The Clash of Shadows

by WitchWolf

Shi'van Darkblade is a shadowdancer, and Valen Shadowbreath hates her guts. Not only does he not trust her – he also wants her dead. Repeatedly. And for good reasons, too. But death would have been too merciful...

37. Sex and Death

Note: Didn't take that long to write this one. Took ages to edit it. I'm still not satisfied with the bloody death scene, but... I just couldn't stare at it any longer. Hopefully, it's not written too badly.
And on that note, with the chapter title like this, do I even need to say this? Graphic sex and violence ahead - far less sex, far more violence. Consider yourselves forewarned.

Glossary:
waelin - kids (young fools)
Elg'caress - Bitch
Iblith srow - Iblith scum
In'loil d' shu - piece of shit
Vith'ir - fuck you
Asanque - likewise (no double meaning this time around)
D'aerthe - Whore
Xsa'ol - dammit

---

The Clash of Shadows

chapter 24

Sex & Death

"I'm coming all the way
I've got some hell to pay
Gonna rip you all the way
On my way down again"
("Lecher Bitch," Genitorturers)

The cavern was easily as large as the one that housed Lith My'athar, but with far more wide, open paths leading in and out of it.

The walls, sharp and vertical at some spots and gently sloping at others, were crisscrossed by numerous walkways of varying widths; both natural and carved, they offered access to the higher portions of the cave and many smaller side-caverns therein. The ceiling in the northern portion was high – more than three hundred feet – with narrow canals leading all the way to the surface, opening into tiny fissures along the mountain side and funneling fresh air into the cavern deep below.

Fungus and lichen growth in the southern portion coupled with a pool of water, filed from some undercurrent beneath the floor, once made this place a home of wandering herds of wild rothe. The herds had been long extinguished, though, and the predators that hunted them soon shared their fate, leaving the exploitation of the precious resources to far more dangerous denizens of the Underdark. The merchant caravans that made their trade between Skullport and various cities of the Upperdark and Middledark now claimed the large cavern as their own.

The cavern floor had been flattened smooth by countless feet that traversed it. Natural depressions were stained by ashes of campfires, large mounds near cavern entries were chiseled and molded into sentry points. The crossroads was a perfect spot for large caravans to break camp, restock their supplies and catch some rest. Frequently, several caravans would camp in the cavern at once. In time, by an unspoken consensus, the cavern became something of a safe-zone – If fights were to be had, they were to be had elsewhere; upon entering the large camp, rivalries were left outside. In fact, often enough, the cavern would turn into impromptu marketplace, with caravans trading both goods and news amongst themselves.

The cavern was full at the moment. But not of merchants.

The entry points were guarded. Sentries, both seen and unseen held their posts. Scouts prowled the darkness further ahead. Slave herders watched over their packs nearby; every now and again, a game of "nail a goblin to the wall" or "how many orcs can you knock down with a single whip strike" would erupt to pass the time. Little way behind them, supply carts stood guarded by drow taskmasters while the pack animals, lizard and rothe alike, rested and grazed further to the south under the watchful eyes of armed bugbear slaves.

Lizards grazed close to the pool, their riders lounging close by, keeping an eye on their dangerous mounts. And on each other.

On the far north-eastern end of the cavern, somber duergar mercenaries kept their own company. Coin was what they were after; socializing with drow any further than absolutely necessary was not to their tastes. On the far south-eastern end, another solitary group kept to themselves. Both duergar and drow would rather mingle with each other than with them.

Now that the army marching from Menzoberranzan and the deployment led by the Valsharess merged again, the baatezu numbers increased. Bethurru had disappeared shortly after the Lith My'athar battle to take care of some private business (presumably, something to do with the celestial he had acquired), so another pit fiend general, a female by the name of Izar, now commanded the whole of the baatezu army. It was deemed appropriate that a female should be the one to march alongside Menzoberranzan troops and it only seemed appropriate that she keeps a higher rank in baatezu command chain now. It mattered not to either pit fiend involved, but it did keep the drow assembled happy. As happy as mortals could be while marching alongside infernal troops, that is.

In between those two groups, drow foot soldiers and casters filled the camp space from end to end, but if one took a closer look, one would notice that the camp wasn't as unified as it might have appeared at the first glance. While the soldiers were organized in mixed groups according to their function and stations, representatives of individual Houses did not mingle much. Several groups of two or more minotaurs stood rigid and alert around separate "camp isles", the bodyguard slaves guarding their charges with outmost care.

There were more than fifty Houses in Menzoberranzan; insignias of almost every single one were on display in the cave. What Houses were too small or too weak to spend soldiers supplied slave fodder, provisions or coin to finance the venture. If one were to observe the camp from above and pay attention to the ongoing undercurrents - how close particular individuals camped to one another, the glances they tossed each other's way and so on – one could get a fair reading of the current social and political situation of Menzoberranzan.

Whether they were persuaded or coerced into this venture, every House recognized this as an opportunity to increase its influence and undermine its opponents' further by every mean available. Short of assassination and open feuds, that is. The Valsharess strictly prohibited those practices while her army was on the move. Izar and her troops were there to insure that, among other things. But drow were nothing if not creative when it came to subtle intrigues and cloak-and-dagger dealings with one another. The camp, as a result, could have been compared to the still surface of Donnigarten Lake with more dark ripples beneath than there were demons in the Abyss.

Up from her vantage point on a northeastern walkway, some eighty feet above the encampment, Sinvyl observed the silent games and smiled. She knew many down there had strong feelings of déjà vu; Matron Baenre's failed attack on the surface was still a fresh memory in many minds. Sinvyl was content to let the memory linger like a dark fog above her army. The anxiety and continued doubts about her undertaking that created suited her perfectly: The failure of the most powerful Matron Menzoberranzan ever knew would only serve to highlight her own success even better.

Her smile turned a lighter shade of lust as her eyes caught sight of a figure swiftly approaching the walkway. She deliberately deprived herself of her newest pet's company for a while. She wanted to assess the little nek's scouting and hunting abilities. Their march from Lith My'athar offered a perfect opportunity to do so. But now, she wanted her back at her side. She was pleased to see the dancer answered her summons immediately.

Shi'van climbed the walkway with a light smirk plastered on her face. Aware of the many eyes following her progress, she pointedly walked with her head up, meeting any gaze that fell on her face openly, with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. They couldn't touch her, she knew, not in the open anyway. Many would gladly plant a dagger in her back simply because she was the Valsharess' favorite toy for the time being. Sooner or later, that would change – be it a matter of days, weeks or years, Sinvyl would eventually get tired of her pet and find herself a new one. But for now, Shi'van had a position in her bed and outside the regular chain of command and she exercised the privileges her station afforded to the fullest. Of course, she had to watch her back carefully nonetheless: regardless of her standing with Sinvyl, there were always those willing to risk a stab in the dark. Her potential assassins probably counted on the fact that, for all her eccentricity, Sinvyl did not suffer incompetence in her subordinates; should she fall prey to an unseen blade, than she wasn't worthy of her position in the first place. But those were the blades that would be trained on her out of sight. Right now, as she made her way up towards her mistress, she enjoyed the privilege of virtual invulnerability.

Sinvyl smiled at her approach. The moment the dancer reached the platform-like ledge she was standing on, she turned around and motioned for the dancer to follow. The dancer obeyed, wordlessly, privately wondering what amusement Sinvyl had in stash for the two of them this time.

While they were still resting in the city, she had played what ssinssrigg games pleased her at the moment. She always liked a good threesome and she had been most keen on getting the dancer to enjoy male company more. Some males even survived. But on the other hand, Sinvyl would not neglect her previous regular bed partners either. Shi'van mused whether Sinvyl finally got tired of forcing males upon her and, should that be the case, would it be another Red Sister in bed with them again. While her own standing with Sinvyl had been good, the Sisters still held higher ranks than she. Their station extended to bed activities as well. Shi'van almost found herself wishing for a male instead of Faer'tyrr on occasion – when there was a male present, he would be the one to take the most punishment, not her. She chuckled privately as it occurred to her that that may have been Sinvyl's design all along.

Three female guards were posted on each side of the short corridor they had entered. They were both warriors and priestesses, their insignias marking them as Sinvyl's personal retinue. Fifty winding feet ahead, the opening to the smaller cavern serving as Sinvyl's quarters for the occasion was guarded on each side by another female. Finely designed adamantine chainshirts, exquisite spider-shaped tiaras and trademark flails of House Bar'ritar marked those two as not only members of Sinvyl's House but possibly, her cousins as well. Both bowed to Sinvyl as she approached; both were wise enough to hold back their sneers of contempt when the dancer walked by. Their Matron's bed pets were rarely a lasting merchandise; there was no point in wasting time on disdain.

Between them, a large, heavy drape was drawn across the entrance; deceptively easy to draw aside, the drapery, Shi'van knew, bore heavy enchantments, making it impossible to move unless a proper trigger word was spoken and Sinvyl's House insignia flashed before it. Sinvyl whispered a password under her breath and tossed the cloth aside.

She snapped her fingers and pointed towards the guards. Still smirking, Shi'van removed her twin saber belts and placed them against the wall, next to the female guard's foot. She looked at Sinvyl and a side of her lip curved up knowingly; she made a show of raising her right hand and pointedly removing the leather bracer that housed Zesyyr's acidic stiletto. She placed the thing next to her sabers and grinned. Sinvyl ginned back. Unlike many drow, the dancer never took to keeping an additional blade hidden in her boot. By her own words, she could never make the damned thing fit right and it always made her uncomfortable as a result. Satisfied that her dangerous pet was now properly unarmed, the drow placed her hand on the dancer's butt and ushered her in.

The interior of Sinvyl's private cavern had been furnished and decorated in a luxurious manner, striking a stark contrast to the sparing accommodations the rest of her army enjoyed. Roughly nine times ten feet across, the floor had been chiseled smooth by the slaves of caravan masters centuries ago. Now, the floor sported a fine rug with a stylized spider embroidered on it in red and black. Draperies with similar designs lined the walls, giving the entire place a weird, almost cozy feel. If one disregarded the actual scenes depicted on the draperies, that is.

Several thin, spear-like stalactites reached down from the ceiling, their tips ending about six feet above the ground. Small holes had been carved into them, their purpose clearly denoted by the lines of dried wax clinging to the sides. Smaller, rounded holes were also in evidence and it was in these openings that several enchanted marbles were inserted in, emanating soft Faerie Fire light.

Straight ahead, in the middle of the chamber, placed between two low-hanging light-sources, a rather large bone-made table had been placed. Next to it stood a few chairs made of the same material. Viewed in darkvision, the cushions on the chairs would still radiate heat; in normal vision, the crumpled appearance still indicated someone sat in them not so long ago. The table was covered with maps, the topmost marking their current location and the one just beneath it outlining the main attack plan in the large trade tunnel less than two miles from main Underdark entrance to Skullport. Regardless of the camp, war councils never ceased...

To the left stood a smaller table of similar design with a bowl of fruit and several plates of various delicacies spread on top. Next to it stood a cupboard with a few bottles of fine beverages, tall crystal glasses placed beside them. Shi'van cocked her head, bit her finger and grinned at her mistress appreciatively. Wherever she went, Sinvyl never failed to treat herself to finer things in life.

Smiling, the drow gave her pet a once-over and chuckled.

"My, my, the rigors of wild Underdark sure left their trace on you. Look at how skinny you became." She tapped a finger against her lips. "We should really feed you more."

Shi'van took a glance at the table in quick assessment of the gastronomic display. "So," she smiled and helped herself to a juicy piece of spiced rothe, "Whose heart are we having tonight?"

"Nek! That is so gross!" Sinvyl scolded with a laugh and moved behind the dancer to reach the bottles on the cupboard. "Hearts indeed…" she scoffed, picking out several bottles and a tall glass. "Where in the Underdark are you getting such tasteless ideas, I'd like to know," she went on while shaking her head. "Everybody knows hearts are only good for offering in a sacrifice," she finished with a snigger and begun making herself a multi-colored cocktail.

Shi'van chortled and popped another snack-thing in her mouth. "You should see the stuff they eat in Sigil," she chuckled softly.

Sinvyl paused her cocktail-making and regarded the dancer curiously. She always spoke so quietly, almost whispering, even when she laughed. It was common among the drow to keep their voices hushed, but the dancer sounded almost as if her throat was constrained. Upon her return from the Wilds, it was only natural she would be even more quiet than usual. Still, Sinvyl did not want to strain her ears just to hear her speak.

"We'll have to do something about that throat of yours," she murmured. The dancer had long told her her throat indeed hurt when she tried to speak louder; an old wound, she said, that had a way of acting up when least expected. Sinvyl believed her; after all, the dancer did have a lovely scar to back her statement up. Apparently, her priest father once cast a spell of slow healing on her. Apparently, the spell never worked fully. Sinvyl scoffed inwardly – just the performance you'd expect from an insignificant male cleric of an insignificant male deity. She looked at the dancer happily experimenting with various sauces and spices and brushed the thought aside. The almost-too-quiet voice issue could wait.

"So, what do they eat in Sigil?"

The dancer shrugged. "Eh… all sorts of things. Bugs on a stick with sulfur topping…" Sinvyl looked at her incredulously. The dancer gave her a "look". "For tieflings and the like," she clarified. Sinvyl grinned at the notion.

"Reputedly, the tiefling survived the assault, you know," she said with a lustful undertone. "But we still haven't located him… " she finished with a sad little shrug. Shi'van sighed in mock relief.

"No doubt you'll want him in bed with us the moment you catch him." Scoffed Shi'van sourly. Sinvyl's eyes lit up brightly.

"He's three times my size and weight," the dancer complained. "You'd be better off having him mate with minotaurs," she added with a wink, "He'd improve the breeding pool like no one's business."

Sinvyl laughed. "You don't like him, I take it?"

Shi'van shrugged. "I can live just fine without his muzzle around. I don't want to bed him, that's for sure."

"Hmmm…. Then perhaps when we catch him, I'll share him with Faer'tyrr instead of you. …After I get my fill, of course," Sinvyl mused before waving the topic aside for later rumination.

"So, what else do they eat in Sigil?"

"Ummm… fried elf?"

Sinvyl perked up. "Surface?" The dancer laughed evilly:

"All kinds."

Sinvyl pursed her lips in a pout and resumed making her cocktail.

"Larvae steak is always popular," the dancer rambled on between bites.

Sinvyl licked her lips. Stake made of dead souls reformed in petitioner Planar flesh tingled her palate something sweet.

"And illihtid brain's considered a rare delicacy," Shi'van continued her account of fine Sigil cuisine.

Sinvyl almost choked on her drink. "Enough!" she snapped and slapped the dancer on the back of her head. "That is disgusting! So… " she fished for the right word, "…gooey!"

Shi'van looked up for a moment, memories of a certain Elder Brain suddenly entering her mind. "You have no idea…"

Sinvyl picked up the cue immediately. "Now, don't tell me you actually ate the thing! " she asked in mock horror. "I never thought the rebels were that desperate! "

Shi'van shook her head. "Rothe Island? Remember? There was food enough." She experimentally dipped a finger into another sauce, then licked it off and smacked her lips with obvious pleasure. "But nothing this good."

Sinvyl smiled, but her thoughts still dwelled on the aforementioned Elder Brain. "You might as well have eaten it," she mused quietly, "It served its purpose long before you attacked Zorvak'mur."

Shi'van blinked. "How so? The Seer was pretty certain she was dealing you a good blow with destroying the mind flayers."

Sinvyl threw her head back and laughed heartily. "Yes. She was also certain that destroying my few allies in the area was a good idea to begin with." She would have summoned the baatezu either way, of course – a fair number of them was already marching alongside Menzoberranzan troops after all – but in truth, she probably would not have summoned that many had her other allies remained (relatively) intact.

Shi'van shared her mirth, but not fully. She was still puzzled by the Elder Brain remark. "So… What did the Elder Brain do, than?"

Sinvyl laughed even harder. "Spelled the Seer's doom," she said cockily and looked at her pet in amusement. How long would it take her to work it out, she wondered.

Shi'van frowned, attempting to do exactly that. Elder Brain… The Seer's doom… Nathyrra! She snapped her head up and looked at Sinvyl quizzically. Sinvyl grinned.

"There was a negotiating party in Zorvak'mur…" she purred.

"So… The Elder Brain made Nathyrra turn coat?" The dancer guessed, but it was clear from her tone she didn't quite believe it. Sinvyl grinned again.

"No. She did it herself." Seeing her pet cock her head like a surface child expecting a bedtime story made her burst into chuckles. "All right, all right, I'll tell you," she said sweetly and patted the dancer's head patronizingly. She produced a now-darkened dagger from her belt.

"See this? It belonged to Nathyrra once." She twirled the dagger in her hand, catching reflections of Faerie Fire on the blade. "Almost all high ranking Red Sisters have them. Better yet, I do." The dancer blinked and scratched her cheek with one finger.

"And…?"

Sinvyl grinned and took a sip of her drink. "Patience, nek – The secret of good story-telling lies in creating suspension," she chuckled before she went on. "Nathyrra always had doubts in her mind, you know."

The dancer nodded. Nathyrra indeed had. While it hadn't been that apparent at first, the tell-tale signs only grew in number over time, readily on display for those who knew what to look for.

"And she was foolish. But in the end, that served my purpose wonderfully. She was a good assassin in her own rights; I wasn't all that pleased with her defection at first. But then… I knew I could still find some use for her, one way or another. As it happened, in the end she made herself useful with no prompting from me at all." Sinvyl paused and smiled a self-satisfied smile, reveling in the pure beauty of the complexity of the webs she had weaved.

"You see, when the fools went to negotiate with the illihtids," she continued her little tale and the tone of her voice clearly stated how big a fools she took the Seer's forces for, "the Elder Brain sensed her doubts immediately."

"And reported them to you," the dancer drew a corollary.

"Of course. And that, in fact, was all the creature really did. Merely by touching on her buried doubts, the Elder Brain helped them drift closer to the surface. It only served to slightly speed up what would have happened anyway. Nathyrra was always a bit spineless, after all."

The dancer nodded thoughtfully. "She wanted to be on the winning side…"

"Like you do," Sinvyl baited slyly.

Shi'van grinned and looked her in the eye. "Yes, but unlike Nathyrra, I made the right choice."

Sinvyl laughed and set about making another cocktail.

"All right, but how does the dagger figure into it?" Shi'van asked.

"Ah, yes. The dagger. See," Sinvyl twirled the dagger again while pouring some purple liquid on top of a yellow layer beneath with her other hand, "it's a really simple crafting spell there. A drop of blood plus steel plus a forge plus a spell equals a dagger attuned to the person whose blood you used."

The dancer frowned and started arranging sauced meat, cut mushrooms, fruit pieces and slices on cheese on toothpicks, piling up her handiwork on a large plate before her. "A scrying device?"

"No," Sinvyl shook her head and reached for another bottle, "That sort of thing requires stronger enchantments. No, this is merely attunement." She picked the dagger again and slowly, inserted it beneath the line of stitching on the shoulder of the dancer's sleeveless shirt. With a flick of her wrist, she cut into the fabric and slid the blade towards the collar. "Color and heat are indicative of the attunee's mood and mindset. General reading, is all."

"But it kept you in the know just the same, yes? You think I should dip the bread chops into hot sauce right away?" Shi'van asked as the right side of her shirt slipped down, revealing one small tit and a good part of her belly.

Sinvyl switched the blade to her left hand and started on the other side of the dancer's shirt while placing her chin on her pet's right shoulder. She gave the plate a critical look.

"No. Leave it as it is and bring the sauce along. It'll get soggy otherwise."

Shi'van nodded. "All right. So," she turned her head and nudged Sinvyl's cheek lightly, "You kept your eye on Nathyrra from afar all along? Smooth…"

Sinvyl bit her ear and finished cutting her shirt off. The cloth fell down, leaving the dancer naked from the waist up. "Yes." She chuckled smugly. "No assassin of mine could ever get that close to the Seer, you know."

"But you didn't actually know Nathyrra would turn coat in the end, did you?"

Sinvyl laughed, stepped away and placed the dagger on the table. "No, I did not. But there was a possibility of that happening. That's why it always pays to keep some wild cards in the deck. Sooner or later, there's always some use for them," she finished wryly, sizing the dancer up. She picked up the glasses, careful not to mix the multicolored layers in them, and motioned to the dancer to take the plate and follow.

Past the three large chests resting against the wall to the right - the one in the middle open, with fine silk gown visible at the top – there was another passage. Half-hidden by another drapery, the short corridor was barely three feet wide and led slightly upwards. At its end, it opened into a smaller side-chamber, its floor and walls similarly adorned with rugs and its center dominated by a large bed. Shi'van was pleasantly surprised to find neither a tied-up male nor a stretching female waited in the chamber for them.

"Just the two of us?" she smiled at her mistress. "I like that…"

Sinvyl grinned and urged the dancer to place the plate on a night table next to the bed. "Just the two of us this time. Mind you," she smirked and trailed a hand down the dancer's breast, "that means you'll have to work twice as hard to please me tonight."

Shi'van bowed and bit her nipple lightly. "The pleasure is all mine."

Sinvyl grabbed her shoulders and pushed her onto the bed roughly. "It is mine you should be concerned about," she hissed and pulled herself on top of her insolent pet. A lust-colored giggle and a hand sliding between her legs was all the answer she received.

& & &

It was just another day of bickering in the Wilds. The looming presence of the grand army behind coupled with a prospect of a dangerous band of mercenaries up ahead, and spiced up with the ever-present possibility of a baatezu hunting party from the sides, the mixed band of Lith My'athar survivors coped as they could. Mostly by going on each other's nerves.

In the past week and more, Tarnash took to a new hobby: making open, bordering-on-rude, passes to Illiam every chance he got. Or created. In turn, Illiam grew a serious desire to screw Tarnash six ways to Skullport, but not in the way the cocky Vhaerunite imagined. Ran'ree was having the time of his life spurring both of them on. Imloth felt like he was running a kindergarten.

As he made his way through their small, short-term camp, the Eilistraeean commander wondered if it were possible to have just one single day of relative squabble-free peace with this group. The smirk on Ran'ree's face quickly drowned his hopes that this would be that day. He rolled his eyes at the wizard and entered the tunnel beside him. Sure as Matron's wrath, he walked straight into an argument.

The small cave housed a water basin. Not very wide or deep, but – as it appeared - just big enough for a quick, impromptu bath. There were lichen growing at the water's edge, making the light slope a bit tricky to navigate. There was also a thin, wide stalagmite protruding out of the water, dividing the basin in two halves with less than two feet of space between the water's edge and the natural screen. And then, there was Iliam, dripping wet but fuming so hard the water seemed to evaporate from her. And there was, of course, Tarnash, also wet. And completely naked.

Unlike Illiam, who wore her hair cropped short, his was a mess of white tangles sticking to his shoulders and his back, sending lines of water down his fighting-honed muscles. Imloth squinted at the sight before him; something, he felt, was not quite right about the scene. For someone who, to all appearances, just stepped out of the water on the other side of the screen, Tarnash's hair seemed to be a bit too conveniently (not to mention too neatly) tossed back to reveal his pectorals fully. And that was without even going into the whole issue of what effect cold water usually had on male genitals; needless to say, Tarnash's looked nothing like that at the moment. Imloth rolled his eyes. What a brat…

His gaze shifted to the lichen near the basin and then to Illiam's traveling boots. The lichen was slippery, true, but Illiam was not that clumsy last time he checked. And her boots were well-designed for traveling much trickier paths than this. He looked at the lichen again. If there wasn't a bit of a pre-arranged Grease spell involved here, his name was not Imloth. He recalled the wizard's smug smirk from a moment ago. Right… Make that two brats.

He looked at Illiam again. She didn't wear her armor in here; she wouldn't, if she intended to sneak in for a quick bath. And she was so angry her breathing came short and rapid… her chest rising and falling, perfectly outlined by the wet cloth that covered them. She didn't appear aware of that just yet, either. Imloth sighed. She was smarter than to fall for a simple, crude ruse like this. And yet, she fell for it… he smirked at the puddle forming around her feet and quickly corrected himself: she fell into it like a surface teenager. Three brats. Maiden help him…

He silently counted to ten and remained where he was – few steps away from the entrance and obscured from sight – and listened to the unfolding drama, vowing to himself that, should he ever learn of any brats he had sired in the past, he would make sure they never learned of him.

Tarnash was grinning like a sixteen year old who had just killed his first goblin at a training session.

"Honestly, Illiam, what would you have me do? Politely knock on a stalagmite? Hang out a "bath in use" sign on it?"

"Anything but jump up and out the way you did!" Illiam snapped back. The tone of her voice could have easily sent an experienced Arach-Tinilith instructor to shame. Tarnash seemed customarily unperturbed.

"What did you expect? You startled me." It was such an obvious lie that it was a wonder the ceiling hadn't collapsed from the sheer outrageousness of it. Imloth rolled his eyes again. Tarnash's voice was dripping with pure innocence. The bulge between his legs clearly stated he would gladly relieve Illiam of hers. The priestess narrowed her eyes at it balefully, but, to her credit, managed to compose herself in time. She pointed at his erection with her finger.

"I am sure there are gnomes who would find that little mushroom there impressive, but you can stop parading it here," she said sweetly, in direct contrast to her expression. And the rest of her body language for that matter; one didn't need to use darkvision to recognize which parts of her body reacted on pure animalistic instinct at the sight of a naked male before her. Imloth suppressed a chuckle. Tarnash looked hurt.

"Ouch! Now that was cruel," he said, placing a hand on his chest.

He would have undoubtedly went on with something suitably childish but for the fact that at that point, Imloth decided he had had enough. He stepped into the cavern and clapped his hands once.

"All right, waelin, that's enough. Bathe or shag, but get it over with already. We need to decide on which routes to take next," he said and found he was not entirely able to repress a chuckle in his throat again.

Illiam spun about sharply, treating Imloth to one of the most blazing glares he had seen from her yet. Tarnash laughed. I'll bed her yet, he signaled to Imloth behind Illiam's back. Imloth rolled his eyes.

"We could do the first two just fine," said Tarnash out loud, ginning at Illiam invitingly as the priestess turned to him again.

Illiam looked up while trying to calm down. She shook her head slightly. "Goddess help me…" she muttered under her breath and turned to leave.

"She's been so very helpful thus far," a mocking voice called after her. Imloth shot Tarnash a glare. Illiam stopped in her tracks.

"Unlike your own god, you mean?" she hissed at the Vhaeraunite. "The "We have a god" one? The one that never showed up?"

Tarnash's expression turned suddenly stern. Was it just a trick of pale lichen light reflected off the water surface that momentarily cast a strange shadow across his upper face or was there a bit more to it than that, neither Imloth nor Illiam could tell. The Vhaeraunite's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Tell me, priestess – Do you question the decisions of your deity?" he asked quietly.

Illiam blinked, taken aback by the sudden seriousness of his tone. "Of… Of course not!"

Tarnash beamed. "I do mine. All the time." His grin grew even wider. "And bugger me if I can figure out what he's up to. But I do know he's up to something," he finished with a wink.

Illiam stared at him. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came through. Tarnash laughed. Illiam spun on her heel and marched out.

Imloth took a step back and studied his rival carefully. The shadows no longer played tricks on his face, he noted. Tarnash cocked his head, chuckled and spread his arms wide, his nakedness on full display.

"Jealous, old boy?"

Imloth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was now certain he must have done something really bad in his previous life; there was no other way he could have possibly deserved this.

"Of course. I always dreamed about being an obnoxious brat," he mumbled, casting Tarnash a sideways glance. Tarnash laughed again, taking the half-hearted insult in stride.

Imloth gave up and strolled out. He had no doubts that Tarnash spoke the truth when he said his god was up to something. Imloth found himself praying that whatever it was, it involved Tarnash's mouth sewn shut. Skullport never seemed further away…

& & &

Sinvyl moaned, threw her hands above her head and grabbed the bedpost tightly. The bedsheet beneath her was crumpled and damp; the part beneath her ass was downright wet. And so was she.

Her pet had performed remarkably this evening. She stopped counting the orgasms she gave her. And she was about to come again. The sensation spreading across her aroused, blood-shot flesh was almost painful in its intensity. Her hips thrust up involuntarily, spurred into motion by the tongue flicking across her clit. Only the dancer's hand, placed firmly on her hip stopped her pelvic bone from connecting with her pet's chin and nose. The fingers inside her sped up slightly, bringing her closer to climax, yet not letting her get there too fast.

She snarled as she felt another finger entering her and snarled again as the fourth joined in, spreading her as wide as she could go, just narrowly staying on the pleasure side of pain. Just as she liked it. Her hips bucked up again and again, building up the speed as the feeling between her thighs kept mounting up to a crescendo.

She closed her eyes and arched her back sharply as the orgasm finally claimed her senses; she let out a feral roar of triumph and pleasure combined as her entire abdomen shook wildly and purple lights exploded behind her eyelids.

And then her roar turned into a scream…

& & &

Shi'van pressed her lips around her mistress' clit and begun sucking on it, her tongue flicking left and right across it. The bruise on her cheekbone and chin made her keep Sinvyl's hip pressed down firmly with her left hand. Her right hand kept pumping into the drow's pussy at a fast, steady pace. As Sinvyl's hips begun shuddering more violently and more out of control, she sped up the movement of her fingers inside her, shoving all four as deep and as fast as she could. Over a decade of whoring herself on the streets of Calimport left her with an intimate knowledge of humanoid anatomy. She knew how to read a body in bed and she knew how to please it well.

Cornered as she was at the very edge of the bed, she kept her left leg pulled up and bended, her thigh rubbing her cheek. Her right leg was pressed flat to the bed, ninety degrees in relation to the left. She pulled her knee closer to her body and pressed the sole of her foot against the bedpost behind her.

Sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eyes. Her nostrils were filled with the aroma of female fluids. Her mistress was about to come. And she would make her come, tonight and every night or day after this one, every time her mistress summoned her to her bedchamber, until her mistress got fed up with her and threw her away in favor of a new, fresh toy to play ssinssrigg with. It was a knowledge at the back of her mind, rather than a conscious thought running out front. And it bothered her little, if at all. She was floating in a void, detached from her body and herself, as she had been every time before – in Sinvyl's bed, like in Calimport dung heaps before that. Her body performed what was asked of it; she had nothing to do with it whatsoever.

She still worked her fingers in and out of her mistress. Sinvyl was spasming under her touch.

To be tossed aside was nothing compared to the time before that happens. That, too, was a knowledge, rather than a thought. But in one timeless moment - as Sinvyl reached the peak of her orgasm, oblivious, for a few seconds, to anything but the burst of pleasure between her legs - the thought, the knowledge of the time between now and rejection, of whoring slavery that filled the space between the two, pierced the whore's detached mind like a hissing, silver needle and buried itself into her nervous system. Shi'van's body obeyed the sudden command without asking the brain for permission, without even notifying it of its intention properly.

Her leg muscles tensed, ready to push against the bedpost and propel her body forward. Her fingers came together tightly. Her thumb pressed against the other four, forming a cone.

And with strength that would have surprised her had she been around to witness its display, Shi'van brought her fingers in line with the wet opening before her…

And rammed her hand inside.

The skin around Sinvyl's vagina ripped.

It was one of those moments that stretch inside the eternity between two breaths, when mind is in a haze and the world outside moves sluggishly at the edge of perception. It was one of those moments when thoughts spin and tumble on the other side of lucidity, when instincts reach a decision and the body is forced into action before it even realizes what's it doing. Or how. Or why.

It was one of those moments between two breaths – The eternal moment that decides if there would be another breath at all.

And within that moment, Shi'van became peripherally aware that Sinvyl begun to scream.

Over a decade of whoring left her with an intimate knowledge of humanoid anatomy. Being a regular asset in annual celebrations in Temple of Loviatar added a new dimension to that knowledge. She was no stranger to pain. The acquaintanceship went both ways.

. Shi'van's hand slammed straight into Sinvyl's cervix, the momentum gained by pushing herself against the bedpost giving her strength to almost reach the womb. The inner muscles were hard, the protective tissue too thick to be pierced by fingernails alone. She scratched at it anyway, digging her fingers into it as much as she could. Even without the puncture, the pain that produced was almost unbearable. She had that on good authority. Her own.

Sinvyl trashed madly; she tried slapping her thighs together, but the half-drow's head was in the way. Mindlessly, she launched a kick in the direction of pain. Shi'van bent her back as she tried to pull her arm out. Her lips closed around the drow's clit. The drow kicked her head just as her teeth clamped the sensitive piece of flesh in her mouth.

The heel struck her forehead, but due to all the sweat, slid down the side of her skull and rammed into her right shoulder instead. The impact of the blow made her jerk back violently. Sinvyl's clitoris stayed between her teeth. The rest of the tissue remained attached to its owner. A gust of blood shot forth from between the drow's thighs. The scream went a pitch higher, reverberating against the cavern walls.

In a tangle of screams and limbs, Shi'van kicked out over Sinvyl's belly and in general direction of the wildly-bucking drow's head. She pushed against the bedpost once more adding strength to the kick. Her hand was still stuck inside Sinvyl as her heel slammed into the drow's chin with a 'crack'. Shards of broken teeth cut through her foot. Sinvyl's grabbed her ankle, her scream suddenly turning into a gurgle.

Some part of Shi'van's brain was in charge of keeping time. It told her that the guards were probably half-way through the corridor by now. It also told her that even with cracked chin and broken teeth, Sinvyl can still cast. What sense of self she possessed at the moment couldn't care less about either of the three. As ever, her survival instinct thought otherwise.

She sprang up.

Her foot slid down Sinvyl's sweaty body, causing her to lose balance. She tried to pull her hand out of the drow's vagina as the drow kept kicking and bucking beneath her. A silent "snap", strangely audible amidst the ongoing blood-strained scream, told her the bone right beneath her wrist cracked as she hit it against Sinvyl's pelvic bone on the way out. There was, she knew, pain to accompany it, but sensations the body was experiencing mattered even less than usual in her numb, detached state.

Sinvyl's still had the dancer's ankle in her grasp and she tried, in vein, to kick the half-breed in the face. Shi'van grabbed the flailing hand, but her own right hand was still stuck behind and beneath her, and losing strength fast. With both of Sinvyl's hands out of the way, yet both of her own occupied or unavailable at the moment, Shi'van's body went for the only option left to it. She threw her head back, and rammed her forehead into the drow's nose.

Sinvyl's nose shattered loudly. Blood splashed across Shi'van's face. Splintered bone and cartilage stabbed into it. The scream came to an abrupt halt. Perhaps due to the sudden denial of air. Or perhaps a stray shard reached the brain. Shi'van did not know. Nor did she think about it as she scrambled up and finally wriggled her right hand free, ignoring the pain piercing through it.

Her ears caught the sound of running footsteps behind her. Her ears caught the sound of a curtain being drawn apart. Her ears caught the sound of shocked gasps. Her ears caught the sound of a startled shout about to start its way up a throat. Her left shoulder caught a crossbow bolt. Her body jerked in reaction. Her lips drew even further back over her teeth. But no sound came up her throat and past them, save for the continued, almost mute snarling she wasn't even aware she had been producing all along.

She brought her right hand up and stabbed her fingers into Sinvyl's eye, all the way to the knuckles. Her cracked bone flashed an icy flame of pain in protest. Another bolt struck her in the back. The organ beneath her fingers burst with a sickly "pop". Due to the angle of the shot, the second bolt did not remain imbedded into her flesh. Her fingers pierced the brain.

The sound of footsteps and a breeze behind her head heralded an incoming flail. She ducked her head, catching the weapon's head in the shoulder instead. She rolled with the blow, falling down the side of the bed... and into the welcoming arms of the shadow beneath.

When the next strike came, all it found was solid stone. Shi'van's body was gone. Grudgingly, her mind tagged along with it.

& & &

The events of the past several seconds only now begun to penetrate her conscious self as she groggily staggered to her feet in a shadow behind the cupboard in the main chamber. Her eyes were unfocused, her temples throbbing, her face and body dripping with spit, sweat, sex fluids and blood. The sound of running footsteps came from both corridors at once. A sudden burst of panic constricted her throat.

She cared nothing about being caught. She cared nothing about the tortures she would be subjugated to either. She didn't even think about it. In fact, she still didn't think at all. But an old terror wrapped itself about her lungs all the same – the dreadful, paralyzing, fear at being naked and exposed. Helpless...Numb.

It would take her a long, long while for the realization of what she had just done – while naked and exposed – to sink into her conscious mind properly. Luckily or not, though, the adrenaline surge still running rampant through her veins gave her instincts a boost of power to override the numbing impulse imbedded into her by every cock Calimport had to offer.

Shadows were a refuge. Shadows were her soul. She always stepped into them willingly and the shadows always welcomed her in turn. That, too, was an imbedded instinct, almost as old as the paralyzing impulse of numb detachment. Shadows and adrenaline now working hand in hand inside her, they forced her body to move. Or rather, to step into the shadow even deeper. And much further away.

It must have been barely two seconds between the moment the guards at the tunnel entrance triggered the enchanted drapery open and Shi'van's second shadow-step. Had the drapery flapped back into place just a fraction of a second sooner, there was a sound chance the magic would have blocked her from reaching the shadow beyond it. As it were, she never had to learn if that would have been the case or not. The inner need to not remain unarmed steered Shi'van's second shadow-jump right at the spot on the walkway where, hours ago, she had placed her weapons against the wall.

Now, she had eyes for nothing but blades. Her fingers closed around the twin belts of her sabers. Her other hand clutched the dagger-bracer tightly. The familiar sight of weapons in her grasp sent a rush of security straight up her spine. And with it, came the sudden clarity of mind only those on the other side of sanity possessed. Her consciousness edged closer to her body. The dancer's chin tilted up.

It was the clarity akin to the one her mind was swimming through about a month ago, back in the Maeviir compound. Only this time, there was no driving motive to guide her steps. There was only instinctive survival now, countered, mildly, by a vague question of the purpose of continued existence. As ever, the question was not enough for the body to override the instinct and give in. Although back inside the premises (or at least, lingering in their relative vicinity), the mind had no choice but to follow the body's lead.

Wiping the blood from her eyes with the back of her hand, Shi'van's empty gaze focused down.

The camp beneath her was in a state of uproar. Screams were not uncommon in Underdark, but in the world of thick silence, they were heard far and wide. And Sinvyl's could have shattered eardrums from a mile away. The buzzing in her own ears told Shi'van as much. Though no one down there was yet certain what, exactly, just happened up there, the mere fact that the screaming came from the Valsharess' cavern was enough to cause a frantic commotion. Whether Sinvyl was indeed dead or not, Shi'van had no idea whatsoever. Nor did she care about it. Resigned to ride on the survival high, the only thing she – or at least, her body - was concerned about was getting out of there, as fast as possible. Cold logic asserted itself long enough for her to quickly count her options.

The guards were running back down the corridor. What they would do in a few seconds when they got here was anyone's guess. To shout out that Sinvyl was dead was probably a bad idea. To give no explanation at all was probably worse. Most likely, they would say she was wounded or something. Either way, in a few seconds, Shi'van would be on the top of the "most wanted" list of the entire camp. And she was still only holding the belts on which her blades hung. She had no time to strap them on. She had no time to even pull them out of their scabbards in time.

The ledge right beneath her was too steep to navigate and anyway, it would only bring her down in the middle of the camp. The way she came here was not an option either, not in the least because several guards were already rushing up and towards her, though she doubted they had spotted her just yet. To her right, the walkway went further up but there was no connection to any tunnel that might be running above it.

The guards were almost upon her now, barely a shadow's breath away on both sides. The dancer gritted her teeth without noticing it. Her mind was blank. But her body still ran the show. The first guard burst from the drapery and onto the walkway next to the dancer. Neither Shi'van nor her body had any idea if it were possible to make it that far, but with no options left, her senses focused on a shadow deep below and… She shadow-jumped for it.

The dark cynic inside her was surprised indeed when it realized she had actually made it. She had never jumped so often or so far before. So far so bad... It wasn't certain if she could manage another one, though. Perhaps a short one, but that would be of little use right now. She stood on the ground floor of the huge cavern with over a thousand drow and at least three times as many fodder herds about. And that was without counting the baatezu at the far southwestern end. The nearest exit tunnel lay to her right, on the far northeast side. The way to it led through several drow "camp isles" and right beside the duergar mercenaries' ranks. The only chance was to run through the shadows and hope she would not be seen. Too soon. And then to see if she could indeed shadow-jump one more time, for there was no other way past the sentries guarding her only way out.

Her blank stare fell on her blades. They were still in their scabbards. The acidic stiletto was likewise still housed within the bracer she held in her other hand. She had no time to draw either of them - It was a matter of moments before someone spotted her where she stood. And her muscles were already trembling from the strain of several hours of sex and… whatever it was that came afterwards. A part of her still wondered why she even bothered. Another part supplied an answer, but both were merely an undercurrent, buried beneath the shattered surface of numb ice that currently served as her mind.

She spotted another, deeper shadow nearby and, without another thought, ran for it.

The cavern erupted into motion all around her. She heard a shout from above, but the actual words escaped her. They did not matter, anyway – there were only so many ways to shout "Get her!" after all.

Her foot faltered on the narrow rock, and she almost went sprawling head-first onto the ground. While her pain threshold for which the Loviatarians loved her so offered her body a chance to keep going, it was still no safeguard against slipping on her own blood. Sinvyl's broken teeth cut deep indeed. And leaving a trail of hot blood was the Underdark equivalent of screaming "I'm here!" to anyone interested in her location. Which, right now, was the entire camp. Cursing hotly but quietly in Calishite without even being aware she did so, Shi'van scrambled into the shadow, allowing her instincts a second to consider the next move. With the bloodied trail she left in her wake, a second was the most she could spare. Knowing that, among others, all the Red Sisters in the camp were out for her blood, made even a second too long a time to afford.

The dancer's eyes were as empty as her soul. Still, a dark flicker - that had nothing to do with emotion whatsoever - flashed inside them as the thought of a hunter in a shadow grazed the surface of her mind. Just as long as no caster highlights her with Faerie Fire, she could outmaneuver, outrun, dodge or avoid anything that attempter to assault her in her own domain. The certainty of it was almost imprinted into her bones. Whether she was right about it was another matter entirely.

She ran into another shadow barely a moment before a ball of magical vitriol slammed into the one she had just vacated.

It was a mad scramble of a mad creature through an equally mad world. The trick was to keep moving, at all costs. If forced to engage, she would have to disengage quickly. Her pursuers knew what they were dealing with. A shadowdancer could elude them, but a shadowdancer could only run so far in one go. While they had no clue how far from her latest point of disappearance would she reappear, they could still liberally shower spells and bolts in a thirty-foot radius around her last known location. Which they did. And often enough, the results were not lacking, either.

Some shadows later, her foot slipped once again, and this time, she fell down, twisting her leg at such an angle that only the flexibility of her dance-honed muscles saved her from adding a dislodged hip to the list of her injuries. Bare stone was of little use when it came to wiping the blood off and even if that weren't so, her foot was still bleeding just the same. It was unlikely she would reach her destination if she kept on slipping like that. Her gaze fell on Oloth as she picked herself up and ran on. She could stop the bleeding all right. But if she engaged in combat – provided she even gets enough time to draw the blade in the first place – she would reveal her location to everyone around her. Perhaps only for a second or so, but a second was more than enough for another spell to find her or another bolt to pierce her flesh.

She willed the shadows closer to her body and kept moving, but she no longer tried to break into run. Another slip on the floor would be fatal. And the exit tunnel was still at least five hundred yards away.

It took her ages to cover barely a third of that distance. Twice she was spotted, and twice she managed to disappear from sight in the nick of time. Whether she considered it good luck or bad was of no importance; good or bad, she'd soon run out of it. And with it, her life, which concerned her little. But with it, also her freedom, and that concerned her a lot. It would again be a while before that fact came up knocking at her mental front door, but it was true nonetheless.

A sixth sense sent her flat on the ground and rolling to a side an instant before a flaming arrow shot right above her. Had she remained standing, the missile would have outlined her a perfect target for every blade in vicinity. And the exit was still the merciless three hundred yards away.

Another wave of sharp pain erupting from her left shoulder informed her she rolled too far. The bolt dug deeper inside, scraping against the bone. A fresh gust of blood splashed on the floor. She almost scrambled to her feet again when another subconscious thought spurred her body in a different direction. In these few moments during which her hunters tried to assess if another flaming arrow was in order or not, she had just enough time to take care of at least one of the things that hampered her movement.

Lying on her back, she felt the shaft of the bolt wedge itself into the stone and shifted her shoulder slightly so that the tip would not go into the bone. And then she slammed her shoulder down, forcing the bolt straight through the muscle and out on the other side. She grabbed the barbed arrowhead and yanked it free. A flash of million lights burst across her vision. The temporary blindness caused her more irritation than the searing pain that caused it. It was just an inconvenience of flesh, after all.

And then she moved on, her body determined to keep going as long as it could. Embraced by shadows, the dancer kept scrambling through them, absentmindedly wishing for a blade to cut her path short.

& & &

In normal circumstances, the Matrons of Menzoberranzan steered clear of Bregan D'Aerthe private business. The circumstances, however, were not normal these days.

For all points and purposes, Sinvyl practically appropriated the band shortly after her ascension within the city. There was fairly little Kimmuriel could do about it – bartering with someone who had an Arch Devil among her bargaining chips was a bit too much for even the skilled psionic to handle in a satisfactory way. At the same time, the Matrons of every House within the city made something of a pledge of fealty to Sinvyl and her designs for conquest. This put Bregan D'Aerthe in a rather precarious position.

No one in the city denied the usefulness of the powerful mercenary band, but that still didn't stop many Matrons from considering the almost exclusively male band of Houseless rogues to be a thorn in their respective sides and other bodily parts of notion. Should Bregan D'Aerthe, or even just one of its contingents, attempt to move against Sinvyl in any capacity, many Matrons would use that as a perfect excuse to eradicate the band entirely.

There were others as well, of course – Matrons who may not have been as thrilled with Sinvyl's designs as they had openly professed; Matrons who would likely silently support any attempt to weaken Sinvyl's power and influence… and of course, use that opportunity to settle a score or two with the rival Matrons on the other side of the board. Which, as everything else in the world of drow, was a multiple-edged blade. An interhouse war of such a big, tangled scale was not something Bregan D'Aerthe needed to be in the center of right now; Kimmuriel had no intentions of bringing his band's collective ass wedged between a rock and a hard matron in such a way.

The Red Sisters and other Bar'ritar agents were placed both in their city base and in the detachment currently in the tunnels some days away from Skullport. At any given moment, Kimmuriel could give an order to dispose of all of them, but that would land the part of the band that remained in the city straight into the proverbial shithole. If he were there himself, he could see to it that the band survives, and even profits from the power struggle that such a blatant insurgence would undoubtedly bring about. But Sinvyl was smart enough to remove him from the city as soon as possible and the psionic doubted his lieutenants in the city could successfully weather it out on their own. At any rate, not without serious losses to the band and that was a sacrifice Kimmuriel was not prepared to make… even if it meant having to bed Yasvyrae for a while.

Once in Skullport, he would let her run her schemes as intended while simultaneously running his own, right under her nose. The reports he had been getting from his scouts already in the city were favorable thus far. Once the time is right, Yasvyrae and her crew would find themselves suddenly alone amidst treacherous blades. Skullport blades, of course; no one would find it overly curious if the notoriously sly Skulkers dishonored their deal. Nor would anyone be able to count the exact losses Bregan D'Aerthe would suffer during that attack. And after all the Sisters got disposed of, Kimmuriel would be free to leave a portion of his troops inside the city while taking others back to Menzoberranzan in secrecy. And once there, he would deal with whoever threatened his band's existence personally.

Win or lose, Sinvyl would be too occupied with Skullport to thwart his designs; by the time the ambitious bitch was done with the Port of Shadows, Kimmuriel would long have his band freed of her greedy clutch.

She would come knocking on Bregan D'Aerthe door again, of course. But by the time she does, Kimmuriel would have had enough time to prepare himself properly and find a way to cut her Baator-spawned advantage down to manageable size.

The sound of scuttling feet, tiny claws scraping against the cold stone, interrupted both the psionic's planning and lunch. Few of his soldiers sitting and eating nearby exchanged glances and smirked. Their leader had acquired a most peculiar pet in the Wilds, and while they enjoyed Yasvyrae's frustrated reactions to the creature as much as their psionic leader had, they enjoyed his own frustration with it even more. Not many things could extract a visible reaction from someone who survived the rigors of house Oblodra for almost two centuries straight, but the kobold seemed to manage it with alarming frequency.

The grins did not pass unnoticed. Kimmuriel shot his soldiers a sideways glance, silently warning them to take their snickering elsewhere, lest they find themselves confused enough to attempt to take their food through a wrong orifice on the wrong end of the spine.

The soldiers turned their backs to him, and though the quiet sniggers continued, at least their grinning muzzles were out of his sight. The kobold approached him with a bottle of wine in its hands. Not looking the beast's way, Kimmuriel held out an empty mug and continued his meal.

The creature had proved quite useful to him so far; the Mirror it kept even more so. In addition to keeping an eye on and coordinating his troops, in the past two weeks or so, Kimmuriel had also located the remaining rebels trailing some way behind them. He left them alone, content, for the time being, to merely keep track of their movements. Should a need arise, he could always find a useful role for them to play. He had even located the tiefling, only partially sane and running aimlessly through the tunnels along the same general track everyone and their pet stalactite seemed to follow these days. He kept a close eye on that one. He could easily steer the demon-blooded warrior in any direction he desired. It left a certain doom in a from of an oversized flail as an available alternative should he find a particular group of infiltrated agents too troublesome or dangerous to risk pitting his own troops against them.

Grudgingly, Kimmuriel had to admit – to himself at least – that both the rebels and the tiefling would have escaped his notice had it not been for the kobold. And as far as escaping notice went, he had to give it to the creature - It performed its role of an exotic pet to perfection. The pest just had a natural aptitude for playing a second fiddle.

Its "boss", on the other hand, usually drummed an entirely different tune all together. Kimmuriel frowned.

About a week ago, Yasvyrae mentioned off-handedly that her mistress had a new bed pet. Which in itself was neither unusual nor unexpected. However, said pet was, reputedly, of a rather exotic, shadowdancing variety. And while that, too, was not unexpected, it still struck a fairly discordant tone in the psionic's designs. There were only three people, aside from himself, who knew of his unauthorized little trip to Lith My'athar. Two of those were dead. The third one had her lips on Sinvyl's ear.

Had he learned of it sooner, gods only knew what mental gymnastics the news would have spurred him into performing. As it were, he learned of it about two weeks after it happened and by the word of mouth rather than a whip across his back. Which only meant Sinvyl still didn't know about his visit to the city. If the dancer wanted to inform Sinvyl of his side-dealings, she would have done so by that time. If she hadn't done it thus far, it was unlikely she would do it in the future either. He had been in her mind and, recalling certain aspect of what he had experienced in there, he was almost entirely certain of his assessment. But still, he was constantly bothered by that "almost" part. More so, as the time for his next move drew closer upon him.

He brought the mug to his lips and realized the kobold was still standing beside him.

"Um… boss…?"

"Silence, kobold," Kimmuriel snapped an order, at the same time posing a question directly into the kobold's mind. He found a highly unusual unease in there. What is it?

Ummm… Deekin is thinking you shoulds see something.

Later, kobold.

Deekin is thinking you shoulds see it now.

See what?

The bad drow lady be dead, boss…

Kimmuriel's mind skipped a tick. "Secure the area," he hissed at his soldiers. Show me. Now.

Half an hour later, Kimmuriel's plans underwent a complete overhaul. To say he was extremely pleased by this unexpected new development would be to call a Displacer Beast a mere house kitten with an extra pair of legs.

& & &

About two decades ago, a shadowdancer with a splintered mind and a deathwish to go, fled the chains of slavery in Port of Shadows. To this day, the memories of that flight (as well as the five years that followed it) remained hazy and obscured, available only through vague recollections of smells and sounds, a part of a nightmare or an odd flashback. Her current flight through the camp cavern – once again in defiance to the deathwish present both then and now – was pretty much the same. She could recall movement, dappled with burning splashes of pain and an occasional soft sensation of a shadows' embrace, but how, exactly, she ended up at the mouth of the tunnel leading out of the cave, she had no idea whatsoever.

Regardless, she was there. And so were her hunters.

Somewhere along the way, within a span of several shadows, she managed to slip her wrist into the bracer, using mostly her teeth. Her mouth and throat were full of blood and she remembered, foggily, spitting some of it out. She did not recall spitting Sinvyl's clit along with it. Perhaps she spat it out earlier, way back in the chamber as she drove her head into the drow's nose. Or perhaps she swallowed it. The trivial detail somehow floated up to the front of her thoughts. Her mind, having nothing better to do, occupied itself chewing on it.

Somewhere along the way, she also drew her blades and left the belts and the scabbards on the floor behind. And that was all that mattered. Nakedness always dulled her senses, drove her to submission, stunned her to the point of surrender. But now she had weapons in her hands. She was no longer naked. The fact that she had no clothes on was irrelevant. Mere nudity held no significance to a whore.

She smiled detachedly as her pursuers piled up upon her, and whirled out of the shadows to stain her blades with blood.

& & &

The warriors charged at the swirling mist before them. Several casters rushed up from behind and let their spells fly. In the frantic confusion, where no one was certain what, exactly, had happened just yet, they did not bother aiming at the shadow. Rather, they sprayed spells straight into the blurred melee, counting on the innate magic resistance of the drow to spare their own fighters from the most devastating effects of their invocations. The results were often mixed, leaving many drow blinded and charred and, ironically, offering the fleeting shadow a chance to disappear even further into the tunnel.

Things would have been far more organized if anyone could tell where their quarry was to begin with. The outguards chased the elusive shade through the main passage; many in the main cavern still chased their own tails through the shadows. What never started out as a cohesive attack in the first place, soon turned into a disarrayed pursuit through the dark side corridors diverging from the main path. Scouts led the way into the darkness. Several lizard riders took to the flanks. Where shadows were quick to trick the eye, and trail of blood soon became crisscrossed and confusing, the agile lizards could still follow its smell unerringly. And the chase went on.

& & &

A large shadow separated itself from the rest. Vaporous fur bristled in the darkness. Yellow eyes glowed a sinister light above a muzzle contorted in a growl. Razor-sharp canines thirsted for warm blood.

She didn't see him, but she knew he was here. Karandras crouched as she sprinted past him and leapt for the throat of the one behind her. With a startled gurgle ending in a snap of fangs, a drow collapsed to the floor. As his front paws touched the ground softly, Karandras spun about and jumped after her.

All of it took a mere few seconds to happen and it would have been a sight to inspire a dark-inclined poet had it not been for one little detail to mar the perfect picture of shadow-wrought death. The huge proud beast, the herald of death, the darkness incarnate… just happened to have a ribbon tied around its neck. He was only thankful it wasn't pink. It was bad enough to wear a collar, like some ordinary dog – he didn't have to look like an inbred poodle on top.

Well of course he couldn't just keep hauling that damned bag in his jaws all the time. However, having four paws and no pockets did not really offer many alternatives in baggage-carrying department. And paws were not exactly the ideal type of appendages for deft object manipulation either.

And so Karandras did the only thing he could – He prowled the Shadow Plane until he found a creature whose limbs were shaped more suitably than his. How many limbs and what shape, exactly, was beside the point. Either way, he cowed the creature into tying the bag around his neck. And of course, as soon as the task was done, he killed it.

Gossip traveled fast and the Shadow Plane was no exception to the rule. Had the shadow pack he occasionally ran with caught wind of him wearing a collar, they'd never let him live it down. He was already hearing no end of his bond with a flesh-clad mortal as it were – Even dire shadow wolves had to draw a line somewhere.

& & &

The lizard darted into a narrow tunnel and jumped on the wall at its rider's command. Run as she might, the iblith was still confined to the ground; lizards and their riders had shortcuts across the walls available only to them. His mount followed the scent of blood in here. From a higher vantage point, the rider himself spotted a few splashes of it on the floor. Judging by the amount of heat it emanated, it's been only a few seconds since it was shed. He could not see his prey, but he knew she was in here.

He kicked the lizard's flanks, urging the beast higher up and further ahead. The shadow could not move as quickly as that. Soon enough, other hunters would enter this tunnel. If he cut her off from the front, she would have nowhere to go. Privately, though, he hoped others wouldn't come in too soon. He wanted to deal the killing blow himself.

He caught a flicker of movement on the ground and steered his mount down. A shadow-wrapped figure stepped out from the darkness. Next instant, another shadow sprang forth, but this one came not from below but from the side. And went straight for his mount's throat.

The lizard reared and hissed loudly, claws and teeth meeting the incoming ones. The rider cursed and dropped his crossbow. The lizard jumped down. The huge toothed shadow jumped after it, slamming it into the wall just as it's claws touched the ground again. Only lightning-fast reflex spared the rider from getting his head caved in as the lizard beneath him trashed and bucked wildly. Growling, the rider fumbled with his dagger, trying to cut himself free from the harness that held him strapped tightly to the maddened beast. He had one, maybe two seconds to do it; if he failed, his life was forfeit. There were few things as dangerous and lethal as being tied to a Cold One out of control. And that was without even going into the whole fighting with a shadow wolf business. The harness snapped.

A moment later, a battered drow rolled out of the tangled mass of scales and shadows and snapped his blades up. Just in time, for no sooner than he finished his roll, a second, smaller shadow was upon him. The rider snarled. He had been aching for this opportunity for a long time.

The blades came at him in rapid succession of swirling strikes, the shadow before him constantly moving and changing angles, dancing around him like there was no tomorrow. The rider sneered. If he had any saying in it, the shadow would be right about that before long.

Behind the two, the shadow wolf and the lizard were still locked in a tumbling, growling show-down of fangs and claws. As his own battle went on, the rider's growls became more and more bestial in quality. Hatred burned in his red eyes as he blocked and parried, waiting for the opening to present itself to his hungry blades.

After the initial attack, there was enough time for him to study his enemy's style. She wasn't as fast as she should have been, he noted with dark satisfaction. The bloody fog that surrounded her was the result of her own wounds. She was still quick, quicker than many opponents he had faced so far, but the rider sensed her movements were not in complete sync with each other. Grinning evilly, he found his own rhythm and interjected it into hers.

Had she been a bit more aware of herself, she would have been impressed at the display. As it were, she merely wrapped the shadows about her tighter and danced on. Her leg was still unstable, but within the dance, even a stagger could be woven into the swirling pattern. Her wrist was a bigger problem at the moment, to say nothing of a gaping hole through her left bicep. Ignoring the pain was one thing; getting the muscles to act as they should was another matter entirely. And with all the blood streaming down her arms, only the fine engraving on the sabers' hilts kept them from slipping from her grasp.

Her cuts and slashes came less fast, less strong than they should. More of a problem - The same went for her parries. He already scored several gashes on her bare body; she only delivered several nicks across his. Her body needed something, an edge of some sort, an opening, a chance, or else, it would soon cease to exist.

Her blood was filled with shadows. Her mind was empty and still. Her body became the rhythm. And her blade found a soft spot across her opponent's stomach.

He wasn't even aware he had been spitting curses all the while. Now, his curse turned into a short-lived scream as he felt a blade cut through his skin and dig deep into his insides. He dropped one sword and staggered back, clutching at the wound. Hot blood poured over his fingers. Coldness burned through his guts. Something soft and slithery inside him wanted out.

The shadow turned a circle before him and brought her other saber onto his shoulder. It wasn't the strength of the strike but rather, the powerful enchantment of sharpness placed upon it that allowed the thing to dig in deeply, almost to the bone. A shot of acid poured forth from the blade, burning the wound in a sharp burst of agony. The rider yelled and drop his other sword. He fell with his back to the wall and spat blood.

"Elg'caress!" he hissed sharply, madly, as she advanced upon him. "Iblith srow!"

The sounds of battle between the lizard and the shadow died down. The rider had no illusions as to who won the fight. He couldn't have cared less, though. "In'loil d' shu!" he went on mindlessly, growling at the bleeding shadow before him. The pain in his abdomen intensified, but still he kept snarling blood-stained insults her way.

The tip of the darkened blade touched his throat. He lifted his gaze to met the emptiness of hers venomously. He spat at the blade.

"Elg'caress!"

The female paused.

"Vith'ir!" he growled through teeth clenched in pain.

"No."

It was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach his ears at all. The female stepped back. Empty eyes stared into his blankly. She took another step backwards, extending her arm so that the maximum distance of both blade and limb was between them. The proper distance… As close to other creatures - especially males – as she ever cared to be. She tilted her head slightly, as a flicker of recollection momentarily lit the blank gaze of the void.

"Defiance come late," the female spoke in a hollow voice. "And to the wrong female…"

The rider hissed, blood and spittle spraying through his teeth. "D'aerthe!"

"Asanque," she rasped through the blood in her throat.

The rider's face contorted, pain in his abdomen reaching new heights. His shoulder sent piercing shrieks of agony straight into his skull. The rage at being called a whore – and by an iblith, this bilith of all creatures – gave him strength to remain conscious through it. The fact that she was right in her assessment burned in his insides sharper than steel.

The snake-pommeled blade fell down with a clang. The female extended her hand, beckoning to the larger shadow to come closer. She recalled the rider's face as one of the many she had seen in Sinvyl's bed. He was a whore, just like her. And there was no honor, no mercy among whores. Only bitter rivalry and a desire to kill. But this one cursed. Down on the ground, disarmed and defenseless, he still growled and spat venom of defiance. Not beaten. Not numbed. Still not surrendering… As she always had.

Did a drop of respect trickle into her mind? Something else? She wasn't sure, and did not dwell on it either. On a whim, she reached into the bag around her companion's neck and pried out one of the last bottles she had inside, never taking her eyes off the dying male before her. A pinch of puzzlement blotched with amusement entered her thoughts. She responded with a mental shrug and placed the vial on the ground beside her foot.

They were both just whores, their bodies and their blades at others' back and call. Mere whores. The toys for sex and death.

Without a word, she picked up her blade, turned around and stepped into the shadows of the tunnel ahead.

The canine shadow fell in step behind her. For just a moment, Relon thought he heard a deep, quiet snigger escape the fiend's throat.

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The flask lay on the ground, less than five feet away. A red screen of pain drew across his vision, dazing him to near-unconsciousness. Blood poured out of his wounds freely. In a few moments, he would be dead. He clenched his teeth and toppled forward, reaching for the vial. A part of him wondered if it were a slow-working poison sloshing in it. The rest of him knew it didn't really matter. He fumbled the cork open and begun pouring the potion down his blood-choked throat. And then collapsed back on the ground, flat on his back, and closed his eyes.

Slight tingles erupted beneath his skin, bluish-green needles of light and magic prickling his flesh from within. Waves of soothing cold begun rolling across his severed tendons, washing the pain away and leaving pleasant numbness in their wake. The trickle of blood between his fingers lessened and then stopped entirely. He felt the skin beneath his palm close. Acid still bit through his shoulder, preventing the wound from closing completely but at least, the pain lessened in its intensity and raw muscle tissue bound itself loosely. Moments passed…

Relon opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting blood. He was far from fully healed, but he was no longer in immediate danger of dying. He spat again and wiped the hair from his eyes. His gaze fell on what was left of his mount -crumpled on the floor, a heap of shredded muscles and scales.

Slowly, careful not to rip the freshly-healed wounds open again, he brought himself up on his knees and groaned softly. No sounds heralding other scouts came from the tunnel beyond. Relon found himself thinking that might not be such a bad thing after all. It was worse than that.

Dammit! What was he supposed to do now? He could well imagine the treatment he'd get if he returned to the camp. Allowing the iblith to escape? Being defeated by her? And losing a precious mount on top of it all? He narrowed his eyes at the empty flask balefully. Staggering back to the camp would render the cursed thing he had just imbibed perfectly obsolete. And Abyss only knew what was happening back there by now anyway. Better yet, Baator knew. Dammit! He would have been better off bleeding on the floor to death.

He looked around again and dared try a sitting position. He considered his options. He realized he had none. Hike back to the camp or dare the wilds on his own – both amounted to more or less the same thing. He spat again and cursed the iblith hotly.

"Xsa'ol!" he finished his tirade and grabbed the wall for support. He was about to try and stand up when a movement in the shadows to the side caught his attention. Shadows, he realized, at the end of the tunnel opposite to the camp.

His gaze quickly darted to his blades on the ground. Both were out of his reach. His hand clutched the dagger in his boot reflexively. The shadow stirred. Twin dots of blue flickered within it, apparently trained on the tunnel down which the iblith had disappeared. For a second, an outline of a smirk beneath a deeper patch of shadow could be seen. Relon swallowed hard.

"She is quite a something else," a soft chuckle reached his ears. He swallowed again. The shadow turned to face him. Relon's mind raced to catch up with what his guts already worked out.

"Vhaeraun…" he mouthed soundlessly.

The shadow bowed its head. Another chuckle escaped its lips. A slender, finely-muscled drow male stepped out. His eyes behind the mask still burned bright blue. The equally blue hair, the color somehow visible even in pitch darkness, was already running with streaks of gold.

The male grinned. "Care to change sides?" he asked the stunned rider. Relon could have sworn he saw him wink. His jaw still hanging open in shock, he quickly nodded without even thinking about it. Any side was better than the upside-down one his entire world had just turned into.

"Then stand up," the male grinned again, grabbed his arm and heaved him up on his feet. Still weak from the fight, Relon unwittingly gripped the male's arm for support.

The eyes of the god blazed triumphant gold.

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