OOC: Well, this is the first Roleplay post in quite a while, more of an introductory than anything. I welcome anyone to RP with my character, I'll probably move to the Tunnels, than to somewhere in the world above. Pardon if it's a little long.

IC:

Menzoberranzan, the City of the Spider Queen, where the most favored of Lolth lived, contrived, plotted, died, and, every once in a long while, loved. This was a time of plots, one that was almost complete, the wet gurgling sounds of the dying Drow thief that lay sprawled across the floor of Tazlochar Vandree. Tazlochar was tall for a male, almost 5 feet, but he was almost embarrassingly slight of build, but as the House Wizard of the Minor House Vandree, he needn't worry about manual toils. That's why he hired thieves, assassins, and manipulated young apprentices to do his dirty work for him.

The male writhed one final time, a soft hiss escaped his graying lips, his red eyes lost their luster. He was dead. Tazlochar didn't even know his name, but he was very disappointed in him.

"One should always expect treachery, always," a sharp curl of his thin lip crinkled the lines of his long face.

The job was complete though, and best of all, the man still had most of the gold he had doled out for his services. It was risky, but the twenty-four amulets that lay on his desk were well worth it. Each had the mark of a different house, lesser ones, all of them. His target was his eldest sister, the Matron Mother. Her death would secure a place for the next in line, the youngest of the three. She would be far easier to manipulate than Tazlochars older, wiser sibling.

The Wizard closed his fist around one of several necklaces which hung around his neck. Made of obsidian, which matched the black, glassy walls of his study chamber. From the far wall, a section of it stirred, rippling as if turning to liquid. From it, a shining golem of the same obsidian stepped smoothly out, kneeling down in respect to the old Drow.

"Dispose of the body," the golem gave only a nod, and swiftly took up the limp body that once was a thief. The golem trudged from the chamber.

The poison he laced the fungus brandy with did the job quite well, the death was silent due to the sphere of silence he bespelled the doomed Drow with. The death was slow and agonizing, his muscles almost collapsing on themselves as his body ate away on the inside. It was quite satisfying, a brief taste of the death to come.

A twinge in his ear caused him to cringe as he deftly spun on his heels, readying a list of deadly spells in his head. An alarm had been tripped, a simple but effective spell that would warn him of an intruder. One only he was attuned to. The round wooden door to his study room creaked open, and the House Wizard released a furious sigh.

"What in the Nine Hells are you doing?" His brow creased into an angry glare, "You almost became a smudge on the wall."

"My apologies, Master Tazlochar," the young apprentice bowed low, sweat already dripping from his ashen face, "I have news!"

He offered it quickly, as if trying to offer up a reason not to be slain. To his credit, he usually had such reasons. The young, eager drow had proven himself quite loyal through the decade or so of his apprenticeship.

"Step inside, Belfryn. Before I change my mind, tell me your task went well."

"It did, Master Tazlochar," he finally worked up the nerve to pull himself from his stiff, fearful bow. This brought some pleasure to the old Wizard. Fear was good. Fear bought loyalty.

"I have saved us...you," the young Drow's eyes darted downward, as his Master shot daggers from velvet red eyes. "What I mean to say is, Master, I found a band of mercenaries, they seemed quite capable. Well armed. They were cheaper than the assassins that were to be hired."

"What do you mean?" Tazlochar spat, “I told you to hire the blackhand! They are the most trustworthy."

The apprentice knew he had to choose his words wisely from this moment on. "Master," he spoke meekly, but anger roiled in his eyes, "they wouldn't haggle. The Blackhand drove up their prices after I told them of their target," he held out his hands in acquiescence. "This group seems more capable of dealing with the Guards. I hired exactly twenty-four of their strongest."

The Wizard cracked his finger and whispered a spell, immediately Belfryn fell to the floor, screaming in agonizing pain. It surely felt as though needles were being pushed into every muscle of his body. If Tazlochar decided so, he could die in half a heart beat, but he relaxed his spell as he opened his fingers. The young drow wizard gasped as he finally was able to draw breath.

"You disobeyed me, young Belfryn," the Master's voice showed no emotion now, his aged leathery face a blank slate. His eyes didn't even hold a spark of anger. "But you have completed your first task, and I give you another. Deviate from this, and you will suffer."

Tazlochar was answered with a strained, painful nod; veins throbbed in Belfryn's head, his eyes wide with fear and a burning, piercing pain. The House Wizard allowed the apprentice to rise again, as he let the weave of the spell slip from his mind. They had too much to do before the approach of "dawn."


The ancient spire of Narbondel, with its orb of power lit by no one less than the Archmage of Menzoberranzan himself. The sphere of magical light rose and fell with the cycle of the day, one of the very few traditions the Drow clung to from times before being driven from the sun scoured World Above; If only for the fact that it made life easier, as everyone set their schedules to the tower.

Right now that orb was nearing the top, almost noontime. On the surface, the sun would be high overhead, blasting away any lingering shadow. Here, there was no light, except for the faint hues of blue, purple and red, the fearie fire that limned the buildings and streets of the city. At no place was it brighter than in Narbondellyn. Fearie Fire and other magical lighting had shown everywhere here. It lit up the well to do shop signs; the more adept shop keepers used fearie fire to cast a favorable light on the large windows of their storefronts, showing off their wares. The streets were clean, teams of Kobolds rushed here and there, snatching at litter almost as soon as it was dropped, their Ogre supervisor ensured their diligent labor.

The rich and powerful played in this district, with only a few exceptions. Drow dressed in fine clothing ate, drank, shopped, or enjoyed the pleasures of the best massage parlors in the city. Slaves of all races skirted about here and there, carrying the heavy burden of their mistresses’ purchases, or buying items for their owners.

Slave and free parted, slaves kneeling with heads bowed, while Nobles hardly found the time to give a respectful nod. Such was the problem with being a Lesser House, almost everyone here had more power, or wealth. However, the procession was no less grand than any other; the Matron Mother of House Vandree ensured that she kept up appearances. The ancient Matron Mother sat comfortably on her elegant throne, hewn from ebony stone, it was carved with spider motifs from bottom to top, the throne floated atop a driftdisc. She was flanked by foot soldiers, her personal guard detail, to the front, a half score of riding lizards, proudly displaying the Vandree banner on each; to the rear another group of foot soldiers.

Olren Vandree marched in the last rank of the procession; he took up the rear, the traditional position for the newest soldiers. Their black chain maille displayed the House Insignia on the chests; the links tussled about their waists, a dull ring due to the spell of silence that was placed on them for the duration of the march. Further silenced by the spell that enveloped the entire city, the procession would be completely silent; the droning thuds of their Elven boots only heard when they passed, and only for a short while. The effect was the same on the inside, the marching kept in time with a slow, three count cadence, which could be heard plainly inside the ranks, it was the quiet rumble of voices, clamorous foot falls and the echoes of the all too common scream that seemed to be muddled, faded as if far away, but they were close enough to touch with the tip of a sword.

Olren was like many male Drow, he was shorter than the females of the race, and he had a handsome look, which wasn’t saying much when compared to his fellow warriors. Most in the Matron Mothers’ detachment were older soldiers, most had some disfigurement from battles of long ago, probably before Olren was even born. Indeed, the only reason the young, unblooded soldier was even there, was the very reason he was different. He had an affinity for the sword, an almost instinctive mind for battle; he was a prized student in Melee-Magthere, which he graduated a mere three years ago. The abuse and hard training that was meant to harden the body did just that, he was built large for a male. His muscles taught and honed, but the hardening of the mind, the willingness to serve beyond measure which was an important aspect of being a Soldier of any House, didn’t seem to take hold. Something he kept quiet, and played off well, he was a rarity amongst the Drow race. He dreamed. Others simply though him dimwitted, often catching him in a glassy eyed daze, staring into the distance. He was insulted, but he would rather be insulted than dead, that would be the price of his thoughtful meanderings, should he ever tell anyone else of them. For though of many scenarios and none of them involved the Goddess of Chaos, Lolth. He despised the matriarchy, the High Priestesses, and most of all, the webs of deceit they spun, killing those whom stood in their way to power. All he wanted to do was live, how long one lived depended solely upon ones skill and guile, and the ability to keep their heads low, should it roll off their shoulders.

This was one of those times Olren would slip into his thoughts, it was easy to do in rank and file marches like these, all one had to do was focus on the back of the head in front. The Soldier in front of him had close cropped hair, something Olren himself hadn’t chose to do; he had a slightly vain streak, as did most Drow, and his long white hair, tinged with a coppery hue, that stopped at his mid back, was his pride.

The young soldier was abruptly taken back to reality as his nose was bombarded by an offensive stench. He looked down to see the fresh pile of lizard dropping just in time to step over it, the warrior behind him wasn’t so lucky, he issued a satisfying groan as the wet sound of his misplaced footfall was swallowed up by the silencing spell. Olren couldn’t help but smile.

That was quickly cut short as everything wet black. Olren knew it for what it was, a sphere of darkness had enveloped him, and from the roars of excitement, and the sound of swords being drawn, it had others as well. The unblooded Drow felt his heart almost leap from his chest; he could feel his brow draw lines of rage across his face as he reached for the reassurance of his swords handle. He made quickly in an unknown direction, anything was better than there. He almost stumbled several times, over others that had fallen in the confusion, scrambling to their feet. The sphere of darkness was larger than he thought possible, a good dozen quick paces and he was still choked in black. The clang of steel on steel grew louder.

At last the sphere was dissipating, the young warrior cursed himself as he tripped over another soldier, this one dead, he presumed, as he didn’t move at all. Then he felt a hand grab at the neck of his chain maille shirt, and he was brought to his feet. Olren’s Sergeant, an aging Drow that had a broad scar from ear to ear guided him away. Olren couldn’t help but feel more than a little relieved, until he realized the Sergeant’s intention. Instead of being saved, he was held in a strong grip in front of the Drow, as a half dozen sword bearing creatures charged. They were all lesser races, two goblins with gnarled teeth, and an ogre that wielded a massive rusted sword.

Instinctively, he held the sword point out, as the first goblin neared, a quick thrust found its way into the goblins chest, near his heart, a further twist opened a gaping wound. He struggled against the Sergeant, trying desperately to get away from his grasp; he wasn’t going to be used as a shield. He narrowly dodged a deadly blow from the other goblin; luckily the ogre was still a slight distance away, engaged by two other Vadree warriors. He was forcibly steered into a following strike, which forced the air from his lungs as the blade was stopped by the links, which crumpled and broke under the force, but it saved him from a gut splitting hit. He had to get away, and quick. In the space of two heart beats he did something that would have gotten him many lashings at the hand of his teachers in Melee-Magthere, he dropped his sword, which clang as it hit the stone street. Raising his arms above his head, he simply let himself drop, he hit the ground hard and fast, but it worked. His maille shirt was stripped from him, the Sergeant cursed angrily as he clutched the empty shirt.

“You coward!” he spat venom in his words, “stand up and fight!” Olren rolled to the left, picking up his sword as he scrambled to his feet. The goblins face twisted, bearing large, broken teeth, into what must had been a scornful grin. The goblin swung his jabbed his short sword wildly at the young warrior. Behind them warriors clashed, but oddly enough, as soon as the offenders were out of striking range, they vanished. The goblin Olren was currently engaged with thankfully didn’t seem to have the intelligence to do so. He was equally thankful he wasn’t fighting one of the handful of Drow that seemed to lead the assault, they were skilled, and several Guards had fallen to their hands.

He dodged another blow, just in time to miss the brunt of it; the goblin’s sword cut a divot into his thigh. He howled in pain as he withdrew two steps and struck out with his own counter attack, a feint, when he sliced through flesh on the Goblin’s neck, he knew it had worked. A stream of blood spurt from the mortal would as it fell to the street.

Before he could consider the triumph, the second victim of his first blooding, a swearing hot pain overwhelmed him, a heartbeat later; he recognized the feeling of cold steel, in a place where it should never be, in his back. The blade pulled out of his body with a ring as it slid against bone, Olren twisted, his face contorted into a scowl of pain, then hatred. His Sergeant stood before him, in an almost perfect battle stance, his own had tried to strike him down.

“What in the Nine Hells are you doing?!” before the Sergeant could answer, not as if he were going to anyway, Olren sprung, his movements were quick and agile as he darted away from the sword the Sergeant wielded, then closed in on him. He feinted, but the experienced warrior realized it for what it was, and rolled on the balls of his feet, dodging it entirely. The young warrior cursed as he realized his mistake, and he found the sting of another blow to his exposed side as something he deserved for such a stupid, basic miscalculation.

He turned, wincing at his two deep wounds, and redoubled his efforts. Feinting once more to the left, then to the right, finally he cut low, slicing into his new foes thigh. Olren pushed his full body weight against the sergeant, and to his surprise, he fell onto his back. He hesitated, and was glad he did so as he dodged another thrust of his sword, the Sergeant had underestimated him, he thought he would press the attack, and be impaled on the sword. Not today, though Olren.

With a double handed swing, the bones his hands jarred as he knocked the sword to the side, and stepped onto his own sergeant’s stomach, pressing the breath from him. Olren was delighted by the wide eyed look he received from what would be his very first Drow kill. He raised his sword to pierce the Sergeant’s heart. Then he was blinded. Then nothing. Then everything. Then all pain in the world seemed to converge on his body, as he found himself tossed into the air, his body seared, his wounds pulsed, hair frazzled and the stink of burned flesh filled his nostrils. All that taken in within a second or two, before he fell with bone shattering force almost twenty feet away from where his treacherous enemy lay.

Olren spat blood from his split lips, blinking away the thousand pin points of light that lingered in his vision, he couldn’t move, the smell of ozone clung to him. It was then he knew he was in trouble when he saw the tall, old female step before him, looking down at him with a hate only Lolth could enjoy. She wore graceful clothing, which clung to her body, allowing her curves to be displayed, with all her age, she still had a seductive aura about her, but right now that was the furthest thing from his mind. Only the pain filled his mind now, a pain far beyond that which he experienced in Melee-Magthere. She pulled the whip of snakes from her voluptuous hip, four demon serpents poised for a death strike hissed, and she struck him. All four of the deadly vipers sank fangs deep into the flesh of his seared back. Then nothing again.

Tazlochar’s knife of a nose curled from the pungent odor of burned flesh. His study room disheveled from the all too brief struggle, as one sided as it was. A heaped pile of a piwafwi, and a smoldering, charred body underneath; the remains of his apprentice, Belfryn.

“What a foolish, foolish mistake you made!” he growled, his face a raw expression of anger, the old Master Wizard was speaking more to himself than to the dead Drow. He should have known better than to trust anyone else to such delicate matters, and he trusted his apprentice to do as was told. Trust, in the underdark, was a possibly deadly emotion. Luckily, he had covered his trail quite brilliantly. The amulets, which he had distributed to the failed assassins, were blessed by the Wizard, with the use of a trigger word; the magic infused within them would turn the wearer invisible, for a short while. Just long enough for the hired blades to get close to the Matron Mother, what he didn’t tell them was that the spell had a duality, one that would kill the wearer as soon as they fled, and flee many of them did. Tazlochar took a grim satisfaction in knowing all ties to the act were severed. No one would miss the apprentice, and even if questions were raised, it wasn’t uncommon for a young wizard to be dispatched by their Master. Such was the price of ill conceived ambition.

Now, however, there was a new piece in the sava game. Tazlochar’s very reliable sources gave word of a Soldier, whom had attacked his own. They suspected he, along with a handful of others, were apart of the conspiracy. Which of course was totally false, but it gave the plan a new possible twist. The only reason the Soldier wasn’t dead already, Tazlochar reckoned, was for the simple fact that the Matron Mother herself wanted answers, his sister, he knew, would enjoy flaying the fellow, as she had the others whom she suspected of the deed. There was still a chance for the ‘innocent’ survivor, if there was such a thing as innocence in Menzoberranzan.

The Wizard spoke a command word which summoned his obsidian golem to once again clean up after his grisly mess, and quickly left the chamber, and almost ran down the hallway. He had to hurry if he was going to create yet another misdirection for his sister to follow. After all, if he wasn’t going to kill her, he was going to put her in her place somehow, the female needed to be humbled.

The Wizard stalked down the spiral stair case that led into the deep, dark heart of the citadel of Vandree. Here and there tortured screams echoed against the cold stone, the acrid smell of rot filled the air as well, the first signs of the horrors to be found in the torture chambers; a favored playground for many a House Priestess. At the bottom of the staircase he took a left, down a long dark corridor, iron cages lined the hall; where the enemies of House Vandree often found their doom. Tazlochar gave a demanding nod to the brawny orc guard, clad only in a crude apron, which looked eternally stained with dark red, blood of victims, no doubt.

“Take me to the Soldier that was brought in here yesterday ‘eve,” the old drow spoke in a cold, even voice. He leveled a stare at the much taller orc, one that spoke of deadly intent.

The orc stared back, unflinchingly, its large jowls stiffening, before it spoke an awkward common tongue. “Who asking?”

It took only soft spoken word to convince the dimwitted Guard as to whom he was speaking to. He fell to his knees at once, his weight thudded against the stone floor hard, cracking painfully, but that was the least of it. The Orc was finally allowed to rise, humbled now, he ushered the mage down the dark corridor without another word. They stopped at one of the cells, just as dilapidated as the rest of them, it stank of rot, sweat, and urine. The walls leaked some putrid smelling water, which stagnated in pools on the shattered floor. Perhaps hundreds of lives had wasted away here, markings on the walls, crudely drawn names, simple scratches kept a record of some long dead fellows time spent here. From the looks of it, the unfortunate fellow had been there for centuries.

The Drow he was looking for was lucky however, for he would be given a chance for escape and a scant chance of survival if he were smart enough to grasp it. The sconce on the far wall cast a faint glow, but to a Drow’s keen eyes that small flame was bright enough to illuminate the entire room. There, in a corner where the darkness threatened to devour the light, a quivering drow silhouette caught the mage’s eyes. Naked, and badly beaten, the male suffered grievous wounds, cuts and bruises painted his body various shades of red, purple, and blue. Burns covered his broken body from head to toe, and his white hair clung to his skin, matted with dried, blackened blood. The wrongly imprisoned, disgraced warrior looked back at the mage, with hatred in his one good, blazing ruby eye; the other was half closed, mashed in badly.

With a gesture, Tazlochar motioned to the Orc, whom fumbled with a large collection of ancient, rusted keys, kept together by a ring of old iron. The orc grinned to himself as he found the proper one, and opened the door with a grating creak of the hinges. The old Wizard nodded to the orc, whom replied with a low grunt, and left down the hall quickly, not wanting any more to do with the mage.

A confident smirk rose at the corner of his thin lips, as he tugged at the hems of his piwafwi, settling the folds to keep out the cold, wretched air. The warrior before him had no such convenience, the only thing that seemed to keep him warm was the constant and rythmatic tensing of his muscles, something taught in the warrior’s school, he supposed. It was a rather pitiful sight, if pity was an emotion that was not scorned by the Drow race, perhaps he would have even offered a condolence to this male’s unjust imprisonment. What he was going to do, unbeknownst to the warrior, would serve just as well.

The warrior woke from his trancelike state, his red eyes regarded the mage with a determination and single mindedness to survive only a creature of the underdark could muster. His chest rose and fell to a labored cadence, and when he spoke, he did it without reverence for the House Wizard of Vandree, a hateful smile played over bloodied teeth as he said simply, “what brings a Wizard like you here? Come to finish me off?”

Tazlochar’s response came quickly enough, a smiting gleam burned in his eyes as he raised a hand, twisting his fingers into intricate patterns, just as he was about to deal a spell that would surely put an end to the warrior’s life, he held steady. That is what he wants, thought the Wizard, seeing in the young Drow a look of resignation. Foolish warriors, with their notion of an honorable death. At the same time, Tazlochar could understand, he too, would rather die than to face the wrath of the Matron Mother.

“You will not get what you desire, you fool,” Tazlochar’s brow furrowed into a cruel grin, “You will live for as long as you serve a purpose.”

The Soldier seethed with quiet anger, even as Tazlochar reached into one of the many pockets of his pawifwi, pulling from the depths of a dimensional pocket, the spell component he needed. Speaking in the arcane tongue of a language lost to all those who weren’t fluent in Weave spell craft. It was a complicated spell, one that required him to delve into his memories, of a side cavern of one of the many rivers that crisscrossed the underdark. The gem component he held in his left hand crumbled to black dust, as he reached out with the other, striking the young drow in the cheek.

The warrior blinked angrily, confusion showing in his reddening face. “What was that for?” he spat venom, restraining with some difficulty the urge to retaliate.

I just saved your life. Tazlochar signed in the ancient hand language of the Drow, and quickly turned about, leaving the stunned and speechless soldier alone in his dark, dank cell.

“I’ll leave you to die at the amusement of Lolth!” the old mage allowed his voice to carry down the corridor, so the dimwitted Orc torture master would hear. He didn’t even know the warrior’s name, Tazlochar thought that prudent, the fewer stories he had to spin, the better.

The Orc guard slammed the iron door of Olren’s cell, jingling the keyring before the blazing-eyed drow, spitting his foul smelling drool towards the male before carrying on with more pressing matters. He had other prisoners to menace, after all.

Olren spat too, blood hit the floor with a thick splat. He had no idea what had just happened, it’s not every day a Wizard addresses a low ranking soldier like himself. Ex-soldier, Olren reprimanded himself, he would no longer be seen as a warrior, not even in Lolth’s domain, if he even made it there. He wasn’t the most worthy of the Spider Queen’s less than willing male subjects. He despised her every aspect, trickery, plotting, he despised intrigue most of all, but that was inescapable.

What the old, decidedly insane drow said to him, that’s what bothered him the most. Saved my life?! If anything, he was doomed now more than ever, he yearned to be killed before having to suffer the indignity of being flayed by the Matron Mother herself; although, he couldn’t have picked a better High Priestess to end his life. The pain he felt now, the pain that wracked his body to the point of not feeling at all, could the suffering the Matron Mother would no doubt deal be much worse? No doubt. That thought made the warrior shudder.

Olren had no idea how long he’d spent in the bone chilling cold, his stomach ached from hunger, and his body still throbbed with pain. The only spell he knew, a simple spell of healing, failed him every time he attempted it, he suspected some sort of ward that prevented the use of magic from the prison’s unfortunate inmates. All he knew now was the empty, desolate feeling within his chest, for he knew that death was imminent, and it was the worst death imaginable. Not a glorious death in battle, not even a lesser death of being slaughtered by one of the more dangerous lurkers of the underdark; but a death at the hand of his own Matron mother, in disgrace.
He grinned through the pain at the irony, waiting for the judgment of his Matron Mother, whom he served with unwavering loyalty, even though he hated the matriarchy, and everything it represented. To Olren, he sacrificed more than the fervent zealots whom actually relished in what Lolth represented, because he put aside his own feelings for the sake of his House. What a fool he had been.
Finally, he sat cross-legged on the hard stone floor, the echo of cave rats in the distance, he looked around for them, but any time he spotted the little red dots of their eyes, they scurried away. He hoped they kept their distance, but from the looks of some of the chewed flesh of some of the other prisoners, it wouldn’t be that way for long.

Pushing the thought of becoming a scurry rat’s meal far from his min, and slowly, grudgingly, slipped into reverie.

Through the visions of his memories, his pain slowly passed into a small corner of his mind, a throbbing reminder, a tether to reality. Much like being in the cell, he had no orientation to time, no sense of its passage, just the rythmatic pulse of pain, in time to the beating of his heart. Olren was plucked from reverie, as the dull ring of metal against metal; the hinges of his cell door had swung wide open. Two male Soldiers, dressed in finely crafted chain maille, with black tunics, longswords hung at their hips. They took him up by each arm, letting his feet drag against the cold stone floor as they shouldered him from the cell. Olren hung limply, acting as dead weight; he wouldn’t hurry his demise, nor would be help them, it hurt too much any way.

There was a tense silence between the three, not even a provoking word from Olren’s captors; he knew his dead weight was wearying them, their sinuous arms shaking. He caught only glimpses of his surroundings, the dark stone hallways, every doorway was adorned with motifs of spiders, and the walls were hung with beautifully woven tapestries displaying scenes of exaltations to the Spider Queen. Every servant they passed gave them wary distance, with soft whispers and quiet laughter in their wake. Servants and slaves loved when a Drow was in such dire situations, particularly the lesser races.

Finally, they arrived. Two massive doors of jet black obsidian, each one covered with imagery of spiders in their entire splendor, all of it was a blur to the young warrior, whose left eye was still heavy lidded, his eye smashed in by the first round of beating from the prison guards. He hated to think about what happened to those that weren’t ear marked by the Matron Mother.

The twin doors swung open with an ominous silence, the light of fearie fire flooded the reception room. The Matron Mother’s audience room was well lit, with columns like spider legs, adorned with small motifs, limned in fearie fire. A smear of blood led to what was left of a male captain, one of the lizard riders that led the doomed procession. His own riding lizard was eating the corpse, devouring his entrails with the sickening sound of cracking bone and slick gore. It raised its scaly head to regard Olren with hungry, soulless eyes, more food.

Olren’s good eye lingered towards the thrown, as black as the obsidian of the doors, it was huge, far bigger than it should have reasonably been. Matron Mother Troken’ther Vandree sat, she wasn’t as attractive as other female Drow, but her eyes held the strict determination and cunning that most males found more appealing than ample curves. She gazed down at the warrior imperiously, her four-headed snake whip hissing as they spoke to each other, and to their mistress with a telepathic connection. An idly hand brushed fondly over the largest serpents head.

Olren was dropped suddenly, crumpling to the hard smooth floor on hands and knees. Painfully, he rose to a submissive position, his arms stretched straight across the floor. The Matron Mother looked upon him, her otherwise smooth brow crinkling into a disgusted look.

“Explain yourself, spare yourself a slow death,” her voice was level and cold, her expression became just as unreadable. “We know you were involved, you coward male, who else was with you, besides our late captain?”

She gave a passive nod to the half eaten drow, still being snacked on by his lizard. Olren didn’t even bother looking, he had seen enough. He had two choices now, lie, and be blessed with a quick death, or be honest, and be killed anyway, only slowly. A thin smile crept across his sore face, as he thought of what the old wizard had said, there was no hope now, he was dead on both sides of the coin.

“Answer me, now!”

I have honor, he reminded himself, or at least what would pass as honor. He wasn’t about to die at anyone else’s fault but his own. He pinned up what strength he had left, bit through the pain, and spoke.

“I am not your assassin, Matron Mother, I am a faithful soldier of House Vandree, and I serve you with all my power, with Lolth only above you.” Well, he would be lieing either way, as he begrudgingly served the High Priestesses, and only served Lolth in name, not deed.

“Don’t lie to me, male, you turned your back on your House, me, and your Goddess, you deserve all the pain and suffering Lolth can put upon your wretched soul!”

“I swear to you, upon Lolth,” Olren actually felt a stirring in his chest, as if the Spider Queen was truly looking upon the spectacle. He chose his next words carefully. “I would rather die in your name, than that of another. I swore my blood oath to you, House Vandree, as a Soldier of your command, dear Matron Mother. I would die only for you,” but only because I have to, Olren thought.
An awareness tugged at his mind, it felt like he wasn’t alone in his own head, sharing every thought, and indeed, he felt the echoes of someone else’s thoughts. The wizard, Olren decided, had bespelled him in such a way that would allow the old drow to slip into his consciousness. Such spells were often employed to keep slaves in line; Olren was almost offended. Then a voice finally materialized, it was the dry, wispy voice of the wizard.

“If you want to live, open your mind to me,” the voice seemed distant, muffled.
Then all at once it was there, before Olren even had time to ‘allow’ the Wizard into his mind. It was forced, painful, like a dagger. All at once, the pain subsided.
“Repeat after me,” again, only a formality, because before Olren could even “think” of a reply, he found his mouth moving beyond his will. Words that weren’t his own, he could barely hear what he was being forced to say, but from the look on Matron Mother Troken’ther outraged face, he was better off not knowing. Finally, though, he could hear, it came to him as if he had came out of water, at first muffled sounds, but now as clear as a drop of water on a web.

“You deserve to die, Matron Mother, you’re weak and small, and we almost succeeded. Your House shall be swallowed up, and we shall prevail!” Olren felt dapples of sweat form on his brow, if he could, he would swallow his tongue just to keep from speaking further; but he couldn’t even control his own eyes. They locked on hers, and he could feel them bore into his very soul, knowing he was only a heartbeat or two away from being slain where he stood, and unwilling participant in a deadly game of sava.

Suddenly, he regained control; the awareness in his mind vanished as suddenly and as abruptly as it had came. He had to brace himself as he almost tumbled over. Before he could say another word, even show an expression of surprise, he saw the hissing serpents whip through the air towards him. Then, nothing.

A strange jerk caught him, his stomach rose up to his throat as the floor gave way, everything turned grey, and then faded, as if he were flying in all directions at once. Then darkness, pitch black enveloped him, not even his darkvision could penetrate it, and then just as quick, he fell, with a bone jarring crash onto a rocky floor. He lay there, naked and broken, struggling for a fleeting breath. He felt that awareness creeping back into his thoughts, this time the presence was weak though, fading in and out, whatever spell the Wizard had worked on him was failing. Where ever he was, he was far away from the Matron Mother, perhaps even far outside the caverns of Menzoberranzan.

“Get up!” the voice growled, “you’re still alive, the rest is up to you. You’ve served your purpose to me, expect no more favors.”

“Favor?” Orlen spoke aloud, painfully, but he managed. “I don’t know where I am.” Finally he forced his one good eye open, his darkvision kicked in, the red spectrum made everything visible, even stone carried some heat. He rose up, taking stock of what was around him. He had fallen from the ceiling of a very small, claustrophobic cave, the only exit led to a small underground river, from the sound of the unmistakable echoes of rushing water. Stalagmites and stalactites reached up from ceiling to cave floor, like jagged fangs of a dragon’s maw. On the ground, about ten paces away, was a satchel, which looked as though it had seen many tendays of travel. Beside it was a longsword, plain by all Drow standards, but it looked capable enough, at least from a distance.

All that he took in at a glance, before the mage rang in his thoughts once more, “You’re just outside of Menzoberranzan, the river outside the cavern I teleported you to, which is no small feat by the way, will lead you far, far away from here. Into the World of Light. That is the only realm where you will possibly have even a slim chance for survival, you now have no house, forget you’re of Vandree stock, because you are now our enemy. If I hear of you returning to Menzoberranzan, or even being in the Underdark, I will kill you myself. In the pack is only what you need, I won’t waste resources on you. There is also a small boat that you can use, take it upstream, to the mouth of a cave which will deposit you into the World Above.”

“You piece of rothe dung! How could you…” the connection faded, the other awareness gone. Olren cursed everything, himself, House Vandree, Lolth herself! He was Houseless, everything he worked for, for his whole life, gone. Now he had to take some boat, upsteam, to the sun blasted world above? He had never even set foot outside of Menzoberranzan, but he had heard of what the World Above does to a Drow. The infernal energies above change a Drow, so Olren had heard.

Lost in thought, Olren almost forgot the pain, but it came back, dragging him kicking and screaming back into reality. The young warrior remembered, now that he was outside of the bounds of the walls of House Vandree, maybe his only spell would work. The simple healing spell he called upon with a few spoken words, calling upon the Weave, closed the small cuts that covered his body instantly, bruises became smaller, and disappeared all together. Bones cracked painfully before setting into sockets or binding back together, thankfully, numbness washed over Olren’s body. A powerful tingling sensation replaced it, a thousand needles pressed into every inch of him, all at once, as strength returned slowly. The larger wounds finally closed, leaving white scars on his ebony flesh. Vision returned to his once busted eye and he rose to his feet on wobbly legs. After another moment, he felt as though he could run forever. The cold still gnawed at his naked flesh but he didn’t care, he was whole once again, though that didn’t relieve the situation much. Sure, he survived, he was free, but he had no House, nowhere to go…but up.

He gathered up the items the Wizard left for him, taking stock of what he had. A simple black tunic, and a pair of black leggings, as well as a pair of old leather boots, all of which he put on with a quickness, glad for the warmth they provided. The rest was equally as important, a waterskin, dried and salted rothe meat, a small bedroll, and a knife. Now he knew he at least had a fighting chance.

Shouldering the pack, he finally lifted the sword, giving it a swing to get a feel for the balance. The simple blade was surprisingly well balanced. The blade had a knick or two, but Olren couldn’t complain. The hilt was crafted of the same common steel the blade was forged from, with a circle where a House seal once had been, but it had been scoured away. This was a blade of Vandree making, Olren realized, but it wasn’t of the usual fine Drow steel of material found only in the underdark, it was made of steel that could be found anywhere. Steel that wouldn’t crumble under the blasted sun.
Finally, he made his way through the narrow opening of the cave, and down to the bank of the underground river. The current looked gentle enough, but subsurface rivers were hard to gauge. What might look like a beautiful, soft current might in face be treacherous and rocky. Creatures of all types lurked in the depths as well. Olren would have to be very careful.

He found the small craft easily enough; it was tied to a small, jagged rock at the edge of the dark water. It was barely big enough for two people, but it looked worthy enough. He piled his new belongings into the craft and got in himself, being careful not to rock the boat too much, shifting his weight from one side to the other as needed. He took the length of rope which secured him to the shore and kicked off, using twin oars to force himself up river. An especially tiring task. With each stroke, Olren came closer to his new destiny, or doom, and further away from the life he knew.