sorry for delay... got a little hung up. :/)

Naturally help? That seems a little odd to say. She thought, I don't particularly help anyone unless I feel like it. It must be different for some people, and I'm far from the ordinary person. Lady Mae nodded as the elven lady excused herself to retrieve something, leaving her to her thoughts. I was awfully easy to get this woman's help, especially towards someone as shady as the countess. Clarissa did not like being this way; hiding in the shadows, being aloof from the populace, but it was all necessary to keep her secrets hidden and her misery from ever returning.

Despite the darkness she allowed herself to be consumed by, she held hope that she would retreat to the way she was; much brighter, much happier... but the possibility seemed so distant now. She wondered if it was too late, if she gave too much of herself to the shadows to admit even the feasibility of going back. She didn't know the answer, but maybe it'll come in time...

The friendly woman reappeared from the drinking crowd, carrying a decorative bag that seemed oddly miscellaneous, but Clarissa only guessed that the lady carried it with her wherever she went as it held many tools and supplies, making it valuable to her. She sat down, reached into her bag and extracted a pair of small tweezers, asking the countess to lend her hand.

She nodded, turning her palm up and placing it in her hands so she could progress in mending her hand. Mae looked into her eyes which were a pleasant ice blue; they blended well with her light skin and ashen hair. Her clothes were not very flattering to her figure, and the countess was sure she had a lovely frame, as her face was well-contoured, as all elves have these traits. It made her curious about who she really is and it made her speak up, "So please, while you are working on my hand, tell me about yourself. What's your name? Where are you from? What do you do other than fix small glass cuts? I'm interested to know."

(Not a problem. You did reply :D)

The lady asked her a question, but Troile's attention was focused on her current task. She does not realize that this work is for my benefit as well as hers. I am no chirugeon, but I would learn some of that art. She coated the micro-tweezers in the pyrolusite-potassium carbonate mix and then resumed the lady's hand. Troile held it steady as the thin tweezers glinted in the lighting. Emerald eyes were reflected momentarily on its surface, and then the glasses on the table as the tweezers moved to clench the shard of glass. They attached about halfway down the protruding glass with a grip tight enough to pull the glass out, but not enough to shatter it. The tweezers lifted up sharply and extracted the glass. Troile discarded the shard in a small canvas bag. Carefully, she replaced the few pieces of equipment she brought down her back into her unremarkable bag, and hid this under the table. One coil of its closure was wrapped around her foot for safety.

"The cut should scab quickly with the cover of pyrolusite. The mild sting you feel should subside momentarily. As for myself, I am a traveling thanatologist. I would rather leave it at that." My work is too graphic for this venue, and I prefer to let others discover its nature on their own. "I go by Troile."

Noticing that the cut had dried and scabbed, Troile let the lady's hand go. I guess I can explain a little more, but I must guard my secrets carefully.

"There is this much I will tell you if you are truly interested. Lomedor is a great place for learning if one knows where to look. Wherever there is a profusion of people there is knowledge to be gained everywhere. Just as every user of magic adds their own signature to their work, no piece of small talk is useless, no matter how banal it seems. There are even beings here who know of the ancient ways--they are walking museums of the past."

Troile's whole body shook momentarily, her brain trying unsuccessfully to bridge the disconnect between her working and physical memory. Her hands moved up and down, and her lips moved without making sound as her brain went through all its contents. Who? Troile wondered, are these people? How do I know about this? There was no answer. Without even a far fetched connection, her mind discarded this trail of thought as if it had never occurred. About a minute later Troile continued on where she left off, none the wiser of this episode.

"My professional work deals with the spirits that inhabit our world, particularly the wraiths that come from the realm of the dead. I speak the dead tongue. Now, I believe," she finished, her lips curling up in amusement, "it is your turn, my companion."

Thanatologist? That's a rare profession. Clarissa thought as her injured hand stung after Troile's procedure as if a bee had struck her with its lancet. The affliction did not last long however, just as she promised, and her hand started to scab over with the help of the ingredient she applied. One fact that had caught the countess' attention, though, was that Troile did not sound much like an elvish name, despite her lack of knowledge in their language. She could tell almost immediately that there was more to this woman than her somewhat standard outward appearance suggested.

She nodded as her companion explained about the pursuit of knowledge, or at least that's what Clarissa thinks she was stating about. The lady talked fast and properly, displaying her tuned intelligence and focus of thought, and Mae was impressed to say the least. But suddenly she nearly cut herself off, shivering from a mental chill, and her eyes looked as if they were scanning her own brain, doubting herself it seemed, but as fast as it occurred, it ended, and she returned to how she was as if nothing happened. Strange.

The countess will admit that she is often awkward at times, being bipolar with her behavior, expressing her good side and her dark side all at once, but this elf was mentally atypical in a way, as though she's trying to figure out her own secrets. Troile clarified the interests in her profession and it became apparent to Clarissa that this elf probably practiced the dangerous black art of necromancy, but she is so... placid and nonchalant. Most practitioners of necromancy are very vile and scornful, surely she is not this way?

Troile redirected the question towards Mae herself, and it snapped her out of the daydream of thought she swam in. Not very many people asked about her, and the few who did were met with smug remarks, she had no reason to share her past with them. But this elf was a different case. Clarissa's curiosity about the lady elf was overwhelming, and if she was to perhaps share her own background, maybe she can receive more information about her acquaintance.

"My name," she began with some poise in her voice, "is Clarissa Mae. I am the Countess of Aldaríon, an island in the West Ocean from which I was born and raised. My family practices the arts and magics of illusion, and I was no exception to the teachings." She twirled her uninjured hand in the air, whispering a small, inaudible incantation before an apple appeared and hung in the air as if attached to a string, the lighting of the pub perfectly reflecting and shading the red colors of the piece of fruit, making it seem so real. It stood until Clarissa reached out with her finger to poke a hole through it and it burst with a faint light then disappeared without a trace. After her demonstration, she continued, her tone deepening as she became more inexplicably candid, "Soon after I came of adult age, my entire family was killed in a massacre, and I will say that it was because of me and my foolish ways." She motioned to her hand then to her face despite it still being covered by the shade of her cloak, "These scars are a constant reminder of what I have done. And I attempted to take my life for it, but I was instead found by a Drow clan, and I was taught the ways of shadow magic."

She sighed, remembering the name given to her by the same clan, her eyes gazing down to the blank mask as it sat on the table, which was given to her by the Drow, "Tahta Uss is what they called me." It was more of an accidentally spoken thought than speaking to Troile, but it was too late anyway and she did not falter in her speech, "But I do not follow the Drowish ways, I merely used them to gain the knowledge of controlling shadow to... hide myself and my sins while I search for... redemption..." It seemed like such a grand word that can probably never be achieved. Nonetheless, Mae was prepared to face it in failure or success. "If anything, I want to kill the dastard who ruined my life... the one who started me on this path of darkness, no matter what it takes." She noticed that she made herself sound... evil just then.

Sighing again, she looked at her newly mended hand and she gave a weak smile, even though it probably couldn't of been seen under the shadow of the cowl, "This is very good work... I'm impressed." Lady Mae felt that she may have talked too much about her past, but it needed to be let out, no matter who it was she let it out to. It gave her a little relief at least, and maybe now she can retrieve more information from the elvish woman, and perhaps dissipate any tension she may have caused, "Now, Ms. Troile, where do you hail from? And tell me more about your profession. Have you done any interesting experiments?"