The Cleric stood firm, daring her body to twitch. She could already feel the adamantine tongue craving her blood, and the wielder equally as hungry for the crimson liquor. Her ears rang with white noise and her vision turned blurry. She knew there was no escape; Death's messenger had her cornered.
No tears streamed down her ebony cheeks, Pride dared her not to allow such weakness. She took in a shallow breath and held it momentarily. That same breath never came out. She heard nothing and said nothing, the oxygen trapped in her lungs. The shock hadn't sunk in yet.
Cold and swift, the blade slit her throat. A telltale line of scarlet formed lazily along her thin neck, but she felt nothing. The cut had been a clean and precise procedure, only attainable through hundreds of years of practise.
A few seconds slipped away and the cleric was finally able to absorb the event. Her sense of alertness rushed back to her as a warm, satin-like river caressed her neck, running its smooth course over every dimple and dip. She willed herself to scream, mustering fear from the very depths of her soul. Her lips parted to release the shrill cry…but no sound disturbed the ever still air. She know realised it was an effort in vain. She had already fallen to her grave. The beautiful, polished floor of house DeVir would forever serve as her sanctuary in death.
Zaknafein admired his handy work, the crime still evident on his blade. But he didn't care, he knew the ruling would take no action, such a clean death swept over the house that not a soul with the surname of DeVir remained in conscious thought, each had been slain by a member of House Do'Urden.
Sheathing his blades once again, Zaknafein left the cleric's bodies and glided out of the house, a smirk breaking through on his face. He always felt good after killing Drow Clerics – Wenches of Lloth.
He rejoined the army of Do'Urden watching as the Magician's set their spells into place. House DeVir was burned to the ground, nothing left but smouldering rubble. Zaknafein strode to Drizzt's side, placing a large hand on the small boy's shoulders'. "It's over."