StarDestroyer.Net BBS

The City of Waterdeep lies at the one of the few natural harbours on the Sword Coast. It is a bustling, cosmopolitan city that has been ruled well more often than not. The City of Splendors is a center of commerce, education, and magic in Northern Faerun.

But not everything around the city is so fair. The dungeon-fortress of Halastar, Undermountain, lies beneath the city streets. So does Skullport, a harbour that serves smugglers and the denizens of the Underdark. A network of magical locks control the water level, allowing entrance and exit to the cavern of the port city. Many wonderous things can be seen in Skullport, if one has the courage to venture there.

A wonder that the subterranean inhabitents of Skullport did not often see moved through the streets. Illithids and human, drow and duergar, all turned to watch as the gold elf took long, swift strides through their streets. Her skin was a rich gold colour and her eyes and flowing hair were of darkest ebony. She wore a gold accented emerald tunic over breeches and a shirt of white samite. A grey-green cloak trailed behind her and black leather boots completed the ensemble. Intricate jewelry of gold and gems glinted on her fingers, breast, throat and hair. An expression of frozen hauter that would have done a priestess of Lolth proud destroyed any beauty that could have been found in her face.

The elf woman ascended the steps to a pecular building. It was topped with a dome of white marble and silver armoured drow women stood guard with naked blades held in her hands. She passed between them and into the Promenade of Eilistraee.

Her expression softened as she entered the temple of the Maiden of Moonlight and Dance. The temple was plain, but pleasant. The followers of the Eilistraee loved beauty, but did not believe in hoarding wealth. Woven tapestries and carpets covered much of the floor and the walls while a statue of a nude elf woman holding a sword formed the altar. A shockingly old drow woman in a dark gown shot through with silver threads emerged to meet her. Two younger, more militant looking drow followed in her foot steps.

"Greetings and welcome sister," said the old woman. "Please make yourself welcome in Eilistraee's house.

"Thank you Chalithra. I'm afraid I bear ill news. They have refused."

The old woman smiled. "But they listened to the petition before refusing?"

"Yes."

"Then that is progress," she said serenely. "I would prefer to walk upon Evermeet ere I die, but if that is not to be then I will bear it. That they listened is progress. They may change their minds in another hundred years."

"It isn't fair."

"Imizael, you are so young."

"I am a high mage. I have seen more than two centuries."

"Young, as I said. I have buried four children. Four. They died for no good reason pettiness, spite, jealousy, and vain glory. But I still have two. Two wonderful children who have grown up strong and wise and beautiful." The two drow behind her shifted uncomfortably. "Even if they are a little uncomfortable with their mother openly bragging about them. I have lost four children, but not hope. I have lost this petition, but not hope. Even if I never step foot on Evermeet and address the Elven Court, their is hope for my children."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trizkel took a step forward and moved from daylight to darkness, from above ground to the Underdark. It had been years since he was back this way, the path with which he had ascended to the surface world. He had not expected to come back this way again.

Things had changed. Sylvetria had left, going back to the Vaasa and her family. The physical wounds of her ordeal had healed, but not the mental ones. And then there was the issue of their future. He was drow and she was human and that presented a host of complications, among them the looming question of children. She would be old and withered before any child they had reached adulthood while he would scarcely be changed. Sylvetria had wanted time and space and he had not tried to stop her.

Had he done the right thing? He thought so. He had nagging questions of his own. His memories told him that he had been raised by svirfneblin since early childhood, but his reactions during the crisis had been those of one raised drow. He had searched his memory for the name of his city and his family, things that he should be able to recall with the disciplines he had mastered, and had found blanks.

Too many questions and no good answers. Sylvetria would have the time to find answers and he would use that time to find his. Falling into Nalifan's shadow, following his path, had been the easy path and it had been a good one for a while. It had reached the end of its usefulness. Nalifan did not have a woman he loved dearly and their future hanging over his head. It was time for Trizkel to find his own answers and he would start with finding out the truth about his past.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Flesh bubbled and ran as the body as it fell. Several of the corpse's garments were magical and so resisted the acid which consumed the wizard's flesh. The rest were almost instantly reduced to sludge. It was recognizable as humanoid, but telling which species it had been was rapidly becoming impossible as the corrosive dissolved almost everything it touch. The only mercy involved was that death had been quick.

The wizard's soul fled the cavern it had died in, drawn to another place by magic. It only briefly traversed the grey mists of the Astral Plane and the predators that hungered their before being drawn back to the material world of Toril. Down it fell into the earth before reaching its destination.

A spell of temporal stasis was broken and the wizard's eyes opened. He blinked and gathered his thoughts. He had no memory of how he had arrived in this place, but he knew it for what it was. He flexed his limbs and stepped out the corner he had rested in.

He was a clone, he knew that. The clone's brain had the memories up to the time he had last updated them, with a spell of his own devising. The more recent ones were lost, unable to be assimilated by the clone's brain. Somewhere, somehow, he had perished. Not only that, but at least one of his clones had been destroyed. This should not have been the first body he came too.

He did a quick check. He was in a locked room. He had the clothes he wore, a steel dagger, and a small pouch of platinum hanging from his neck. He checked. The money was still there. A backpack sat beside him. He opened it. A single thin folio, a travelling spellbook, was revealed.

Someone or someones had killed Nalifan D'Azurentien and had almost done a thourough enough job. Almost. He was alone, had almost no magic with him, and only a very little money. He had survived worse. He had come back to kill and destroy from worse. His killers would learn that almost wasn't anywhere near good enough.

What ever swatted Nalifan must be nasty, or have Act of Plot luck.

Ouch... Wait ? I didn't know Clone induced a memory loss ?
Or is it an Act of Plot ?


EDIT : hmm ? A splash of acid ?

It's time for a bit of speculation !

[potential spoiler]Couldn't it possibly come from a certain psychic warrior ? Fratricide fight ?[/potential spoiler]

The Nomad wrote:Ouch... Wait ? I didn't know Clone induced a memory loss ?

Clones have memories up to the time they were cloned from the original host. Nalifan has a spell to update that. Any time after that, it won't remember, despite containing the original soul. Say for example, events leading up to his death.

However if Nalifan was restored to life by a resurrection spell, he would remember everything. I can't assume my readers have the SRD memorized, so I have to mention it and make it sound vaguely plausible.

Manshoon of Zhentil Keep had a superior variant called Stasis Clone that let him update the clone's knowledge just by touching it.

Right up to the moment he died again and every clone woke up simultaneously thinking that they and they alone were the rightful Manshoon.

technomage wrote:Manshoon of Zhentil Keep had a superior variant called Stasis Clone that let him update the clone's knowledge just by touching it.

Right up to the moment he died again and every clone woke up simultaneously thinking that they and they alone were the rightful Manshoon.

Indeed he does. But I don't think he's going to share that spell with Nalifan, especially after Nalifan chucked one of his agents into his fire place.

Imperial Overlord wrote:

The Nomad wrote:Ouch... Wait ? I didn't know Clone induced a memory loss ?

Clones have memories up to the time they were cloned from the original host. Nalifan has a spell to update that. Any time after that, it won't remember, despite containing the original soul. Say for example, events leading up to his death.

However if Nalifan was restored to life by a resurrection spell, he would remember everything. I can't assume my readers have the SRD memorized, so I have to mention it and make it sound vaguely plausible.

::knows someone with Ressurect::

Interesting idea, however. Hopefully, if he needs help, he can find Kaeryn.

Imperial Overlord wrote:

technomage wrote:Manshoon of Zhentil Keep had a superior variant called Stasis Clone that let him update the clone's knowledge just by touching it.

Right up to the moment he died again and every clone woke up simultaneously thinking that they and they alone were the rightful Manshoon.

Indeed he does. But I don't think he's going to share that spell with Nalifan, especially after Nalifan chucked one of his agents into his fire place.

Hopefully Manshoon's little problem did not happen to Nal. It does make me wonder if the clone he should have gone into had already been used.

Well, there's going to be deep shit all around for this one...

I'd rather have liked "A Piece at a Time" to be finished before the next installment of Nalifan and Co 's adventures, but this first paragraph managed to grab my interest .

Though I'd enjoy an update for APaaT as well

The Nomad wrote:I'd rather have liked "A Piece at a Time" to be finished before the next installment of Nalifan and Co 's adventures, but this first paragraph managed to grab my interest .

Though I'd enjoy an update for APaaT as well

It's coming. And for "A Piece at at Time" its going to be a long time before that one is finished and I haven't even started the war.

The city of Westgate is the largest and richest city on the infamous Dragon Coast. The free wheeling city is largely responsible for the Dragon Coast's shady reputatiion. More often than not, Westgate's ruler have been corrupt or tyrants. It is not a city associated with virtue of any kind.

So it is not a surprise that the largest concentration of the followers of the Triad, the Abbey of the Blinding Truth, is built more like a fortress than a church. The followers of Tyr Grimjaws, the blind god of justice, played host to their fellow followers of the Triad in this bastion of goodness and virtue in a city that could use a lot more of both.

The Abbey was surrounded with a stout wall and a forboding gatehouse. The gates were open and an armoured knight stood vigil, but the magics that secured the entrance against intrusion were much more formidable defences. Another quartet of sentinels watched from the interior of the gatehouse and more guarded the wall. It was a cold night and standing sentry was far from pleasant, but Westgate's secret master did not look favorably upon them and the followers of the Triad were not ones to shirk their duties.

A hail of crossbow bolts from above struck the guardsman by the gate. About half hit and a several more struck armour and bounced off. Four punched through armour and flesh, hitting him in both thighs, his stomach, and the face. He toppled over as the spells of invisibility and silence shrouding the large body of plate armoured men in front of him faded.

There were a score of them, armoured in black plate and wearing tabbards bearing the upright gauntlet of Torm or the scales on warhammer symbol of Tyr. Behind them was a masked man wearing black robes he uttered a spell and wardings shattered. The warriors charged forward as the roof top crossbowmen reloaded.

The sentinels raised a cry as the invaders stormed the Abbey. The masked man rose through the air and intoned another spell. There was a streak of flame from his outstreched finger and then a roar as the fireball burst inside the gatehouse and sent tongues of flames shooting out the arrow slits.

The lead warrior outdistanced the rest with swift, powerful strides. An acolyte on sentry duty at the doors of the Abbey itself panicked and turned to beat frantically on the door. A single blow from the leader's axe severed his spine and nearly cut him in half.

Meanwhile the crossbow men slid down to ground and ran towards the gate. Lightning arced through the remaining guards, who screamed and charred in its deadly embrace before falling to the ground. A great booming sound split the night and the door to the Abbey shattered. The tide of armoured men swarmed inside.

Four men stood vigil in a great hall filled with rows of pews. At the far end was a six foot giant hammer with golden scales balanced on the hammer's head. Behind it a giant stained glass window showing a bearded face with bandaged eyes looked down over the hall.

Those few who had been standing vigil tried to buy time for their brethren, who were stiring for sleep and still seizing weapons and doning their harnesses. They retreated to doorways where the enemy's numbers would be less of an advantage. One of the attackers chanted words of power and a sentinel was consumed by black flame. The leader struck down another with his axe, the blade driving through plate armour like it wasn't there. The other defenders fell and then the slaughter began in earnest. Young acolytes and half armoured men fell before the relentless raiders and blood stained the walls of the Abbey.

A few managed to flee, only to find the crossbowmen had secured the Abbey's outer walls. They rained down death upon those who tried to escape. None made it. Fires were visible inside the Abbey as the raiders departed, carrying several of their dead with them. The masked wizard descended.

The leader bowed. "Nothing lives inside, my king."

The cold eyed mage spoke. "Are you sure?"

Another raider spoke. "Divinations were used my liege. We were thorough. Their high priest did give us some trouble, but he fell quickly enough in the end."

The lead raider nodded in agreement. He opened the visor of his helm to lick blood off his axe. "Tasty enough. Pity to waste all that blood."

"There are more than enough cattle for that," said the mage. "And close your visor."

"Your will," the vampire replied as he snapped the visor back into place. "And their little secret society of gutter snipes?"

"Not nearly secret enough. They are being handled," said the mage. Orbakh, who had once been a merely human copy of the arch-mage Manshoon and not the Night King of Westgate, smiled coldly under his mask. His new kingdom was shaping up quite nicely.

Huh. Wonder how many of the monks were in the abbey at the time. And would that high priest be the lord cleric, or Abbot Khazar, the chief monk?
Gaheris certainly won't miss Justiciar Krelben overmuch, though.

And what the fuck is Orbakh doing out in the open?

Edit: Wait a tic, they hit the wrong place. It's the Abbey of the Blinding Truth that they should be worried about; what did they get, some small-ass chaple on the other side of town?

Rogue 9 wrote:Huh. Wonder how many of the monks were in the abbey at the time. And would that high priest be the lord cleric, or Abbot Khazar, the chief monk?

Clean sweep.

And what the fuck is Orbakh doing out in the open?

Cleaning house.

Well well well... something tells me the manure's hit the oscillation device.

But I note there's another clone involved now... will that be a theme?

LadyTevar wrote:Well well well... something tells me the manure's hit the oscillation device.

But I note there's another clone involved now... will that be a theme?

No, the "being in deep shit" part is the underlying theme.

Teeny tiny spoiler: Yes, that's a surprising amount of full plate wearing bad asses for a thieves' guild. And while they appeared out of thin air, Obrakh had to find them somewhere . . . .

I don't like the looks of that spoiler. Sounds like this will be another fantastic adventure, tho.

Nalifan ascended the staircase out of the hidden cellar. He halted in front of the spell concealed door and then drew forth a key from his pocket. The key clicked in the lock and it swung open revealing the interior of a large linen closet. He closed the door behind him, relocking it. He paused and listened. Nothing.

The closet door swung open and the arch-mage stepped out into the corridor. Several long strides took him into a living room set with tables of polished wood and richly apolstered couches and chairs. Dim lighting was provided by two glow globes on iron stands. A slim half drow boy was dusting one of the stands and started when Nalifan walked in.

"Boy, see that your master knows that Nalifan is here."

"Y-yes lord," the boy replied. He bowed and backed away from the arch-mage. Nalifan watched him leave and then settled into a position with his back to the wall and both entrances to the room in easy view. Now he would see what kind of welcome he would recieve.

A short while latter a drow wearing robes of ebony silk shot through with gold entered the room. Like Nalifan his hair was silver and his skin was as dark as midnight. He was a little shorter than the arch-mage, although the elaborate collar and shoulder pieces of his robes made him appear to possess shoulders even broader than Trizkel's. His gaze was wary.

"Those acid burns have healed well cousin," Nalifan said. "The clerics did good work."

"They did," the other replied. "What brings you here?"

"Death Maztrin. Mine."

"So the clone was activated. I didn't think I would be first on your list."

"You aren't."

"Ahh. And clones have such difficulty assimilating recent memories. A mystery presents itself. Funny how fragile our flesh is compared to our souls. Care for some refreshments kinsman?"

"I'll pass," said Nalifan. "Thank you."

"As you wish," said Maztrin. "I don't suppose you remember anything useful about your death?"

"No," said Nalifan, "but I intend to find out."

"Of course," said Maztrin. "I am quite grateful for you assistance with setting me up in Sshameth and, of course, getting me healed. And I certainly value having an arch-mage as an ally."

"But you aren't ready to commit suicide on my behalf."

"Exactly. Whoever killed you was able to defeat you. How much magic did you lose? No, don't answer. You've been weakened and your enemy will pick your bones to become stronger. And he or she was already strong enough to kill you."

"Don't worry, I'm not asking for that kind of assistance."

"Good. I would hate to poison our relationship. Don't get me wrong dear cousin, I do value our relationship. I will endeavour to aid you. I just won't die for you."

"Quite reasonable. I won't hold it against you."

"Thank you. Anything now I can assist you with?"

"A room with a mirror."

"Scrying. Wise of you." Maztrin turned to the boy. "Escort the arch-mage to the guest rooms at his leisure."

"Yes lord."

"If you will excuse me-"

"Revenge is a pressing business. Of course. May Tymora and Loviatar be with you."

"Thank you kinsman. Let's go boy." The boy lead Nalifan to another lavishly appointed room and up a flight of stairs. The boy lead the necromancer down a hallway decorated with tapestries depeciting stick figure dark elves defeating and enslaving stylized representations of various foes. Nalifan paused for a moment.

The art was deceptively simple, but there was something raw and powerful about it. The repeated patterns of facless drow triumphing over all their enemies lent it a feeling of timelessness, of eternity. He stroked the tapesty with its depictions of slain beholders and chained dwarves and elves before continuing on.

"Any one of these, lord." The boy pointed at a line of rooms.

"Good," said Nalifan. He opened a door and stepped in. A bedroom with a large bed, a wardrobe constructed of strands of black iron, an area cordened off with a curtain of purple silk, and a leather divan were inside. A hooded glow globe stood by the bed. He walked over and pulled the curtain away, revealing a full length mirror.

He began to cast the scrying spell. His reflection twisted and distorted, transforming into a scene of his manse. The outside of the sprawling house seemed intact. He directed it inside. His library was intact and a quick survey of several major corridors and rooms showed several of his people going about their day. Laerasis was on her bed and rather intimately engaged with Nivea. Nalifan's studied the image for a moment before shifting the scrying spell to a view of the front of his house.

The triggering syllables of a teleport spell left his throat and he vanished with a dull whomp.

Very nicely written... I love the conversation between them. More! More I say!

Imperial Overlord wrote:

Rogue 9 wrote:Huh. Wonder how many of the monks were in the abbey at the time. And would that high priest be the lord cleric, or Abbot Khazar, the chief monk?

Clean sweep.

I presume this was at night, in which case several monks would be out on the streets taking down thieves. That's the whole point of having the abbey.

Rogue 9 wrote:

Imperial Overlord wrote:

Rogue 9 wrote:

I presume this was at night, in which case several monks would be out on the streets taking down thieves. That's the whole point of having the abbey.

Oh yes. They're just talking about everyone inside. They expect a number of people to absent for various reasons. Hit the Abbey with enough high priests, arch-mages, assassins, shock troops, and high level vampires and it will fall. Taking out the Triad influence in the city is another matter.

Nalifan strode up to his front door and opened it. The mid after-noon sun was irritating at the best of times and downright painful at the worst. Derel stood by inside. "My lord, welcome back," he said smoothly.

Nalifan eyed the lanky human. The kuo-toa slave pits had not been kind to him. His tunic and breeches hid most of his scars, but his face and neck were marked by more than a few white lines. The eyepatch over his left eye almost managed to make him look rakish, but the damage to his face was too extensive. "Thank you," he replied. "What is the date?"

"The date? The twenty-sixth of the Fading."

"When was I here last?"

The man stopped and studied him carefully. "Is everything alright, my lord?"

Nalifan raised his left arm, revealing his unadorned wrist. "No, it is not. My last memory is of the third of Fading, when I updated the brains of my clones. I woke up today, having been killed and my soul fled to one of the bodies and not the first one I had stored. I am most definitely not alright."

Derel paled slightly. "How can we be of service?"

"I'll be taking stock of the house. When Laerasis is free, send her to me. Everyone that had knows anything of even the slightest import that has happened since the third will also need to be in attendance."

"Your will. With your permission?"

"Go," Nalifan commanded. He headed downstairs, past the gate to the Elemental Plane of Fire that served as the heart of the house's heating system, and to the thick door that guarded the vault. The former owner had installed it and it had taken considerable effort for Nalifan to breach it.

The door swung open after Nalifan had gone through the requisit unlocking steps. The shelves were still filled with stacks fo coins and trade bars, although there was a considerable amout of empty space. It was about as it should be. He uttered a spell of dissolution and the the magic connecting the money box he had once carried to the vault was undone.

He resecured the door and headed upstairs. So, he still possessed some wealth. That was a positive step. His laboratories and studies were the next stop. A cursory inspection showed everything to be in place, with one exception. Since that was laboratory space used by the slaads, that wasn't unusual.

He crossed his study in long, eager strides. A stone desk surrounded by book stands dominated a room lined with notes and diagrams. Nalifan sat down in a very comfortable chair and opened a drawer. They were still here. A simple ring inscribed with protective runes on the inside of the band and a silver and ivory talismn in the shape of a teardrop. The some total of the magical acutrements he had at his disposal.

On impulse he opened another drawer and slid away the false bottom. It was empty. The soul trap containing Karesh of the Ten Thousand Blades was gone. He fought down panic. There could be a lot of reasons for it missing and even if it was recovered, someone would have to create a new body and then restore Karesh to life. Highly, highly unlikely, but still possible.

The drow thrust himself out of the chair. He had killed Karesh once, he could do it again if need be. This was just one more unpleasant factor in an already nasty situation. He strode from the room. He needed answers.

Derel and Laerasis were waiting outside. She was wearing a robe and her hair was dishevelled. "Lord," she said, "we are at your disposal."

"Good. Tell me everything of any import that happened since the third."

"Mikos went back to the Dales," said Derel. He scrunched his forehead. "The eighth?"

"Yes," said Laerasis. "About that. Lykan and Clara went with him."

"What else?"

"A letter arrived for you a few days latter," said Laerasis. "You and Trizkel then departed. That's the last we saw of you."

"Kuuni?"

"Still hasn't returned," said Derel.

"What did I do with the letter?"

"You burned it," said Laerasis, "but it was from Fadina."

Nalifan nodded. He could either attempt to back track his own steps or he could attempt a short cut and investigate the failure of his first clone. Every moment he delayed the trail got colder.

And then there was the question with what had happened to Trizkel. Too many questions. Time to get answers. "Follow," he ordered. They did so.

He returned to his study and wrote a note on a piece of paper. "This will be sent via a sending to Kaeryn. It contains a request to investigate if Trizkel still lives and restore him to live if necessary. If my scrying fails to find him, I will send it to her. Tomorrow I will be leaving for Halth Nethan. Either I am under attack by seperate forces there, or whoever killed me also killed me after I was restored to life the first time. I need you to remember all of this."

"We will," said Derel.

"My lord, do you intend to go to Halth Nethan alone?" Laerasis asked.

"Yes."

"It would be wiser," Laerasis continued, "if you went with someone who could watch your back and guard you while you sleep."

"Are you volunteering?"

"If I have a house, my lord, it is this one. I have not forgotten how the hilt of a sword or the haft of an axe feels. Having a drow retainer would be helpful, especially if you face treachery from your own kin."

"Very true. Very well Laerasis. We will leave tomorrow, baring any surprises."

Civilization in the North hangs on tooth and claw against the forces that would overthrow it. It had been carved out with sword and spell and survived through continued application of the same. With the formation of the alliance known as the Silver Marches, things got a little easier. Men, elves, and dwarves had embraced a unified front against the dangers of the wild. Things had gotten better, but in most places a man was wise to carry a sword at all times.

Sheana Tolgren pulled her furs tighter. A cold wind was blowing through the windows of her brother's keep. With axe and spear he and his retainers kept the peace and protected the people of his modest demense. From the stout, square keep he ruled as far as the eye could see and a little bit beyond. There were a dozen or more places like this in the Silver Marches, places where men clung to the the land and to life.

He had come a long way from the boy she remembered. She closed the shutters and turned away from the window. Evena was there, standing in the hall.

Evena Tolgren was her brother's wife and mistress of the keep. She had behaved entirely properly towards her, but it was clear she was not a welcome presence. Sheana couldn't really blame the other woman, as much as she resented the distant treatment. Having your brother's long lost sister show up and turn your household upside down wasn't pleasant.

Sheana inclined her head towards the younger woman. Evena was a handsome woman in her early thirties. Her blonde hair was braided down her back and fell almost to her waist. Her features were sharp as an axe. She was tall and strong, which was pretty much the same thing on the frontier. Even a lord's wife did her share of work. It was another way Sheana didn't fit in. The dark haired woman was thin. She was tough and wiry, but not strong. She had filled up and gained some strength back since coming to her brother's house, but there was still something of the alien about her. "You've got to speak to him," Evena said.

"What is it?" Sheana asked.

"What do you think it is? What has been on his mind ever since you two arrived?"

Sheana sighed. "I told Ydrek he was gone and I didn't know where to find him."

"Then why are the servants packing supplies and his best men reading themselves for a trip?"

Sheana swore softly and bolted for the stairs. She had been seperated from her family for more than two decades and after all that she had been through she was finally reunited with her surviving kin and her brother was going to get himself killed. She ran down the stairs and found her Ydrek in the main hall overseeing the packing of supplies. Several of his retainers were hauling saddle bags outside.

"Ydrek!" she shouted. He turned. Her younger brother shared few traits with her other than slimness, dark hair, and dark eyes. He was tall where she was short and his frame was bulked up by hard muscle. The lines around her eyes were only beginning to form around his.

"My sister," he said stiffly. He was wearing a full coat of mail over leather. An open faced helm with a mail coif, a breast plate and steel greaves on his legs completed his harness.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To get justice."

"He's gone, I don't know where. I don't even know if he's still alive. Are you going to go into that hell to try and find him? You don't even speak the language. Stay. Stay with your wife and your people. Stay with me. We can't change the past. We can't bring back our parents or our brothers. Don't go on this mad quest. Stay here and cherish what you have."

"I see what was done to you everytime I see your bastard daughter," he replied stiffly. "What kind of man allows this to pass unanswered? The slaughter of his kin? The capture and rape of his sister? The fathering of a bastard child on her? What kind of man can live with that? What kind of man could call himself lord and let that lie?"

"Don't go," she said clutching at his arm fiercely. "You'll die."

"If an unarmed woman and her child can survive the journey, me and my men will manage." He turned and walked away, stopping to seize two more saddle bags.

Evena came up behind her. Both women had tears in her eyes. "I couldn't stop him," Sheana whispered.

"I heard," Evena replied. "That wound never healed. It only scabbed over and festered. Now it has burst and spread its poison throughout his flesh. He is fevered now."

There was a moment of silence. The servants and retainers pretended to see nothing. Then there was a cry. "Mommy!" Sheana turned back towards her daughter's voice. Pain and joy tugged at her heart. She turned towards the sound of her voice. Perhaps this problem she could solve.

Even before he had acquired the Eyes of Arachnae the darkness of the Underdark had been home to him. Now nothing could be hidden from his sight and he did not like what he saw. When he had left for the Light Above, this area of the Underdark had been uninhabited. It no longer was.

The cavern was narrow and rough, about ten or eleven feet wide and just as high. A narrow span of stone bridged a chasm to shelf and a larger cavern. This passage wasn't notable for anything other than being a route to the surface. There were other ones, ones that featured wider tunnels and lacked narrow spans over deep chasms. This place had been a backwater. That's why he had chosen it the first time and that's why he had returned this way. It was no longer true.

A breastwork had been erected on the shelf by the bridge. A pair of big, grey skinned humanoids stood watch. Their faces were elongated to accomodate a fearsome set of tusks. Their seven foot tall forms were encased in fluted black plate and elaborately decorated great axes and massive crossbows were easy at hand.

They were orogs, orcs that had lived in the Underdark for countless generations. They had grown big, strong, and smart in the magic under reaches of the earth. Their craft work wasn't beautiful, but it was good and the same could be said of their magic. They regarded their orc cousins with the same contempt that elves and dwarves did.

Trizkel could handle this situation any number of ways. The orogs hadn't seen him yet, their eyesight less keen and the Trizkel's pifwafi providing excellent camoulflage. This was probably a back door to a temporary settlement or the base of a raiding party. He could attempt to negotiate passage, but they would put the screws to him or just try and kill him. Or he could not bother with attempting to negotiate a passage and just kill them all.

He broke from cover, running forward. The orogs heard him before they spotted him and raised their crossbows. Bolts flew by the speeding drow, but did not touch him. The dropped their crossbows and readied their great axes as he fell upon them.

Superhuman strength and the enchantments on his blades drove Mind Eater through the closet orog's heart in a spray of blood. With his left hand he struck with Ruinbringer. He sliced through steel plate and opened a cut on the orog's right arm. He returned the favor with a diagonal swing at his shoulder.

Trizkel wasn't there when the axe struck. He body checked the orog, smashing him into the cavern wall his tremendous strength overcoming their differences in mass. He stabbed Mind Eater in between the yuille and the breastplate, penetrating the armour due to brute force and an enchanted edge. Blood washed over his hands and the orog doubled over. Trizkel stabbed him in the throat with Ruinbringer, which sprayed out even more blood.

The drow tugged his weapons free and continued on his way. None of the blood had actually touched him. Instead it had struck fields of psychic force and slid down to the ground. Thin trickles ran off Trizkel, leaving a trail of blood behind him, but the drow himself immaculate and untouched.

The slaughter had not gone unnoticed. From a side cavern ahead of him orogs boiled out with weapons at the ready. Trizkel opened his mouth an unleashed a stream of acid that ate through steel and flesh. A half dozen fell screaming. Crossbow bolts whizzed by him or bounced off his shields. He charged forward with blinding speed. Half way to them there was a brilliant flash and the sound of thunder filled the tunnel. A lightning stroke flashed around him, but failed to overcome his resistance to magic.

Then he was among them, a dark blur that stabbed and killed. They were too slow to dodge or parry, the weak spots of their armour easy targets to a warrior who could drive his enchanted blades through steel plate. They were dying before they realized it.

He opened the throat of the closest and stabbed the groin of the next. As they started to fall he rammed Mind Eater through the visor of another orog and Ruinbringer through the breastplate of a fourth. He kicked the wounded out of his way with enough force to break bone. He stabbed and cut and kicked and killed them all. By the time the realized they were doomed and tried to flee it was far too late. He ran them through as they tried to run. Only two survived to run ahead. Trizkel let them go.

The side cavern they had used was still piled with gear, most notably rows of slave manacles, but empty of people. He shifted through the gear, found a few gems, and headed back along the passage. By the time he reached the wall and gate set up a little further ahead, it had been abandoned.

It wasn't really much to speak of. A six foot wall with an iron grate in the middle blocked off the cavern. There was a raised walkway on this side of the wall, about three feet high. It was a good defensive position. Trizkel leapted to the walk way and then vaulted the wall. He resumed walking. He still had a lot of ground to cover.

Ahhhh what a rush, it felt good to get that out of my system , nice way to break in the new sword.