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250 Years Ago.
The Matron's Outpost II
They made great time over the course of the day. The drow in charge of the reinforcements were pleased at how well the march was going: no 'accidents' had depleted the ranks, no monsters had decided that filet drow was on the menu, no major obstructions had blocked their way. The tunnels were smooth, calm, and empty.
Two hours later, the flowing rock about them gave way to a thick blanket of moss that clung to the floors, ceilings, and walls, dripping salty water down upon drow heads every two minutes or so. The air became heavy and damp; no wind stirred it, and the marching dark elves soon noticed that the air grew stagnant and hot in their mouths. Their own sweat beaded on their brows and mixed with the damp that stuck clothing to dark skin and caused armor to gleam wetly in the greenish glow of the moss; tempers rose with the heat, making themselves known in the edge of the whispers in the tunnels.
The moss only grew thicker as they moved deeper towards the east, but that, as the scouts confirmed, was to be expected; eventually it would thin and disappear, leaving the stone clear and dry. When, an hour later, the moss showed no signs of surrender, Etheyl proposed a halt.
Sinda, predictably, opposed her request.
"We are making record time!" the drow argued, her back to the matted wall and her arms folded over her chest. "Why stop now? Are we to be deterred by a little moss, like cowardly goblins?"
Etheyl blew a lock of hair from her mouth and squarely faced her cousin, her own hands resting firmly upon her slender hips. She ignored the onlooking drow, although she felt a twinge of annoyance when Sinda shot the 'cowardly goblins' part at her, and noted the twitch of Dillara's full lips at those words. Proud Dillara, who wore the horrible scar upon her right hand as a battle trophy, was well-known for her hatred of goblins and her bravery (some would call it recklessness) in battle; she was also known for the strong sadistic streak she often displayed alongside her courage, and known in particular for her methods of dealing lingering and crippling pain to those she battled with. Etheyl's gaze unconsciously slipped to the wickedly serrated edges of the assassin's short swords, and Dillara must have noticed the movement, for she rested both her slim palms upon the hilts of her weapons and leveled a dangerously pleasant smile Etheyl's way.
"The soldiers are tired." Etheyl spoke, returning Dillara's gaze with a cold grin of her own, and projecting her words to the public in general in defiance of Sinda's secretive tones.
"You are tired." Quaridil, the red-and-purple designs upon her clerical robes glimmering strangely beneath the emerald glow of the moss, cut in smoothly. "We all are . . . aren't we? Is that not what you imply?"
"I for one can march five hours without whining about it." Dillara half-whispered, her low voice strong, prideful and aimed at Etheyl, who narrowed her eyes at the warrior. "It is not so hard."
"That is not what I am saying." Etheyl growled at Dillara, her eyes going to Quaridil's disdainful visage and her hands going from her hips to her hilts. She calmed her voice and continued in a more civilized tone. "I am saying that we should take time to rest and consider our course, maybe even send out a scout or two to locate the outpost and inform them of our impending arrival."
"A good idea." Amalasryn, the only male leader of the reinforcements, spoke up, and received the reprimanding glares of Etheyl, Sinda, and Dillara. Quaridil sighed softly, as a mother might sigh when a very young child repeatedly does something because she does not know better.
"Who gave you permission to speak?" Sinda snarled at the warrior.
"Keep quiet." Dillara agreed sternly.
"Do I not get a say in this decision?" Amalasryn appealed to Quaridil, his face flushing to the heat-seeing eyes of his comrades. The other three females scowled at the male's back, and Etheyl had a passing fantasy of sticking her sword right through his spine. From the dreamy expression on Dillara's and Sinda's faces, they were thinking much the same.
"What decision?" Etheyl feigned lightness and scowled at the four drow, the hard set of her delicate features reflecting her unhappy mood. "You mean that these fools suddenly see sense?"
It was a slip of the tongue, caused by frustration, and Etheyl had a second to wonder at the consequences of the insult before Dillara, her eyes narrowing dangerously, pounced back. "It takes one to know one."
"Cease this!" Sinda made a cutting motion of her hand, thus interrupting the conversation and apparently earning the cold glower that Dillara placed over her." What will it get done?"
"It could thin the ranks." Quaridil muttered, turning a sly glance to Dillara and Etheyl. "Considerably."
Both females hushed at that, and, although Dillara's fingers remained wrapped about the hilts of her weapons, Etheyl released hers.
"We will rest." Quaridil continued, and Sinda bit her tongue in anger. "And we will send scouts out. But we will not stay long, my dears," she shot a stern glare at Dillara and Etheyl as she hissed the endearment, and both flushed, "so do not get too comfortable."
With that, the cleric strode away, absently brushing past the hanging moss and stepping lightly upon the springy ground. Amalasryn, his face cold and set, walked off too, head held high and hands clasped behind him. Sinda made a noise of disgust and leaned against the tunnel way, her lips puckered as if she had just taken a deep drink of sour algae wine. Etheyl, too, turned to go, and had not taken her second step in that direction when she felt sharp movement behind her. She spun back, caught a glimpse of a descending blade.
To her credit, she managed to duck and moved her head to the right at such short notice; the dagger, its blade dull and heatless, gashed the side of her forehead, sliding along the bone and tearing skin. Had she not acted, Etheyl realized with a cold feeling in her stomach, the steel would be cutting the back of her throat at that moment.
Dillara calmly drew the weapon back and pointedly flicked it over her fingers, catching it easily and sending a small spray of blood through the air. "I am no coward." she replied in answer to Etheyl's furious, surprised stare. "Nor fool."
Etheyl raised one hand as the words left Dillara's mouth, arching it as if to touch the wound below her hairline; instead, she froze it halfway there, gestured strongly, and spoke a word aloud. Dillara's quick reflexes propelled her up in the air as she recognized the spell, her feet tucking beneath her . . . almost in time. The flames that gushed out from Etheyl's fingertips seared into the drow's lower belly and legs, and Etheyl grinned in satisfaction as clothing caught flame.
Dillara twisted in midair, landing hard upon her burned legs and letting a small gasp of pain burst from her mouth. She had one hand to her sister dagger and the first weapon aimed to strike when both drow froze, Dillara still in a half-stagger.
Quaridil calmly walked in between the two, easily brushing away the dagger and gazing with amusement upon Etheyl's wounds and Dillara's burns. She stopped, slowly turned to alternately look both in the eye, and then snapped her whip. The snakes attached to the slender hilt, the signature weapon of a Lolthite cleric, hissed and whacked hard against Etheyl's chest; a second snap sent them slamming against Dillara's stomach. No fangs dug past steel armor into drow skin, but Etheyl, blood rolling down her face in gleaming pearls of red, could feel the bruises the whip had inflicted swelling beneath her clothing.
Quaridil smiled slightly, and Sinda, who had come up behind her, started slightly at the sight of blood and began to smile: it made her face look almost angelic and warmly beautiful. The cleric stopped her with a cold glare, however, and Sinda, the smile faltering somewhat, retreated to a safer distance well out of the snake whip's range; Etheyl felt a hot rush of humiliation at the sight of her cousin. Her body stood frozen, quivering with the nerves that Dillara's attack had disturbed, and the heat upon her face was at once repulsive and comforting.
"I said," Quaridil was saying, and Etheyl focused her attention upon the cleric as much as her unmoving eyes would allow, "that we will rest. Rest." She turned back to Dillara, raised one slim hand, and cupped the assassin's chin in her smooth palm. "What is the definition of rest, my dear, sweet Dillara? Is it 'fight stupidly over petty insults'?"
Dillara, of course, could not answer, although heat bloomed within her cheeks, and Quaridil released her and turned her dangerous gaze expectantly to Etheyl. "Well?"
When neither drow answered her, their tongues held still inside their mouths with the effects of the spell, Quaridil turned suddenly to Sinda, her robes swishing about her legs. "Well, warrior of House Myneld? Is it that?"
"No, mistress." Sinda dutifully replied, lowering her eyes from Quaridil's red gleam.
"No!" Quaridil echoed the warrior, swinging back to face Dillara and Etheyl. "It is not!"
Her voice rang in the silence, and the voices of the soldiers, milling about farther back in the tunnels, hushed in anticipation, although none could actually see the encounter: the commanders had traveled a bit up the corridor to hold their debate.
"Such actions bring the favor of Lolth," the cleric continued angrily, "when they do not affect her schemes. What would such a fight do in this situation? Wound two of the commanders for the reinforcements of this outpost? Kill one? Kill both? And how might that be conductive to House Myneld's ambitions?"
Sinda licked her lips, and flashed Etheyl a smirk behind Quaridil's back. Etheyl would have dearly loved to slit her throat at that moment; Quaridil, unaware of the warrior's murderous thoughts, continued her scolding, her voice rising steadily. The snake whip stirred in her hand, obviously agitated. "Without this outpost, House Myneld lacks a strong outside reserve; without this outpost, the City lacks a further fort of scouts and spies. The outpost is a coming-and-going for the appointed infiltrators for that filthy duergar city: what then, if it is lost?" Quaridil turned her scowl over Dillara, who did her best to look properly meek while being unable to move her features. "House Det'tar cannot hold the outpost by itself; House Myneld's support is vital. Vital! If you sever the flow of blood to your hand, your hand will die! And so it is here!"
Etheyl, anger swelling in her throat, realized that Quaridil was enjoying herself.
"And you would stand to disrupt the possible victory of the Spider Queen's chosen people over a group of grunting idiots?" the cleric finished coldly, clenching her fist. A snake rose before Dillara's beautiful face and hissed at her cheek, rubbing its body along her full lips as it did so; Sinda watched with a kind of cold, bright-eyed interest. "Mother of Lusts, I should strip the skin from your limbs, slice them off one hair width at a time, and then regrow them -- again and again -- to offer the Spider Queen further pleasure for this!"
I bet you'd enjoy that, you hag, Etheyl thought with an almost jealous anger. She knew that, were she in Quaridil's place, she certainly would.
Quaridil dismissed the spell that held the two females then, and Dillara slumped heavily to the ground. Etheyl pressed her raised hand to her forehead, and felt the blood there nestle itself into the creases of her palm. Both drow gazed mutely at the cleric, who snorted, turned, and walked away. Apparently, the scolding was over, and there was no healing to be had.
Sinda strode after Quaridil, and Etheyl, knowing that acknowledging Dillara's pain at the moment would wound the prideful drow and possibly provoke another attack in the future, shakily followed her cousin. She did not look back, and Dillara, pulling a healing potion from her pocket, did not look up. She had closed her eyes, and now opened them warily, as if expecting -- or hoping -- to have imagined it all.
No such luck. Etheyl's footsteps, barely a swish against the stone, rang out as hard blows that pounded in Dillara's head. Mockingly -- smugly.
"You dirty witch." she hissed, the sting of her humiliation digging sharply in her head. "You dirty vithin witch!" Her hair hung about her face as she swallowed the liquid in a single gulp, grimaced at the pain in her legs, and slowly pushed herself up from the floor. I shall, she promised herself, teach that fool her place.
"Yes." she said aloud, softly, glancing back up the tunnel where Etheyl had disappeared. I think I shall.
She was smiling a bitter, eager smile.
Nulleari had kept her customary low profile all day, not talking much, keeping a wary eye on her possessions, and making sure that Ilmna'ryne was in sight at all times. The drow female doubted that Ilmna'ryne would attack her now, with so many witnesses looking on, but the lure of the thing resting in her hidden pocket, next to her leg, might be too tempting for the female. That thought, and the gentle, heavy sway of the thing tucked inside her clothing, sent a pleasant thrill tingling up her spine, and also dried her mouth with the nervous taste of low-grade terror.
The rest did not come as welcome to Nulleari, but neither did it come with regret. The warrior did not care much for the springy, soft foliage that annoyingly draped itself into her face and sunk slightly wherever her foot stepped; she cared less for the heat of the air. However, conditions were what they were; if you could not change it, go with it.
She slipped a water skein from her pouch, keeping her hand close to her sword as she did so, lifted the skein to her lips, and took a deeper swallow than she had meant to. The water rolled through her mouth and down her throat, temporarily soothing the dryness therein, and Nulleari silently berated herself for allowing her anxiety to creep into her movements. She wanted a second swallow, but the water skein was almost half-empty, and it never hurt to be conservative. She tucked it away without further debate, mentally told her throat to deal with it, and glanced about without much interest. The commanders were back, and apparently this was rest time.
"Just like unweaned children." a male -- Nilor, by the dramatic way the cloak was tossed over his boney shoulders -- near Ilmna'ryne grumbled in his melodic, low voice. "I suppose we should start cleaning, too."
"Tch." Kelrysn of House Myneld said, brushing away a hanging strip of moss. With his hair tied back from his face, and his particularly large eyes, he looked younger than he was; Nulleari supposed he must have been teased about that. Not that anyone would do so now: Kelrysn had built up a fine reputation as a brilliant fighter, and, Nulleari knew, as a very skilled companion for Matron Haelriia -- a very skilled companion. The odds were good in Kelrysn's favor; if he played his cards right, everybody knew (and loathed him for), he could very well become the next Matron's next patron. Lolth knew that Haelriia was bored with the old one.
Nulleari sighed with the uselessness of it all, for Kelrysn would rise and fall as easily as the last patron had, and drew a dagger. She absently flipped it about her fingers, tossed it in the air, caught it easily in her dark hand, and fantasized about all the wonderful things she and Master Dagger could accomplish. Particularly if they had a human -- a nice, hale human. Not a goblin, goblins whined and any child could do a goblin -- and not a duergar, they smelled awful. She supposed they took bathes, but the smell must be inherent, for it clung to the ugly grey skin of the deep dwarves. A nice, strong human; orcs were not up to the level of a human, orcs brayed and snuffled and begged in their horse, unlovely tongue, but a good human, chained up to a wall . . . humans, as every lucky drow knew, could produce satisfyingly shrill screams that went on and on and on. Nulleari had had a human -- once -- and, oh, was that fun. Was that fun. Goblins and orcs just weren't up to the level of a human, oh, no . . . oh, no. She chuckled to herself, softly and beneath her breath.
She glanced down, then, and notice the small greenish glow slowly creeping up within the cloth. Nulleari did not place a hand to her pocket -- that would have looked suspicious, and would have prompted unwelcome interest -- but she shifted her leg a little, feeling the weight of the object in its pouch, and nodded to herself as the cloth of her shirt slid nicely over her trousers, hiding the light.
Now, all she needed was . . .
Nulleari flipped the dagger once more in the air, caught it, and smiled to herself. The smile was predatory and malicious -- and, at the same time, it also made her face look stunningly beautiful.
The room was black, crafted from obsidian and magic, and octagonal in shape. The walls were polished to a high shine -- by the tiny hands of drow children, for lesser, cruder creatures such as goblins and other slaves were not allowed in the sanctity of this room. When one gazed at the flat, dark surface, one gazed at one's own face, reflected back as perfectly as any mirror.
At the moment, the walls reflected the red, garish glow of flames, dancing wildly up and down from the eight braziers that ringed the spider-altar, which was set directly in the middle of the large room. A bowl of shining, dark liquid was set before the altar; directly in front of that was a low, stone table. Shackled to the stone table, lying upon its broad back, was a muscular, naked ogre male, its muscles bulging against the unyielding steel chains.
Knives tapped out a rhythm on the stone; drow voices rose in prayer, dipped suddenly low, and came up high once more. The owners of the voices stood about the sacrificial table: eight female drow, every one of them dressed in her clerical robes and not much else, their jewelry vanished and their hair falling, loose and unbound, about their slender shoulders in waterfalls of white. Smooth black ankles arched up from slender, bare feet; beads of sweat stood out on every face.
"Ma sha, nat yil namurr." they crooned sweetly, swaying to the tune of each other's voices; high, low, in-between, going low but stopping and going high again. "Ma sha, jurj lusshaa-na, beru rulnu mak sa feri." Voices jabbing to the ceiling, undercutting some voices and overlaying other voices, honey-sweet and clear and proud. Knives glittered in the firelight, turning over and over, tapping on the stone. "Ma sha, nat yil namurr."
The ogre looked decidedly uneasy. Rilymma, the youngest in attendance and the nearest to the ogre, offered him a warm, motherly smile, and the ogre began to tremble.
"Ma sha, jurj lusshaa-na, beru rulnu mak sa feri." Two of the eight females were chanting, their voices low and steady; the remaining six were singing, three high and three low, alternating every other verse or so. The effect, combined with the heat of the room and the gleam of the blades, was both dreamy and terrifying.
"Queen of Spiders . . ." one of the females, the eldest of the eight, began, and the ogre heard no more as the singing rose to a painfully high note; it nearly swooned, the heavily, almost sickeningly sweet sense of incense hovering in its nostrils. The colors blurred and merged as it began to whine, but the chanting continued, relentless. When it shrank against the stone, Rilymma could see the red indents the chains had left upon its skin.
The ogre howled as the knives descended, swooping suddenly low along with the voices, severing foot from leg and leg from abdomen; it screamed, the half-chant half-song pressing in on its ears, as the knives parted hand from arm and arm from torso. It fainted as knives slit its chest open, first unearthing and then digging its heart out the way gold may be mined from stone. It was dead when the knives separated its head from its shoulders, and by then it didn't matter.
Blood spilled everywhere, soaking the floor; there was a wet, dull thump as the ogre's heart, ragged and dripping, was dropped into the basin. The air, hot and coppery and sick-sweet, shuddered as the singing rose to a pitch. Delicate hands lifted the mutilated corpse, and delicate feet left bloody footprints on the shiny floor as each piece was, one by one, dropped onto a separate brazier. The flames soared high, and burning flesh joined the aromas of the room, a perfume that all eight high priestesses would be wearing for weeks to follow.
A new knife was passed about, its blade black and thin and cruel; drow skin was cut open, and elven blood joined the heart and unholy water within the basin. Drow fingers rubbed blood upon full drow lips, and dripping drow lips were pressed reverently to the foot of the altar; the prostrate bodies shimmered in the mirror-like walls as they performed the dance, rising, falling, twirling about the altar, falling and rising and twirling again. Drow fingers rubbed the cuts, and then pressed their wet tips to the lips of the statue upon the altar; voices raised. Someone screamed. The rest sang on. The bones were showing through the ogre's blackened flesh now; the flames climbed still higher. Sweat rolled down the bridges of angular noses, and moans filled the air as forms twisted by the firelight. Cries rang out; Rilymma stepped before the altar, and threw back her head.
"Ash-rakk!" she called out, her voice shrill with passion. "Asimiti cor her'u mak sa morn e'lyen sga'keesz!"
The call hit the walls and bounced back, the whine-hiss-sharp notes of her voice spinning eerily about the room: Keesz! Eesz! Eesz!
A tall, hulking figure arose from the flames, black as the dark from which the world was borne, its shape shifting and merging dizzily. Rilymma invoked the final syllable, lifted her arms, and felt her self flee her body as the darkness hovered above the flames, horrible and unearthly, and then fell on her. In her.
The sensations that followed were basic and surreal; the heat of the room, the scent of incense in her mouth, and the pressure from within, the nameless pressure that was at once so light but so demanding, the pressure of a shadow attempting to break free of a body. She closed her eyes and descended into reddish darkness, and then screamed as a coldness, full and thick and sharp, cut her inside. The shadow pulsed within her, withdrawing from her arms and legs and snuggling into her lower belly.
Voices rose; feet dragged upon the floor, chains were unlocked. A slender form, dark as was her own, embraced her; lips pressed savagely against her cheek. The dark inside her shuddered, and then shrank as sensation hit her mind; it fixed itself inside her, holding on and refusing to leave. Voices fell and rose again.
When it was over, she lay still for a long, long while, panting against the floor.
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