! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
Defeat
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I am still seething.
Brought down by an ambush of paladin filth. Beaten. Maimed. Left for dead in the mud, surrounded by the dead of my brood.
I have tasted defeat before. But it was never like this. Always in the past, I managed to slip free, one way or another. Back into the shadows. This time, it was the shadows that betrayed me.
I clung to life. Out of will or spite, I do not know. It was long enough for Rhan to find me, and bring what remained of the brood. They wove their cocoons over me. Tended me as best they could. But they cannot give back what was lost.
No, not lost. It was taken. When I close my eyes, I still see them. Walking away with my hand.
It all still feels fresh. Even now, days later. It hurts more than it did in the moment it was cut. Like the blade left behind fire that is burning a fresh wound with each moment. The pain, I can endure. But the wound it left behind. My stomach turns every time I catch a glimpse of the wrist where my hand used to be. The scars on my back are nothing compared to this.
I returned to the adumbral woods to recover. The familiar trees and the healing cocoons did nothing to quell my rage. I have not slept in days. The more my mind spins in circles, the stronger my wrath grows.
Is this what I will become, now? Another lost and broken exile of the surface, living out my days until they hunt me down? How long can I expect to survive this way? Houseless, trapped beneath the light while the paladins close in?
How long until the surfacers finish what they have started?
No.
I will say it once more. No.
I will not die. I will not.
Let my allies and my brood hear it. Give the call for the spiders to gather and breed. To ready themselves for war. My swarm will rise anew, stronger than it has ever been.
I will not die alone. Blinded and burning in the light like so many others of my kind.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
Brooding
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It is just as well for my reputation that no one observed my first few days back at the Watch.
As it turns out, it is difficult to even get dressed in the morning while having only the one hand. I never truly considered until now how many clasps and buckles there are in my usual clothing. Or how all of them require two hands to properly fasten. Suffice to say, my first day back among civilized creatures began with two hours of sitting about in the nude, waiting for the spiders to weave something appropriate so I could go outside.
The Dark Mother tests every aspect of us. Our dignity included.
Malam, of all creatures, sought to mend me. He healed the divine fire that was causing the worst of the pain. Yes, THAT Malam. The one who's grove I blighted and who's sword I stole. He attempted to heal me! Unsuccessfully, but still! I confess I do not fully understand why. To make a deal? To make a show of his strength? Is it possible that he believes his own nonsense about healing and balance? Surely not. But the thought is unsettling.
I am not certain yet, what to do about my missing hand. Though the pain has eased, it surely cannot remain in this state. I do not dare to get used to the sight of it. There is magic that might restore it, I am told. Though it is the kind of magic that would likely demand high prices. Malam and his flying rat apparently think a deal can be made with the druid circle. Melphaecto made no such offer for her own people, which I (strangely enough) consider to be a sign that she is looking out for my interest. If she did not offer, it is because she knows just how badly such a deal would turn out for the mortal doing the asking. Such is the way of devils.
There are other...options as well, though I am hesitant to call them such yet. My people are no strangers to loss of limb, and the mage tower produces excellent prosthetics. Magical devices meant to replace limbs. Some hold illusions to look like authentic hands. Some channel powerful magic. Some turn into curved scimitars that can quickly cut an enemy down. But I find such things hold little appeal to me. None would be mine. Just a piece of enchanted metal where fingers should be. It would be difficult to stomach, but in time I may have to look into such.
Sooner or later, something will have to be done.
All those who suffer such a wound as this will tell you the same. Those who lose limbs always still feel them. Long after your hand is cut off, you can still feel your fingers. Forever clenched in exactly the position your hand was in the moment it happened. If your hand was open, it will always be open. If it was clenched into a fist, you will feel your nails digging into your palm until the day you die.
I feel this too, of course. Though my hand is gone, I know exactly how my fingers were curled. How tight they were clenched around the sword. I feel the spell I was building upon that hand. A deadly magic I would have unleashed on my enemies if I had been but a split second faster. It is frozen now, like a breath I took in and can never let out. A pent up energy I have no means to release. It drives me mad, but it reminds me in each moment who did this.
Knights. Paladins. Killing them does help the rage, for a short while. The look on their faces as fear sets in and they realize their gods will not save them. That everything they know is a lie. That look can still make me smile.
They are the ones responsible for this. The self-righteous arrogant filth bring this pain upon themselves. Since I came to the surface, paladins have hunted me. Cassia. The Empyrean. The Witchfinders. I do not care what colors they wear, what order they go by. The only good paladin is a dead one.
My brood continues to multiply. There are more eggs in the Adumbral than ever before. I drive them as hard as I can. Let my rage push them forward. Soon, the eggs will hatch, and there will be thousands of little spiders needing to feed.
The hatchlings will eat well, when the time comes. And the Empyrean will not miss a few more.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
The Cocoon
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My little broodlings have been very busy.
Their eggs now fill the adumbral woods in greater numbers than ever before. So many that they hang from the branches above, the light shining through their webs to cast shadows of unborn legs across the mossy ground.
It is beautiful. Not like the soft, tiresome groves Malam's druids prefer, or even the wild jungle of the northern wastes. Here, there is chaos. True chaos. The little spiders tear at one another to survive, finding their meals whenever and however they can. I understand now how spiders and ilythiiri came to be called sisters. For their lives and their struggles are so like ours, clambering over one another to rise and grow strong.
There was one...setback. Though the word does not properly describe the rage I feel when I think of it. A force of the witch-finders invaded the woods. My woods. Burning the pristine webs, throwing in handfuls of the young to fuel their fires. I extracted every scream I could from those that remained. But it did not feel like it could ever be enough.
But for all their boldness, the paladin filth missed their mark. The most important cocoon of all remained unburnt. The dark cocoon.
Praise be to the Dark Mother that they did not pierce deep enough into the woods to find it. I have ensured that it is well-warded now. Enough to hide it from the sight of most who might come looking. But I still do not think I can trust it fully, and fire spreads quickly in the woods. For the moment, my defenses will have to suffice.
It was a small thing, at first. A cocoon that might have blended in among the rest. But I sensed its importance quickly. This was no ordinary mass of eggs and webbing. From its early days, it softly sang. The webbing within was reinforced with a harder shell that would not break from mere blows. And it has grown quickly. Very quickly. It is larger now than I am.
What is within the cocoon? I have no name for the creature, or creatures, yet. But I hear its singing. Many voices, but all of one mind. Spiders, but the tongue they sing in is that of High Drow. The language of our clergy and our ancient ancestors.
What does it mean? I suppose that I will know the truth when it hatches. I shall have to find it a proper place to do so. The adumbral woods will not do for the purpose. Already, there is not enough food for all of the little spiders to eat. Even spiders can only grow so much by consuming each other.
No. This cocoon must hatch somewhere very special. It is only a matter of where. And when.
Until then...I keep it safe above the rest. I bide my time. And I think on the vengeance I will claim in days to come.
Another Kinda Homecomin' (guest appearance by Aaron Frey)
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I know what the princess musta' felt comin' back to Mora'chel post her exile. I know 'cause I felt the same comin' back to Lowtown when the last hatchet in the Great War was buried. S'hard to put it into exact words; everythin's the same, yet everythin's changed. The faces and the words they mouth are the same, 'cept they look and sound different. S'the condemnation. S'the doors that shut in your face where before they'd be wide open. I walk these streets, my streets, and I ain't feel welcome anymore in the only place I ever called home. Does she feel the same, I wonder? When she visits Mora'chel, stridin' down alleys she knows like the back of her hand - the one she ain't missin' - does she feel at once at home and like an unbidden stranger? Maybe that's why she agreed to help me take back what's mine. My inheritance. Maybe she saw in my plight a likeness to her own. S'funny like that, how two strangers with no relations can find common ground about that one thing that binds men stronger than anythin' else: hate. I got it aplenty. Always have. I was moulded by it, and so was Kallista. We ain't even talk the same language; we ain't think the same or see the world with same eyes. But we feel the same. We're equally passionate about our hate.
I roll a spliff, light it, take as deep a wheeze as a babe sucking a mother's tit, then stroll out into the back of the warehouse and down the stairs to my room. From beneath my bed I remove a heavy trunk, containing the vast arsenal of weapons I'd accumulated before the war and added to since. A throwing axe went into a boot, another into the other boot. A sword and a butcher's cleaver went into my belt, dangling side by side like a pair of lamentin' chimes. Thinkin' it over, just to be on the safe side, I palmed two other blades, slippin' each under my coat, just above my wrists. If someone decided to search me they'd find enough cause to lock me up until the sun ain't shine, but then if someone decided to search me they'd be dead within a heartbeat. Back outside, I find the squidder as I'd left it, rigid against the wood of the warehouse door. I flick off the cigarette butt in its general direction, watchin' it find purchase amid a mass of moist tentacles. Ugly mother-freyker. "Dressed, primed and ready for a princess ball," I greet it. Its lifeless eyes stare at me dispassionately and I shrug. I kick away the corpse and make my way outside Lowtown.
All the long way I can't shake off the feelin' that when this is all over, that when the last squidder is chopped and sliced, Lenio's runts likewise, that ordeal ain't gonna be shit compared to the debt the princess is gonna wanna collect for her help. Maybe she's gonna ask I snatch children from their beds so she can play with them at the boneyard. Maybe she's gonna ask I slit throats for her. Maybe even her mother's. They say there ain't no wrath like the Spider Queen's, but I'm pretty sure Kallista's compares. Better be on the deliverin' than the receivin' end. Anyway, lucky for me, I ain't got time to entertain the thought overlong. Reckon I'll have to worry about that bridge when I cross it...
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
The Darkfey
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My war continues. As it must.
For many weeks, I have assaulted the gates of the Hamley. The paladin stronghold on the spider's doorstep. I have brought dozens of their knights to the woods for my brood to feed upon. Sometimes, I have forced open their gates, or helped my spiders to scale their walls. But never for long. Always, there are too many.
The knights know me now. The Ashen and the Empyrean gather in force, with tools intended to slay a dark sorceress. They bring mirrored shields to reflect my spells back at me. Shining blades to burn wounds that will never heal. Torches, so I can watch half-blinded as my broodlings burn. Hear the panicked screeching as hundreds of my children die.
And so it goes. I strike. They hunt and give chase. A deadly game that I can never win, yet never permit myself to lose. At times, they are right at my heels. Always, I slay a few. Never can I slay enough. The sun rises on their gates, unbroken as my brood retreats back into the dark.
I fight them until I am exhausted. Each failure to break their wall like a new blade slipped in-between the ribs. I relive those failures, when I sit in the adumbral woods. Offering my prayers to the Dark Mother in silent vigil. I try, each night, to hold onto that heated rage that has fueled me so. To never let myself turn cold, the way the clergy is cold. I listen to the singing of the dark cocoon and I imagine a different ending for the story. This war is not the work of one dark sorceress, and I know it.
I think of home, at times. It is distant. But to walk there would only make it more so. The male of House Frey seems to understand this, at least.
My allies are few, but strong. The Iron City licks their wounds, their queen lost to some manner of madness. The Watch is silent. The gnolls speak of truce with their old enemies in the feywood. But there are always those who would aid the cause of war. Garagnavagh, Melphaecto, Makos. All of us know the southlands are poorly defended. Ripe for the taking. If the paladins will not come out of their walled fortress, we will draw them out with blood. Or let them watch, as their allied lands burn.
And now, one more player has made themselves known upon on our little island board.
The darkfey, they call themselves. Hags and spiders and creatures of the night. They approached me. With schemes and knowledge and an appreciation for my work I have not known since the day Brorn smiled (yes, it happened. Once.)
These darkfey too would like to see the southern lands fall. I know better than to trust them too quickly or too easily. What little I have seen of fey creatures suggests they are something like some twisted offspring of devils and my own kin. They are cunning, manipulative, skilled in lying with their truths. They are hunters who can draw in their prey with poisoned flowers and honeyed words, promising them their heart's desire. They also, apparently, provide excellent flavor if the little fey are drowned in a bottle of wine. The things one learns at the Dragon's Den...
Still, these darkfey are intriguing. They will find that I am not some lost princess for them to ensnare with empty promises. I have spent too long alone, to let myself easily hope. Still, I cannot shake the thought. Could they do what the archdruid could not? Could they be the ones to make me whole again?
And if not them, who?
I will know soon enough. Their leader will come forward, and I will see for myself if these creatures who would break apart the fey courts have the steel to match their ambition.
...
If their leader should turn out all along to have been that thrice-cursed hag, Pooba Brim, then I will research whatever spell has the best chance to send the entire island crashing into the sea.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
The Darkfey, Part II: The Ritual
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The fey creatures proved true to their word. Sooner than I ever could have guessed.
It was a simple thing they asked of me, in the end. They wished to see the high elves of Greenvale and the slaadi turned against one another. It did not take much. There was no love there to begin with, and I still had a hunger for trickery and deception after my experience at the Steinkreis ball (more on that later, perhaps.)
A few lies and illusions. A few summoning circles and dead elves. And the war was beginning. Greenvale was marching off south. And the darkfey had agreed to their side of the bargain. They would make me whole again. Give me a new hand, in place of the one I had lost.
Yes, of course I was immediately suspicious. Do you think I am stupid? I am old enough to know that nothing is ever as simple as that. Not outside of fairy tales, and certainly not with such creatures as the fey. And yet...I had to see for myself.
For the first time, Eadoch brought me to their lands. A twisted dark forest, the branches casting shadows like the twisting of beastial claws. I had never been there, nor seen anything like it. And yet, I immediately felt at home. Is that a part of their magic too, I wonder? Perhaps everyone who enters their grove is made to feel as if they've come home, so as to be more easily drawn in? It is the kind of thing my own kin would do. But it is one of those tricks that still works even when the victim is expecting it.
For the first time, I saw the darkfey as they were. Trolls, hags, spiders. Creatures of shadow and mortal nightmare. I found myself smiling, as I looked over them. Many of them smiled back.
At Eadoch's urging, I stepped forward. In the center of the fey, a cauldron bubbled and boiled. All of their eyes were on me. I could feel the respect in them, a respect my own people had never given.
I wondered if I was being foolish and naive. The Lolthian clergy would certainly have told me as much. The devils would have demanded a signed contract. The Abyss would suggest that I kill the fey and take their power for myself. But none of those answers felt like mine.
I wondered if Eadoch had actually told the truth. The cauldron might not heal me at all. It might contain something that would kill me. Or drain my magic, or bind me into service, or one of a hundred other things. How much could such creatures actually be trusted to stay true to their word? They would not be dark if they were incapable of a good deception.
I wondered about the nature of this mysterious fey king. The one behind it all. I have not met him, yet. What sort of king might he be, to rule creatures like this? Shall I supplant him, join him, or something else?
Once more, I looked up at the strange faces. All had fallen silent now.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
The Darkfey, Part III: Nightmares
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Each time I close my eyes, the nightmare returns.
(I speak here of sleep and dreaming. You may be aware that elves do not precisely do either. The details are, as usual, more complicated than I am choosing to explain.)
The nightmare, in any case. It takes place in hell. At least, that is what I have taken to calling it. It is clearly not the actual Hells, which I'm told can be quite hospitable once the proper agreements are signed. But I have no other word. It is the sort of impossible place mortal creatures invent to frighten one another. A hell of barred windows and blackened twisting trees curling out of unyielding walls of stone. A hell where I am always pursued, never able to stop running even for a moment.
And so I run. Hunted by figures that are never the same. They are the dark masks of the Mora elite. They are the helms and blades of knights and warriors from a hundred kingdoms. They are a hail of black arrows and a distant call of ravens above. Or, they're merely twisted monsters with more teeth than actual form. I don't usually remember every detail for long. It blends together, as dreams do. What I remember is this. If I tear one down, there is always another. And another. Until their shields and blades and shrieks are pressing in on all sides.
My allies are with me. Fighting and running alongside, at least at first. But we are never all there by the end. Sometimes, it is Melphaecto who goes first, her wings burning away to ash in the wind is she is pierced by shining paladin blades. Sometimes, it is Scragg, his snarls becoming shrieks as the knights tear him apart. Sometimes, it is Halla, who stares down his enemies, silent as death even as he is cut to pieces. Sometimes, it is me, and the others quickly leave me behind. That part at least feels sufficiently authentic.
If one of us falls, the rest keep running. Keep moving. There is no time for mourning in the nightmare. No time to flinch at pain. There is only the next blood-pounding moment. The next clever trick, the next desperate bid to stay alive.
When it started, the first night after the ritual, I struggled just to survive. But as the nights passed, I began to learn their twisted rules. I learned how to turn my enemy's numbers against them. How to make them think I am strong when I am weak. How to bait them into traps and turn their hunts against them. More often now, I wake from the dreams with more blood on my claws then any of the 'hunters.' Was there ever a difference?
When I wake, my right hand throbs. And I remember where I am.
Yes. My right hand. My new hand. The darkfey proved true to their word, and given me a hand woven from their magic. A hand that feels more solid with each night. It has been a few days, and it is starting to feel like mine.
Already, I can flex the clawed fingers, if I try. A deeper shade of black than it once was. More beastial in form than the familiar shining nails at my left. I can feel the power that flows within this hand, the same fey power that brings the nightmares. I will be stronger, when it is finished. A piece of their power I can use to my advantage.
Most of my allies, along with my own better judgment, have warned me against giving any sort of trust to these fey creatures. They are tricksters and liars to the last, deception bleeds into their nature. And yet, they accepted me the way few creatures ever have. Their ritual left its mark upon my skin. Such a thing is not expressly forbidden by the Dark Mother, to my knowledge. And perhaps I have earned their respect in enduring their process.
Lauren, loyal creature that she is, worries for me. She seeks to make me a potion of dreamless sleep, if only so I might have a 'reprieve.' A night of real rest. I could not drink it even if she did. The Dark Mother commands we be tested, and I will be. It is as I once told the Chieftan. There is no magic in this world without prices. No power that comes without pain. That is the truth drawn into the nature of our world, and I would not question it now.
It should hurt. To be hunted even as I rest. To always be a single step away from being torn apart, even in dreams.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
Father's Day
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Sometimes, I still think of Mora'chel.
My city was cruel to me from my first breaths. Time has done nothing to dull the torments of my mother and sisters. But there were moments of pride, not only pain. I still remember the first cantrip I ever cast. The first plant that ever grew by my hand. The first male I ever chose. Mischief made and punishments escaped and caverns explored, in those days when everything was new.
I did not know my father in those days. I would not know his face for many years after. But I think that he knew mine. In all his power, he might have watched over me even then.
And why should I have known him then? The name of one's sire does not matter in the least to ilythiiri. They are a footnote in the history of powerful matron mothers. A meaningless face for those for those who handle breeding rights within a complicated house to quibble over. A mother's blood means everything, and a father's means nothing.
But on the surface, I have learned that things are different. Here, the surfacers revere their sires. They speak of them with fondness, even permit them to take some part in the raising and teaching of a child. It is a strange cultural quirk, but one that might hold a grain of truth. For a father's blood surely matters too, in its way. The arcane magic in my blood does not come from the matron. It comes from him.
(The surfacers, as usual, are fools about this whole thing and take the idea entirely too far. If my sources are to be believed, they even allow noble blood and privilege to pass through a male line. To witness the disasterous results of this, I invite you to walk around the Kreis Blacklake district and talk to any one of the fat mudblooded fools they call 'nobles' for five minutes.)
But still, it has stuck in my mind. Call it a quirk. Call it sentimentality, or weakness. Living in a fey forest with only the spiders to judge gives me leave to choose my own customs. He is the only part of house Mora that has stayed true to me. And if ilythiiri honored our debts as devils do, I would never be able to repay that one.
I could not take the time away from my wars to return to Sorcere. Nor could I have justified the risks involved in doing so for something so utterly without advantage. But the Watch was closer. And I have known him to have a sanctuary there, an entrance hidden within one of the abandoned storage rooms. It was easy enough to slip into the empty room, beneath the cover of invisibility. Easy enough to leave him the gift I had prepared. A crystal orb that will allow his scrying to pierce the wards on my forest. An expensive bottle of wine (stolen from the Kreis ball.) And a single purple flower, the color of our house.
I do not expect to see him anytime soon. He could be on another plane, or traveling the mainland, or lost in experiments with ancient magic even I could not hope to understand. Perhaps the gift will never be found, or noticed. But the thought is there, all the same.
! Registered Member #20
Joined: 8:30:40 am GMT 02/25/04
Posts: 7094
Power
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The northern feywars are ended at last. And we have won.
I will leave the stories of the final battle of Feywood for the bards to tell. I am sure they will find it worth singing about, until such time as my brood consumes them all and feasts on their juicy and musical innards.
What matters now is that northern woods belong to the darkfey. The pale elves' greatest nightmares have come true. Their walls and defenses are in ruin. What remains of the elven forces cower in their stronghold, behind a barrier of light. Isolated from all who might aid them. One more flickering light in the growing sea of darkness.
My spiders now move freely in what was once their sacred wood. My chosen creatures. They rest, breed, and grow strong on the bounty of the surface. It is what I promised them. And I owe them no less.
For the first time since my maiming, I feel I can breathe. I am whole. My brood is whole. My drive for vengeance is truly sated, if only for the moment.
Already, some begin to ask me where my eye will turn next. Will I take our conquests to the south? Begin a new war on the Kreis, or the paladins in Hamley? For now, I walk the darkened woods that were once the Feywood. I watch the twisted vines grow and battle one another anew each day. And I think on the nature of power.
My elder sister had power, or so she believed. She had the favor of Lolth on her side since the moment of her birth. She held the highest position in the city save for the matron's own. Then, in an instant, I closed my fingers around her throat and took it all away. And she was nothing.
Malarahc had power, when he held the splinter. The kind of power a summoner has in the instant of elation before the demon consumes him utterly. It was power that was never truly his, any more than the Sin blade's power was mine.
I do not want my life to end that way. I should be revelling in my victory, enjoying the fruits of my first true conquest. And all I can think about is how much stronger I will have to become if I am ever going to return home.
How can I keep from repeating their mistakes? How can I keep from repeating my own? Once, I felt invincible. Having one's hand cut off does wonders to cure that illusion.
The humans have a saying. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown." I think that I begin to understand its meaning now. To play the games of power is to risk everything. Every day. And once you start to play, you can never stop.
But a bad dream cannot be killed with fire and steel. A legend does not break. If I am to survive the days ahead, I must be more than merely a dark elf. I must become a legend and a nightmare.
[ The Island of Thain ]
Homecoming
