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    scratch_flannigan  5 days ago

    Nature Night begins in about ten minutes! smile

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    Aha! Thanks C McG!

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    C_McG  6 days ago

    @Scratch
    D ampersand D

    Need to shorthand DnD or "D and D".

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    and...it did it again..

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    I don't know why that says "D&D"

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    @ Zhymm: I am so old that when I first played D&D, elf, dwarf and halfling were considered classes. biglaugh

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    You may want to try making a new thread that is worded slightly different. It is worth a shot. special

  • Dyrcona
    Dyrcona  1 week ago

    I don't know what happened. I tried to make a new forum post, and I got a screen full of busted HTML code. When I tried again, I got a message about a duplicate post. When I look in the forum, it appears to have posted twice, but the newer one is empty.

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    *waves*

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Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe - House Tarthe's Melee Manual

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Alanonas
5:12:49 am GMT 11/13/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
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"House Tarthe's Melee Manual"
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Alanonas
5:52:35 am GMT 11/13/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Z'ress A'thalak Form

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The Z'ress A'thalak form, which translates as "force of war" in the slave tongues, is uncommon among our kind since few have the physical strength needed to learn all of the necessary maneuvers encapsulated within this particular form. Students of this style sacrifice accuracy for power, defense for aggression, and master how to cut through the body of a falling foe to strike another enemy, or even shatter enemy weapons with a single blow. House Tarthe has boasted few masters of this form aside from the late Master Vialach, whom was notable in that he survived centuries, even serving as the formal temple executioner in his venerable years before falling victim to his own blade for blasphemy.

Aggressive and powerful, Z'ress A'thalak is most valuable as allows the wielder to slash through armor, thick hides, and even multiple foes at once, a feat rarely seen within the confines of Illythiri warfare.

This art requires prodigious strength and size rarely seen within our race as masters of this form employ heavy weaponry, often requiring both hands to wield. This leaves little choice for thinking of one's own defense. This is a form of aggression. This is a form of power. This is Z'ress A'thalak.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

---

*clang*

The shattered pieces of a rapier clattered to the bloodied stone of the corral as the blade's former wielder fell to join it, albeit one part at a time. Another drow extricates the heavy blade from the upper half of the severed body, wiping the warm blood from the length of the weapon before kneeling, his hands wet with his opponent's ruin as they gripped the web-like filigree upon the hilt of the massive sword.

Another young elf, her skin dark as the night and eyes redder than the blood painting the combat ring strides in. Her robes glide over the twitching corpse as her hands run along the stark white mane of the victorious drow warrior.

"An unconventional form brother, yet still, you are alive and your dear cousin is not."

The bloodied soldier remains kneeling, not daring to raise his eyes to meet those of his sister, a sister who may well become a high priestess in her own right in the near future. As she takes her leave, the exhaustion of the fight rushes through the drow's body, blood trickles from a myriad of cuts from the smaller weapon that now lied shattered before him. His own red eyes look to the blade he held, the last relic of his house left for a seventh born male of no consequence to claim, a long forgotten executioner's blade - a mere curiosity to nearly any other drow soldier, and by far the last weapon they'd trust their life to. Yet still, there was a certain beauty in the thing, in how the blood made it glisten, even in the dim lights of the faerie fire that illuminated the fighting pits. It was deadly in its own right, with its own brand of subtlety.

And now, as the next drow soldier entered the pit, it no longer felt awkward and heavy.

It felt one in the same with himself.

By the strike of the final bells that marked the passaged of the sunless day, seven more would-be graduates of notorious Melee Magthere of Mora'chel felt the bite of the massive blade as it clove them in twain, shattered their limbs, and impaled them upon its length.

And House Tarthe gained a new practitioner of a Z'ress A'thalak Form: Vir'an Tarthe, Seventh Son of House Tarthe.
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Alanonas
4:11:29 am GMT 11/16/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Kyone Veldrin Form

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The Kyone Veldrin Form, or "Alert in Shadow", in the slave tongue, is a most natural form to our kind, yet one seldom mastered. Even the most common bred, and even half-blood drow have the ability to conjure inky orbs of absolute darkness with but a passing thought. Any drow may learn how to use this gift to surprise, disorient, and separate foes, but a true master of Kyone Veldrin surpasses these simple tricks. Students of this style learn to become one with the darkness they conjure, learning to pinpoint the location of enemies in the middle of absolute darkness and strike them with amazing accuracy despite their effective blindness. As one could imagine, teams of specialists from this style and the Luth Alur style, a ranged form, often group together to form special attack teams, with the Kyone Veldrin fighting within the globes of darkness as the Luth Alur fire their ranged weapons at any foe foolish enough to flee the darkness.

Kyone Veldrin is a form that uses darkness even a drow's natural vision cannot penetrate. As such it remains a deadly form to employ while facing daunting numbers of foes who may otherwise overrun the fighter with shear numbers. Students should take heed to not employ this form against foes not dependent upon sight alone. Additionally, it makes one unable to effectively dodge incoming magics and paints a decisive target for a skilled mage to hurl a fireball or other area spell.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

Some time ago...

A drow seldom forgets their first surface raid. Even now the voices and pained screams of the elves ring within the fighter's ears. He remembers the night well, the moon was bright overhead and torturous to their eyes as their band rose through the ruptured scars of the land. The elves above cherished such nights and danced with reckless abandon, many skyclad or wreathed only within feeble garb woven of growing things as they capered about in the pallid moonlight.

The long shadows cast by the moon hide their approach as they worked their ways through the titanic trees. The sounds of panpipes, singing, and cheering washed across the moonlit grove, filling the clearing with a joyous sound that masked the steps of their boots and the crunching of leaves underfoot as they drew into range.

Then there was darkness. The oppressively bright moonlight that filled the grove became choked in a dozen orbs of absolute blackness that enveloped the elves. Before he knew it he was in the fray, his blade swinging in hewing arcs, stopping only as it met the fragile frames of the elves unfortunate enough to be in its path. The sting of the moonlit fled his eyes and his senses awakened. Each scream was another direction for his blade to fall, each rumble of underbrush another target. Soon he could feel them underfoot, squirming in pain and scrambling to escape, another place to plant the blade. Another scream to silence.

Some pushed past him and he felt them run, but he knew none would escape that night. His kin waited, their eyes and crossbows trained on the orbs of inky blackness. But they would have to wait, for he was in the thick of the darkness, a spiral of death haunting the blackness, and he'd have his fill first.

---

Not so long ago...

The drow looks to his hands, willing the orb of darkness to manifest.

Nothing.

Again he focuses, trying in vain to conjure forth the deadly blackness, and this time something within him protests. It burs through his veins, like boiling water searing its path through his arms and stinging his palms. His concentration breaks and the motes of darkness that were forming fade again.

"What has happened to me? What has my brother done to me?" he mutters to himself as he halts his efforts to manifest the darkness.

He stands, rubbing his forearms until the burning dissipates. He thinks back to his elder brother, Malarach. The drow was a genius, but at times bordered upon the realm of madness. Still, his brother's cunning experiments held promise unseen to any drow of their city to date. The mage had found a way to mutate their kind, all in pursuit of countering the debilitating effects the sunlight of the surface world had upon their kind. Vir'an had been one of the first of this brother's experiments, or rather the first to have survived the endeavor. Somehow the mage had drawn a powerful light from a young surfacer and now discovered a way to infuse the strange radiance into their kind...

Vir'an looks to the eastern sky, the burning in his veins now replaced by a lingering warmth that now spread through his core as the sun broke the horizon, bathing the world in a bright wash of yellow tinged with orange.

The drow's eyes look to the burning orb, perhaps the first of his kind to behold its ascent without horrendous pain and blindness. His brother had succeeded in making a drow impervious to the blight of the sun, but at a cost.

The fighter's mind thinks back to his first foray onto the surface, back to a moonlit night. He savors the memory, watching the sun rise higher and higher into the sky, casting out the darkness that had blanketed the land in the night.
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Alanonas
4:42:13 pm GMT 11/23/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Kyorlin Plynn Form

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The Kyorilin Plyn Form, known in the slave tongues as "Observe and Claim", is a form of forethought and planning. Kyorilin Plyn employs defensive and tactical maneuvers to disarm or negate their opponent's ability to fight back or escape. This form is favored by priestesses and their champions for the purposes of subduing would-be sacrifices, capturing enemies for interrogation, or simply for amusement.

The intricacies of the form vary greatly, but start within the mind. Masters of this form study long the habits, abilities, and nature of their foes long and well before they move to fight them, then use the best means to counter and nullify their opponent's strengths. Veteran masters of this form often serve as leaders in raiding parties, directing best the others in their fold in securing victory over a formidable enemy that requires more than mere bladework to overcome...

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

Not so long ago...

The weaponmaster turned over another corpse. It was a drow, one bearing the insignia of his house. It also bore two precise stab wounds in the back of its neck, from which still warm blood trickled forth. Beyond, in the alleyways that wound through Mora'chel, he had found two more bodies, each slain in a similar manner, each bearing the colors of House Tarthe. While no drow was stranger to murder, it was not like them to be this sloppy. Drow assassination was an art, one that took place over decades at times. It was seldom for another drow to be found moving so boldly and brashly against their enemies.

"This is personal...and the work of an outsider." muttered the drow as he rose, looking down the streets and taking note that the bodies would soon be found, and not just by his house, but also House Mora. It would not bode well for their kin to be seen littering the streets, especially like this. House Mora's ego was perilously high enough.

Rising, the drow made sure his house emblem was in plain view and began to patrol the streets, slowly and almost seeming oblivious to the threat that haunted their city, an easy target if there ever had been one.

And it worked.

Soon enough the creature manifested from the shadows, deadly blades barred as it closed in, melting into and out of the shadows like a deadly breeze as it vaulted though the long lines of darkness to plant the blades into the drow...

And passed right into the arc of faerie fire he conjured.

He saw it now, a tiefling, now rimmed in glowing flames that clearly delineated its lithe form from the shadows in which it had been cloaking itself with during its hunt. It tried to flee, but found no where to hide as the flickering flames licked over its body.

The heavy blade falls once, twice and the tiefling falls, wounded from the heavy cuts. Its blades are kicked aside and the drow hauls it up by its bloodied garb, slamming it into a stalagmite. He knew this one, and soon enough, he'd know just why he was here...
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Alanonas
10:34:59 pm GMT 12/01/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
"Zud'dar Uns'aa"

"Test me."

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"Test me."

This is the only prayer a devotee of the Spider Queen ever utters to their matron, and to the ones who hold her favor. No weapon mastery will save you from their wrath. No amount of training, accolades, skill, or personal charisma will make you worth anything more than what you are to them when you first broke into this world.

A Jaluk. A male of our kind.

To survive this academy, you will need strength of arms. To survive in the webs of our Dark Mother, you will need this prayer.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

The waters of the harbor froze the bleeding drow to the bone. Each cresting whitecap sent the pair of brothers rolling through the choking seafoam, threatening to swallow their lot into the inky abyss below.

"Test me..."

The prayer resounded in the fighter's mind, drowning out the crash of the sea and the sting of the myriad of wounds he had gained from the denizens of Dragon's Watch. His brother was in a condition no better, having sustained a number of wounds himself while trying to fend off the attackers. He cannot remember if they were tossed into the surf or if they crawled into it to escape the wrath of their attackers. He could only remember the only prayer he had ever uttered in his nearly two centuries of life...

"Test me..."

He fought the waves, knowing well their blood would soon draw the beasts of the waters to them for to feast. He fought the wind, even as it tried to drown out the prayer upon his lips. He fought to ensure his brother did not sink out of view again, their House could not lose a wizard of his prowess, not now.. He fought, and he prayed...

"Test me..."

Darkness came to him, and in his contorted dreams, still he heard the prayer, even as the sheets of freezing waters took hold of him, tossing his wounded body to and fro...

"Test me..."

Dark hands curl into the wet sand of the beach as the drow's reddened eyes cracked open. The crash of the tide washed over him, waking his senses as the chilling water receded, leaving a trail of red foam in its wake. The cuts and punctures traced over his body, some worse than others as he turned over and began staunching the worst of them. Nearby his brother lay, he too finding deliverance upon the beach.

But they both knew this was not deliverance.

This was but another test.

"Test me..."
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Alanonas
3:23:35 am GMT 12/13/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Z'har Thalack Form

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Z'har Thalack, or "Riding Warfare" in the slave tongues, is a form made use of by mounted Illythiri. Riders often make use of tizzin, or riding lizards, within the dominions of the underdark, though some drow with the favor of the Spider Queen have been honored with spider mounts when her favor graces them.

Tizzin are ideal mounts, able to traverse upon the walls of tunnels, swim with great alacrity, and make incredible leaps over chasms that litter our homeland. This enables the rider to fight in a three-dimensional arena, making use of walls and cavern ceilings as well as the floors, greatly aiding in combat with foes deprived of such movements.

Great riders soon learn not only how to fight upon Tizzin back themselves, but also how to direct their mount to fight as well, by means of their claws, powerful jaws, or sweeping tails. There are limits to this form, for it does not translate well to the riding of other beasts, most notable being those creatures of the surface that resemble malformed rothe, known in their tongue as "Horses".


- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

The manual was correct. These beasts were nothing like riding upon a Tizzen.

The drow holds tight upon the creature's pale mane, dark fingers intertwined the coarse strands and straining to keep grip as the creature bolted over the land. The horse rears upon its hind legs, threatening to toss its would-be-rider to the dirt, but the rider holds even tighter, goading the creature into motion with his spurred boots and taking hold of the reins.

"Yah!"

The beast moves with blinding speed, making short work of the rolling hills that surrounded the countryside around Dragon's Watch.

Into the night the drow rides, chasing the pale moon as it rises over the web infested forest that bordered the human village. The rider feels the beast's heavy breathing as it comes to a stop, hooves digging into the muddy ground of the forest floor. Dismounting, the rider finds his hands stroking the beast's neck.

"You are not like the Tizzen, are you?" He inquires to the beast, untangling the horse's mane with another hand.

"No, you cannot crawl upon the walls, nor scamper down a sheer drop of a crevasse, but what you can do it think..."

He finds himself stroking the beast's mane again and withdraws his hand, looking the creature in the eyes as it nuzzles him back.

"I see now why the humans of this world bond with you. You are dangerous in your own right. I can almost feel an ambition of your own in that mind of yours..."

The horses ears lay back, neighing as it hears the skittering of the spiders.

"Perhaps you will be of use yet. But first, you must survive. You must be better than your peers, just as we all must..."

The horse stomps the muddy earth, snorting in defiance as a pair of spiders lands from the canopies above.

"Even you must be tested, but know this, beast of the surface..."

The horse's hooves paw at the dirt as the spiders skitter closer, fangs barred and dripping with venom...

"I do hope you will not fail to impress, for what that is worth..."

Sounds echo from the edges of the whispering woods that night, filling the air with the baying of a horse, then silence.
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Alanonas
7:31:57 pm GMT 12/21/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Orbb Akh Form

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Orbb Akh, or "Spider Swarm" in the slave tongue, is summarized best as "Knowing Your Place." It is a refined form designated specifically to group tactics for Illythiri raiding parties boasting divergent skillsets. While it is not in the nature of our people to cherish one another's life and well being, it does bode well to know one's worth, and the worth of one's allies, temporary as they may often be.

Orbb Akh demands knowing the strengths, limits, and weakness of those who fight alongside you. To this end, fighters seeking to graduate Melee all sent to raid alongside students of Sorcere and alongside the Priesthood during their final year. If you are to return, you will take heed to know your own strength as well. Your companions most certainly will know already, and it does not bode well to be the least valuable asset in a spider swarm.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe


A long time ago...

The two brothers felt the rumble of the earth below their feet before they ever saw the creature erupt from below, bursting through the tunnel floor as if it were parchment.

"Malarach! Now!" shouted a drow as he charged the creature's exposed neck as it broke the surface, heavy blade sweeping in a deadly arc at the one part of the Bulette that was not covered in thick armored plates.

The mage was ready, his spell already weaving into arcane runes that illuminated the otherwise impenetrable darkness of the tunnel. The spell's powers washed over the creature, seizing its mighty muscles and leaving it motionless and vulnerable for the deadly blow from the heavy blade.

The blade bites into the thick hide and the two brothers watch as the beast's lifeblood flooded the tunnel. They each pause to take a breath, each wearied and wounded from the hunt. It was the final year of the fighter's instruction and tests at the notorious Melee academy within Mora'chel. Malarach too had been studying, albeit in the mystic confines of Sorcere. The mage was older by decades, but instruction in his realm of his expertise was longer and somehow the pair were finding themselves together in their respective last years.

"Where is Ralk'kin?" Inquired the mage as he regained his composure, the hunt having long required much of his spells and incantations he had prepared days prior.

The fighter looked around, seeing no sign of the furtive drow that had been with them, another final year fighter, albeit one more talented in stealth and subterfuge rather than honest fighting.

"I'm here." The drow's whisper broke the silence as an orb of darkness fell over the two brothers.

Instinctively the pair of brothers turned their back to one another, the fighter's sword poised in a defensive stance against their treacherous companion. Vir'an had expected such. Drow like Ralk'kin did not graduate by being able to best their rivals in open combat; they graduated by slaying them prior to the final fights, be it in their sleep, via poison, or in this case, alone and weary in a tunnel after a trying fight...

The mage was already muttering the words of a spell as the rogue made his move. The fighter's ears twitched towards to the sound of the movement and sent a kick into the darkness, sending the deadly assassin tumbling into the path of his brother's spell.

There was a pained shout as the writhing tendrils his brother had manifested into being caught the treacherous rouge.

They stood there, back to back in the inky darkness, each enjoying the sounds of the strangling drow as the tendrils slowly crushed the life from his lithe form. But they were also both thinking - Thinking of the sunless days ahead, to future challenges and tests. Maybe they'd end up slaying one another as many of their kind oft do.

For now, they stood in the darkness together, each thankful for one another's strengths; each knowing one another's value.

For now.
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Alanonas
4:53:53 pm GMT 12/25/22
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
The Draa Velve Form


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The Draa Velve, or "Twin Sword" in the slave tongues, is perhaps the rarest and most difficult forms to master for our race. Aside from requiring the exceptional natural ability to wield two weapons in perfect unison, this form also requires immense amounts of time. Few would-be-masters of Draa Velve survive their time in Melee, their peers mastering other forms far more quickly and using this edge to literally cut these student's lives short.

It is well to learn the ways of this form, because while our people boast few masters of it, the forsaken elves of the surface brim with them. Surface elves train and hone their forms for centuries longer, often living far longer than our typical soldiers due to the soft lives they wander through. Remember, it takes more than knowing a form to use it though. We are born to kill, they are not.

If mastered, Draa Velve is a formidable form, allowing the master to attack and defend in synchronization and even fight multiple foes simultaneously, but perhaps its most dangerous facet is that this form has a way of garnering favor with the Priesthood. It is a reckless, but controlled form. It is a vortex of chaos that requires calm discipline within. It is destructive, yet beautiful.

It is much like our Dark Mother herself.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

The twin blades dance around the drow's larger sword again, leaving fine traces of their passage over his dark maile. The drow hefts his own blade, swatting the slender blades of the elven blademaster aside to reassert measure between the dueling masters.

They take stock of one another, pacing like beasts ready to pounce as their kin fight one another in the dark recesses of that ruined city that the shadows consumed around them. A crack of spell power lashes between them as another fey-touched elf duels Pharius. In the midst of it all, he catches sight of Malarach, the older mage channeling dark waves of the void into the songstress that brought to bear her own light against the encroaching darkness.

The elven warrior across from him takes stock of his wounds and reengages, feinting with one of his curved blades and sending the other in a fluid strike against the drow. It was like fighting two elves at once, each blade seeming to move on its own accord, each one finding ways past his own defenses, each one an instrument directed perfectly by the composer beyond.

He could not beat this elf by skill alone, he could could feel the raw experience and decades of practice this blademaster has refined to a deadly killing art. He had to outpower him. He had to be the one willing to kill. The drow spins, allowing the vortex of blades to slice past him and gives the elf another blow, this one striking true and sending him reeling into the ruin of a mirror that now littered the battlefield.

He reels, his own blood spilling from the half dozen strikes the elven master had landed upon him during his final advance. He had fought many of his own kind who fancied themselves masters of Draa Velve, but never a true master.

He spares one last look to the wounded elven blademaster, a part of him hoping that the elf would live, if only so they may cross blades again, then joins his brothers in the final press against the heroes...
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Alanonas
5:56:54 pm GMT 01/28/23
Alanonas Registered Member #24078 Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1413
V'dri

Reverie

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V'dri, or reverie in the slave tongues, is at a glance, a simple concept. Illythiri, just as all living creatures, require rest so that their physical bodies and mortal minds may rejuvenate. But we do not not sleep like the rivvil, nor do we lie in contemplative and peaceful thought as the elves of the surface do.

No, V'dri is time the same as the waking world. In our trances we wait, we allow our minds to replay the tests and challenges of the waking hours. We see, live, grow, and remain vigilant, moreso in these hours when our eyes are closed to the waking world that is just as dangerous as it was when we walked it.

Many of warrior find their death while they seek to recover from the wounds of battle, for even the mightest swordsman is little match for one who finds him in V'dri. Take heed of this.

There are better ways to die.

- Excerpt from the Sarol Zhaun'ol Tarthe

The black blade cuts through the misty air of the surface. The drow voids his head a bit too slowly and the razor edge slices a lock of his whitened mane. Before the bundle of hair is on the ground another deadly blow is sailing toward his midsection. The drow takes to the earth, rolling and sweeping his legs at the elven warrior as he rolls away on the dew-covered grass of the forest glade.

A Black Hunter had found him.

The black-clad elf wasted no time in doing what it is their kind do best: Slay drow who dare to invade their realms.

The hunter's blade crackled with malevolent hunger, the sort that hungered for the obsidian flesh of the cursed elves who were cast out from their brethren in times long past. But Vir'an Tarthe would not prove easy prey. He counters the elf's blows with his own, sending the blade his brother had forged of their own blood to bear against the Black Hunter's blade.

The two danced in deadly tandem through the misty grove, each pass sending elven and drow blood alike scattering upon the peaceful grass below. Blow after blow is exchanged, each warrior growing weary from blood loss as the fight dragged done for what seemed like hours, though it was mere moments.

One final pass.

Both warriors reeled from their blows, the drow's blade tracing through the elf as the pommel of the Black Blade crushed the drow's temple, sending him reeling into blackness.

As the sun rose over the glade, two warriors lie bloodied in the grass.

But the Spider Queen was not finished with one of them...


---

Vir'an awoke.

His body protested the movement as he waves a mote of faerie fire over the stalagmites that surround him, bathing the otherwise dark room with a soft blue light. It was small. More akin to a prison cell than a barracks, but it was safe, or rather the safest place he could find at the time.

The Black Hunter had nearly slain him that day, and it took him nearly a week to navigate the treacherous tunnels of the world and take refuge within the neigh abandoned outpost south of Mora'chel. For days now he had lain in V'dri, recovering from his myriad of wounds.

In his dreams he saw his brothers, and the priestess. They would have ventured on into that realm of darkness. A realm where the lost daughter of House Mora was said to be held imprisoned. Would they make it back? Have they done so already? Or were they lost to the emptiness of that realm, now prisoners of their own...

He rises, the pain shoots through his body, but he allows it. He feels the sharp sensation travelling through his limbs, ensuring that they each were still there. His eyes find the Black Blade. It lies unsheathed upon the stone floor, unceremoniously cast aside as the drow collapsed. He finds his fingers on the simple hilt.

He staggers out of the tower, looking across the expanse of the cavern, blade in hand. In the distance a shadow seems to fall over Mora'chel, dampening the fey fire lights that wreathed it in a mysterious and deadly splendor. They had made it back. Or rather, -she- had made it back. Did his brothers yet live? Did his house still stand?

He looks down to the simple, yet elegant blade that the Black Hunter had nearly slain him with. He had heard that there were blades that could speak - blades that held wills of their own. This one did not need to speak. He knew what it wanted.

And now, it seemed it may get just what it wanted, one way or another.
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