(still) Proditores Punientur

Sanctity Of Wrath… (continued)

Cahlind chuckled evilly and pushed her kukris deeper, driving them in Tarnash's back all the way to their hilts. Ah, but this was simply too easy. And so, so very sweet.

Stupid male. For all his experience and wizardly prowess, he was still no match for her skill. One simple trap – that was all it took to bring the House Wizard down. Well, not that simple a trap, but still… One loose brick, one secret trigger and one sharp blade contained within, tipped with venom and with a magic-defying jewel imbedded in its hilt. Nothing easier than to wait on the ceiling, invisible and silent, held fast by spider-like goo - the same sticky matter that covered the sacred creatures' silken webs and also filled the tiny sacks in her enchanted, fingerless gloves. It was only a matter of proper timing. A flick of a wrist, a trigger pressed, and the spring mechanism launched the blade straight through the wizard's back, negating the Stoneskin and all other protections he had about. The look in the wizard's eyes as he felt the blade dive in was so satisfying she wanted to purr.

L'loth, but this was so delicious. They should really rebel more often.

Feeling her brother's body go limp, Cahlind shoved her blades upwards into his lungs, thus forcing his upper body to lean slightly backwards and lean with more weight on the hilts she was holding. Her move prevented him from falling to his knees before she wanted. It was a beautiful moment. Cahlind wished to savor it a bit longer.

"Really, little brother," she whispered sweetly into the dying weapon master's ear, "I should've done this much sooner." Her voice became a chuckle, "I should have never allowed you to leave our mother's womb in the first place. Not alive, anyway."

Tarnash gurgled in protest. In retrospect, he almost didn't leave the womb alive at all.

Twins were a rare thing among the drow; drow infants were fighting each other even while still in the womb. It was a rare thing for both babies to survive long enough to be born. It was almost unheard of for both to be female; chances were only a little better for both to be male. If one was male and one female, usually only the female would get to see the darkness outside.

It was a pure miracle Tarnash was even born. The first baby, the female, came out of the womb well-nourished and big. The male that followed some minutes after (and was thus always the "little" brother) was weak and thin, the umbilical cord strung tightly about his neck and his face not healthy black, but bluish-grey from the lack of air.

It was a miracle he was born. The fact that he survived his first year of life was an even greater one. His mother was never really pleased about the fact. His sister, however, simply adored it. After all, it is not like you get to have your own living toy to torture and molest every day.

It is said that in your moment of death, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. Those earliest memories now flashed brightly through Tarnash's mind, as well as the memory of having another pair of blades stuck in his back barely few months ago. Damn! He really hated dying! And getting killed by his own sister didn't make him feel much better about it. On the contrary, it made him very, very pissed.

And his anger gave him strength to draw another breath.

"Still struggling, dalninuk?" taunted Cahlind "Why, isn't that sweet?" she gave her blades a jerk. Tarnash growled in pain. "Warrior to the bitter end. All this time, Tarnash," she sighed, "and you still haven't learned your place. What a pity. We could've had such a future together."

"As your slave?" Tarnash managed to growl through the blood in his throat. "No thanks. I'd rather pass."

"Oh, you will pass.." Cahlind snickered, "…away. And you are a slave, Tarnash," she added more sharply, "You're just a male."

Tarnash snorted and spat blood. His ears began buzzing loudly. "Shove it," he croaked.

"Asanque," Cahlind purred and shoved her blades down a bit, letting her brother's body sink to the floor.

"Argh!"

"Poor fool," she scolded him icily, "You just never learned. Honestly, don't you think it would have been much better for you if I drained all your nourishment after all…"

Bitch! I should've drained you instead… I should've drained you dry…

The buzz in his ears exploded.

( "…I CAN DRAIN HER DRY!...")

Not even fully aware of his actions, not even sure whose voice he heard, Tarnash gripped the slipping hilt of his right-handed sword and, with his last ounce of strength, turned the blade backwards and drove it straight into his stunned sister's belly. His left hand followed the movement and he slammed his palm over the pommel, driving the blade even further inside.

Cahlind cried out in pain and shock, but her scream came out as naught but a startled moan. Her voice had failed her. Her body followed suit.

Tarnash felt the strength pour into his hand, a sudden rush of vitality rushing up his arm, his shoulder and spreading through his entire body in a mighty, unstoppable flood. His heart begun pumping the blood more furiously, his vision sharpened again and his mind rapidly cleared.

The kukris were still in his chest. With the surge of the new-found strength, he pushed his blade hard, driving both his sister and her weapons away.

Cahlind slammed into the wall and gasped for breath. Half-rising, Tarnash pressed harder until he felt the tip of the sword coming out the other side of her chest and hit the wall behind.

"S… Sacrilege…" the assassin-priestess gasped weakly.

"Indeed." His back still turned to her, Tarnash's voice was one of purest delight.

Slowly, he pulled himself fully up again and when he finally spun about to face her, she could see his bloodied grin, the wicked light burning in his eyes and a shady form of half-mask forming over his face. Roughly, he grabbed her hair and yanked her forward, away from the wall and impaled her on his blade fully.

He let her sink to the floor slowly, sliding down the length of his sword; the slithery sound of the fall music to his ears. He savored the look of deepest fear in her wide-eyed stare as the last of her life was leaving her. He spat in her face and offered words of farewell.

"You know, you were right after all. You really should have killed me while we were still in the womb."

The mocking words of her brother pierced through her ears like heated needles; his chilling snicker the last sound she heard before finally slipping into the blackness of death.

& & &

A female sank to her knees, defenseless and humiliated in her defeat. And a male rose up from his knees, the female's own lifeblood giving him strength to prevail. And now, in his victory, he loomed over her feeble corpse like a dark herald of things to come.

In hindsight, there was something quite poetic about the scene.

& & & & &

Zesyyr wept on the floor, curled up in a fetal position and trembling like a jelly cube. Her mind was all but turned into one. Above her, Kimmuriel was smirking a wicked smirk smirk as he raked her brain with surgical precision.

The psionic was a professional. He was also angry. The female on the floor served as a perfect focus for it.

His mind traveled the twists and turns of her winding inner highway, taking breaks to peek into side roads and hidden tunnels and crushing all her defenses as he went along. Enjoying every sadistic moment, the psionic reached for the knowledge he sought but also, took time to dig deeply into every last fear, every last insanity and every inner turmoil he had encountered so far. He peeled the lairs of soft, self-told lies from them, baring them naked and raw and forcing the female to look at them in their full, ugly splendor. All the pettiness, all the weakness, all the self-deceit and mind-wrecking truths of her existence flashed in front of Zesyyr's mind eye and she was forced to stare at every last one of them fully.

Learning the truth about yourself is never easy. If you are a power-drunk and self-obsessed drow female, fully believing your own importance and station, things get substantially worse.

Weak, feeble and pathetic, disrespected and laughed at behind her back – that was the truth Matron Zesyyr was now facing. Through it all, the cruel psionic had not once touched her pride and thus, she was still struggling. She was forced to look at it, to hate it, to loath it, but still, she was left the ability to defy it. Or, more accurately, to try defying it, even while knowing full well it was in vain. She longed to prove it wrong, still attempted to keep the self-made image of her splendor alive.

It was a cruel and difficult game to play with one's mind. Kimmuriel Oblodra was more than up to the task.

And then he spotted a pair of yellow-glowing eyes observing him from the shadows.

Karandras squinted as the psionic paused to look at him, giving a temporary break to the sobbing bundle on the floor. Kimmuriel hissed and pulled out of her mind all together, focusing instead on bringing his Kinetic Barrier back up again. He knew what shadow fiends were, and he suspected he knew quite well who (or what) was the creature in front of him. However, he had no idea what he could expect to happen next and he silently cursed himself for getting so absorbed in the torture he forgot to look around more often. And also, he marked this slip in security as an extra charge for the Seer. High extra, if it proved the slip was in fact intentional.

Karandras grinned widely, but made no other moves. A quick glance the beast threw at the door, however, gave Kimmuriel a clue. His muscles tense, he followed the shadow wolf's gaze and raised an eyebrow in expectation. Karandras took this to be as acknowledging and inviting a gesture he would get and quickly imparted the message to Shi'van.

Next moment, the knob turned slightly and soundlessly, the door to the room opened.

Shi'van stared at the psionic blankly, her eyes twin pools of frozen impassiveness. A tiny amused flicker passed them briefly as her eyes passed over the writhing figure on the floor.

"Hate to spoil your party, whoever you are," she said flatly, not taking her eyes off Zesyyr, "But the Matron's presence is required back in her House now." There was a slightest tone of disappointment evident in her voice. "She needs to attend its beheading… And her own," she muttered silently, bending over Zesyyr's shuddering body.

The Matron growled incoherently and shot Shi'van a gaze of pure hatred. The dancer smirked. "Not out of it just yet, huh?" she said evilly, grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. She tilted her head inquisitively towards the psionic.

Kimmuriel watched the iblith female intently. Carved up and covered with blood, her movements were still rather jerky, though some macabre elegance continued to be evident as she bent low and grabbed the snarling Matron's hair, yanking her face up. A tiny flicker of wickedness lit in her eyes but other than that, she was mostly expressionless. Not a single trace of fear or surprise was present about her. Then again, what did the waking dead have to fear anyway?

Leaning back against the table and placing both palms on the top edge, Kimmuriel shrugged non-committaly and waved his hand towards the door He allowed none of the distress he felt show on his face at this abrupt stop of an amusing game he was playing. His eyes, however, showed his annoyance clearly. He would get back at her for it.

Shi'van brought her mouth close to Zesyyr's ear and whispered something in a language the drow female did not understand. Kimmuriel's keen hearing caught the sound, even while the words were too hushed to make out, he recognized the language. The dancer spoke in Calishite.

The psionic's jaw muscle twitched. He hated humans as much as he hated all non-drow, but he hated Calishite humans and everything that had to do with them even more. Their spoken language was no exception to that rule.

Even if he knew Shi'van shared his feeling full-heartedly, it wouldn't make him feel much better about it.

The side of his lip curved up in light amusement as he watched the shadowdancer occupy herself with Zesyyr. The iblith was very slimly built and hacked up as she was, there was no way she could possibly lift Zesyyr up, let alone drag her all the way to the House alone. He suspected the shadow wolf might, but having a snarling Matron dragged through the streets in open sight was not really a smart thing to do.

Curious to see how the iblith would handle the situation at hand, he watched her rise back to her feet and produce a small, bracer-like item from her belt. His stance instantly became more guarded as the item glowed dimly once and a shimmering red-lit gateway appeared before his eyes.

Grinning, Karandras grabbed the back of Zesyyr's robes with his jaw and pulled her body through the gate. He paused once before entering the portal fully, lifted his head and sniffed the psionic soundly. Sweaty. The drow should really take a bath.

Shi'van stifled a short-lived chuckle and turned to the psionic again. A brief expression of "I don't know who you are but if she is too far out of it I just might learn to hate your guts" crossed her dark-skinned features.

Kimmuriel shot back an "I know for certain who you are and I already hate yours, but no, she's not too far out of it" expression of his own.

"Whatever," the dancer mumbled and stepped into the portal herself, muttering something about the Seer having some explaining to do and complaining about the lack of coordination in this cursed back-water hellhole as a whole. Kimmuriel had to put some effort into stifling a chuckle at that.

He couldn't help but chuckle anyway as the portal in front of him closed and the last words coming out of it were aimed at Zesyyr and how the dancer still had a few moments to spare to make her "comfortable" in there. The exact nature of the "comfort" offered ran along the lines of some cosmetic surgery being done prior to removing the head from the shoulders completely.

In hindsight, Kimmuriel was disappointed at being denied the pleasure of witnessing it. And in foresight, he thought sourly as the scent of his own sweat invaded his nostrils sharply, he could really use a bath.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself away from the table, picked up his shirt and headed to the corner of the room where a small brass basin of water lay. He had extracted what he needed from Zesyyr's mind, he mused as he undid the string on his pants, and he had also seen the dancer personally… At last.

He flung the pants aside absent-mindedly and grabbed the smaller of the two towels from the hook. Soon enough, he would give the Seer his (almost) full report of what he had learned about the escape routes and then, he would go out looking for the dancer once more. And this time - he added to himself as he lowered his body into the basin, threw his head back and let his hair soak in - he'd dive into her mind completely. But first, the bath…

A soft groan of pleasure escaped his lips as raised his head above the surface again. Hot water caressed his black skin, soothing his senses and relaxing his tensed muscles softly. He flung his hands over the sides of the basin, rested his head against its edge and closed his eyes.

Being relaxed was not a natural state of existence for a drow, and that only made the rare moments of it even more precious. Kimmuriel knew how to appreciate it fully.

& & & & &

A female sank to her knees. A male rose up from his.

Tarnash breathed deeply and tilted his head to the side. The eyes in the shadows burned blazing gold. The weapon master smiled.

But then, his gaze fell to another body nearby.

In a stride, he was beside it and crouching low. He turned the body over and his fingers touched its throat. There was much blood. There was no pulse. The wizard's eyes stared at him blankly, frozen and glazed. Gulthrys, the High Wizard of (now already non-existent) House Maeviir was no more.

Tarnash spat and got up. He toed the wizard's body lightly.

"Oh, grand. Just who am I supposed to pester now?"

The sword in his grasp was smarter than to comment.

-

Much later, when the coup was over, Tarnash would have the remaining wizards animate the still-usable corpses of all those who fell. Mindless and slow, zombies made poor fodder, but there was no sense in wasting available material. Armed with simple clubs, the shambling mass would stand unblinkingly at the forefront of the defending troops; their only purpose to take the first blows that would fall on them. However, not all the bodies that lay dead would be animated and used in such way.

Quietly, after all useful items had been removed form the corpse, Tarnash would take away the earthly remains of the High Wizard and offer his body to the torch in a remote, quiet spot near the river bank.

Many would see him passing by. Some would see him lighting the pyre. None at all would dare say a word.

-

But all that was to come later. For now, Tarnash was rushing down the corridor and towards the sounds of a fight ahead. Just this last one, and the spider kissers that had ruled his entire life would be no more. The thought was a pleasant one indeed and he rushed forward with the renewed determination it filled him with. A shadowy half-mask now formed fully on his face and sent a pleasant tingle through his skin.

Behind him, a not-quite-material figure was observing him with a satisfied grin beneath its gold-blazing gaze.

The god was pleased. His newly-found followers rose up at last, their leader now fully his own.

The dancer had chosen well.

& & & & &

Architecture Of Aggression…

"Let's go," the female ordered sharply. A group of Maeviir soldiers-in-training exchanged glances, then started towards the training grounds' exit. Imloth stepped in front of them.

"We're not done here yet," he said quietly, eyeing the Maeviir female commander. She was a priestess but as any priestess, well trained in the use of weapons, and a solid tactician in her own rights. She was also Tarnash's second in command here… though the exact ranking was never quite clear for she, as a female was automatically above any male, including the Weapon Master.

The armored female looked down at Imloth and raised an eyebrow in annoyance.

"I say we are," she leaned closer to Imloth's face. Being a female, she was larger than the male and with the advantage of size and height, her posture became even more threatening.

"The drill is not over until I say so," Imloth stated casually, not really intimidated, "And nobody is leaving until I give permission."

The female inhaled sharply and her eyes widened. The fact that the male was not intimidated in the least was frustrating enough. The fact that he was so blatantly casual and disrespectful of her station as a female was positively infuriating.

"I," she said slowly, underlining the word, "outrank you… male."

"And I outweigh you… woman."

The female spun about only to see the tiefling looming ominously above her. He did outweigh her and also stood at least two heads above her. Coupled with his shoulders being about twice as broad as hers, the flail he nonchalantly held swinging slightly and the eyes, although icy blue, managing to be infernal crimson at the same time… Suddenly, the female had a very clear idea of what intimidation was really all about. In spite of herself, she took a half-step back, even while trying to keep her gaze locked with his. Obviously, she forgot that to stare into the eyes of the abyss means the abyss will also stare back in turn.

Behind her, Imloth gave Valen a warning look. Whether the tiefling failed to notice or failed to show he noticed, Imloth couldn't say, for Valen didn't take his eyes of the priestess at all. "Damn!" Imoth thought, "For Elistraee's sake, don't start a fight now!"

"You should watch how you address a female," the priestess said coldly, doing a wonderful job of keeping tremor out of her voice.

"And you should watch how you talk to a reckless guy with a flail," Valen grinned.

Imloth felt like slapping his forehead hard (and slapping the tiefling even harder). Blast it all! After all this time among the drow, didn't he learn anything by now? This was practically a no-win he started; the female couldn't back away, for that would mean admitting being outranked and on the other hand, Valen couldn't back away either, for that would mean losing his. Not to even mention the fact that the most likely question to follow would be why exactly are they so opposed to letting the Maeviir soldiers leave the compound.

Swiftly, Imloth's gaze scanned the training grounds and, catching an eye of one of his sergeants, gave an inconspicuous sign to get ready.

"Out of my way," the priestess hissed and tried to push past Valen. In a snap, Valen's hand was on her throat. Maeviir soldiers drew their blades. Imloth's followed suit. Imloth himself rolled his eyes and shot a murderous gaze Valen's way. The tiefling still paid it no heed.

"Listen to me, you pompous bitch," he hissed, his hand closing tight about her neck and pulling her up to his eye-level, choking her in the process. "I've just about had it with you." He paused briskly and shot a quick glance her troops' way. "I wouldn't recommend it," he informed them and then focused on their choking leader again. "Imloth outranks you. So do I. When the battle starts, it's our commands you will listen to… and obey," he tightened his grip a bit underlining his words. "And that is what the training grounds are for – For you," he glanced around again, "all of you, to learn who to obey. Without question."

Abruptly, he pushed the female away and she fell on her back, coughing. His eyes ablaze, Valen turned on his heel and looked every surrounding soldier in the eye. Very few, if any, did not avert their gazes. They knew an angry demon when they see one and they knew better than to anger him further.

"Whoever wants to pull ranks," Valen's voice boomed over the grounds, "can do so now!" He waited for a few moments to see if anyone would take his challenge.

"You?" he glanced at the Maeviir soldier who had been the first to raise his sword a moment ago. The warrior flinched and stepped back.

"You?" he looked at the still-coughing female's second in command. She shook her head and backed away.

"You?" he spun about, addressing the priestess on the ground. She shot him a venomous glance but said nothing.

"Good. That settles it then." The training range was absolutely quiet. "Well…? What are you staring at?" Valen said menacingly.
"Back to your drill!"

The sudden roar echoed not only throughout the grounds but throughout the entire city as well. Even if all the troops were hasted, they couldn't have obeyed him faster. "I'll get you for this," the priestess promised silently as she passed him by. Valen smirked in amusement. "Any time," he mouthed tauntingly, watching her go.

Imloth tapped his shoulder. "I'll get you first," he promised.

Valen, arms folded across his chest, tilted his head to the side and smirked at the drow. "They're still easier to handle than tanar'ri, you know."

Imloht stared at his friend for a while before a grin spread on his face. "You know, you're not really as reckless as you make us believe," he chuckled.

Still smirking, Valen merely shrugged as if that went without saying. Far as recklessness went, maybe Imloth gave him a bit too much credit, but he knew full well what he was doing. Pulling ranks in such a brutal way served multiple purposes. First, he sorted out the proper chain of command and with the final battle so close at hand, it was about time he did, too. Second, by making it all revolve around station, he effectively diverted the Maeviir troops' attention from whatever they may have suspected went on in their House. And third, the whole display of brute force would come in very handy once they did find out what happened there.

The possibility of having another fight erupt right on the grounds after Tarnash finally came out (and whatever was taking him so damn long, by the way?) was a very real one. However, the image of a dangerous, unpredictable, roaring boulder of a tiefling would stay with the troops for quite a while. In the long run, it could spare them that fight after all. Not many were up to crossing weapons with him after his little display.

& & & & &

Gathered at the ground floor of the compound, the Maeviir rebels stared at their leader in silence. He stood in front of them breathing heavily, covered in blood from head to toe. Both blades drawn and a half-mask of pure shadows on his face, his eyes burned fiery red as he stared at them intently.

"Gather the fallen," he ordered the first wizard that met his gaze. "Search for survivors," he addressed a rogue. "Secure the perimeter," he instructed a warrior. All of them nodded and immediately set about their appointed tasks. The wizards would pile up the corpses for later animation, warriors would make sure no one entered yet and rogues would check how many wounded needed tending on either side of the coup.

It was only natural that many of the House defenders either dropped their weapons or joined the rebellious fraction as soon as their own defeat became evident. Such was the way of the drow. And such was their loyalty.

They were survivors, and to survive meant to be on the winning side.

But the Vhaerunites hadn't won the day yet. There were still House members left in the training grounds, oblivious to the events that took place inside the compound, and Tarnash couldn't confront them unless he had clear proof of the last noble Maeviir female's demise. To make matters more complicated, the Seer and her lot demanded either one or both females to be brought to them alive. With Cahlind's death, it became mandatory that Zesyyr stay alive. But without Zesyyr's death, Tarnash couldn't possibly bring the rest of the troops to order. Then again, without any Zesyyr at all, alive or otherwise, he could do absolutely nothing at all.

As he started up the stairs again, heading for his own quarters to fetch a bandage, Tarnash had a hard time determining which one of the prospects frustrated him the most.

& & & & &

"You want the matron, or just the head?"

Tarnash, crouching and searching his drawer furiously, jerked his head up, narrowly missing hitting the edge of his locker and muttered a curse. Damned sneaky little bitch! He never even knew she left a binding in here! In his own room!

"Should I be grateful you opened a portal here and not in my bath?" he grumbled sourly, continuing his search. And then her actual words sank in. He almost banged his head on the locker again.

Swiftly, he sprang up and turned to the dancer.

Shi'van froze. The mask… How long had it been since she last saw the Masked God's sign on someone's face? Close to two decades. Almost half of her life. It was like… it was like staring straight into the past. Like staring at a ghost. Her mouth open, she took a step back, almost stumbling over the sobbing body that lay at her feet.

Tarnash looked at her in puzzlement. The way she was staring at him, he honestly begun to wonder if maybe he sprouted another nose or something. The soft tingling on the skin of his upper face gave him the clue.

He grinned smugly and looked the dancer in the eye. All this time, he never saw her so stunned and certainly not speechless. He enjoyed the moment thoroughly.

A soft sob and a hushed growl beside her feet brought Shi'van back to her senses somewhat. She kicked the body on the ground once.

"They're through with her," she stated, a measure of control returning to her voice. Still, there was a tremor there that was not present before.

Tarnash stepped closer, grabbed Zesyyr's hair, looked at her and made a face.

"And it seems so are you," he snickered. "Pity I had to miss this party," he added wickedly, to Shi'van as much as Zesyyr.

Shi'van shrugged. "In the end it is your party," she looked at the body again. "I promised her once she'd find her death in the shadows. Guess I won't be keeping that promise."

"Guess you won't," Tarnash agreed, gabbed Zesyyr by the hair more firmly, lifted her up on her knees and spat in her face before dragging her away.

"Well what do you know? They were right after all," Shi'van heard him taunt further down the hallway, "Beauty is only skin deep."

There was a sound of some feeble struggling and then a muffled cry. "Come, come, now," came Tarnash's mocking voice again, "Let the House see the 'splendor that is its Matron'," he laughed and then ran down the stairs, Zesyyr's body smacking hard against stone every step of the way.

Shi'van scoffed and stepped into the shadows. In retrospect, the previous Matron, Matron Muryne, was much better than Zesyyr.

Zesyyr was worthless. Muryne earned her twenty thousand golds.

Silently, she found her way down and headed for the training grounds, wanting to see the conclusion of the day's events personally. Her mind was still in a haze. The image of the half-mask simply wouldn't leave her be.

& & &

Beauty is indeed skin-deep and "splendor" can take many forms. When an excited Vhaerunite crowd begun bashing the still-living body of their Matron prior to dragging her outside and off to the training grounds, they thought the sight to be splendid indeed.

In her last moments, Zesyyr Maeviir felt hard boots and leather lashes all over her defenseless body. She heared the mocking laughter and awful cheering as her noseless, deeply scarred, acid-bitten face with barely any skin left on it was shown around. Before she died, she was beaten, humiliated and spat at incessantly and there was not a single living member of her former House who hadn't seen her in her utter disgrace.

And her pride felt the bitter sting keenly every last step of the way.

& & & & &

Evening was almost at hand and the Maeviir turnover was nearly complete. The psionic smirked to himself and wrapped a towel around his naked hips. Had he bothered to dry himself, he probably wouldn't have left the wet footmarks on the temple floor, but he preferred to leave the warm drops of water to soak into his skin on their own.

His hair was still dripping wet when, invisible and unannounced, he entered the Seer's quarters and informed her of what he had learned. It seemed that a few of the escape routes remained undiscovered after all. Not that he cared. His business with the Seer was done and in an hour or so, as soon as he rested and replenished some of his spent mind power, he could finally go about his own.

There was one last thing to do in the doomed city before he left: find the shadowdancer and dive into her mind at last.

Hopefully, his hair will get a bit drier by then.

& & & & &

"Not a prisoner, I'm a free man
And my blood is my own now
Don't care where the past was
I know where I'm going ... Out!
"

Iron Maiden, "The Prisoner"

The training grounds were silent as death. They were also but a shadow breath away from becoming its playground.

A blood-covered drow battalion marched in. They smelled of death. They reeked of blood. Their burning eyes untamed. Their silence, a song of victory.

Tarnash lifted his head, blood on his chin and neck not crusted yet, strands of long white mane wild across his face, dozens of cuts and burns covering his entire body; his clothes and armor shredded and torn. His eyes were a feral flame, his smirk challenging and proud. An aura of power and leadership around him, a half-mask of purest shadow forming on his face in triumph.

Imloth clenched his jaw tightly. This was Tarnash, his killer and bitter rival, standing dark and unleashed, more dangerous than ever before. But even he had to admire the awe of the sight and though a bit grudgingly, he gave his rival a silent applause. Even Valen looked at the weapon master with a new measure of respect.

"What have you done?"

The gasp of the warrior-priestess broke the stunned silence. The muscles tensed. The teeth clenched. Nostrils widened. Hilts got gripped tight.

"Kolsen'shea orbb." Tarnash's voice was hushed, taunting and thick with sweet venom.

The priestess' eyes shot wide. "Kolsen'shea orbb!" "Pull the legs off a spider!" – a blasphemous phrase rarely anyone dared utter aloud and certainly, never in front of a female, let alone a priestess.

The snickering behind Tarnash's back landed on her ears even more ominously than the weapon master's blatant profanity.

The warriors behind her shifted uneasily. Some of them had enough sense to notice that they stood directly between the weapon master's troops in the front and the Elistraee followers to their backs. It only made their anxiety heighten. Whatever was happening, and worse yet, whatever was about to happen, had obviously been planned out way in advance.

Having your enemies outwit you was never a good thing. Having your allies do so was even worse.

Tarnash grinned wide and wicked and turned his head slightly. Two warriors from further within the ranks behind him returned the grin and begun pushing through to the front.

"Witness the 'splendor of your Matron'!" the weapon master laughed as the two warriors reached him dragging between them the beaten, clothes-torn body of the still-conscious Zesyyr.

Gasps of shocked anger and utter disbelief erupted from the entire range of the training grounds. Tarnash grabbed his captive by the hair and yanked her forward, forcing her head back, the gruesome sight of her face clear for all to see.

Pausing a moment to let the sight and all its implications settle in fully, Tarnash's right hand grasped his once more black-and-red glowing sword.

Next instant, the blade flashed free. A sudden hiss, a sickly gash, a gurgle, a twitch and spray of blood

The body fell with a thump. Arms wide, head severed, Zesyyr's corpse hit the ground.

The head stayed in Tarnash's grasp. He raised it high. Blood dripped from its neck. Vile cheers erupted behind him.

The priestess in front of him screamed.

"SACRILEGE!"

"Bliss."

The purr cut her ears as the sharpest of knives. She felt the ground being pulled from underneath her feet. A sacrilege. A rebellion. …A demise.

The word of L'loth, the might of her priestesses, the unquestioning obedience the females demanded and received as their undeniable right, their rule and their station, their power and their lives – it all revolved around the unshakable foundations of the Spider Queen's adamant doctrine. They were females; thus they were supreme.

But suddenly, things were not that way any more.

With the Spider Queen gone, changes occurred. The world of all drow, the entire Underdark, fell into chaos and war. In Menzoberanzzan, a new leader rose up. Up from the rank of a Matron Mother, Sinvyl Bar'ritar secured the aid of the arch duke of Cania and proclaimed herself the Valsharess; the new Queen, instead of the old one. But even so, the cult of the female remained intact.

Not any more.

The priestess watched in rising horror as the rebellious male held the head of the last Maeviir Matron high, his flame-eyed followers cheering with their weapons raised and her own troops dwindling and growing uncertain and scared. Especially the females. Females, like herself.

All of a sudden, the pedestal of supremacy was roughly kicked from underneath their feet and the force of the impact threatened to land them down on their knees. Suddenly, they were not so untouchable any more. Suddenly, they had only their own skill and prowess to rely on. Suddenly, no shields of station that was their birth right were there to protect them from their lessers' wrath. They were on their own. And mighty as they were, without the goes-without-saying superiority, they could not hope to prevail.

The word of L'loth meant nothing any more! The realization struck the priestess speechless. The word of L'loth… It was always feared; it was always obeyed… It was always the law! It was the strongest weapon she had. The idea of disobeying it… It was Impossible!

But yet, this male defied her. He dared do the unthinkable, and now, she was disarmed and helpless. And that made her enraged.

Being scared can do that to people.

"You'll pay for your impudence!" she snarled, "The goddess shall not tolerate…"

"What goddess?" Tarnash's said coldly. "The missing impotent one?"

The female's eyes darted from Tarnash to the headless corpse on the ground and back.

"The goddess you just insulted," she hissed threateningly, "The goddess who'll turn you into a drider for this."

That was it. The ultimate punishment in the L'lothian society. The most feared fate of them all. The most dire weapon in the priestesses arsenal… The final threat she had left.

The hearty, mocking laughter that erupted from the weapon master's chest shattered her last illusions of cowing the rebellious lot into obedience. A dreadful sense of thuulstrea, the anticipation of impending death, rose within her like a flood, threatening to drown her and everything else on its way.

Her eyes turned wrathful slits. She had nothing more to lose.

"Idiot! Arrogant, stupid idiot! As if you didn't know! We could have had it all! All! Our Matron allied herself with the Valsharess! We would have won the day! We would have risen to glory and smothered these moon-kissing weaklings to dust! We would have lived!"

Her outburst rose above the heads of all present like a cloud of doom. Almost every pair of eyes went wide in shock. Valen growled low and swung his flail menacingly. Imloth's blades left their scabbards with a hiss. Two factions of drow in training stared at each other hostilely over bared weapons. One could almost feel the lightning storm crackling in the air. Thuulstrea now hung over them all.

The Meviir troops stared at the Vhaerunites breathlessly. What they just heard sent ripples of anger and doubt through every black heart. Those behind Tarnash who weren't so drunk with victory shifted uneasily too. The implications of soon-to-be-dead priestess' words rang a clear note of disaster in their minds.

Disaster…

The Valsharess' troops outnumbered them at least ten to one and that was without counting the fodder. Defensible as Lith My'athar was, they still doubted that blood wouldn't soak the city streets once the attack began. Many of them would die before that day ended. None of them fancied the prospect too much, but had they stayed allied with the invaders…

Had they stayed allies with the Valsharess, they'd turn on the Ellistraee defenders and the battle would have been won before it even begun. They would indeed march to victory afterwards, but now that hope was lost.

Without the Matron to guide them, without the Matron as their recognized leader, even if they did turn against their current allies, they still wouldn't accomplish much. By the time Valsharess' troops realized they were on the same side, almost all of them would be lying dead. In their eyes, Tarnash's actions sentenced them all to death.

His followers were suddenly not so certain about everything; they began exchanging glances and quick signs amongst themselves. It was clear to them that there was no going back now, but still… The wisest thing to do would be to silently slip away, use the escape routes that were already prepared and disappear altogether. But now, that plan seemed hardly likely. The Ellistraee followers heard it all and they would undoubtedly be on their heels the moment they tried to escape. Their only other option was to remain in the city… and, most likely, die.

Suddenly, their leader's actions did not seem so wise any more.

Throughout the rising tension, Tarnash remained perfectly calm. Imloth, angered as he was, had to silently congratulate him. If he had killed the priestess when she first started shouting, it would seem like he was unprepared to face whatever she had to launch his way. He remained composed, however, and that in turn gave the impression that he was ready to parry whatever blow she had in store. Imloth only hoped that the impression was a correct one.

When he finally spoke, Tarnash's voice matched his cold, composed stance perfectly.

"Are you so certain of your own weakness," he asked the priestess slowly, "that you believe the defeat inevitable? Do you truly believe that your only way to victory and survival is an alliance with the Valsharess? Do you truly wish to be her slave?"

Before the female could answer, a voice cried out from the crowd. "She has an arch-devil on her side!"

"And we," Tarnash countered unperturbed, "have a God."

It seemed to him from the very moment the priestess began her heated tantrum that the shadows around the training grounds deepened somewhat, and he was certain he saw the red-and-gold glow somewhere within them. Now he knew he wasn't wrong.

A gust of darkness shot out from the ground. Swiftly, it swirled up, coiling around the priestess' body, turning into a fiendish snake-like shadow with eyes that glowed a hungry blood red. Before the female could even begin a scream, the shadow fiend reached her neck, wrapped it tight and opened its jaw impossibly wide. Next instant, the snake head shot down, swallowing its prey head to toe and in a wisp of darkest smoke, disappeared into the ground.

What followed was a moment of perfect silence. Dozens of eyes glowed from the shadows, red, yellow and gold, their ominous flickering clear for all to see.

"We have a God," Tarnash repeated quietly. "And the Masked Lord looks after his own." His next words came out as a sudden, triumphant shout."Vhaeraun is with us," he raised his blade high, "And to Hell with the devil and his consort bitch!" he roared and flung Zesyyr's head high, launching it clear across the training grounds and straight into the waiting shadows' jaws.

"Victory!" a voice cried out behind him.

"Victory!" a dozen more joined the first.

"VICTORY!" the entire training grounds erupted in cheers, and the cheering lasted long and good.

But not all of those present cheered nor were they too comfortable with the events that took place. Some of the Maeviir soldiers were not overly pleased at the outcome. All of the Ellistraee followers felt a sudden chill grip their hearts. The dark god's presence did not sit well with their guts. At all.

Imloth breathed in deeply to steady himself and put his swords back in their scabbards. Valen scanned the grounds carefully, looking for signs of any further trouble that could come up, but his eyes constantly darted off to the beheaded corpse of…

…His lover? Can it be, he wondered, that he was actually touching that body? That he caressed it, kissed it, held it…? And never saw it for the spider it was? How distant it all seemed now. And how impossible. It would be a while before he manages to shake off those memories and – yes, he had to admit – the shame he felt for being so stupid and so blind. But, he smirked grimly, staring at the bloodied, headless corpse on the ground was proving to be rather helpful in that matter. He was watching it, intently. The sight filled his heart with dark satisfaction.

The shadows around were slowly turning back to normal once more, the glowing eyes within them fading away. All, save for one pair. And those glowed not yellow or red, but deep dark emerald instead.

& & & & &

Back inside the temple, the Seer shuddered as a sudden sense of uneasiness washed over her. A cold breeze from the river briefly passed through the temple. But that wasn't why she shuddered so. No, it was something else that sent the icy chills creeping up her spine. Or, more precisely, it was someone.

The Seer, a priestess of Ellistraee, felt the dark presence of the Masked God of Night keenly. She knew it was only a matter of time before he manifested himself in that way. She was not comfortable with it at all.

She could only hope that it wouldn't make matters even worse.

& & & & &

Shi'van placed her palms on the wall behind her, leaned back and quivered slightly. A small, tentative flame lit up somewhere inside her. She breathed in deeply and threw her head back, resting it against the wall and letting the coldness of stone on her skin ease her back into reality. There were too many ghosts seen this day. Too many shadows… Too much to face at once.

The shadows condensed around her, pulling her in. She didn't even put a conscious effort into it. It always happened when she was distressed, when she needed to be alone. Karandras nudged her chin gently. She opened her eyes, looking at the beast over the curve of her cheek bones. She lifted a hand up lazily and placed it on the wolf's shadowy neck, her fingers sinking into his half-material dark fur.

"You're one of his, aren't you?" she whispered. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as she rubbed the fiend's neck fondly.

Karandras imparted no thoughts, just stood silent and observed his soul-bonded companion intently, his eyes glowing deep yellow gold.

"I know you are," she smiled and scrubbed him behind his ears. "Go," her hand slipped down his muzzle and she pushed his head aside. "Go eat a rothe. Have fun. Spy around. I need to think."

Karandras made a noise in his throat that she knew was a light chuckle and licked her nose once before trotting away. She shifted a few inches to the side and this time, summoned the shadows around her on purpose, wrapped herself in them as one might wrap into a cloak and closed her eyes.

Vhaeraun…

The god was here. She knew it. She felt it. It was all too familiar. She could almost feel the itchy taste of sand on her tongue again. The tiny flame inside her flickered heated red. It wasn't big, barely a small piece of coal that remained in the burnt out ashes of her soul. Not enough to warm her up, but enough to make her a bit less cold. Not enough to burn her, but enough to bring a dull bee-sting of pain to her heart. But what's a bee compared to the vastness of the void? What's a flame if it burns only as a smallest candle in the middle of an endless night?

She'd spend the night wondering alone, trying to find her answer.

& & & & &

Still fighting her tremor, the Seer walked over to the mirror and gazed into it's depths. Next moment, she gasped and stepped away, clutching the edge of the table for support.

She checked on the Valsharess' army and her army was close… and vaster then ever before.

"What is it, Seer?" Lavoara asked quickly coming to her side.

The Seer shook, picked up a glass of water and downed it in one gulp in an attempt to steady herself. It was not that she hadn't anticipated this but… so many.

There, in the depths of the mirror, she saw the march of the army of darkness.

Drow and duergar, walked in organized lines, in front of them, a rolling mass of green – thousands of orc and goblin slaves driven forward with whips and curses. The fodder: meat for the sword.

Flanking the army rode an elite force of dreaded drow lizard riders, their death lances hungering for living flesh. Their large lizard mounts, the Cold Ones, with their sticky feet and agile bodies, ran swiftly along the narrow walls and the ceiling alike.

Way back and in the middle came the casters, both duergar and drow. Off to the sides, an occasional flicker of movement could be seen in the shadows – the Red Sisters and the scouts, unseen and deadly, ready to rain death from the dark.

But, as impressive and frightening as that sight alone was, it was nothing compared to the force that followed – The Baatezu!

Marching in not-so-organized lines, rolled a force of large humanoids with clawed hands, long tails and foul snake-like beards, each carrying a cruel saw-toothed glaive. A slightly smaller group of huge cornugons flanked them and kept the volatile barbazu in line.

Down from the ceiling and around the stalactites swooped a force of large winged, lizard-like creatures, their scales flickering black or green and, occasionally, red. At the end of their tails small stingers dripped venom; their powerful claws flexed eagerly in anticipation of the oncoming slaughter. Some of them, however, walked instead of flying and several of them even changed their appearance into the likeness of drow, orcs and even humans and surface elves.

Behind them all came the true force of the baatezu, few in number, but the most powerful of all. There was six of them: twelve-foot-high monstrosities, with insect-like bodies and huge claws on both arms and legs, marched along. Their multi-faceted eyes scanned their surroundings and their long tails, covered with sharp spikes, swished slowly. Where they walked, the air seemed to freeze; thin layers of ice formed where they stepped. The Seer recognized them as the fearsome gelugon; the only baatezu native to the frigid eighth layer of Hell, Cania. The creatures were only one step removed from the mightiest of all baatezu – the pit fiends. Pit fiends, like the one that marched at the head of the army of fiends!

-

If anyone could have seen invisibility-covered creatures, they would have seen a pair of wide psionic eyes off to the side.

Kimmuriel gulped silently and mouthed a testy curse. Damn Sinvyl and her baatezu lot! With the new army marching at Lith My'athar, the importance of one shadowdancing iblith increased ten times over. A wild card, and of a most unreliable sort at that, but with the final twist of events, perhaps the last hope they had left of bringing Sinvyl down.

Well, if one believed in prophecies, that is. Or, if one relied on Sinvyl's interest in the dancer being of real importance. In spite of his better judgment, Kimmuriel found himself thinking exactly that. With another testy curse, he quickly slipped through the door and into the streets.

Somewhere in the streets, there was a shadowdancer. Now, there was one extremely distressed psionic stalking them as well. Soon, the two would meet, and it would be a meeting neither one of them would soon forget.

-

Standing by the Seer's side, Lavoara peeked over her shoulder and looked into the mirror. She, too, gave a sound gasp.

"By Elisyum…" she whispered.

"What be wrong?" Deekin who was previously busy chanting and singing over the globes, finally noticed the two females' distress. Quickly, he scurried over to join them, propped himself up on the chair and took a look at the mirror.

"Oooh… That not be good," he exclaimed a second later and then looked up at Lavoara. "You knows what these be, maybes?"

Swallowing hard, Lavoara just nodded. The Seer was a bit more composed.

"They are devils, Deekin."she told him, "Many devils,"

"They be real scary devils… " the kobold concluded sagely, "Deekin thinks maybes you calls goat-man now? He knows how to fights devils he says, so…"

The Seer stared at Deekin for a while. Yes, she had to call Valen. In fact, she had to summon a meeting of all the commanders! But… even she wasn't sure how the Blood Wars scarred tiefling would react to this sight. Then again, better she find out now than later, when the fearsome army arrived at the gates of Lith My'athar. Besides, even though they anticipated the possibility of some baatezu joining the Valsharess' army, no one expected they would come in such great numbers.

They needed to adjust their tactics. They needed to see to the morale of their troops. They needed Valen to tell them how to fight those creatures. They needed to summon a meeting at once!

They needed to…

The Seer drew a chair and sat down.

"Maybe we erred in going after the Valsharess' allies after all," she said quietly to no one in particular. "Now that her allies are destroyed, she summoned even greater ones to her side…"she murmured solemnly "I should have foreseen this." She took another glance at the mirror. "We must give it to her – She managed to outplay us after all."

& & & & &

"Born from the dark
In the black cloak of night
To envelop its prey below
Deliver to the light
You know your worth when your enemies
Praise your architecture of aggression
"

Megadeth, "Architecture Of Aggression"


And thus fell House Maeviir. For all those who wished a gruesome death for Zes, hope this satisfies you. And for all those who wondered about why was Sinvyl smiling – I guess now you know. ;)

Penname wa Silver B: Well, I hope this was enough Shi'van for you. (grin) And there's much more blood flying around now – and not just on sandwiches.

Essence Silverdragon: Ah, long time no hear! Glad you're still reading. I have many fans checking this? Huh, I figured as much… Now, if they'd only review more… Oh, and "Don't you hate it when real life keeps you from having fun?" -I wouldn't know – I don't have a real life. (grin)

euphorbic: Once again: Thankyouthankyouthankyou…! You're perceptive as ever – Imloth was indeed a petty bastard there. About Valen abuse… we'll arrange something. And as far as Kim goes… Well, all the nakedness in this chapter I officially dedicate to you! Happy? ;)

Lord Onisyr: Yeah, I too am fond of that sandwich scene – wrote it moths ago and just waited for a convenient moment to slip it in. But the real madness is in this chapter, as you saw.. and liked, I hope. ;)

Wolf-Kin: Ah, so the countdown worked, eh? Good – it was a last-moment idea and I'm glad it did the trick. As you can see, I didn't leave you waiting too long. Hope that counts for something. ;)