As the curtains draw back, and reddish smoke streams upwards from the sweetly burning braziers with their sheets of waving flames that cause the elegantly eerie carvings of spiders dangling from svelte and delicate hands upon the walls, already flickering with faerie fire, to gleam a weirdly lurid scarlet beneath the dance of bluish-purple, out steps a figure bearing words that flow up and down over the knots and slopes of a dark and twisted imagination . . . a figure that steps from beyond the flames, book in hand, to reveal a story writ in blood.
You are all welcome at the Ceremony of Talespinning.
Enter now . . .
Homecoming.
The darkness of these tunnels was endless, eternal, and ancient; the blackness of the universe before the sun lit it with glaring, garish white. The darkness of the womb of all life, the pregnant silence of a void . . . the darkness of a heart untouched by love, by kindness, by other weak and disgraceful emotions. The sunlight was for the weak; the sunlight stole strength from your knees and made your eyes fill with shameful tears. The sunlight turned you into a child again, stripped you of your composure, shocked you into submission . . . and then tried to make up for the humiliation of daybreak by searing your face with rays of pain, blasting the world away in an blinding glare that left you blind, weak . . . and helpless.
Perhaps this was why Nathurra Despate so loved the darkness.
Crouched at the edge of the Bridge, watching as it swooped down across the gorge that separated this length of tunnel from its sister and vanished into the single, vast shadow hunched, predator-like and hungry, along the opposite cave wall, the drow elf felt a thrilling pulse rise in her throat as images swept her mind. Images of falling into the darkness . . . these frightened her -- just a little -- and the fact that her imagination frightened her bore a deep and abiding anger in her stomach, an anger that fought the fear and triumphed. Instead, the moment of weakness passing by with a mere clicking of her nail upon the emerald buckle of her mage's belt, her mind filled with fantasies of shoving others -- goblins, perhaps, or the occasional mewling human wandering far in over his foolish head -- into the old and evil dark. Fantasies of seeing the overwhelming fear creeping over their eyes, blinding them as surely as the cursed and wicked sun; fantasies of tasting their terror, of nails and knives and jagged stone scraping on pale and ugly skin, tearing it, drawing blood; fantasies of shoving them over the edge, of feeling the give of rock beneath their legs, of hearing them scream . . . and scream . . . and scream as they plummeted into the throat of the black that escaped the limits of even her heat-seeing eyes.
The dark elf licked her lips and sternly reprimanded herself for so dropping her guard. She turned quickly around, masking the unsure movements with a guise of nonchalance, and studied her companions, searching for a sign that they had noticed her failing and were readying to strike. Well, if they did, she was ready for them; the spells she had painstakingly prepared for the day burned in her mind and danced on the tip of her tongue, screaming for release. Let them try to touch her -- let them learn the folly of their ways -- let them die a slow and painful death --
No one was coming for her. Nathurra smiled inwardly, relief coursing reluctantly through her belly. It would be unwise to use her arcane magic so readily; she, as one of the seconds from the dark elf scouting mission sent from Aunithrazael, the City of Emerald Waters, may have need of it still, although they were almost home.
Home. The word had a warm taste to it, a safe taste, and Nathurra banished it immediately. It would not do to attach emotion to a place or thing. Ignoring the residue of the warmth, the dark elf wizard studied her charges, running a second check on their faces. Just to make sure no one had seen her inexcusable lapse.
All seven of them were present; and none were looking her way. The Zauneld commoners, female cousins Rilayne and Rauviira, excellent fighters both, were stationed at the beginning of the Bridge (Rilayne, Nathurra noticed with some amusement, was starkly staring at the ceiling, as if to deny the open space just a step to the right, and Rauviira was casually sharpening her knife, her stark white hair glimmering with a purplish-blue sheen in the light of the faerie fire.); her own current mate (for the last hundred years or so), and the father of her two children, Lesven Despate, stood rear guard at the opening of the cave, some fifty feet or so back, with Veszafein of House Alezynge and the young, more-than-a-little-insane Luaniss of House Torrae; and Vasonia Huntyl, accompanied by Istral Rilynvirr, and the only other nobles aside from Nathurra herself, was walking the perimeter of the half-circular stretch of stone that flew smoothly out from the cave mouth and ended abruptly at the drop. Her part of the scouting mission had finished its mapping of the tunnels for the day, and now waited for the other two groups to meet up with them. Felyne Barriett, the leader of the entire mission, had chosen to travel with Sornas Hlandar's group this time; and that decision had left Nathurra in sole charge of her group. Which, to Nathurra's thinking, was good; when Felyne was present, Nathurra had to defer to the scarred, frightening female.
She herself was neither scarred nor deformed; no slash of ill-healed wound creased her silky, deep-sea-black skin. Nathurra stood an inch or two above five feet, with her waist-length froth of slightly silverish-white hair neatly braided and wound up practically about her small skull. Her features were delicate, slightly more angular than the dark elven norm, a bit fragile in appearance, and all fitted nicely into a beautiful heart-shaped face. Her lips were full and dark, and her large, dark eyes gleamed with intelligence. Her movements were solid and graceful, the movements of a warrior, which seemed in accordance with the slender longsword at her waist but were denied by her long, draping black robes that slid teasingly about her slender waist. Silver-white thread upon her cuffs sparkled in the faerie fire, entwining webs and runes sewn upon the fabric. Her belt was heavy with items strange and horrid and beautiful, but pouchless; all her larger items were cunningly tucked into the pockets of her robes, and few knew what she held before she produced it. The Despate girl was a beauty, a natural charmer, an enchanter who nonetheless felt drawn to the dark allure of necromancy and found no patience with evocation, and, as the second daughter of her house, and was a significant threat and a stern commander.
Few expressed astonishment when learning of her career in arcane power; Nathurra, however, could easily and with amusement read the surprise within their eyes. She was a wizard, a female wizard and second daughter of a powerful and noble house of Aunithrazael (although the city was young by drow terms, having been begun little more than eight hundred years ago by First Matron Mother and Queen Aunithra of House Noquervs), and, although the City of Emerald Waters was a bit less loose in its religious mania, with worshippers of Ghaunadaur, Selvetarm the Champion of Lolth, Vhaeraun, and even Kiaransalee (but not Eilistraee; that dancing wench was ever to be scorned by those with half a half of mind) operating legally in the city (although they were doomed to secret oppression by the Spider-kissers), a noble female wizard was still a rare sight to be seen.
Nathurra enjoyed this fact; it lent her name a certain uniqueness and hinted at her House's variety for powers and confidence (her mother had, after all, sacrificed a potential high priestess to the world of arcane power). It also made her unpredictable; few dark elves knew whether or no to treat her as a priestess or assume her whims in accordance to one.
"Mistress!"
Rilayne shrieked suddenly, startling Nathurra from her contemplations and jerking the three in the rear to attention. Nathurra snapped her head to the Bridge, and was rewarded with the sight of a young drow elf laying smashed against the side of the Bridge, head bent back, with two tentacles rapidly winding about her middle and a third coiling quickly about her head.
Shock blanked her mind, and beneath that shock the seed of pleasure bloomed.
"To arms!" Nathurra cried in surprise and excitement, and hear the zeal in her voice echoed by her warriors. Rauviira, acting out of Lolth knew what, sprang forward and plunged her freshly polished and sharpened dagger into the third tentacle. There was a sick, tearing sound, and a fine spray of black liquid flew in Rauviira's face. She whooped, regardless of the sticky liquid clinging wetly to her hair, and Istral snickered as he drew up beside Rilayne.
Click went the crossbow, and thunk went a quarrel into another tentacle; it quivered with the sharp movement of the appendage, and Nathurra didn't have to turn to see that Veszafein had shot the weapon. Rilayne twisted in the suddenly looser grasp, and nearly succeeded in wiggling away; a fourth tentacle caught her by her long, flowing hair, and stopped her short. It, however, afforded a newly arriving Lesven ample room to swing his longswords, and swing he did; Rilayne fell back, released, with the severed piece of meat dropping with a wet, soft sound beside her.
Nathurra saw her opportunity, and reacted with one of her simplest spells; a gust of wind flew out from her outstretched hand, struck the rising blob of creature slowly pulling itself over the edge as it recoil slightly in distress (Veszafein gasped in disgust, and Vasonia, Nathurra's second, struck him a healthy blow with her whip) and smile again as it made a bubbling sound and fell back, dropping off into the darkness. Its two friends, however, kept coming; there was a sizzle of alien flesh as Luaniss's lightning bolt struck the second, and Rilayne aimed a powerful kick at the third.
"Hit the damn thing!" Vasonia snapped when Rilayne missed, and then took her own advice with another sharp snap! of the whip as it cracked across Thing Two's large, vacantly dark eyes. The thing made a mewling sound, and Veszafein promptly stuck another quarrel into it. Nathurra loosed another spell, and Thing Three staggered, suddenly weak; Luaniss, who had become entangled in its tentacles, slipped free with an exultant cry, and Lesven sliced the thing nearly in two where Luaniss had been but a moment ago. Black blood sprayed, and Nathurra's nose wrinkled; the smell was of decaying moss.
"Vith'os!" reached Nathurra's ears, and she suspected Lesven, who was drenched with the stuff, as the culprit. Vasonia scowled at the male between snaps; Istral jumped behind her target, flanking it between him and Rauviira, and they simulatiously dug swords into the thing's flesh. Luaniss cackled with laughter, but extended her bony hand, caught hold of a tentacle, and managed to get off acleric spell at the same time;the moderately serious woundsshe inflicted stung the creature at the same time that Nathurra's spell activated. Dazed, the monster tottered back, where Istral speared it expertly.
Three things dead in a matter of minutes.
Too many minutes. Had there been more than three of the things,the wizardknew, they would have overrun her drow force.
Nathurra scowled at her drenched minions. "Do you call that battle?" she asked, waving one slim hand disparagingly at the seven drow. "That was a clumsy effort worthy of a Lolth-damned bastard human! That was shameful!"
Istral lowered his eyes; Rilayne flicked some of the wet goo from her chainmail and shifted slightly from foot to foot. The rest bowed their heads in submission to Mistress Nathurra's scoldings.
"How dare you call yourselves warriors?" she snapped at them. "Rilayne, warriorof House Zauneld, why were you not on the lookout for those creatures and why did you fail to warn this company of their presence?"
Rilayne bowed her head meekly, but Nathurra caught the spark of humiliated anger in her red eyes. "Forgive my failures, Jabbress." she swallowed firmly -- more, Nathurra knew, to clear the knob of fury in her throat than to firm up her voice -- "I have no excuse."
"Mother of Lusts, I don't want your excuse." Nathurra snarled at her. "I want your explanation, girl." Excuses, they all knew, were for races less exalted than the drow. Nathurra dropped a stern glare over the commoner, and the others followed suit.
Head still bowed, Rilayne nodded demurely. "Xas, Jabbress."
Nathurra glanced to Vasonia, ignoring a silently simmering Rilayne. "Give her nine strokes, three for each creature slain." she ordered smartly. "And perhaps that will teach her to keep her head as a guard to an unstable area that has not yet been secured." she added, her voice abruptly softening and becoming almost motherly and gentle.
Rilayne cringed with proper, fake chagrin. Nathurra recognized the acting -- superb acting, the girl was a natural, although Nathurra had no intention of telling her so -- and took a step nearer. She reached out and softly brushed Rilayne's forehead with the very tips of her fingers, avoiding the gore-splattered patches of skin. Rilayne did not shiver. Leaning in closely, Nathurra all but whispered, "Your humiliation is your own to take. You deserve it, for it was born of your own misjudgment."
Rilayne's eyes widened with anger, and went dark with unease. Nathurra mouthed a spell, and it went off with a silence that she had perfected two hundred years ago; the thoughts from the girl's mind -- just her surface ones -- poured into Nathurra's mind for her inspection.
-- Lolth damn it it wasn't my fault ugly witch I didn't want to look down so I skimmed the ceiling Rauviira was supposed to be watching the bridge's bottom damn stupid chit she was polishing the vithin dagger how dare you blame me I warned you old damn daughter of a drider not my fault how dare you scold me how dare you humiliate me I'll make you pay cut the skin from your face tear out your eyes drink your blood your blood your blood and watch it pool about the floor --
Nathurra nodded knowingly, and felt the girl go still and cold beneath her fingers. Casually, with the lightest of touches, she combed her fingers through the silken white tresses, navigating around the soaked patches of limp, gooey strands, and suddenly grabbed hold of a large section of the girl's hair, just above her throat, and straddled the back of her neck with her thumb and ring finger. Rilayne gasped as Nathurra squeezed and tilted the girl's head back, so that her eyes, now definitely shimmering with fear, were directly in front of her. Their noses brushed tips.
"Or else." Nathurra whispered gently, almost lovingly, her warm breath caressing Rilayne's lips. She suddenly wrenched the girl away from her, and Rilayne, released, stumbled back and recovered her balance with a catlike, albeit nervous, grace.
Nathurra turned away, dispassionate and cold. "Give her a tenth lash to think on, Huntyl." she ordered calmly. "Let me see her bleed."
Rilayne winced, Vasonia raised her head, and the remaining five let loose soft, sighing breaths that no human or dwarf would have heard. "As you command, Mistress." she replied dutifully, and, out of the corner of her eyes, Nathurra saw Veszafein, Istral, Rauviira and Luaniss share a slightly smiling glance. The punishment is over, their eyes said brightly, and we're not bleeding-- let's go and see the offender's blood.
Nathurra kept walking as chain mail clinked behind her, kept walking as clothing slipped up over skin and footsteps wandered over to the show, kept walking as the whip went crackand the onlookers sighed appreciatively. Blood, Nathurra knew, would flow. She kept walking to the opening of the cave, a small jagged oval tall enough for a drow elf to pass comfortably threw without ducking, and counted lashes. At the fourth one, she whirled on her minions, screaming at them with a whip of her own, through this one considerably more vocal and less physically painful.
"What in the Six Hundred and Sixty-Six Layers do you think you're doing? GET TO YOUR POSITIONS!"
She watched them jump, watched them chant "Yes, Mistress," and "Forgiveness, Mistress," watched them scurry back to their positions (all save the Zauneld girl and Vasonia; the rogue-warrior kept lashing with measured, powerful strokes, and the fighter cried out once or twice in pain, drawing trilling laughter from her comrades.) like so many spiderlings. It was only after a moment that Nathurra noticed the presence behind her.
She spun, and came up face-to-face with Lesven's gleaming red eyes. They glowed in her heat-seeing vision, and his face was yellow with heat. His perfectly combed and styled hair, swept dashingly back from his face, hung gray and heatless. That hair, when viewed by the light of faerie fire, was an unusual white-blond color, the usual stark white tinted yellow. He was smaller than she by an inch or so, but just as slender and beautiful, and decked in chainmail, a piwafwi, and dark, unassuming fabric beneath the armor. A small scar, received before he and she had met more than a hundred years before, began just in front of his left ear and curved into his hair. Despite herself, Nathurra smiled slightly, for Lesven's face brought thousands of warm and pleasurable memories floating to her mind.
"Nice discipline," he snickered, boldly and easily meeting her eyes with a small smile on his lips. "I could hear the girl shaking in her boots."
Nathurra shrugged. "She had it coming to her. I merely delivered it."
"Ah." Lesven's smile widened to a knowing smirk.
"Watch how you talk to the Second Daughter of House Despate, soldier." She warned him mock-sternly, not truly meaning it; Lesven knew his place as her spouse and companion, and kept it well, despite his rakish and sometimes disrespectful actions.
"Of course, Mistress Nathurra." the male bowed formally before her. "I obey your exalted word, lest you lease the wrath of the arcane energies upon my pitiful and puny form."
"Watch your mouth." She ordered.
"Rather hard to do, don't you think?" He smiled up at her.
Nathurra laughed at him, laughed at how silly he looked, still bowed before her, his bangs of his silky hair falling across his sculpted cheeks. "You should be at your post."
"Is that a command, my lady?" Lesven straightened with somber dignity and spread his hands wide. "Am I not your warrior, doomed -- ah, privileged -- to protect my Mistress Mage?"
Nathurra shrugged easily. "Is the area secure?"
Lesven studied her for a moment, grinned again, and then turned to face the execution of discipline. "Gu'e, Mistress Huntyl!"
Vasonia turned and scowled at him, looking up from her seventh stroke, her hair still miraculously in place. "What in the name of the Hells do you want?"
Lesven dropped Nathurra a sly wink. "Is the area secure, Mistress?"
"Lady of Chaos, what the hell do you think?" she yelled back. "Of course it is!"
Lesven turned solemnly back to Nathurra. "My mistress, I am overjoyed to inform you that the sea is indeed secure."
Nathurra flicked her eyes upwards in a gesture of exasperation. "Follow me, then, soldier."
"It is my pleasure, Exalted Mistress."
Nathurra slapped Lesven across the face. She did so sharply, painfully, but quietly; no one else noticed. They, Nathurra knew, were too engrossed in watching Rilayne's beating out of the corner of their eyes.
Lesven blinked at her, and then ruefully rubbed his cheek. "I beg your forgiveness, Mistress, for I have sinned." he murmured, and then tucked a wayward wisp of hair behind his ear as he dipped another bow. "Would you mind informing me of my transgression?"
Nathurra smiled coyly at her mate. "'Exalted Mistress' is the address of a High Priestess."
Lesven shrugged. "Forgive me my ignorance, Mistress Nathurra, but I had thought that your rank was equal to --"
"No rank is equal to the rank of High Priestess!" Nathurra whispered to him sternly. No matter, she thought, but oh how much I wish it were. Lesven bowed his head in submission with another shrug.
"As you say, Mistress."
"A High Priestess --" Nathurra continued, speaking softly but firmly, " -- carries the Word of Lolth. No drow holds a rank equal to that of a High Priestess."
"What about a High Priest?" That smile was back, snaking about his face. "I am told that there is such a thing among the followers of Vhaeraun."
Nathurra raised her hand again, appalled at such blasphemy, but Lesven bowed again and slipped back away from her, knowing that he had overstepped his bounds. "Your forgiveness, my lady." he offered simply and with proper chagrin, "I spoke out of turn and with disrespect. Perhaps I can accompany you at some later date."
"You know you did, dos fa'la zatoast." Nathurra replied evenly, and Lesven bowed again in apology as he took his leave, backing up and turning quickly to quick-march his way back to his post with Veszafein. Nathurra opened her mouth to remind the male that she had intended to show him something, butshrugged and glanced over to Vasonia and Rilayne just in time to see Vasonia wipe her whip on Rilayne's shirt ("Oh," Nathurra heard her say when Rilayne made a throaty noise of protest, "it'll be bloody enough in a minute, cease this whining."), coil it, and tuck it back into her belt. She waited patiently as Rilayne pulled her shirt on (Vasonia was right; the blood crisscrossing Rilayne's back soaked quickly into her shirt, leaving streaks of hot liquid that shone brightly to heat-sensing eyes) and pulled her chainmail over it. Nathurra was still watching as Vasonia marched up to her Mistress, a sullen Rilayne in tow.
"The punishment has been executed." Vasonia said simply, watching as Nathurra's eyes scanned Rilayne's slumped posture.
"I am capable of seeing that." Nathurra replied, clapping her hands together smartly. Istral, who was watching the conversation, started in surprise at the sudden sound, although neither Rilayne nor Vasonia moved."Stand up, girl. You'll kill your posture."
She flinched slightly at the sudden sound, and Nathurra felt a wave of deep and burning satisfaction that stemmed from the girl's open wound within her pride; she had been beaten down, had been struck in the most vulnerable of places -- her ego -- and had listen to her fellows as they watched her bleed. All that brought Nathurra agreat and savage pleasure.
"As you command, Mistress." Rilayne replied stiffly, straightening quickly and with obvious pain. Nathurra enjoyed that, the physical hurt, as well; the girl should have been on a better lookout, shameful fear of heights or not. Vasonia smiled slightly and folded her hands neatly in front of her stomach.
"Back to your posts, both of you." Nathurra replied. They offered obeisance and skulked away,but Nathurra caught Vasonia's arm as she turned to go.
"Yes, Mistress?" Vasonia turned politely back, face demure and obedient.
Nathurra tightened her grip slightly. "Inform Luaniss, cleric of House Torrae, that I wish her presence."
Vasonia dipped another bow. "Of course, my lady. Consider it done."
Nathurra nodded and released the female, and watched as the two moved away. Lesven, she noticed, had begun a game of coins with Veszafein while that boy, Istral, looked on; the objective was, she knew, to stack the most coins neatly into a small, carefully carved metal cup balanced precariously on a small, rounded rod of dried giant mushroom stalk. It had always seemed rather inane to the wizard, but she watched anyway. Lesven was winning, and she held no illusions about his reaction to her reprimand; he would come to her again, smiling and shrugging and cocky, and probably before the other two groups arrived. She liked Lesven. He could be vicious, and randomly so, once stripping the skin from a bugbear that had looked him full in the face in the middle of a busy street and feeding the cooked strips to the whining goblin their daughter Jysaere kept as a thrall while the baby girl, who had been a little thing twenty or so years ago -- was still a little thing, come to think of it, only thirty years old and nearing the end of her wizardly training (she was to be a mage, a decision Nathurra had fought tooth and nail over with her mother partly for reasons vague and unknown to her but mostly out of pure hatred for the idea of her daughter, who had been a tiny, crumpled thing brought forth in sweat and blood, lording over her as a cleric) -- but he approached the world with a cold, scientific, take-it-as-it-comes-and-twist-it-to-your-advantage attitude that she, and many others,admired.
Her reflections were interrupted by the silent approach of Luaniss, who offered obeisance when she noticed that Nathurra saw her.
"What is your desire, Mistress?"
Nathurra smiled sweetly at the female, who was younger than her and boasted a pair of golden amber eyes that always seemed to dart about in an annoyingly paranoid, nervous way. The Lolthite cleric had not yet attained the status of High Priestess, and, in the City where Lolth's priestesses did not hold absolute sway, Nathurra, as a noble and a powerful wizard, outranked the yellow-eyed drow. Luaniss must have been aware of this, but her gaze was slightly vacant, with the stamp of blankness imprinted in those eyes. Eyes, Lesven once whisperedin her ear, "that give me the creeps."
"I wish you to aid me," she began, waving Luaniss nearer and holding up a slim hand, bidding silence. "I wish to contact Mistress Barriett and Adultree Killyl through a magical sending, to discover their whereabouts and inform them of ours, but I have only one such spell prepared this day. You, I believe, have the training and power necessary tocast the divine version of the spell I intend to cast?"
Luaniss nodded, even smiled a little. Her voice, Nathurra noticed, lisped slightly. "Yes, my lady."
"Good." Nathurra dipped a small hand into a deep pocket of her robe, and withdrew two short pieces of fine copper wire. Cupping the first piece against her palm, she held the second out with two dark fingers."Your subject is Adultree Killyl; mine is Mistress Felyne Barriett."
"Of course, Mistress Nathurra." Luaniss waved the material component away. "I have, however, no need of that." Noticing Nathurra's frown, the cleric hastily continued, "It is an arcane material component, Mistress. My casting is divine. I need no such thing. With all due respect, Mistress." she gestured to the wire, and Nathurra tucked it back into her pocket.
"All right." the wizard transferred the copper to her left hand. "Shall we begin?"
Luaniss bowed her head in submission. "At your command, Mistress Despate."
The two dark elves moved a ways away from the others, taking a seat just inside the opening to the cave. Nathurra wondered at the girl's trust in the situation, but decided that Luaniss apparently felt secure in the knowledge that the warriors had a clear view of the two spellcasters. Nathurra herself felt no unease at the mouth of the tunnel; the band, on orders from the Council, had set offto map and explore the tunnels south of the City, and so far they, splitting into three groups -- Sornas's, her own, and Adultree's, with Felyne travelling with the group she wished to travel with --were almost done with the job, having come upon countless goblins, kobolds, and not much else aside from the expected array of monstrous creatures. Today's tunnels had been clear; they were as safe as dark elves in the company of their fellow race could be.
Luaniss closed her eyes and mouthed the name of the Goddess while Nathurra closed her own and focused on the power within her mind. Chanting slowly, she drew it slowly forth, twisting it intoa vaguely distinct shape of power, creating a crystalline sculpture of arcane might; and then she released it, focusing on a mental portrait of Felyne Barriett's scarred yet dignified face, and send it hurdling along the Web to sink into the fellow drow's conciousness.
Am at Cave a mile from intersection. Will meet you there. Tunnels clear; small scuffle with unidentified tentacled things in cave. Am at Bridge. Contact.
Having reached, more or less, the twenty-five word allowance of the spell, Nathurra quieted and waited patiently as Luaniss related similar tidings. All the spellcasters -- divine as well as arcane -- in the mission had been drilled on the script they either may have to relate or, in the case of Felyne Barriett and Nathurra Despate and the other two leaders, were supposed to relate. The underling spellcasters were taught the script for a twofold reason; one, so that they might assist the leader in her or his castings if there was such a need, and two, to inform the other two sections of the mission in case the leader "forgot."
Contact made, Felyne's mental voice poured over her own musings like still-warm bodily fluids might flow over smooth and polished floors, am at intersection two miles back. Lolth-damned goblins; will arrive in one to four hours.
Quick and abrupt, Felyne stopped seven words short of her twenty-five limit; Nathurra folded her hands (while keeping her thumb discretely over a pocket of her robes that held a slim, long wand) and stayed still, seeing if Felyne meant to say any more. Apparently not -- and Nathurra didn't think it was likely that a last-minute thought might bloom in Felyne's mind. The small female was composed and direct, and not prone to tiresome chatting.
How might we serve the Goddess that way? popped up in her mind, and Nathurra snapped the thought off; it was a question that she had been asked, over and over again, during the clerical part of her wizardly studies by (in her humble opinion) overexcited, over-zealous females whenever they caught their young charges doing something they disliked, like holding unwanted conversation. How might we serve the Goddess that way? -- and crack! the whips, crack!-snap! and the fine spray of crimson between the cut lips of raw and torn flesh.
We serve the Goddess in blood, that was the answer that the class -- all the females applying for the title of Wizard in the School of Arcane Magic, which amounted to Nathurra and three other females, none of whom worth naming, were taught to reply. Nathurra snapped off this thought as well; there was a cleric of Lolth sitting right across from her! And while Nathurra honestly did not fear Luaniss, a young girl fresh from the clerical school, she did not want to explain her death to Felyne. And, more importantly, she didn't want to waste any more of her spells if there was not a need to do so. The scouts -- three of them, including Lesven -- had only traveled as far as the caves during thetwenty-four-hour rest period thirteen and a half hours ago; there might very well be Things waiting in the impenetrable darkness across the gorge.
This caused Nathurra's mind to turn back to Felyne's message -- Lolth-damn goblins. Kelrysn Maelyl, a rather roguish if somewhat plain noble of the Twentieth House, had been the one to explore that little maze of tunnels, which, he had reported, had been infested with the ugly, stupid things. Nathurra shook the image of the Maelyl boy creeping across the ceiling, peering down at the blubbering fools below -- probably, she thought, licking his thin lips as he did so and imagining how smoked goblin flesh would taste. Kelrysn was slightly disconceting like that.
Personally, Nathurra's nose detested the smell of goblin blood -- it stank of punishment and vented anger, and while those two were not unpleasent, it also stank of the filthy veins that it surged through. Better, nose and mind agreed, to keep it cleaned from her blades and away from her clothes. Lolth-damn goblins; Felyne and today's lucky group must have stumbled upon an extra pocket of the cowardly things. Good for them. Marvelous, in fact. It kept Felyne's prying eyes from Nathurra's decisions.
Well aware that she was surrendering her grip on her surrounding to the lure of the shapeless world of musings, Nathurra dug her nails into the flesh of her hands, and savored the pain. It reminded her of the heartbeat she had fought to maintain throughout her life, reminded her of the consequences of losing that heartbeat. Blood beaded on the tip of one nail; she absently raised it to her lips and licked it off.
A short minute passed, in which Luaniss's eyes remained closed. Nathurra studied her body, checking to see if the muscles were tensed in expectation of lunging; they were calm, relaxed, the fingers laying meekly in her laps and not reaching for a blade. The laxness of the muscles was mildly startling; Nathurra would have expected something different from a dark elf in the company of her own and otherwise alone out in the wilds. Perhaps, she thought, the lack of tensing was a preparation for movement; untensed muscles shot forward more easily than tensed ones, and with less warning. The hand slipped down from her mouth and lay upon her lap, poised so that she could have the knife now currently nestled up her sleeve in her hand with one flick and said knife implanted within the chest of the cleric with another flick.
Just in case.
Luaniss shifted then, and opened her eyes. Nathurra did not tense, but kept her hands very still; her face was smooth and lovely and casual. It remained so as Luaniss nodded her head.
"They will be here in about one hour." she said simply.
"Oh?" Nathurra wiggled her foot awake and fixed her eyes upon Luaniss's properly lowered ones. "Are you sure? Absolutely positive --" her eyes tightened their gaze and bored uncomfortably in,"-- that you haven't forgotten something?"
Luaniss didn't flinch, but kept her body relaxed, her expression distant but almost friendly -- not by the standards of a human or a gnome, but by the well-bred and considerably higher standards of a drow elf, that expression that some lessers would term "damn weird" was most amiable. "Of course not, mistress."
"Good." Demure voice, demure words, demure facial expression, demure posture; you may live, my darling, to see the second century of your life with those large, demure eyes, Nathurra thought. She waved her hand casually towards the Bridge. "You may leave me now."
"As you wish, Mistress." Luaniss rose gracefully, and for a second Nathurra felt a cold and sharp certainty in the pit of her belly: Luaniss was going to lunge at her with a dagger, going to lunge and stab and strike with her free hand. Immeadiately on the frozen heels of that was a practiced reassurance; I could, Nathurra knew, blast her mind and enfeeble her body before the dagger would descend, and, of course, be deflected by the robes. I could. I could!
But Luaniss didn't lunge, didn't even make a move in that direction, and Nathurra smiled inwardly at her own paranoia as the young female strode away, pale hair swaying with the movements of her shoulders. She was still smiling when she heard the breathing behind her, and felt a warm hand upon her shoulder. The touch had a practiced air of caution, and the smile widened; Lesven was such a good actor.
"Mistress Mage?" that familiar voice, cool and tinged with a unfaltering hue of sarcasm and rakish charm and proper, distant respect. "It appears that you are in want of company."
"I would not call you decent company." she replied, turning to face him. His hand was resting on her shoulder; the light warmth of it was oddly comforting, like the handle of her sword or butt of her amber wand against her palm. His face, she saw, was serious and calm.
"Oh, I would disagree."And now he was smiling -- that strange half-smile that made her almost want to shake him. "If I may have my say, Mistress." A bow of his head, smooth and low.
She blew a quick breath out through her nose and reached up to lay her hand over his. "I have no doubtof your considerable ability to do so, Lesven."
"You should not." he slipped her a sly wink. "Not after, what -- ninety years? A hundred?"
"Hundred and eleven." she corrected absently. "Not counting Luzlael."
He laughed, soft and gentle laughter that contrasted sharply with the eerie, bright light in his eyes. They were, she noticed, a pale, pale green in the light of the faerie fire. As she allowed her heatvision to fall away from her sight, the wizard let the distinct shapes about her become vague and shadowed and dark ; the cave's walls, and just about everything else,were lit with a bluish hue. Lesven himself became half-shade and soft blue eyes; were it not for his closeness, she might have mistaken him for a shadow. He was, she realized, also not using the infravision.
"No." he agreed in a fervent tone that made her want to draw him closer, "I had thought, my dear lady, that we had both sworn an oath never to mention Luzlael to anyone."
"I broke it." she whispered back; his voice had been steadily dropping throughout his sentence, and her lack of vocalization matched his. "Oops."
"You naughty girl." he squeezed her shoulder with his delicate fingers. "Eh?"
"Watch your tongue, soldier." she hissed at him, her tone as fragile as his touch and just as light.
"I don't see any whip." he flashed her a wider grin, this one baring white and squarish teeth. "So how did it go, mylovely lady?"
Recognizing the swift change of topic, Nathurra waved her free hand vaguely at the dark and damp air, keeping her cool. "And why should I tell you?"
"Because you love me?" he joked, and they both were smiling now, the toothy grins that cage in laughter; it was a long-standing inside jest between the two, began when Lesven came across the term during his research for some odd fancy or other that was always striking the flighty male. It was ridiculous, anyway; they did not love each other. Love was a weak emotion, and it had no part in the strong hearts of drow elves. They had stuck together for over a century merely because they fought well together and could stand each other well enough to prevent bloodshed, had seen two children enter the uncaring and cold world of theirs because of that endurance, and now were here -- one sitting, one half-sitting -- because of the mutual bond of profit. She was a wizard in need of a tanking force; he was a warrior and a rogue in need of an arcanistto aid him in his pursuits. They were two pieces of a puzzle, snapping easily together; their legacy, two aspiring wizards (if one was only a male) were intelligent and beautiful and upheld the pride of their City with ease and without fail, their acomplishments a testimony to the input of both father and mother. Lesven had served her well, and she had been a valued asset to the scheming male; together they had pulled off more than a dozen plots that had assisted House Despate -- and, of course,themselves --in its and their rise to glory. Why stop now?
"How soon?"
Nathurra turned back once more to glance at her mate, who was regarding her through cool eyes. "I asked," he repeated simply, "how soon?"
"One hour." Nathurra shrugged, a small rise and fall of slender shoulders. "Maybe four."
Lesven arched an eyebrow at her. His other hand slid across her shoulders and moved down, touching her waist. "We have time."
Time, Nathurra thought distantly as Lesven began to kiss her. Yes, we have time. In these endless halls of emptiness, all we have is time. And why not? We're going home, after all -- we have time. She kissed back, firmly sucking and pressing on his lips, and heard the word time echo in her head. Over and over again -- time . . . time . . . time . . .
They broke apart slowly, gently, and sat waiting for Felyne and Killyl's groups to join there own so that they all could get on with the business of going home.
I wish you all to know that this was written with the Player's Handbook balanced across my knees, so I hope I got the magical spells correct. The tentacled things are last-minute creations of my own mind; so are all the drow featured in this story. They have been brooding long into the night within the confines of my mind . . . I do hope that they've come forth in reasonable and properlymacabre style, as befitting their proud and dark natures. The names have all been generated on the Drow Name Generator, found on the Internet, and I'd like to thank the wonderful people who created it, because it helped me add the critical factor of a proper name to my characters. And I'd also like to thank R.A. Salvatore for his wickedly awesome novel, Homeland -- without it this story would havenever been created.This is Raablyn, and I want to thank you all for reading this, and I do hope you enjoyed it. If you didn't, well, thank you for trying it out anyway. Might I say this -- I hope this story made you think. You may leave reviews, nice, nasty, (I prefer the former, myself) and otherwise if you so wish; and then ditch the good and have a great day instead. This is Raab, signing off with fond wishes for all of your health. . . but hoping a few of you will remain stuck to my web.
Melodramatic, no?
Haha.