A Hunt in the Underdark

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 1; The hunt begins.

// This is a story post relating to a quest Mirrir was sent on. As an IC event focused around her actions, some readers may wish to skip the content.

SPOILER: Click to show

Standing before a rocky outcropping, she gazed into darkness, fingers flexing to draw her claws together. Those depths, unfathomable, held countless dooms. She smiled in the face of them, stretching her wings to soothe the ache that the long flight to reach the swamp had caused. She'd not have great use of them below, save for instances when she could find larger chambers. Her flight, clumsy as it was, was not well suited for narrow corridors and ceilings. It was the one thing she didn't like about the deep. It wouldn't stop her though.


Hours later she crouched next to a burbling stream. Her armor, blessed by the Beastlord, shed a ruddy red glow around her. If anything lurked in the darkness beyond she was plainly painted as a target. Yet her formidable appearance was certain to keep all but the most assured at bay. Of course, even if she wasn't shrouded in the halo of light most denizens of the deep would see her plain as day. With no means to mask it her exceptionally high body heat likely made her somewhat akin to a sun to infrared vision. Keenly aware of these vulnerabilities, she let nothing of her concerns show, instead washing her hands in the water before soaking her arms and splashing her face. She needed them to believe her prey, not predator. And her supposed ignorance would likely be what enticed them to attack.


Deeper still, she passed hours away, facing once a pack of hook horrors drawn by her heavy footfalls, and later a swarm of gibberlings she stumbled upon in a strange moss strewn grotto. The wounds they left her with were superficial, but she knew it was only the beginning. The real fight would come soon, for as deep as she was now, she knew she neared their territory. She'd been here before. Though most adventurers stuck to well known routes, seeking the exotic inn of the depths, she and the Beastmaster had been fascinated by the world below, and spent a great deal of time navigating the subterranean realm. Never though had she been foolish enough to come alone. A part of her, the part that always strove to survive, seethed with annoyance. This was a task that could leave her dead, yet one did not grow without true challenge. If she was to die bloody, so be it. The Beastlord would know of her strengths and see her into the eternal hunt. This strange Elven God she carried would be free to make up his own mind. Would he smile? The gods were curious things. So many mortals were quick to make assumption based on the dogma presented to them by the churches. True dogma, she believed, was spoken to each follower, in the privacy of their own souls. She wasn't one to believe that the Elven Gods would be as ignorant as many of their beholden. They could see and they would know. She had nothing to prove to them, for if they cared enough to bother, their gaze would unfold the truth of her.


She arrived at her destination, finally, after nearly a full half day had passed since she began her descent. Emerging from the tunnel she had been fallowing she stepped onto the edge of a steep precipice to a cavern below. A narrow path clung to the caverns side, winding its way down to the bottom nearly a hundred feet below. Crouching, she pulled two halves of a broken, blacked arrow shaft from her belt. She turned them over in her hands, considering them closely, though taking care not to separate them. She wasn't a creature of prayer. The Beastlord never bid her to whisper to him her hopes or dreams or mortal wishes. When she called his name it was to give him gifts, not to demand his attention. So she remained crouched and silent, listening to the sound of her heart and breath grow louder and louder as nothing else stirred in that deep place. What is it you say to a god that isn't even your own? And one that likely wouldn't care to hear your voice? She had no enmity towards them, but while she believed they could see the truth of her, would they bother? Let sleeping lions lie. Gods even more-so. Yet she was here with a purpose. This was her challenge, so finally she broke the silence, letting her voice, resonating with her natural arcane power, stir the air.


"I call upon you, Shevarash, so that you might witness what is done. Your child, the one called Leovan, bids it, and if it is your way to heed these mortal voices, let it be so. I bring merciless death upon your enemies, the drow, so walk with me and bathe in their blood as it falls. If it pleases you, perhaps, thank him for the gift of carnage he has sent me to give to you, for the bounty of this hunt belongs to him."


She let silence fall once more, the power in her voice causing it to linger in echo against the stone that surrounded her, wondering if her call was heard, or if heard, acknowledged. She needn't call on the Beastlord, he would feast as well, his essence carried with her at all times in the vicious hunting talons and her sacred Bloodmoon Mithril. Would they see each other? Would those two gazes meeting rip her asunder? She risked much, not merely bordering on heresy, but crossing the line and daring him to strike her down for it. He had taught her that the strong take what they want, only the weak were cowed by doubt and fear. She wanted this. Only he could stop her. So would he let it pass? Or would this be the last hunt under his gaze? The last hunt ever? Stillness was her only sign, and that was enough of a blessing in her mind to carry on.


It was time to prepare. She carefully tucked the arrow away, where no drow would see it, and pulled out several items; a scroll case in which nestled a missive from the Beastlords church (written in her own hand of course), a scroll of tongues, and a ledger of inventory. With those tucked into her belt, she rose to stand on the edge and leaned forward to let herself fall. Her wings spread wide, she caught the air and slowed her descent, though not enough to stop her impact from resounding a loud crash that echoed down the corridor ahead.


I am here, she bid them in her mind. Come and find me.


Then she began moving forward, brazenly striding on at a relaxed, if long legged pace, a casual smile on her lips.


If you dare.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 2, part 1; It's a trap.

// This is a detailed story post relating to a quest Mirrir was sent on in the underdark. It contains a lot of violence. Reader discretion is advised!

SPOILER: Click to show

Time in the deep became a mystery. Rather than hours, she counted the sips she took from her water skin, and the number of times she felt inclined to pause to sit in silence. While her metamorphosis allowed her to keep wakeful for days her body had limits, and those she paid careful heed to. It wouldn't do to be exhausted before it even began. So she often stopped, settling down to relax her muscles, meditating for a span before rising again and pressing on-wards. The tunnels and caverns seemed endless, and as she went, how alone she was became acute. Her coming so easily detected, it seemed that everything living in the darkness must be watching, yet she saw nothing. It began to press on her nerves, so when she came around the bend and found herself faced with a group of armed, aiming drow, a small part of her was relieved. Only a small part though.


Though what she faced was quite similar to what she had expected, she still felt a furious rage coil inside, and it was an unseen, unheard battle as she forced herself not to react. Predators expected fight or flight from their prey, so when confronted by one, the best way to slow it down was to make it uncertain that you were the prey. Four dark elves we spaced carefully apart before her, blockading her entry into the low ceiling-ed cavern beyond. She didn't hear them yet but she knew there would be more, likely behind her, the scouts that had allowed the party to be prepared for her arrival. Would it be one or two? More? No, not likely. Not impossible though. What troubled her more was that she could see no mage or priestess. Drow patrols, in her experience, always had a mage to back them, and before she could strike, she would need him most of all exposed. So rather than giving in to the screaming need to attack, she gave to her daunting hosts the last thing the expected: A wide, welcoming smile. And though she suspected they did not speak common, she spoke, letting her tone far more than words convey her meaning.


"Ah, my, it seems you have me at a disadvantage, but it's so very good to see you all. I've been quite looking forward to our crossing paths." As she spoke she let her hands drift away from her sides, turning palm up and fingers spread, weaponless save for her wicked bracers and natural claws under them. Weaponless besides the coiled fire behind her longs and the strain of muscles that wanted nothing more than to be released in violence.


The two center-most drow spared a glance to one another, red eyes narrowed, while the two at each end remained affixed on her directly as they kept their hand crossbows leveled. She didn't so greatly fear those, the poison the drow preferred likely wouldn't be able to affect her, but if they had any knowledge of her kind, given their time to prepare, who knew what those darts would be laced with? It was too early to take risks.


"You don't speak common, do you, hm?" She continued to smile, maintaining show of the same casual poise she affected in Greatgaunt. "May I then?" With a brow lofted she moved her hand, slowly, to gesture at the scroll tucked into her belt, and began to move to pluck it free. He was there then, though, a slender male with a thin, wicked looking blade in hand, beside her, giving her a cool look as he shook his head faintly. Five drow. A missing wizard. Likely one more behind, and possibly a priestess as well. Her motion arrested, she watched as he plucked the scroll free with a quick motion and moved aside with it, three graceful steps that took him out of her reach, and just out of her line of sight as well. The bait was set. Would they fall into her trap now?


Movement flitted past her as the scout that had snatched her scroll moved past, the parchment unfurled in his hand. Would he find the wizard for her? Slipping past the line of his companions, he moved into the chamber and to the side, nearing the chamber wall where it curved out of view. And that was where he stopped. Lips moving, he held the parchment out to the air, and it vanished. A moment later it reappeared in the hands of a slender dark elf with a pock-scarred face, who unlike the others, wore soft cloth in the place of mail and leather. The pair came to rest just behind the line of still aiming soldiers to regard her with expressions of skepticism that bordered on hostility. Still though, the wizard raised the parchment and read the arcane phrases, passing the magical effect captured in the parchment to himself. Trap sprung. Now would she catch them?


"Who are you, and what is it you think you're doing here?" She wouldn't have needed the tongues spell to detect the scathing condescension in his tone. She let it pass, instead of reacting, storing the insult, letting it warm her temper while she offered a lazy smile.

"I am Mirrir Tharasvin. Vo-," her introduction came to an abrupt halt as she coughed, not for discomfort but from the shock that accompanied a cold rush that rippled through her chain shirt, making her chest feel constricted, uncomfortable, as if she was suddenly out of breath. Her hand rose to cover her mouth as she issued another few coughs, paying subtle attention to the reactions of he opponents. Did they see it? The sensation faded a quickly as it came, but it was a clear warning. She was not the Voice in this. If the drow saw anything, they indicated nothing, the reactions as one would expect, amusement at the surfacers poor constitution and discomfort.

"Mm, dusty down here." She smiled as she lowered her hand once more, and began again. "I have come as a representative of a number of mercantile affiliates, including my own Emporium. I'm seeking drow of authority and ambition, for a matter of mutual profit."


Drow remained largely a mystery to her, though there were a number of things she kept in close mind as she proceeded. For one, dark elves, like their surface brethren often did, held a strong believe in their superiority. To that she offered supplication, giving ground, accepting their insults as if they were deserved. It wasn't her way to be humble, but in the hunt, a predator was best to use all the tools available. She knew also that they were used to females that dominated, so she subtly fawned, paying compliments to acuity and asking their advice on how to proceed frequently. It was a slow bout of maneuvering, but within an hour she had all six drow, four solders, the scout and the mage, about her, inspecting her ledger while the Wizard translated. She also knew that dark elves were dangerously competitive and she watched closely for tension building between them. She had shown them a number of magical wares, from simple to unique, promising them there was much more to come from the surface above. Goods that, due to how they were acquired, weren't convenient for her to move through Cormyr. Good that she would release for exceptional prices that they could in turn take to their own markets for a substantial markup. Economy was a game she enjoyed, an aspect of civilization that was ruthless and unforgiving. As unfamiliar as the markets of the world below were, it wasn't hard to use just the right proposals to glean favor to her notions.


Finally it was time. She was certain now that there was no one else lurking, no priestess unseen or scout waiting. She brought herself up alongside the mage and one of the soldiers, roughly between them, though a step back, as if keeping a respectful distance. The rest of the dark elves were not five feet beyond, debating among themselves in a somewhat heated manner. She made no move nor sound to interrupt, simply flashing a lazy smile as she let the heat in her chest grow, let her temper coil as she rolled over every slight they had offered her in the last hour. The wizard seemed to realize that something was wrong just as she felt the burgeoning pressure demand release. His head snapped her way, but it was too late. Curling her fingers into a fist and flexing her wrist to extend the vicious hunting claws she wore over her right arm, she slammed her hand directly into his torso and gave an upward yank, shredding his robes, flesh, and organs from belly to collar in one brutal stroke.


To their credit, the drow reacted with a remarkable speed, yet even still that split second of surprise was all she needed to unleash devastation. Parting her lips, she made note of the soldier to her left stumbling back as she unleashed a torrent of fire from her maw, a quickly spreading cone that drenched the four ahead - or almost did. One, in an impressive feat of agility, sprang out of the way in an uncanny tumble. The other three however unleashed agonized screams as the heat washed over them, boiling the exposed flesh and setting cloth to ember.


Two choices then. She turned quickly to the soldier she had left at her left flank, gratified to some degree to see he'd managed to free his weapon. It didn't matter now. Their advantage had been numbers, which were now nullified. This was her killing field, and as she split a malicious grin, she savored the terror that widened his eyes. He took a single staggered step back, choosing flight over fight, but she denied him. Jerking her off hand forward she used the reach of its talons to skewer him in the side, twisting her wrist to turn the large serrated blades like keys between his ribs, forcing him to lurch forward. The way his body twitched as he gurgled was indication enough that she had done a grievous enough injury so rather than bearing him down the rest of the way she brought up a boot and kicked him solidly to force him off the cruel talons.


That was when he hit her. It was sudden and jarring, a completely unanticipated pain, that flared up immediately as the blade split the scales along the back of her bicep. Not a heartbeat later the blade slammed into the bone at the top of her elbow, causing the limb to go numb from that blazing point all the way to her fingertips. She sucked in a breath, causing a voluminous snarl as she wheeled around, trying to catch her opponent with her wings with the sudden turn, but he was gone, danced back out of her reach as quickly as he had come.


It was the scout. Firedancer. Quickfoot. She could feel blood gushing down her arm, and she fought the urge to comfort the would, which burned with a strange cold sensation. Instead she fixated his gaze on him, pacing a few steps his way, angling to the right to bring her still functional arm to the fore. Though her clawed bracer was not ideal as a weapon, it was still very effective, as her previous victim had proven. She favored him with a wicked smile, noting the way he moved, and the weapon he had used to such great effect. A dagger of a mirror like quality, so sharp it glittered. She noted with an uneasy feeling that the blades tip appeared to have been snapped off, its taper suggesting that there should have been another inch of length yet still.


He would be frail, she knew, but she would have to catch him. Fleet of foot as he was, with her greatest weapon rendered inert, she opted for the unexpected. She lifted her voice suddenly, pitching a furious denouncement in the eldritch tongue of dragons, filling the air with a crackling power. The sound hit him like a thunderstorm, causing him to stagger as blood began to gush from his nose. Somewhere in the background the pitiful gasping sounds of a dying drow silenced. With a feign to the right, she abruptly launched left, flexing her wings to add force to her lunge, crashing bodily into him rather than trying to strike him with her bracer. Still trying to recover from the assault of her voice, the scout failed to dodge and was thus carried the short remaining distance to the cavern wall. A satisfying crunch resounded as her weigh crushed bone against the stone. Lacking a free hand, she smiled wickedly, issuing a low growl before biting into the side of his neck. Her metamorphosis hadn't wrought great change to her mouth, but her eyeteeth were longer, and sharp enough to easily tear through the flesh. He thrashed and squirmed, but between the weight of her pinning him in place and the grip of her teeth, the battle was already ended. Withdrawing as his struggles flagged, she pulled her head away, tearing flesh, tendon and vein free so that she could look upon his face as his life fled. She found herself thinking that those eyes, a deep crimson red, full of hate, anger, fear, were very beautiful. Yet as their light faded to glass, her appreciation did as well, and she stepped back, letting the corpse hit the ground with a thud.


Something crunched under her boot, and looking down she noted the strange blade he had wielded, or at least, what was left of it, snapped into thin, glassy shards under her tread. An unfortunate waste. She brought up a and to grip the wound, issuing a startled gasp as pain rocketed up and down her arm anew. It seemed the wound bled far more profusely than it should. That was the trouble with drow. They were clever, vicious, deadly things. Even their weakest could bite, and no matter how small the spider, one always had to mind the effects that might come with it.


Taking several moments to awkwardly bind the injury, she set into motion. She had to be on her way before more came. There was one last thing to do though.


She wondered if the elf god was pleased as her own blood began mixing with the blood of the enemy, dripping from her fingers to the floor. She made a quick circuit, crouching by each of the ruined drow, using her sharp nails to sheer off their ears, one by one, tucking them away in a pouch. Trophies for Leovan. It seemed oddly barbaric for an elf to have asked for. Barbaric had never given her pause though.


Trophies collected, she took just enough time to properly wrap a length of linen around her arm, awkwardly cinching it into place with a hank of her teeth. It was time to retreat. She would double back and take to a fork she had passed by some hours travel back. With some measure of perseverance and luck she'd be able to find a suitable place to settle to better tend to the gash. Though feeling had returned to her forearm and fingers, every movement of her arm sent flares of burning cold through her limb, as if she was being cut anew. With a certain queasy acknowledgement, she accepted that the weapons tip was still embedded within, snapped off when it struck the bone. It wouldn't do to be found in the middle of the carnage by another patrol though, so she grit her teeth and set back out, leaving six earless corpses, burnt, torn and crushed, as testament to her unleashed fury.

Chapter 2, part 2; The Chase

// This is the story of Velethranril's pursuit of Mirrir in the Underdark. Due to IC content, reader discretion is advised.

SPOILER: Click to show

Sept 28, 2015 15:13:22 GMT -5 probablyamage said:

Through a hood designed to pierce the darkness Velethranril stared out at the barren cavern in front of him. Tracking was never his forte. He had some experience, of course. Nearly every last Elf was taught woodcraft, especially those who have been expected to make their way through a dangerous forest. Tracking here in the Underdark though, was different. Bare stone left few traces short of scuff marks and chips. While normally not an issue, it rather complicated things when finding someone was the sole purpose for coming.

Of course, the problem could be surmounted by someone willing to cheat. Opening his well stocked scroll case, he selected one of his several polymorph scrolls. These were originally intended for mischief of some sort....but they could be put to true use without more than a brief pang of regret. Reciting the words, he felt his body begin to contort and change in a way that should have been hideously disorienting and painful but somehow wasn't. He heard a low rumbling growl, and was surprised to find himself the source.

Where an Elf once stood now crouched a fearsome displacer beast. Managing his eight new limbs and tail should have been a trial, but they felt as natural as the limbs of his true form. The beast's.....his eyes functioned as well as the enchanted hood, but far more important was the alteration to his sense of smell. While he normally considered his sense of smell quite keen, it was a pale shadow compared to what he now possessed. Picking up Mirrir's scent was simple. He was familiar enough with it....besides, her armor smelled like dried blood. Unmistakable. With a bounding leap, he began a loping run across the stone.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 3; Breathing Room.

// The continuation of Mirrirs quest in the underdark. Please skip if you don't enjoy IC details!

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a journey of hours. Backtracking had been the easy part. Descending into the corridor she had passed proved the beginning of a journey she had not anticipated. Her wound continued to seep, giving her need to pause to replace the linens. She was practiced reading trails, and thus could somewhat mitigate her own, at least so much as to know better than to leave a path of blood behind to be followed. More than the pain it caused was the exhaustion, though she could sustain herself for days without rest or food, an injury like this wore her down. One tunnel split, and then split again, corridors winding off into the darkness. With no map and no knowledge of where to go, she relied on her instinct, stopping long enough at each intersection to pull out her ledger and awkwardly scribe down notes. Every stroke of her quill caused the fire in her arm to burn. Finding a place to rest and deal with it properly was becoming less of a desire and more of a desperate need.


She passed a few small chambers that wouldn't suit her needs, until then finally she crept out of a passage to survey a much larger pocket in the entombing stone around her. Uneven, the cavern hosted a number of staggered plateaus, connected by a series of tumbled ridge edges. Near the center of he chamber was a pond fed by a small river, where it emptied though remained unknown. It was an oddly verdant cave, mushrooms and spoors rising up between crevasses, moss clinging to the walls and creeping across swaths of the crumbled, gritty turf. On the west wall, as far as she could tell was west, presuming she had arrived from the south, was a waterfall, which filled the chamber with a constant echoing hiss of water against rock. The walls were dark, and much like the floor of the cavern, uneven, with outcroppings of rock and narrow cracks strewn wildly throughout, as if some great clawed beast had attacked the earth itself and tried to tear it apart like flesh. Finally, she had by all appearances, exactly what she needed.


First she scoured the chamber, inspecting the two other tunnels that intersected from the north, and making her way along the shore of the pond and between some of the mushrooms, some of which towered far taller than she. Too sparse to be considered a wooded area, none the less, she found it oddly reminiscent of a surface meadow. And like those quiet places in the wilderness, this grotto showed signs of regular passage, footpaths worn into the moss indicative of an often followed way. Patrols clearly came through the cavern, likely to take advantage of the easy means by which to refill their waterskins. Other tracks, strange, shuffled marks were here and there among the mushroom growth, but she couldn't determine what it might have been that made them. Satisfied with what she had found, she retreated to the west wall and flexed her wings, considering the distance to the ceiling, some thirty feet above her. Jagged and unforgiving, she would need to take care not to get too close. With that on account, she studied the wall and the waterfall that cascaded down its rough side, trying to determine if any of the shelves hat it passed would be large enough for her to settle on next to the flow. Near the top, some twenty feet up, was her most likely bet, which was unfortunate. Getting lift enough to reach that height would be difficult. Still though, she backed away from the wall, settled into a crouch and then broke into a spring, launching herself up and at the wall as she brought her wings down hard. With that heft she cleared the first ten feet, her feet colliding with the rock, hand scrabbling for a hold that wasn't there, wings flapping hard as she scrabbled with her legs to provide at least a minor means of extra propulsion. It was a laborious effort, her mad assault on the wall kept her from descending her wings managed to find enough purchase against the still air, and so she began to rise. When she made it to the ledge she felt a brief flood of relief. It was large enough, and she let herself down into the wet moss, slick from the spray from the falls. She was still for quite a time, before she forced herself to move. She had a wound to tend and would need to take measures to be certain she wouldn't be so easily seen from below.


Unwrapped, her wound defied her, resting where it was against the back of her bicep, just above her elbow, no matter how she strained she couldn't get a good look at it. Alarmingly, even after all this time, it still seeped blood. The scales had been split cleanly, she noted curiously, marking the weapon as one most keen. Frustrated and pained, she considered her options. She could try to dig out whatever shard remained buried in her flesh, but doing so blindly she risked simply pushing it deeper, not to mention injuring her fingers on the sliver. She could pack the wound with a salve, but leaving the piece grating against her bone would certainly do far greater injury, perhaps even crippling her. A potion might do, but she rejected the notion outright. This was a sacred hunt, she would not fall to that. Instead, she considered her songspells. On this journey she had intended to use them sparingly. There was only so much, and she couldn't promise herself the time to recover the energies needed to evoke them. With little other option though, she shut her eyes and began to murmur, a deep, resonant sound that began to build in melody as she carefully began pressing her fingers along the muscle of her arm. Mended from within, the wound would hopefully force the splinter out, like the body did when healing naturally. It was a slow process, and ironically a painful one. As the sliver was pushed out it cut along its edges, a cruel, vindictive gesture, she thought, for an inanimate object. Finally though she was rewarded by a sensation of warmth and the itch of knitting skin as the healing energy finished its work. Testing her arm, she found it still ached, but she could flex and bend the joint again without greater consequence than that. Curious, she looked for the sliver, and when she found it she carefully collected it into one of her scroll cases, tucking it away for future study.


Better concealment was next, she took the time to unclip her chainshirt, pulling it free, causing its light to fade, and fussed out a leather tunic. Tailored much like her chain to be pulled over her arms, buckled behind her neck and lower back, the leather was comfortable, and also woven with effective dweamors that allowed it to blend more naturally with the surroundings. There was little she could do with her wings, save edge back further, closer to the waterfall. She worked free a bundle of dried meat and worked to relax, folding her legs into a comfortable cross, and took to watching the chamber below as she ate. Without her armor to provide light, her vision was much reduced, relying on the faint glows of prosperous fungi. She noted for the first time though that they came in many different colors, soft oranges, pale blues and speckles of purple. The cave floor from above looked akin to a distant starfield, pretty, she thought, before admonishing herself for being distracted. Intertwined with the faded lights she had been admiring, was movement. Inwardly she cursed, but her irritation faded to curiosity as she strained to see, squinting through the dark.


The mushrooms were alive. Or, something that looked like mushrooms, was moving between them. Small and furtive things, they moved slowly, and quietly about in the dark, often clumping together. Silently they gathered at the ponds edge, splishing and splashing with crude limbs as the bobbed their wide flat heads to and fro. Something about them seemed incredibly tranquil, despite the sheer oddity of the notion of mushroom men. She found herself holding her breath, not daring to disturb the scene with her presence, a small smile on her lips as she was finally able to witness the life of the Underdark. It was easy to forget that it was a wilderness, yet here was proof, and she found herself comforted by the notion. She was a predator of the wilds, and while the drow might call these lands their own, they were creatures of cities, of slaves, of commerce, of society. She would remind them that the civilized did well to hide behind their walls, for the wilderness had no sympathy, and predators brooked no intrusion.

I'm waiting, she thought as she leaned back, letting her breathing settle and her eyes lid, trusting her senses in so natural a place to warn her when it was time. Below, the myconids continued their strange, quiet motions, unaware of the beast lurking so near. Like mice in the den of a bear, they had not to fear.

Come into my nest.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 4; Pounce.

// Mirrirs journey in the underdark. Don't read if you don't like to know IC stuff. This post also includes a lot of violence, so reader discretion is advised.

SPOILER: Click to show

She had been sitting at rest for what must have been near to a day. It might have been a stirring in the air, or an echo of soft whispers that drew her eyes open. Perhaps it was the crunch of boots on the stone, though masked by the noisome waterfall. Or maybe it was her hunger for the hunt instinctively teasing her as prey drew near. Below her graceful figures moved through the chamber like ghosts, what said between lost in translation and garbled by the rush that she sat by. Along the footpath and to the waters edge they went, where no sign remained of the earlier visitors. She snaked a thin smile as she watched, remaining still. They were not alert. The carried themselves with an easy familiarity. Like the tracks had suggested, this was a place they had been before, likely time and time again. A quite place. Peaceful. The danger, to them, wasn't real. Their hubris maddened her. Such a weakness put on display. Your arrogance will be your downfall, she mused. She touched a wand on her belt, issuing a single soft sound to activate it, and rendered the space around herself utterly silent. Then she lifted a potion to her lips, vanishing from view.


Rising, she spread her wings, tested her arm, and then carefully calculated her targets and the plunge to reach them. She had little time before the magics wore off, but it was enough. Launching off the precipice, she gave a hard flap, a second, a third, to propel herself out far enough to arch her decent directly at their epicenter. It was seven this time, five soldiers in dark chain shirts and a surprisingly stocky figure in supple leathers. Again their arcanist stood out, though for the staff he carried and the many pouches on his belt rather than his garb, which was a surprisingly serviceable looking suit rather than an ostentatious robe. Save for the mage with his stave in hand, the rest were unarmed, unsuspecting, and helpless. Sheep for the slaughter. As their voices abruptly cut out when her sphere of silence hit them, they began to tense, but it was already far too late.


Dropping her weight directly onto the shoulders of the presumed scout, she reveled in the satisfying crunch of bones as she rode him down, clawed bracer burrowing into his shoulder, shattering his collarbone and shredding through the organs of his chest. Her hunting talons stretched out to the soldier to her right, ripping through his throat and sheering away a swath of his chain shirt, exposing ribs with a twist of her wrist that pulled away a swath of flesh as she adjusted course. He collapsed, thrashing as his attempts to breathe drew more and more blood into his airway. Her wings flaring in a wide spread to catch air, giving her a moment to spread her feet for balance as she hit the surface. A deft maneuver practiced on many aerial hunts allowed her to avoid a tangle with the body that collapsed as she gave her left arm a shake to free the body her bracer claws had impaled. Before her, the five remaining dark elves were still in the motion of trying to scramble for their weapons as their minds worked to comprehend the sudden appearance of the winged terror among them. Well, four. One wasn't scrambling, she noted, but instead crouched and slapped his hand down. The dark of the cavern became instantly impenetrable. Arcanists. So clever.


She grinned to herself shifted hard left, taking four quick steps in her magical silence. Reaching up to her strange hood, she twitched its hem, causing the tufted ears it bore to twitch. Her vision returned, far more acute than before, as the magic took hold. The drow were still trying to regroup, though had gained their weapons, two firing useless bolts into the murk blindly. That settled her advantage, for though the mage appeared to be about to work a spell, they had no notion that she was already recovered rather than stumbling blind. She launched herself forward once more, letting her globe of silence ruin the mages attempt to work his weave, and paid her mind to the fighters. The two that had fired bolts had already dropped their crossbows and were drawing swords. Moving almost impossibly fast for a creature of her size, she darted between them, raking a face and throat with her hunting talons and kicking the legs out from under from a second. Their retaliation came too slow, a blade whistling past her side as she danced back towards the arcanist. The one she clawed in the face dropped his blade and turned to flee, stumbling away. Another slash from one of the soldiers as they tried to hem her in, but they simply were no match to her prowess. A sidestep brought her to the one that had attacked, and she slammed her bracered arm hard into his flank, then reached up as he crumpled at incredible force of her strength. Snatching him by the neck, she squeezed, crushing muscle, wind pipe, and bone alike. Noting the dark elf she had knocked down trying to rise, she pivoted and kicked again, driving all the force she could directly into his ribs. She could feel him shatter under his mail. Again she turned towards the arcanist, who was scrambling back to find the edge of the silence that made the scene of violence so eerie. With a malicious grin she skipped forward, darting past the swinging blade of the remaining soldier that hadn't fled.


The mage snatched something from his belt, a potion, trying to quaff it, but she was there even as he winked away. Attuned to his desperation to survive, she struck just to the right of where he had been and savored the feeling of her hunting talons, and then her own claws sinking through cloth and into flesh. Gripping, she lifted the squirming, invisible burden and then brought it down hard, slamming his legs into the ground, then hefted again, shaking it violently from side to side before evincing a downward thrust and letting go, leaving the dark elf to hit the ground and collapse, his invisibility winking out along with his consciousness. A hot line of pain cut through her right wing. Silence was a boon but it came with a cost, she of course hadn't heard the soldier come after her. With a growl that went unperceived, she brought her foot down on the mages head in a single, merciless stomp, shattering his skull, before whirling around.


The soldier had a determined look on his face, and as her silence ended suddenly, it was matched by the steady sound of his breath, the even, purposeful rhythm of well honed discipline. She smiled, fainting right, and was pleasantly surprised when the dark elf matched her sudden strike from the left, using his blade to ward off the talons of her bracer with a practiced turn. She tested him again, bringing up her talons as she stepped in, gratified by his easy move back, though she found his following attempt to strike lackluster. He was already on the defensive, and in those few short motions he had shown her that he was not her equal in pace. Rather than drawing it out, she took three quick steps to the side, forcing him to turn on heel to keep up with her, then lunged in, leaving her flank wide open. He couldn't resist and brought his blade around, which she caught between the claws of her bracer, a turn of her wrist tearing the weapon from his grasp as she closed the distance and brought her talons up to slam directly into his sternum, the ancient claws ripping through the metal and into his flesh, though the force of the impact rocked him hard enough that he was pulled free by the resulting momentum, tumbling back to collapse in a breathless heap. Determination was a strong trait, but also a deadly one if not managed properly. No matter how determined, one couldn't stop the inevitable. So the dark elf, brave as he had been, slowly began to choke as his lungs filled with blood. Five down. One runner to go.


Turning on heel she stalked towards the tunnel the elf had been fleeing towards, though as she came to the threshold she glanced down, eyes narrowing. No blood. She turned about and traced back, looking for the telltale splatter that the wound she had gifted the dark elf with would have left behind. And there it was. Not out into the tunnels but off towards the wall, past the pool. Not a bad idea, but in your fear you've made mistakes, drow. You won't escape me so easily. She followed the trail, tracking it to the back wall, until she found its end, a narrow crevasse, just enough for the dark elf to squeeze into. She could see him there, with her magically aided eyes, clutching his throat with one hand, holding a hand crossbow in the other, aimed her way in a shaking grip. His face was ruined, one eye a mess of sloppy jelly that had dribbled down his face to mix with the blood and loose flaps of flesh. It was surprising he had lived this long. He fired, the bolt sailing over her shoulder as she gracefully ducked. And then she moved in, stretching out her claws as she pressed up against the stone.


"Come here, drow. I need your ears."

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 5; Chameleon.


// Mirrirs continued underdark excursion. Reader discretion is advised for IC content!

SPOILER: Click to show

She moved swiftly. It was time to press now, as she couldn't count on the carnage left behind to go unnoticed. She viewed the tunnel in a stark, highly contrasted black and white, for having forsaken her chain shirt for her leathers, she had no source of light. She rarely attuned her gaze to the dark vision granted by her metamorphosis, finding dissatisfaction in the way it sucked color and texture out of the world, but as with any weapon, it had its time and place. So she moved quietly, following what signs she could find, deeper and deeper. Tracks and crossings became more common in the intersections she found, suggesting that she had passed into more traveled territory, so she finally paused, settling on a large slab of stone that angled out between two adjoining passages.


Withdrawing first a scroll, then the dark cloak she had taken from one of the drow, what they called a 'piwafwi', she settled to task. The scroll contained a not so powerful, but very useful magic. Reading it, she focused her mind on the slender, smaller shape that the dark elves possessed. Their dark skin, red eyes, white hair. It was a strange sensation as she began to change, the alteration of her physical being compacting, melting away, to fit into the aspect of her prey. As the words on the scroll faded away, she observed her fingers darkening, her sharp nails receding, yet when she flexed her fingers, she could still feel their sharp touch against her palm. Alter self was a curious arcana indeed, shifting shape yet not stealing ones natural being, instead merely hiding it. Her leathers felt loose, but there was nothing for it, save folding and tucking where she could. It wouldn't do to tighten them, should she not have time to adjust them when the spell wore off. So she rose and with an unfamiliar gesture, threw the piwafwi around her shoulders, replacing her wings with the protective garment. It was a confining feeling, but ultimately her chameleon skin would be worth the while.


She then set out, down the tunnel on soft feet, seeking her prey who would, by all expectation, yet still remain unsuspecting of the hunter among them.


Are you watching, elf god? Shevarash? Do you stalk behind me in this lightless place?


Of course there was no answer, not that she had expected one. She felt unusually alone as she stalked through her now black and white world, perhaps so for the lack of the light of her armor and the colors that were left behind. Or perhaps for the ever increasing distance between her and the surface. It startled her to realize just how tangible the notion was as she found her thoughts drawn to those she had left behind. The druid whom she had not told of her task. Would he wonder where she had gone? The academy, where she had left letters with Shoeman to be delivered to certain staff if she did not return within the passing of the moon. The halfling had lost 'his dragon' twice now, how would he take the third? And then there was the elf, the only one she had told of her task. He had wanted to come, of course, but she had left him in the sand as she flew away. This was her journey, and it could not be interfered with. She had heard him though, cursing into the night as she winged away. She found it strangely conflicting, would he follow? He could certainly make his way unseen and unheard through these passages. In truth, in this place, he would make a far better hunter. He was suited for games like this. To her chagrin, she found herself looking over her shoulder, as if perhaps that might evoke him. Yet there was only the sharp contrast her eyes made of the lightless passage. Irritated by the distraction, she issued a growl and continued on, forcing the ruminations from her mind. She was a predator, her mind must remain on the prey. There was no one but herself that she could rely on, and she could only rely on herself if she could remain focused.


I am coming for you, Drow.

Chapter 5, Part 2; Hunting the Hunters.

// Velethranrils persuit of Mirrir in the Underdark.

SPOILER: Click to show

Oct 9, 2015 14:32:18 GMT -5 probablyamage said:

The path before him forked. The last two times this had occurred, he had used another polymorph scroll to be certain of traveling in the right direction.....but this time, he heard exceptionally faint echoes coming from the leftmost path. His number of scrolls was dwindling, he would have to take a risk. He glided forward in utter silence, curious. Drow did not make such noise...their servants on the other hand, did. He judged that Mirrir had likely been at work down here long enough to attract more attention than just patrols. Any strike force sent against the half dragoness would involve copious amounts of fodder to waste their lives on her scimitar while the Drow did the real work.

Three hours of meticulously careful travel later, the sounds were coming closer. Then he heard it, the distinctive sound of a cracking whip, followed by a bellow of pain and a....whimper. Ogre, if he wasn't mistaken, and they wouldn't whimper in the face of many creatures. A slow smile worked it's way across the Elf's lips. They were coming right towards him. Now all he had to do was hide from the undisputed masters of stealth in this lightless land. Finally, a task he was suited for.

Evading detection was a different sort of game in the lightless depths. With it's uniform dull gray, the clothing he wore wasn't ideal for the surface where eyes saw light and color. Drow eyes however, could detect gradients of heat with startling sensitivity. It was that which he must caution against. His clothing absorbed and contained his body heat, and covered him head to toe. The only part of him that was exposed were his eyes...and he had long ago purchased a charm to solve that problem.

Reaching into one of his innumerable pouches he retrieved a simple silver token tied with a leather cord. Briefly lowering his hood, he carefully looped the cord around his hair, such that the token rested upon his forehead. With a silent sigh of resignation, he traced the faint rune on it's surface, and stifled the scream that tried to bubble up from his throat as it's magic went to work, rendering the skin of his face, and the surface of his eyes the exact same temperature as ambient air.

Blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the horrible sensation, he carefully reset the facial wrappings and hood, and considered a spot to wait. He wasn't worried about being seen, but in the tight confines of the tunnel it was possible that one of the fodder creatures might bump into him. At the rate the echoes were approaching, he had perhaps half an hour until they were upon him. Backtracking a bit, he found what he was looking for. Here, the tunnel expanded out and up, reaching perhaps fifteen feet off of the ground at it's apex, and lined with stalactites all the way. A modicum of effort placed him where he wished to be, sequestered among the stalactites.

Countless hours of training and a little magic had taught him to lock his muscles into position while waiting and hold even an uncomfortable position as long as necessary. The effort once 'set' seemed minimal, and didn't increase his heart rate or breathing. He was thankful for this as the war party passed unknowingly beneath him. The hoard of lesser creatures wouldn't have noticed over the thud of the Ogres feet, or the scrabble of Kobold claw on stone, but the Drow....it would not do to underestimate them. A priestess strode confidently behind the fodder. Three of the males managed to avoid his probing gaze, if not his ears. The rest he spotted, one by one. Including what appeared to be a wizard, sharply gazing about in a manner different from that of his accursed kin. Velethranril found himself thankful that his sense of caution had prompted him to choose a hiding spot that would foil normal vision as well, for the wizard was likely gazing about under the effects of an Ultravision spell, or something similar.

He waited until the count of three hundred heartbeats before quietly climbing down from his perch among the stalactites and setting off after the war party. They were perhaps less cautious about being tailed than they should have been. The priestess was obviously eager to catch her prey, and drove the others, even the Drow males on with curses and threats. Probably. They could have been sweet nothings in that curious tongue of theirs, but somehow he doubted it. Then it came. The pitch of her voice changed as she spotted her target.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 6; Hit and Miss

// Mirrirs continued journey in the underdark. IC events and violence, reader discretion is advised!

SPOILER: Click to show

She crested the ridge and let herself collapse against the stone, bidding that the treacherous incline would give pause to her pursuers, while the edge would hide her from view. She groped awkwardly at her back, trying to reach between her wings to grab at the bolt embedded under her shoulder blade, but she had no means to grasp it. Shivering as a wave of sick passed through her, she resisted the urge to retch and forced her mind to focus. As one might have expected, things had very abruptly gone quite wrong. Though in her drowish guise she had managed to rip two patrols asunder with little trouble save minor injuries, bringing her count of drow victims to just over twenty, she had played the game too long, and thus, on her attempt to catch the third, had been caught. Though she had expected an ambush to strike eventually, the ferocity of what they had unleashed had been overwhelming. She must have missed a scout that carried back word. Or perhaps one of the mages had managed a sending before she had cut him down. Regardless of how they knew, they came prepared, not with merely more soldiers and slaves, but also with a capable priestess.


While she had managed, if only barely to escape their clutches, she had paid a heavy cost. A spell had struck her hard, sapping her strength and leaving her head throbbing. Her loss of coordination had earned her a great many wounds she would have typically avoided, one of her wings was tattered and broken, crushed by an ogres maul and shredded by the spears of a trio of kobolds. Cuts and gouges lined her arms, scales split and torn free, largely scored by the dark elf warriors that had briefly cornered her against an outcropping of stone. She still wondered at her escape from that moment, even as committed to her furious rage as she had been, a clarity had struck her as she captured the moment in her mind. There were too many. For all she had anticipated, they had outmatched her, and this was the moment in which her strength would fail. Somehow though, she didn't fall. One of the drow was caught by a poorly aimed bolt shot by one of his own companions, while another had erred in stepping too close with an exposed flank. It had been just enough for her to win free, and with not a moment to spare, she had managed to read off a scroll that pulled her away into sanctuary. It wasn't a spell that would last, so she had done her best to flee, knowing that the dark elves and their pets likely wouldn't be far behind.


Now as she tried to catch her breath, she realized just how great the weight of the curse was, as the rush of immediate danger left her limbs, she ached all over, while her mind stumbled about from fret to fret, focus seeming near impossible. The bolt in her back, the tatters of her wing, the blood that kept seeping into her eye from the cut across her forehead, all nagged and complained. No. she echoed to herself. You've made it this far. Stop whining. Stop being weak. They are coming. Move. Pushing to a knee, she forced her mind to consolidate, a low growl escaping at the effort that made her muscles twitch and breath come short. She needed to give them pause. Just enough to buy space. If they were to hound her freely, they would overcome her. She tried to consider the options left in scrolls and wands, but instead pressed her hand to a token on her belt. Something to give them pause, yes. Turning to face the tunnel where she had come from, she began issuing a song, the sound harsh and ragged as it escaped her. With her weaving she sent out a call, a beckon in all directions through the very stone of the earth itself. She felt the call answered, a stirring in the distance. Come, she bid in her mind. Feast.


Crouching, she pressed a hand against her leg, testing a score along her calf that had been opened by a wickedly sharp blade she hadn't been able to avoid. Satisfied to find it no longer bleeding, she quickly set to the task of yanking off her much abused leather shirt, noting with a mild annoyance that some of the studded padding had not only been exposed, but rent so badly at the side that it hung loose and useless. That must have been from the axe that the gnoll had wielded. She hadn't been able to sidestep, being pressed on both flanks as she was. Her ribs were bruised, every breath stitching, a testament to the creatures strength. Hurrying, she withdrew her chain shirt, sliding it up her arms and clipping it on with deft motions, red light awakening to bathe the ridge. The time for hiding was long over.


Sound came from the tunnel below, boots moving with haste, not stealth. That was curious, and suspicious. They'd much better catch her with subterfuge, but then perhaps they didn't expect to meet her again so soon. Her speculation was answered though as the priestess barged into view, with a host of soldiers and a pinch faced arcanist. That was it. The priestess would not be denied her prize. Capturing the creature that had slaughtered so many would earn prestige of course, and the Drow were not ones to sacrifice opportunity. A weakness though, for they did not expect that their foe had anything left but flight. Thus as they noted her poised above, surprise crossed features as hand crossbows were drawn and aimed. The distance between them was not great, some thirty feet. Had her wing not been rendered useless, she might have launched at them. Instead, she gave into the ache in her knee, letting herself fall to a one legged kneel as she lowered her posture, the edge of the rise hiding her braced poise. She tested the binding tether, and to her satisfaction noted that the beast was nearing rapidly. It was a matter of moments now.


The priestess posed triumphantly, issuing a statement that by tone was derogatory, ending with a haughty laugh. Her soldiers began to move, circling to each side to make their way up the rough terrain that would bring them to the ridge where she waited. The mage rolled something in his fingers, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. At least one of them knew better. She didn't hide the shakes that rose, letting her breathing come thick and strained, willing herself to embrace the silvers of torment that dug in to her from the dozens of wounds that riddled her figure. Her anger coiled. She didn't deserve this, no, she was the pinnacle of humanoid predators. What they could do in numbers, she could do alone. The little fools had won, and now in their hubris, had no notion that they were about to face the turning tables.


The mages gaze shifted suddenly, to his feet, his eyes widening as he tried to break into motion. The priestess though, mid-bellow to the soldiers, didn't seem aware of the impending danger. The ground under them suddenly heaved, then burst apart in a shower of chunks and flakes as a massive grey beak slammed its way through into the open air. The abrupt explosion of rock caused the soldiers to pause, and she wasted no time. Letting go the spring tension in her leg, she hurled herself forward into the air, spreading her wings for what little use they would be to at least extend her time in the air, and managed to make it half way before she thudded down. The massive creature that pulled itself out of the rubble turned on the mage, who had been knocked aside and half buried by the debris that the monster had pulled up with its escape from below. Keeping his wit at least, the arcanist unleashed a spell rather than wasting time trying to get to his feet, sending a cone of acid seering across the huge chitinous beak that made up a large portion of the creatures body. Unfortunately for the mage, the beast proved as enduring as it was terrifying, and while it issued a bellowing roar in pain, it shuffled forward on stumpy, wickedly clawed legs and brought its maw down. There would be no trouble from the wizard.


The priestess was only briefly dazed, but the massive beast drew her attention. Lifting a holy symbol into the air and adding voice to the gesture, the attempt to evoke divine response was interrupted by the full weight of the winged huntress as she slammed full force into the smaller female. Reaching up to snatch the holy symbol out of the clerics grip, she crushed fingers and tore flesh as she ripped it away while issuing a terrifying snarl of pure fury. The priestesses armor deflected the sharp claws of her bracer, but the impact with the tunnel wall staggered them both, dropping the priestess to the ground with a whoosh of lost breath while the hunter bounced back, stumbling and falling back, managing to catch herself on a knee. Soldiers began racing back cross the chamber. Her muscled longed to give up, but instead she forced herself forward once more. The priestess, equally determined, pushed to her feet, warding the clawed bracer off with her raised buckler, and swinging a strike with her mace. It was a deft attack, one that the huntress could only avoid by drawing back, but instead she stepped in. This needed to be over, and one more wound would either be the end of it, or mean nothing. The mace had a shocking impact as it struck her side as her lifted arm exposed her ribs. She felt bone crack, but her boiling anger was not interested in the pain, but in blood. A strange tickle ran up her spine as the priestess thrashed, as a wave of cold emanated from the mace. She slammed her talons directly into the drows face, taking advantage of the fact that the priestess clearly had not expected such a sacrifice to be made. Dimly, the Huntress became aware that things were fading, color starching in her vision, her breath hitching as her heart fluttered. The mace held the touch of death. She recoiled within, fighting to breathe again, her eyes locking on the priestess that thrashed against the wall, impaled and pinned to the wall as she was through her skull, still clinging to life. If she was to die, this one was going with her. Still clutching the drows holy symbol in hr grip, she pulled back and twisted her wrist, yanking the dark elfs head to the side as she lifted. The body went limp as bone crunched, and the strange cold that flooded through her washed away. She thought she felt a strange warmth, for the flicker of a moment, but perhaps it was just uncanny relief. She turned, dragging the body with her, and was knocked over as suddenly the great beast she had summoned stampeded past, directly for the soldiers that were closing the last ten feet.


Caring nothing for the proof of her exploits, she shook the body free from the ancient talons and used the moment to whisper one last spell, the effort leaving her breathless. Invisible to to eye, she abandoned the fight, leaving the six drow to face the enraged land shark to whatever ends may come. Propelled by a need to survive, she made her way back up the slope and pushed on into the tunnels beyond.


I'm coming. Who she spoke to so desperately she did not know. Someone was waiting out there. A god, a man, an elf, a student. Please, let me make it home.

Chapter 6, part 2; Sneak Attack.

// Velethranrils continued journey after Mirrir in the Underdark.

SPOILER: Click to show

Oct 9, 2015 14:32:18 GMT -5 probablyamage said:

The battle itself was as brutal as he had expected, and while a large part of himself wanted to jump in and aid the beleaguered half dragon, the rest counseled patience and precision. Positioning himself behind a male with a hand crossbow drawn was simple enough. The sound of a single savage thrust of a dagger severing the male's spine and driving into his brain was lost in the greater brawl, leaving Vel free to claim the male's hand crossbow. A “misplaced” bolt in another Drow's back during the fierce melee didn't look out of place. Nor did the well timed shot to the back of one's knee, causing a stumble that exposed his flank to a brutal slash from Mirrir, nearly cleaving him in two. Giving the creatures around her pause enough for a moment's breath.

As Mirrir made good her escape, Vel replaced the crossbow in the male's hand and began to weave his way through the cave system to get ahead of the Drow. A second clash occurred, but Mirrir was on her own for that one. He trusted that she would emerge victorious.....besides, this was still her task, foolish as it is. He was only willing to aid so much.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 7; Escape.

// Mirrirs continued journey in the underdark. Due to IC content, reader discretion is advised!

SPOILER: Click to show

Her progress was a blind stumble for the most part, relying more on instinct at every fork in the passages ways she followed than any acute sense of where she was. She fell many times, tripping on uneven ground, or simply toppling as her legs gave out under her. The curse ate deeper and deeper, wracking her limbs with shakes and leaving her half blinded by the pain in her skull. Is this proof enough? she wondered. The surface seemed like a distant memory, some lost fable that she would never find. Staggering around a bend, she found herself upended again, feet sliding out from under her. She hit the ground hard, eliciting more of a whimper than a growl. She laid there, still, exhausted and half senseless, her cheek resting on the stone. It was sticky. And not as cold as it should have been. She realized then that the tang of blood was much sharper than it should have been, fresh. She squirmed, dragging her fingers through the pool. Something had died here. But what? And what had killed it? She shut her eyes, remaining still for the count of minutes, keenly aware of the erratic pace of her heart as it struggled in her chest. It is only too far if you don't get up. So get up, before you become food.


She forced her way to her feet, supporting herself against the wall. Whatever was out there, let it come. She would die fighting, not laying down. Pushing off the wall, she limped onward, determined, desperate, to succeed. She was strong, and the strong survived. She was through the worst, now it was just a matter of reaching a place where she could lick her wounds and recover. Her mind was too scattered to ponder to any great length, but in the snippets that she managed to string together she considered the fact that somehow, against all odds, she was still alive. It didn't seem probable. The further she traveled through the tunnels without encounter the more she wondered. Perhaps fate smiled, some unseen benefactor that went unnamed. Perhaps it was that elf god, for it surely would not be the Beastlord, he would expect of her to make every inch by her own will. She managed to mumble a brief prayer to Tymora, and decided, for so little as she could manage to decide anything with the way her head spun, to be grateful rather than question.


Pushed to her absolute limit, despite all of her wounds she somehow finally, after nearly a day and a half of painful, nerve wracking trek, found herself in territory she recognized. It was a glimmer of hope that she needed, and taking refuge in it, she pushed herself on. Miracles had allowed her to make it this far without any drow catching up, and miracles again had somehow ensured that she hadn't run into anything hostile on her way, though several more times she had passed the leftovers of battles, traces of blood left dried or drying, proof that despite her lack of encounters, she still wasn't alone.


In a vast chamber, she saw it ahead. The rise that lead up and out into the swamplands. She had made it. Though had she the strength to look back behind her she may have realized that escape was not so near as it appeared.

[Pedantry INC]

Chapter 8; A Thousand Cuts.

// This recounts the continuation of Mirrirs journey in the Underdark. For IC content and lots of spiders, reader discretion is advised!

SPOILER: Click to show

She staggered up the slope, every forward motion jarring the bolt in her back against the base of her wing joint. The light grew closer and closer, a sweet succor after the long journey spent in eternal night. There would be water, fresh air, the wind, and the sounds of the wild. Just beyond. Within her reach. She only had to make it another fifty paces. She stumbled often, her breath burbling between her teeth as she grimaced, a wretched and trembling form.

'Do you see me? Am I weak now for falling? Or am I strong, because I have made it this far?'

She didn't know who she asked. If the elf god was watching would he understand what she had done? If the Beastlord watched, would he laugh that she had been such a fool? That she had reduced herself to this to prove a point? Was anything proven? Her fingers tightened around the holy symbol she still held in her grip, a single point of unrelenting strength. Proof of her victory. There was no doubt that she had won, but a predator so weakened by the hunt became prey, and way out here she had no where to retreat to lick her wounds.

The first tickle hardly registered against the myriad of pains that assailed her, but when it came again and was followed by a pinching sting she dragged her forearm reflexively against her side, grating her skin against the mail of her armor. Yet it came again at the side of her neck, and then at the crook of her opposing elbow. Her whole wing flinched as the sensation repeated and finally she brought her attention into focus. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at her agitated arm and saw them. Spiders. Not one or two, but dozens. And not only on her arm, but crawling up her leggings, struggling into her mail, burrowing for flesh. Frantically she scraped her hand down her arm, trying to slough the small creatures away, but the futility of the gesture was laughable. A note of panic crawling up her spine, she sucked in a breath, heat expanding her chest, only to sputter as she choked on one of the small arachnids. Madly flapping her one good wing in an attempt to shake off the swarm that vexed the membrane, she let herself fall against the ground, thrashing about in a bizarre attempt to crush as many as she could before on hands and knees she began scrambling forward.

The stinging itch of a hundred fangs became a burning ache, the rock and scree tearing at her flesh as she strove to reach the cave mouth a phantom. She could hear a furious screaming in the back of her mind, though only realized it was her own voice after a several minutes and a few dozen feet.

'I am the Voice', she recalled dimly. Voice.

Her frenzied screeching pitched, power surging through the air and sending spiders by the hundred falling dead and twitching around her as the innate power spread out from her in a wave. She had the sense to spare a glance back and felt a careening sense of complete horror at the sight that greeted her. The stone floor was a living carpet, and not far beyond the ring of small yet sinister ring of dead spiders were larger specimens, some the size of rats, others as large as cats, and even hounds. She heaved a deep breath while she had the chance, letting the heat build once more and turned about, the moment spared little more than a heartbeat, and propelled herself forward. The light was there. As overwhelmed as she was, that glowing portal was the only answer. It was her salvation.

Somehow she found her feet, scurrying ahead and unleashing a wave of fire as the curtain of vermin began closing in, the expulsion of breath causing her to stagger. In her peripheral she saw one of the larger spiders coil to spring, but somehow it didn't slam into her. Instead its course changed, struck by an arrow that buried deep into its abdomen and sent it sailing ahead to be pinned to the cavern wall she herself tried to surpass. The incredulous notion crossed her mind, 'Shevarash?'.

She didn't question it any further than that, driving herself forward once more, limbs flailing as the surge of spiders reached her once more. Fifteen feet left. One of the larger spiders caught onto her ankle, causing her to trip and fall heavily. Rolling to her side she kicked with as much strength as she could muster, managing to dislodge the monstrosity just as one of the larger beasts came scuttling right at her face. Finding herself helpless, she began to flinch against the impending impact, hoping to at least avoid being bitten in the eye, but again the creature was suddenly struck, pulled away by an arrow so swift she hardly registered it. She took a moment to thrash and squirm, crushing bodies before she righted herself, at least partially, and began a crawl that turned into an upward stumble as she once again resumed her pursuit of the world beyond.

Ten Feet became five feet, the slope leveled off and then turned to a slight decline, her steps staggered as she let her momentum pull herself forward. She felt a hard bite against her neck, another in her ear. Her hair was alive. She was screaming again, no will in her left to turn the sound deadly, instead simply issuing a continual expression of enraged savagery. She tumbled out the entry way, into the light of day, and let herself fall, heaving her one good wing in a wild flap to set herself into a mad tumble through the swampy water. It wasn't deep, but crazed as was she inhaled several breaths of the murk, coughing and heaving even as she threw herself about, slamming into rocks and the base of a tree before sprawling breathlessly into the mire, sinking quickly with only a token effort to keep her head up. She was free. If it was the sun or the swamp water that had scoured the spiders from her flesh, she did not know, but she had made it. She released a breath and let go, the thousand cuts, bites and bruises embracing her. Her head following the rest of her under the waterline, the last notion that crossed her mind of victory, proven by the touch of the sun and the Lolthite symbol still lodged in her fist.

'Judge me, then, if you dare.'

Chapter 8, part 2; A Secretive Savior.

// Velethranrils continued Underdark journey

SPOILER: Click to show

Oct 9, 2015 14:32:18 GMT -5 probablyamage said:

There was a certain irony in setting traps ahead of the woman he had come to save. Placement is what mattered here. Where would he move if he was silently pursuing that dangerous woman? Certainly not along the middle path, but......there. And so, another trap set. The goal wasn't to kill them all so much as to drive them off. With the priestess dead...at least, he hadn't heard her screaming 'encouragement' at her charges since that bestial roaring, it wouldn't take much to deter the rest from continuing pursuit. A quintet of razor edged spikes launching themselves from the blank stone wall at eye level might do it. If not that the burn of fire or crackle of lightning would deter them. He had spared no expense in this. Truly, they should feel honored.

Finally, he saw an exhausted figure dragging itself determinedly onward and smiled. It was a wonder that Mirrir could move at all with those wounds, but she did. Even better, there was no sound of pursuit as she made her inexorable progress towards the small patch of light that was even now within her sight. That's when he saw the hoard of spiders scuttling after her in unearthly quiet. Those weren't natural, and there was a LOT of them. Shooting a bow at a dead sprint is no easy task, but like many others, practice makes....if not perfect, than at least good enough to hit a dog sized target.

As Mirrir struggled towards the light, Vel ran, loosing arrows as he went. A portion of the hoard breaking off to intercept him while the majority stayed on target. He ignored those coming for him, spending his arrows only on those closest to Mirrir. But for every shaft loosed, two spiders closed the gap. In the slight pause required to vault over a pair of leaping spiders and land on a third with a gristly pop of shattered carapace one latched on to her neck and another scrabbled over her back and into her hair, sinking fangs into her ear just as she crossed the threshold into the Tun.

Curiously, none save those that were latched onto her were willing to pursue into the light and damp of the swamp. The rest turning in vengeance on the Elf sprinting directly towards them. Foregoing finesse for the power of sheer speed he shielded his face with one arm even while reaching for a potion to cleanse the poison that would soon be coursing through his blood. He cleared the last twenty feet in a single desperate leap, feeling fangs pierce through his clothing as he slammed the horrid arachnids out of his way in his flight to land heavily on his shoulder on the hard stone outside. Turning the hard landing into a roll, he had the vial to his lips before his momentum had even begun to play out.

When he came to his feet, he find her under a thin layer of water, still. Long enough to breathe some of the feted liquid, but not long enough for it to have killed her. Good enough. The adrenaline singing through his blood made the task of pulling her out of the water easier than it might have normally been. Placing his mouth to hers, he breathed into her, encouraging her air starved lungs to expel the water they had taken in. Stinking water being weakly coughed into his mouth might have been the least sexy experience Velethranril had ever had while lip to lip with a woman, but it was one of the happier ones none the less. He moved back as instinct let her clear her system enough to take in air again. After, she lie unconscious. Alive, but only just.

A higher priority than treating her wounds was getting her away from the pack of spiders that even now watched from the entrance to the Underdark. It took every bit of strengthening magic that he possessed to slowly carry her even a short distance away. It was only a few hundred feet, but it was enough. When he looked back into the cave, light no longer glittered on the countless soulless eyes of the hoard.

Velethranril was a poor surgeon, but he had long ago compensated by purchasing the finest equipment to make the best of his meager skills. He flushed the venom from her veins, cut out the damned bolt from her back and sewed closed the worst of the wounds. Then, more controversially, placed a potion to her lips and forced her to drink. All told, it wasn't anywhere near enough to set her aright, but it would keep her alive, and put her on the mend.

Prestidigitation dried out the perpetually damp wood of the swamp enough to set it alight. He built a fire and set a large snake to roasting. It had slithered close enough to pin to a tree. Likely attracted to the smell of blood. Vel left Mirrir resting in his tent while he kept nearby, out of sight. Watching, and listening.

[Pedantry INC]

// Just want to add a huge thanks to houndsocks for inspiring the journey, and to probablyamage for picking it up from our IC RP and getting involved with the story process.

// For those wondering how the encounters were designed and determined, it was all rolled out PNP style, and most spells and effects used PNP statistics.