-
It is strange to think back now on the teachings of Hatred, after being forced to walk the blinding surface of this world under the miserable gaze of the sun.
Fuelled by the hate and suffering each of us must endure in the heart of darkness beneath the world; and unleash it to bring Vengance upon the Elves.
The unity of the elven races in a desperate coup to remove the strongest and most deadly of their cousins.. Us.
Even where betrayal, politics and murder keep our people strong, those fit to rule and feed off the weak and useless; there is no greater failure than one's plots unravelling and failing right before fruition.
And so it was declared by my mentors that the Elves whom had tried and failed so despicably to eliminate their rivals now will suffer a fate worse than ours for such clumsiness.
"A predator need only stumble once to become prey"
Oh how we learned that lesson the long.. hard.. and painful way.
But there is a difference between revenge upon a race and revenge on a person. This I learnt firsthand, and best on this wretched sunland.
Whereas there was no greater thrill than hunting a pale-skin traitor and taking their life even as they defended themselves.. my lust to improve myself as a killer and disdain for pointless murder and giving in to primal instincts has forced me to cool my emotions and make allies amongst them.. even if just to keep myself safe and to leech what I can from their overly trusting souls.
Yet this is a dangerous path.. like the consumption of bloodwine and the drug within for its immeadiate gains, however useful they may be; the slow build up of its most vital ingredient in oneself is subtle and creates an ever-growing threat.. carelessness.
The faces of a Betrayer behind a screen of adrenaline and battlefever all begin to blur into one that I see in my dreams.. ever-changing with a new .. unique feature of my last victim.
But the faces of those who have names, have histories and have more to them in my mind than mere targets to feed off.. soon become exceptions to the category.
As if they were no longer pale-skin traitors that deserved to die for their failings, and became creatures worthy of a chance at life.. as long as they were useful to me and did not become a threat.
Should they not be marked with the same as their kindred?
Am I losing my way even as I refuse to decend into mindless savagery towards my foe and keep myself above such pitiful and excessive displays?
Maybe Velkyn's barbarity is not so; perhaps I am growing soft and weak like the Betrayers.. or perhaps even my own people have suffered more in the Deep than they realize.. becoming as twisted as the horrors stalking the caverns around us..
The temptation to ravage, pillage, murder and torture are ever present at the back of my mind.. and they trouble me greatly every time a small part of myself seeks to enter their realm.
But I am not an animal and refuse to live like a beast, ruled by my own hungers and a slave to my own body.
This alone keeps me from tumbling into the darkness unlike the one I seek refuse in.. but a black emptiness that threatens to swallow what I am and leave only a husk of primitive instinct.
...I should've killed her when she stumbled into the village of Center and collapsed on the cobblestone.. afterall, she tried to kill me and failed.. her and her allies. Instead I decided to play with her and get close enough to her heart so that when the truth dawns on her.. it would tear fitting injury across its surface.. and oh how it did.. and oh how she.. ~weeped~ for the loss of one she thought was a 'friend'. Such painful deceptions were a kindness for what I could've wrought against one that had lost my respect and earned my ire. I wonder where that changed..?
This female has caused, and IS trouble.. even as I sat there looking at her pale, battered form lying exposed on the sheets of the 'Inn'.. I knew I should have first enjoyed her and then murdered her.. but that would have made me into something as crude as Velkyn.. she was exotic temptation that I failed to refuse.. and now the trouble her over-emotional mind brings to me is great.
But the distraction from the life I truly lead, hidden by a veil of deciet and secrecy from the surfacers is so ridicolously effective.. I find myself unwilling to cut the connection..
-
Now that I think more on it.. I am not alone in making use of them.. for agents of my Lord freely make use of lessers and even some traitors as their tools and allies on this world.
Like that infuriating fool who calls himself 'Night'.. a droll pattern that seems to follow most egotistical surfacers who believe themselves more fearsome with a unimaginative noun to serve as a name.
'Stalker'.. Steel'.. pah!
I remember calling him out for his lies when he reported to my Lord on a task he was set.. I remember the distaseful memory of watching that witch Solena torture his body for his paltry and transparent deception.
Yet at the same time I felt pride at my success for seeing through him when all others could not.
Nevertheless I taught him soon after, as I was ordered.. ordered to .. make him one of us.
The first thing we spoke on was that even though I loathed him, he was my ally now and I would safeguard his life as long as it were so in order to achieve our goals.. unless of course he had the gall to betray us or our relationship changed.
Perhaps I am foolish to keep to my word faithfully as it makes me both predictable and vulnerable in ways.. but that is how it is..
"In battle we are one until the beast is brought down.. all else does not exist until the hunt is over."
I hold those words in high regard. They are born of focus, discipline and predatory perfection that I strive for. The whole over the one until the common foe is destroyed. A shame only the warriors of my people have this drilled into them.. but even then there are members of the pack who are set upon by their brothers for weakening us in a dire situation for personal gain.. there are always fools no matter of their origins..
Perhaps in some twisted, indirect manner Solena's promises of 'teaching' me turned out to be true, because even as I impart something obvious to myself unto the ignorant.. I discover just how hard it is to live by the words.. but I do.. and I suffer the presence of my allies no matter the disdain I feel for them, for they would not be an ally had they no practical use as a tool that was worth the effort on my part.. unfortunently Night is one ally that was forced upon me, and my oath of service to my Lord has forced me into a position where I must follow Solena's direction and bind myself to him.
I have not seen nor heard of him in many cycles.. I can only hope his soul has passed into the grasp of his wretched gods so I can be free of any obligation to him.
-
The difference between a Friend and Ally.. a silly thing to split the two; which was my belief when I first walked this surface and She was so insistant that there was a difference.
She had preached to me on multiple occasions of the value of 'trust' .. that it was the basis for friendship and I decided to humor her and let the female ~think~ I trusted her.. but I always kept a watchful eye for treachery.
I did not believe that I would end up in this position..
Where I turned out to be right and I feel no joy in it; though now I look back I should have seen it sooner.
When I made a move that demanded blind trust in me she always failed the test, and I would've called her a fool if she had passed for trusting me so.
In the end it was I that eventually conceded little by little and grew to trust her, fooled into believing perhaps friends were what an indispensible ally was.. someone you wanted close even when their use had diminished.
Ofcourse it was a foolish notion borne of the softness of living on the surface.
However it seems that 'indispensbile' was the foolish notion, for I am dispensible to all I meet, even her. The letter carried by the bird made that clear.. some nonsense about 'promises'.
Even as I read it, I felt no swelling of pride as my suspicions turned out right.. only disappointment in myself for toying with idle fancies of this pathetic concept of 'friendship' and another sensation I have never felt before.. I slight and irritating ache like the complaining of a wound that has yet to fully seal over.
Perhaps its merely me kicking myself, perhaps something else.. it doesn't really matter one way or the other.
Allies and friends are one and the same.. the only difference is one is honest and another is a deciet to try and gain more from something than one would otherwise glean..
I must be more guarded against the softness of this realm.. perhaps it's time to find a way home.. time to be with the common kindred and find like-minded brothers.. and maybe even sisters amongst the cities to perhaps band together.
A dangerous notion.. one with great risk but perhaps its what I need.
It would help to find those worthy of my respect to actually bother protecting, and vice versa.. a symbiotic relationship of mutualism.. providing I am not the only one like.. well.. like ME.
All I have on this surface is soft-hearted surfacers that I occasionally hunt alongside.. they are an amusing distraction when their females are eye-catching or intriguing in some way.. at other times, they provide a basis for studying their minds, males, females, knights, criminals, whatever.. perhaps such understanding could prove useful later.
Like that accursed trip to the little village of Raven's Watch or Haven's Watch.. some frozen patch of earth covered in lessers.. I remember a female called Phelicia and a male called Maxa-.. hrm.. Max. Much simpler to call him that as I know the sound of the full name irked me.
I ended up saving both their lives and this seems to invoke some feeling of 'debt' and gratefulness I have never seen amongst the races of my home.
It's as if they expected me to let them die while our common enemies stood..
But perhaps even if that were not the case, I would've helped them.. I always manage to find the benefit in helping a surfacer and its beginning to concern me.. though I take solace in remembering that I felt absolutely nothing when some churl of an elven archer died on a hunt with me and Richard.
That and my current haunt near the Taur'en Hills throws me into the path of Betrayer rangers that roam the forests.. I can pay my respects to Baraeon and my ancestors by spilling their blood as they are just as eager to spill mine when they see me.
So perhaps I am just being oppurtunistic, and overly concerned because of this lapse in judgement with Her..
At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that I can always conjure up the feel of home.. in a room darkened by my magic.
A rare sensation to feel safe when I truly thought the notion was just a silly comfort for delusional minds.
-
I wonder what He is telling me to prepare for.. he mentioned the Deep, though he was non-specific and that Witch Solena confirmed the trip and demanded I protect him.
Must be important if he is gathering everyone around to watch his back.. he is not exactly a mageling in terms of his arcane powers.
It will be good to escape the sun and moon and go back down to the caverns and my people.
Even as they hate eachother and plot and scheme.. thankfully for the commoners that the nobles stand on.. like me.. it is not as severe beyond attempted robberies and murders if they find weak prey they can feed on.
Maybe this trip will bring something of benefit to me as well as him, it remains to be seen.
At the very least I can find a female with some fire in her and spend time with.. if she doesn't try killing me ofcourse; I am thankful I was never one who needed the security and assurance of survival in my actions..
A smirk crosses his lips as Nym'roos continues to think on matters in his head, alone in a room of the Center Inn.. shrouded in magical darkness
What could I possibly benefit from this aside curing the aching need to go home to a world of strength, darkness and rapture.. if I can say anything, the human settlements and world above, while different.. cannot compare.
Atleast I have seen nothing to convince me otherwise.
Perhaps there will be time after his business is complete to stay.. or maybe we will be staying a very long indeed.. this could give me time to build some connections and find myself some like-minded kindred to make allies out of.
That and I can sample some proper wine again.. the swill on the surface is bland save for the rather ... 'heated' effects brought on by a sect called.. Zen.. or Xeen..
I will keep my fond memories of staying in that 'Temple' until the sun went down and I began my travels again..
He chuckles to himself and grins with closed eyes in an almost roguish manner..
I can only hope it comes soon.. I have had my fill of this alien world for the time being.. it's no place for a warlike people such as we.. I begin to wonder if there is any value in conquering the surface as some believed we should do.. perhaps we should just torch it, raid, enslave and slay.. perhaps such a course would be better for our soul.. lest we grow aloof and complacent like our traitor-cousins..
Ugh.. this hurts my head.. I want some sleep and to shut these thoughts out.
-
Walking into the Sanctuary of his Lord, Nym walks into the training room while removing his armor piece by piece and setting it to the side along with all of his travelling attire. He never came here often unless summoned by his Lord or Solena for a particular task, but this time it was not safe in Center,
not after recent events..
It was always easy to practise something he already knew like clockwork; monotonous just like the sharpening of a blade's edge on a whetstone.. it just required that he give his body over to it while his mind seperates itself from the physical world.
So she finally caught up to me.. 'Stalker', the foolish creature truly thought I would be unaware that I was being hunted as I walked down the road that night.. shortly after having spent a most.. entertaining night with Keela's sister Breanna.
Even as I think back, I wonder for a creature that deludes herself into believing she is something 'better' than those she hunts, why didn't she just kill me.
She claimed she wish to know my language and thought I was going to whimper and cower.. selling myself out of fear or some semblance of profit.
I always did lack respect for hunters that do not know what they hunt, even if I am something of an oddity in some eyes. Still she believed she could buy the knowledge, or that she would could wring it from me..
It provided a lovely excuse to test her as to her nature.. would she lay hands on me and risk punishment on her friends and family.. those she holds close if any; or herself if they cannot be found.
It is often unwise to damage the property of another and expect no retribution, and if I am honest with myself that is what I am for the time being.
All in all, she seemed to abandon any thoughts of force for the time being, and listened to my terms.. poor creature actually thought I might present something 'fair' to secure a piece of knowledge that could be used to slaughter more of my kin.
Her face.. her name.. her discretion.. and her skill were the price. Even I must admit as one who prides himself on bladework, it brings about an uncomfortable tendancy to admire superior skill and wish to obtain it.. especially when from a lesser.
She did not meet my demands.. no surprise, and when she did not strike to kill, I realized she would either leave an invitation open, or she actually thought herself something other than another killer; looking for an excuse to what she does so she can spare her conscious. Pathetic.
Still.. maybe in time, an oppurtunity will present itself to make use of this creature, though I wish I could've seen more than just those eyes.. I wonder if she knows we see very.. very well in the dark.
Nym could be heard chuckling in the training room that cycle.. spinning around like a blade-dancer, perfecting the technique of basic whirlwind strikes..
So we parted company, on the last words of her telling me to hang a scarf from a tree if I ever changed my mind. Clearly she is expecting to still make use of me as well otherwise she would've killed me in order to prevent my hurting anyone.
It was time to find Breanna whom I knew had followed my invitiation and stumbled across our conversation..
-
Stepping from the spring on the mountain after bathing himself and going over to where his equipment was to dry himself and get dressed; Nym's relaxed body brought him back into his mind where his memories lay.
He recalled spending time with Breanna in Caliomel's.. she had similar tendancies that spoke of her soft upbringing and weaknesses.. just as easy to target and attack as Keela. He had saw this pattern often and it was disappointing, but expected.
That night however, went down a road he did not expect.. Xeenite wine, the evening, an elven female who claimed herself difficult with males and had never been intimate fell quite easily to his charms. He had expected her more resistant, but in the end he mused that she simply liked the wine too much to stop herself touching him.. and then that she liked what she felt too much to stop anything else. Perhaps it will return to bite him, surfacers never saw such intimate expressions between people the same as he or his kinddid.. but more importantly he wondered as to what would happen when that wretched archer discovered it. He seems determined to control Keela, likely Nym could expect some form of retaliation and accusation.. perhaps another torrent of transperant and poorly connected lies.
So far he had not been impressed with SeHky's web of lies he had spun over his companions about what Nym had done; but it provided a unique oppurtunity to find out where Keela stood in everything. Did she even know? Ofcourse she knew, unless she was totally ignorant of her husbands doings..
Would'nt surprise him, he thought as the final piece of his armor was in place and his things gathered so he could head off.
His final thought: "I wonder what thoughts are going around in Breanna's head after that .. surfacers do have some truly quaint notions when it comes to relations between two of different genders.."
-
Nym sits up in the bed silently.. staring into the darkness of the room blankly, seeing nothing as he considers the latest information he has on 'Stalker'.. rumored to be called "Tyra". His fingers quietly twirling the raven dark hair of the female lying to his side with her arm across him.
It seems this relationship has begun to pay off for me already, I have her name without any effort on my part.
He looks over at his equipment, even in the dark of room eyes can spot the wanted poster of Tyra.
Arrested.. even now her own people whom she thought herself protecting want to capture and persecute her. Silly creature, I had suspicions that she was merely deluding herself as to what she was, now its here to slap her across the face and make her realize the truth.
I should go speak with my Lord about this, verify the name to see if she is familiar to him.. if she comes calling, she will need new cards to play.
A cruel smirk crosses his lips, taking some pleasure in the thought of how Tyra must feel right now.
"A predator need only stumble once to become prey", he recalled the words of one of his several mentors; by far those were his favorite.
Still.. for this information I seem to be paying a higher price than I originally expected.
As he thinks to himself, he casts his eyes on the female snuggled up on his chest and shakes his head.
These creatures are all so soft.. yet I suppose I should endure their weaknesses because of the substantial benefit.... perhaps it will not be so bad if I let myself relax.. just another form of pleasure.. I suppose..
Movement outside the locked door in Caliomel's makes his head snap to its direction like a hunting cat that has caught wind of its prey, his eyes flaring briefly in alarm while a hand strays for the katana by the side of the bed.
Scratch that.. I have a new revelation.. I ~must~ have a death wish.
The creaking eventually heads away from the room they lie in, and he relaxes the dark frown on his face slightly, even though his body remains taut and ready to bring into action.
Atleast im not bored..
-
He stared for a long time, his breathing shallow and controlled even though his lungs burned to take in more air to help feed the muscles that had just been pushed to their limits..
It was the golden colour that surrounded the pupils of his prey that had held his attention; once brimming with passion and life when the Ranger had first realized what Nym was.. now all that remained was resignation and the attempt at a defiant last stare.
His grip was steady on his weapon.. fingers flexing subtely on the pommel while Quortek Ogrim's tip was pressing against the hollow of the elf's throat.
Not even the burning ache in his shoulder where the ranger had scored a solid hit was distracting him from looking deep into the soul of the man he was about to end.
The knelt and bleeding elf looked squarely into the crimson red eyes of the dark elf before him. "What are you waiting for Dark One.. I will not plead for my life from the likes of you. Do your worst.." The elf slowly shut his eyes.. the moment had passed.
The slick sound of metal sliding through meat and muscle, and the quiet, brief gurgle of the now dead elf filled Nym'roos' ears; followed soon after by the reverse sound of his blade sliding back out in one fluid motion.. letting the body slump against the cold, wet grass.. staining its healthy green colour with red..
Nym's own response was as cold and unfeeling as the breeze rustling through the leaves of the tree behind them: "Nor did I wish it.."
He wiped the blood off his blade using the blonde hair of his fallen opponent before walking away quietly, nothing but dead silence to break everytime his boot pressed into the ground..
"Were they innocent..?" Calylith's voice kept repeating over and over in his head like the rantings of two minds within one.
I know they all were, innocent of the crimes I was told to punish them for atleast, very few if any lived from the time when the dark elves were betrayed and driven underground.. but the hatred continued, and by the Command of Baraeon I felt my blood sing everytime I found an elf to do battle with.
Yet I have never enjoyed the kill in such a way that made me giddy as opposed to satisfied; and I knew that truly satisfying vengance brought such feelings, a dark pleasure, the exhilerating sensation of a most sweet victory.
I remember the harm I wrought on Keela's mind when she had tried to have m interrogated before my escape, I felt those sensations back then. They were not present when this elf had his soul sent it to the abyss..
It was as if his due was paid to his God in payment for the attentions he put on a certain number of pale-skins.. perhaps even the affections he placed on them, however faint.. perhaps thats why he always felt that satisfaction that came alongside the normal feelings after winning a battle.
With one hand he gives to those he starts to care for and with the other he takes a member of their race from the world.
He chose to no longer delude himself into thinking that he was killing for vengance over racial grievances, there was no exhileration or bliss when the life was taken away.. only a warrior's pride and the knowledge that everytime he fought a worthy foe.. one would grow and the other .. wither.
He had grown this night; not only in skill, but in his knowledge of his prey: Even the pale-skin Betrayers were no longer an 'Enemy' to slay.. not anymore.. not until they cause him a harm that he did not intend them.
They were just another Prey to hunt, albeit the most glorious of them all.. I know that now.
Having made camp in a clearing to tend the injury on his shoulder, several hours had passed before he saw travellers on the road. A family, more pale-skin traitors. A boy who had been playing with his brother, practising archery with their father when they too made camp in a different location to rest for the day. He stared across the way at the two youths, clearly the apples of their father's eye when it came to their passion for archery.
He had wondered, if he challenged and killed the father, would he slay the children when they picked up a weapon against him?
He knew there was no honour or glory in killing a child that has not had a chance to grow into something worthwhile; and he also knew that it would be nothing short of cold, pointless murder as the children could pose no real threat to him.
But did he not always say they lost their innocence the moment they picked up a weapon.. things were blurring into greys on this world, much like the sun did to his vision. Nothing was simple anymore and he looked back to his injury with an irritated frown. He would'nt kill them.. not unless truly forced to..
Perhaps I'll be faced eventually with that very dilemma, but it will not be this cycle.
His thoughts strayed to Breanna and a curiosity grew as to what she'll say to him in a few days time..
-
He has accepted my proposal just as I thought he would, it is unfortunate that I had fallen to the very last beholder after cleansing the entire dungeon of their presence with his aid to prove I was the best swordsman he owned.
Nevertheless, he wishes a force gathered and honed into an Elite private arm worthy of the Council of Eight. His test that they will have to pass is one of swordplay; to defeat Ni'haer in personal combat is to earn a chance to escape from under the heel of their present masters and escape to the surface, to become predators and killers without equal, to loot and raid for wealth and finally to be something other than another commoner in the streets.
I can give them what the arrogant Houses and Academies never gave them: a chance.
Ni'haer has everything he needs to outfit a small force no doubt, and I have the means to train them.
As for where we will be based, I will need to consult him on his preferences; since the Sanctuary cannot possibly hold us all and our activities without drawing attention.
It would have to be a harsh place; everthing including the environment is to be treated as your enemy. A place as close to the Deep as possible, but less dangerous so the recruits have time to grow under my care.
The method of arrival is now in my Lord's hands.. but how to go about recruiting them. A warrior spurned is a warrior invariably armed. Those arms must come from blacksmiths, and we will need one who can do that ~and~ fight in order to become more self-sufficient when cut off from our Lord and training in the wilderness. Perhaps that is where we should start. Some will invaraibly become rogues and thugs for hire if they can, street assassins to do the bidding of smaller nobles or fairly affluent commons.
A house of pleasure is likely another place to find such contacts.
I can even pop my head around the corner of the local Academies to see hopefuls get refused.. but invariably an Academy shuns them for their lack of potential.. something I would do as well. The breed I seek is unique, I need not sociopaths, morons or soft-hearted fools destined to die in the Test.
What I need: are those who are like the Dark Elves of old. Proud and warlike, I seek warriors whos desire to grow and reach their pinnacle is first and foremost in their mind, wealth and glory second.
I need those whom I know will function in the pack, when we are abandoned and forced to rely on our battle-brothers to keep us alive. There is no better way to forge the bonds within a group that make them capable of being an Elite bodyguard.. for coin can always be outbidded, fear is only there when the Master is strong, respect lasts only as long as you fail to make mistakes.. but trust...
It is a most exotic and rare commodity found only amongst the warrior and commoner castes of my people.. and even there, it is not found, but grown through common enemies and common allies.. and through spilling your blood together; the fires of combat in the furnace of battle and war will forge them.
Is it fortunate in a way I seek only to collect a handful, because I imagine growing such strong bonds between those within this little warband will take time, danger and pain.. something gathering too many at once would simply weaken.. not that such are easily found anymore amongst my kin or we would all have fielded forces such as these.
For now we will see how much of a hand Ni'haer will play in this, though I would rather he sat back from it. His presence is unlikely to attract the sort I intend to find as he would be just another noble that many would swarm to should he call. I do not have all the time in the world to sift through the trash he will attract to find the diamonds in the rough.. but if progress is truly slow, perhaps that will be what is necessary to complete the task he has set for me, even if it was not what I had originally intended.
A shame it would be, because we would both benefit better if I found exactly what I seek..
Time shall tell I suppose, in the mean time I must keep my blades sharp in preparation for this important gathering in the Deep.. one that rarely comes together except in times of great importance he says.
I feel excited and a small sense of foreboding as I realize that I will be close at his side through all that transpires.. and whoever said politics was boring clearly hadn't experianced how we do things..
-
Nym read the contents of the letter sent to him by Breanna. A goblet in his other hand of wine that had been mixed with a few drops of blood from the last Elven Ranger he had killed outside Mariner's Hold.
It seems the popular method of ending alliances on the surface is through the form of letters; as if they feared saying it to my face so greatly that they lost the nerve for such a gesture.
Interesting, perhaps it is because I struck Keela so brutally, however there were extenuating circumstances to that.
Nym folded up the paper and slipped it into a pouch for re-examination later, he hadn't the patience right now. He just sighed to himself, perhaps with some sense of unhappiness or lack of contentment in apart of his mind while staring out over the woods. He hated woods.
Her dark desires have turned into 'love'.. a very good reason to seperate herself from me and vice versa.
"Love is weakness, weakness is death."; as they say..
It is of no concern, I knew her similarities with Keela meant she would not be able to handle the temptations that offered themselves from being.. 'with me' as she said; and I was prepared this time for treachery.
I have always been prepared since I learnt that the surfacers are as fickle as my own kin when it comes their own ideals and concepts.
Even though this was no betrayal.. not truly, it still evoked some discontent in myself.
I had genuinely enjoyed her company and that of Calylith's, perhaps more than is safe and more than is fitting for a dark elf. That does not change things however.
Soft creature, but I do not despise her for her choice as I had at one point supported this very course of action.
Time shall tell, but atleast she picked a most fortuitous time, the gathering in the Deep and the possibilities of gathering a warband to train into Ni'haer's Bodyguard would'nt made things somewhat harder to conceal.. yet as always I had plans developed to make it work. They aren't needed now however and its one less distraction on my mind...... I suppose.
Nym rise from the campfire in the clearing and headed towards the coastal settlement of Mariner's Hold; he had enough of this place and his due to Baraeon was lying in the shadow of a tree somewhere, stone cold.
I wonder if she has the willpower to stay away..
-
I eventually found and confronted her, I had been disappointed she tried to achieve the same thing as Keela did in the same manner but thought to give her one last chance to keep my respect for her.
Eventually, after some harsh words and disdain for her tears and sobbing nonsense; when forced to choose she made her choice.
I was surprised she managed it as I had taken her to be as weak as her sister.
This however was not the only surprise I've had the 'pleasure' of discovering; Breanna was soon struck ill, unable to contain the contents of her stomach amongst dizziness and general weakness.
She is pregnant; a half-breed germinating inside of her womb.. with my blood coursing through its veins, mixing in with the watered down solution of the 'Wood Elves'.
Naturally my immeadiate reaction was to just kill the fetus and consider the matter closed and solved, but her attachment to it grew fast and she has become surprisingly protective of it.
Nevertheless, she would not have it and said that with or without my assistance, the child would be born and raised; her determination and stubborness on the matter was bemusing to behold and even sparked some admiration in me when I saw what she faced before her.
I doubt she could handle the methods I would use; I would be allowed to impart the strength of my race into it or leave it forsaken to soft, weak ways of its surfacer mother.. and 'auntie'.
Breanna had asked Caly to be present for the birthing and help raise the child, no doubt between the pair of them they will resist my methods and try and force a compromise. I have no doubt of their stubborness individually but with eachother for support..
Nym groans and his thoughts drift away into memory, trying to avoid thinking on the headache he will be getting in the future from that pair..
A dark laughter echoed from the balcony overseeing the training grounds, cruelty and sadistic pleasure ringing in the voices of the instructors as they loosed their malign pets on the young children.
"Run or die little ones! You will be of use to us as warriors or as carrion for our beasts!" The whip cracked, the howling began..
The dark elven youths, mostly male and few females that were often downtrodden and shunned in Nym's home fortress; were wide-eyed with terror as the wails and growls came from the dark cages that had been hauled onto the grounds.
He remembered the chill running down his spine as he took to flight with his classmates, ducking and weaving under obstacles strewn about to make the terrain even more chaotic than normal and the pursuit harder for the monsters at their heels.
He kept replaying the screams and horrible sounds of what happened everytime one of them had simply failed to evade the beasts that gave chase. They were sickening to imagine even as he ran, making him want to curl into a ball, shut his eyes tight and tell himself it wasn't real.
But he had no intention of dying like them, the beasts maimed their prey before death, playing with their food.. and he knew that to think of such things would bring a distraction he could ill-afford on his thoughts, he was stronger than this, he would endure, he would survive..
Before long he had found himself alone, walking quietly through a darker section that was no longer illuminated in witchlight or faerie fire; his breathe was ragged and heavy, his lungs burning and demanding even more air and increasing the noise that came with each intake. The young boy cupped his hands over his mouth, trying to drown out some of the sound lest one of the beasts hear him.
Over the high-rising stalagmites was a way back to the compound across the crossbow range, and sparring pits, leaving the others in whatever sections they'd ran into and hoping they'd taken the beasts with them..
As the thoughts raced through his mind, he found his body turning slowly.. hope and heart sinking in his chest as he heard the dripping sound behind him.. one of the beasts had found him...
Nym's attention shifted from memories back into the real world suddenly at as one of the House guards under Ni'haer's employ entered the training room and began practising.. Nym took himself and his thoughts elsewhere.
None of them know why our race is strongest of the elven peoples.. Breanna will find out soon enough unless she gives birth to a daughter; were that the case I would not be entirely sure what to do with a half-breed of the inferior gender. The fact I was going to aid her with the child was bad enough.. but I know next to nothing of surface females already, except how to please them.
If it were a daughter, flat-footed would be the only way to describe my position.
The easy option is always to give her to her mother to turn into a mage and be done with it..
-
Alot has come to pass since I last stopped in a dark, secluded place to meditate for longer than was necessary to revitalize. I realize this now that the brutality of the sojourn into the core of the Deep has made me restless and more prone to hunt, and definently more skilled in battle.
Amusing since it started off as things normally do, politics between the nobles, mages, Patriarchs etcetera and just generally very uninteresting.. aside from the constant glares going around as Ni'haer gave orders to those who would normally otherwise try taking out his tongue for being so bold as to command them.
The shock of it all was the children of the Wretch marching an army into the Deep to disrupt the gathering. It seems that our secluded little outpost was never truly as 'secluded' as we had thought.
Still, I had no reason to complain, a battle against the Betrayers alongside others of my kind.. and of such scale.. would be ~glorious~; and so it was.
I opted to join the rank-and-file rather than stand around overseeing or throwing commands around, much to Ni'haer's distaste.
I had experianced such at Sederra when the Deep Dwarf army met with the 'Cult', this time I would not be denied the thrill and rush of direct battle and war.
I had grown somewhat complacent with my born enemies on the surface because I was forced to mingle into them, but down here, surrounded by my own heritage, the memories of my youth and their teachings revitalised the burning ache to shed the blood of the betrayers and these dark elves would be good enough. I would go as far as saying I seek the blood of the betrayers over the paleskinned elves now.
Fond as the memories are, and enlightening as it is to see that the cowards still remember what they were taught; I found the journey from there and into the Deep the most gruelling.
Meeting god-spawn filth, Deep monsters, being hounded every so many hours by regular attacks from the A'zzatans.
Crossing sand filled pits and rivers lava, a decent for miles and miles down the side of a seemingly bottomless chasm only to find a city of demons.
Then having to hold out with all our entourage fallen over the course of the journey until only the stonebound remained.. Alsharniz and Xullyra too.. the rather enticing Matriarch of the Lost and stupid Prophetic brat who thinks he knows anything about warfare.
And it was there we made our stand, while Ni'haer and Steel fussed and faffed about over the intricacies of their deals with that wretched god-spawn, and the rules they had to follow with the prophecy.
A narrow victory it was when the portal to the realm of fire opened, directing its endless streams of lava at the behest of its new master.
Voltrex. Voltrex was to burn, a lesson in why you never show mercy to a foe you once betrayed, for they will come back one day and take their due revenge. The thoughts of the retribution however was a hard one to swallow, thoughts of Breanna and Calylith were at the back of my mind and I could not help but wonder if they would ever find out it was us that struck such a crippling blow to their Sun Elf cousins.. would they even care? Ofcourse they would.. even fi it was war, 'innocents' would burn.
Oh well, they were a foolish people and their own aloofness would be the reason so many suffer from this strike. Weakness has festered and it would be their own downfall.
I put the thoughts from my mind and decided to rest and recover.. and perhaps give thought to Alsharniz since she had suggested she may wish a male to give her a child.
And so the journey went on, on and on through the lava tubes that had been cleard and up to the surface, many were starting to question our sudden march to the surface.. to the isle of the Sun Elves.
As steel rightly pointed out, we had no army on the march and no word to gather one and have them meet us, they had no way to find us in the twisting underworld of the Deep and we all knew it.
None had suspected.. except perhaps Ni'haer and Xullyra.
An army born of the Priestess, and what a gory sight it was; but I refuse to think back on this moment; the idiot Xullyra saw this gift from Baraeon destroyed in a foolhardy assault onto Voltrex, costing us the element of surprise and labelling us as connected if not the cause of their homeland's destruction. The moron has no right to survive the coming events, and if his connection to my Lord ever severs, if his usefulness abates; I'll see to it personally. He has none of my respect any longer.
Nym's thoughts shift to his meeting with Alsharniz after she sent him a personal invitation to her new bastion that she was granted in exchange for the part her and hers played in the Prophecy.
Perhaps.. what was done on that journey has presented me with a most unique advantage here; I shall keep the Matriarch of the Lost in mind for the future, I see an interesting path if circumstances should ever change.
-
Nym had grown more accustomed to his darker nature since his rescue from the jails of the human filth in Wayfare. His reverie's and reviews of his memories always took him to the darker experiances of his life; and when he decided to take the more human method that was unnecessary to the elves, and for some, arguably impossible in its truest form: Nym half-slept but still his mind wandered itself.
He glanced down at his palms where the stakes had been driven through him; he remembered the sensation when they crippled him at the kneecaps and he remembered the hot rush of his own blood leaking in crimson rivlets from his tear ducts and ears from the magical barrage his body endured on its 'homecoming'. What he had always wondered since that cycle, he supposed, was how much of him wished to give Breanna a fate of his own design that mimicked his suffering and humilation in captivity with the humans; how much he simply believed she didn't deserve the much less 'conservative' attentions of his Master; and how much he simply wanted to frustrate and anger Ni'haer with defiance during the torture. Did it even matter truly? Ofcourse not but it was something to ponder nonetheless.
Stepping over the corpse of a fallen bandit, Nym subconsciously played his fingertips across the armouring on his left arm, where magical runes of dark elven writing had tatooed themselves all around in swirling red scripture. A reminder to go with his memories from the 'Sanctuary'. Even as he briefly remembered the meaning of what was written on his arm his thoughts abruptly strayed to the fair-haired elven sorceress of whom he had a rather carnal knowledge of. She had taken a more sensible approach to trying to sever the physically intimate aspect of their friendship, unlike her dark-haired counterpart; speaking with him at length of her desire for love and affection and a family. He remembered the twist and turn the conversation eventually what it led into.. Nym caught himself snarling without conscious thought and turned, marching back across the treetop platforms of the Misted Village which was now slicked with artistic, random streaks and poolings of red liquid. The exhausted sources of 'paint' lying where they were slain in Nym's sudden midnight 'visit'.
He had a craving that gnawed within him since his dual capture and the tribulations suffered at the hands of enemy and ally both. He always loved the dance of battle, felt exhilerated with the rush of victory and the most fondest of memories were of the grand engagements that took place far below the wretched, sun-kissed surface. Now however, he craved it as an outlet for rage, jealously and anger as well. Where martial skill and strategy and even some rather naive' senses of honourable duels to the death sated his intellectual and artistic desires out of life; now he needed a place where the bite of the serpent that coiled around his heart could be unleashed.. these bandits and the trollecs nearby served as decent whetstones for him, disorganized and divided as they were. Still he sought a change and he would need to take the time to sit and think on this by himself. It was useful then, that Calylith chose now as a time to seek out a proper relationship with another.. and it most certainly played a part in his letting her go without issue. It gave him the time to think and what were years to the members of the long-lived and venerable elven races? All the more so when their souls were bound to the Stone.
-
He sat in a dark corner of one of Vehl's inns, seeking solace amongst the shady denizens of the Fort where he would be less noticable to figures of law and foolish do-gooders looking for monsters to slay.
A strange pair of encounters had come by him recently, both with a fiery red-headed human who wielded a katana. She was young, quite attractive and very suspicious of him. He recalled how the encounter soured when she believed him to be following her and how she flung insults wildly and with such venom and hostility. It went quickly from bad to worse when her pride and provocative nature led to a quick drawing of weapons and her promptly being down on the floor and disarmed. Nym had never been one to torture or take pleasure in pain and often gave his enemies swift deaths as he believed was deserving of warriors. It was interesting then, as he reflected on this event, as to whether he simply find the brazen youth suicidally arrogant and with knowledge of her stone-binding, not worth dying at his hand or alternatively.. did he just want to hurt her. He could've knocked her out and humiliated her in some manner, Vehl was nearby at the time and she had been beaten easily enough. Instead he opted to wound her leg gravely, driving her own sword through her thigh before tossing it aside and leaving her to crawl to the nearest settlement for aid, or tend it herself if she had the means.
Did he give her a chance to avoid fighting off the soul mother because she wasn't worthy of dying at his hand; as raw and unproven as she was.. not to mention a waste of looks. Or perhaps he just wanted to lash out a member of the human race that provoked him, it did not take much to rouse his darker impulses lately.
Nevertheless he bumped into the young female again, training in the arena. He was surprised to see her there and decided to watch her style, which he deemed to be despicably poor in quality, especially for such a delightful weapon design like the katana. After another brief exchange of taunts and cold words; the effect of which led to her being angry and him being entertained at her frustration, Nym decided he could take the shameful sight no more and showed the female how to properly use a katana with a shield in hand, basic points from which she could develop upon. It would be much more satisfying to bring down a worthy opponent then it was to simply push over the upstart, and he had no doubt he would probably maim or kill her again if their paths met.. she clearly liked to push buttons and his were all too easy to reach these days.
-
Nym stood over the bloodied figure of a pirate, his billowing white shird dirtied with sand and blood as a craggy, fat hand clutched at a neat rent in his gut. The amount of blood that should've poured from the wound was surprising little, the edges of the torn flesh showing signs of frostbite.
He was dying, there was no doubt about it, the pirate quivering and staring up fearfully at the red-eyed demon that stood over him.. or atleast Nym reckoned he appeared as such if the victim's eyes were anything to go by.
"Please.. p-ease don'.." The man's words were interrupted first by a bloody cough, and then by Nym's razor-sharp blade; edge singing to the dark elf's ears as it parted flesh as easily as air, a masterfully crafted weapon couresty of the Angel's Guild.
A head falling unceremoniously into the sand, with a body following suite not long after.
Nym strolled past the other fallen pirates, eyes on the chest that contained a bounty that the pirates had intentions of hiding for collection later when it was safer.
Using a shirt from one of the pirates as a makeshift bag, he poured the coins into it and slung it over his shoulder, intent on carrying it back to Center for the Vault Keeper to deposit in the account name belonging to 'Caenthras'.
He was stepping over one of the female pirates when he noticed an oddity about her neck: a locket. With a brow arched he knelt down and easily pulled it from her slashed neck, opening and inspecting the picture of some human man. Dark, cold eyes flicked between the portrait and the peaceful expression on the woman's face. It stood to reason that such a thing is not something pirates would carry with them or have made during their present career and the regality within it suggested a suitor of the past, or perhaps a dead loved one. A likely cause for her to decend into piracy due to a lack of prospects or built-up grief that twisted into anger, he thought.
Tossing the locket onto the fire of the campsite, he left the camp, reminded of Calylith only because of the fallen woman's blonde hair.
He wondered to himself how she fared with the male that courted her.
Nym did not know his name despite asking most politely, and remembered with amusement that she seemed fearful of what would happen to the paleskin should Nym find him.
I wonder if her 'healing' left room for her to be content with normality. Perhaps I should ask her..
Walking along the road with the moon high in the sky, the dark warrior moves with the usual measured precision and grace that now comes naturally to him; it was as if nothing had happened upon the beaches of Windjammer Bay at all.
-
Shortly after sending off a falcon with a letter, Nym turns and boards a ship headed for the port-city of Mariner's Hold in Sagewald. His thoughts upon the possibility of being contracted and once again tasting a warrior's bliss of battle.
The human spoke of a conflict he was trying to prevent between two kingdoms and the rumors I'vebeen hearing of the war must mean that he refers to the Sagewald/Tau'ren conflict. I do so hope he failed in his endeavours as the sensation of battle is something I miss greatly.
Personal feelings aside I sense an oppurtunity here for both profit and recognition, even if it be within mercenary elements in and around the city.
The thought of siding with humans in this conflict irks me but I cannot let that stand in the way of so many benefits I would gain; afterall I'll be killing humans on the other side so that should allieviate the distasteful sensations of taking orders from them.
Coin, renown, experiance, contacts; all are valuable commodities and that slip of paper handed to me by the mercenary 'Steel' did have a few very insightful if somewhat obvious points in it. That there are many forms of payment, such a thing requiring to be written attests to the stupidity he must've been surrounded with upon leaving his infernal birthing ground.
Either way, I aided a Lord with locating items for his love and he gave me a writ of patronage for my participation, something I may use in the future for a small favor.. I shall see what a noble's word is worth in time, I suppose..
Still, nothing may come of it, or worse: disaster. Nevertheless I have never led a risk-free life and do not plan on beginning one just yet.
Nym headed below deck, and took reverie in the dark sanctuary of his rented ship-quarters.
I wonder whether she will reply to the letter..
-
His mind was set on its new path, the path of the mercenary, the sell-sword; an oppurtunity for both blood and coin to pour through his hands and with it, she had returned to his side and had agreed to leave behind the lightling ways of the surface and their foolish expectations of what an elf should wish to experiance in life and what they should'nt.
Leaving whatever failed lover she had behind after speaking with him and listening to his words, he considered himself a rather smooth talker since it was always her that held the power of persuasion. Nevertheless he now had another to walk his new path with, someone who may in time become just like him.. even if only in temperment and personality.
Betrayer or no, her powers and company were always welcomed and even more so in light of recent events and.. urges.
A surfacer she was born however and the notions one learns young are hard to erase, and so she still clings to some foolish sensibilities that he now flirts with discarding; all the same she need not join into anything she did not wish.
He fancied that aside from his obviously attractive and charismatic self, the way in which he offered freedom, danger and excitement in many forms was something even pragmatic females could'nt refuse. The lesser gender were ruled by impulse and emotion as he had so far seen.. not that he was going to complain.
-
Nym sat alone against a wall within a cave, sheltered from light and attention.
Thoughts raced through his mind, reviewing his first act as a mercenary; he had asked nothing beyond what he needed to know to make the operation go smoothly and so he could recognise his targets without error... without witnesses. Stealth was not his forte, but there was no room to seem off-balance, and he had accepted without batting an eyelash at the parameters of his contract.
He was determined to prove that he could become an asset to those willing to pay and who may in the future provide him a path to infamy. The first mission seemed a success according to the coin purse tied from his belt. He had left no one alive capable of saying anything more than 'male' except for the girl, and she had not seen his face, nor heard his voice. He could'nt say the same for those who hired him but that was not his problem. Not yet, probably not ever.
His thoughts turned to the anomoly in his actions that night..
"Please.. just please him alone, he's a good man."
He had felt nothing.
"Please! She's just a child!"
He didn't care. There was no place for such feelings, success in this was paramount to him and so long as no one got in his way and insisted on causing him trouble, nobody would die.
She tried to scream, the blade was at her throat.. risk of detection and absolute failure was certain if she managed half a second of voicing her fear aloud.
"I should have cut her throat.." He sighed.
Nym was not a natural sabutour or assassin, but every dark elf knew the basics even if they were not specifically trained to master such things. Infiltrating the property and completeing his objectives while having to avoid raising an alarm was nightmare enough; especially for one who did not dabble in magic beyond the power stored within arcane items, nor had any professional skill at stealth. Still he spared the maid, knocked her out cold even though it cost him a second more to draw back his arm and strike just enough to make it a clean knock out without any permenant damage. It was a risky action to spare her life, but he knew from the moment he put the blade to her neck, that he didn't want to do it.. killing unarmed women and children was not something he did, though perhaps this path would change him. It was different for the other one, there was no alternative but to strike or be detected. He did so without hesitation, darting across the room like a shadowy assassin and cleanly cutting the throat before the male servant even had any chance of raising the alarm. He doused the torches and their treacherous light, blessed darkness.. and secrecy.
Calylith would not have approved of this contract, though he spared the maid and did the girl no harm; it was a good thing she was not present in his mind.
Maybe she could've tolerated the killing of the Elven House Guard, doubtful the male servant.. but the little girl would've gotten to her definently, regardless of the fact Nym did her no harm.
"Ahh.. the elven guards, Baraeon would be pleased by this latest endeavour certainly."
Nym's conscious often needed sating, he was a believer in his diety like many of his kind and had the heart of a warrior. He had been responsible for the deaths of many an A'zzatan traitor, Elven Ranger and Voltrexian Soldier. So long as his god's creed was served, traitor blood spilt, he felt no qualms about his fratinisation with Calylith. He would do as he pleased with her as he had, in his eyes, paid for the right in blood and lives many times over.
He suspected he would bring death to many more in the future, otherwise there is no explanation as to why He had spared Nym as a youth; all had to be true dark elves in their core before they were permitted the right to live and Nym, apparently, was one, despite his weaknesses and misdirected hatred.. he saw elves as the ultimate kill and fully deserving of it rather than the hated eternal enemy that his soul yearned to ruin as a whole. But as a warrior, this he supposed, coincided with his god's wishes. So long as Nym was eager to bring them pain and death, his reasons probably didn't matter. He's a tool in the end.. right?
-
Word reached him that some of Ni'haer's House were mobilising to work with their old 'friends' soon, and Nym could feel the burning call to join his brothers and sisters and strike out into the night of the surface to perform whatever bloody, cruel deeds his Master would command. He was a born killer, adaptable in his style, much like the Wolf Spider. Rather than building a web and waiting in it for his prey, he preferred to move and hunt; adaptable and useful in a group, but able to survive and fight on his own which was more often than not. Nomadic in his movements, from one hunting ground to the next as it pleased him. Ironic that the title: wolf spider, blended in, if only in name with the wolves and their packs. He often referred to the pack or brood when instructing others about how the dark elves fight. That personal plots and rivalries are best settled after the common foe is defeated. Ofcourse it was only half-true, sacrificing your rival to the enemy in such a manner that it brings about a chance to end your open opponent swiftly as well as your kin is commendable.. though advertising it is stupid.
In this case the brood was gathering, for whatever purpose.. but he did not come, he did not answer its dark calling. His Lord's ire may be raised, if not ire then suspicion as to where his wayward retainer may've gotten to, Nym'roos was not particularely interested. He had taken pains to avoid his master's agents and operate alone. It was infact, his anger towards Ni'haer for torturing him was what made him shun the news.
Let the foolish sorcerer do as he pleases, he has enough bootlicks to keep him safe from harm while he galavants across the surface. I have my own business to attend to.
Alone in another dark cave, somewhere where the light of the sun cannot touch him, he protected his ability to see perfectly in natural darkness lest he become more like an A'zzatan.. adapted to the light and one step further from their heritage. He had to make sure his time out in the daylight was not extensive, sucha boon made him all the more effecient as a killer.. since most of the surface world did not possess such a trait.
His thoughts turned to his exploits and options.. the organization that tested him, and when they would call upon him again. He thought of the Human wars between their Kingdoms of Sagewald and Tau'ren, the possibility of more coin and possible some infamy should they accept him into their ranks and he perform to the peak of his abilities.
Perhaps he should eventually contact the Queen of the Lost, inquire as to whether their meetings of lust gave her a child; find out whether his own kin beneath the surface plan anything that he might lend his blade to and be recognised for.. not to mention compensated.
The Lord who owed him a favor, Nym still had the writ, he could make use of that perhaps at some point during this; if nothing else and the Lord refused to give his aid to whatever Nym asked, it would be a slight to remember and take vengance for, this time the vengance would be more painful then the humiliation Breanna suffered at Duchess' abode as a pet.
For all this though, he noted that once his debt for his new equipment was paid in full, he should turn the rest of his finances into customizing his dark elven warplate.. though sucha thing was expensive, black metal alone was becoming associated with him, aliases were being discovered to belong to him and some, if only a few surfacers, KNEW he was a dark elf. Time to change, hopefully before he was called upon again. Perhaps it was time to adopt some dark greens and reds.. a faceplate to hide his features, chainmail neckguard.. blood red armor, it would make him more memorable to the enemy when he started cutting a bloody wound through their units; though something less obstructive. A few pieces had to go for the sake of his ability to move, not to mention it would also decrease the cost of having such armor modified. His leathers could stay black, such served him when he needed speed and stealth in the darkness.
Midnight is nigh; orcs can be heard in the gorge below, picking over the dead from a tribal conflict no doubt.. there wasn't many judging by what Nym's keen hearing could discern. The prey has wandered to close to the spider's burrow it seems.
Blades flash, blood falls, death stalks the night.
-
It had been a while since Nym stopped to reflect in the darkness, alone only in the sense that the only other creature in the bedchamber was lost in reverie in her own bed.
He had doused the candles and the moon was high in the nightsky outside the sorceresses home. An array of weapons lay neartly assembled on the desk against one of the walls. Shortblades with enchantments of swiftness lay naked on dark silk next to a long, curved and vicious dagger. Throwing knives with dark runes of debilitation carved into them rested apart from each other and the variety of other weapons, seperated by exact distance intervals. Several other tools, meticolously clean and reflectant remained hidden in the shadows with the rest; devices that could kill but were truly designed to create choruses of pain and reach crescendos of agony. In the center of the arrangement, flanked either side by his two cherished blades: Vharcan & L' In'thuul Uss.. was a journal he had found.
Divulging its secrets to him without the permission of his slumbering companion once he had stumbled across it after having maintained and cleaned the assortment of sharp 'tools'.
He had read it swiftly, and had overcome his initial surprise at finding such an unbelievably indulgent excess such as this.. a record of one's feelings and most private thoughts. So much information ripe for the taking simply for the sake of sentimentality. That was what the memory in one's mind was for but yet again the paleskinned cousins of his people displayed their naivete and weakness without fail in yet another form.
Such thoughts caused him to look over at the covered, naked and sublime form of the elven sorceress in her own bed.. blissfully unaware to the gross invasion of her privacy due to her own folly. Two-fold it was for not only did she actually record them and fail to lock them away properly.. she had taken the long road of sleep which gave him plenty of time to indulge his own curiosities provided he was quiet.
She in herself was a fairly inferior specimen of the opposite gender, ruled by emotion, naive', possessed of a number of psychological weaknesses, beholden to ridicolous concepts of right/wrong/good/evil and ultimately very delicate emotionally if one knew where to strike. She did however possess a strong connection to the flow of Al'noth, and incredibly attractive. Two of his pet likes.
He closed the journal and placed it back in the drawer, his thoughts on its contents and what he experiances of her personally.. connecting dots and analysing the sort of female he was currently bedding in greater detail than he would have otherwise been able to. He noted, for the first time.. that if she was attentive to the details of one's words.. that she was not strictly infertile. He was curious about that considering her previous entry about lost hope and all that drivel. He admired her strength of character in being able to take control of herself despite the pressures of everything around her and the dire consequence.. and price she believed she paid.
On top of that he amused himself with the entries she had concerning him and the traitor Breanna, sending a brief surge of spite coursing along his muscles. What amused him most however, was his confrontation of himself, and the overwhelming evidence before him.. that he had a tendancy towards becoming infatuated with pale-skinned, emotional, inferior, magical females that would through one method or another.. find a way to drive his mind into thoughts of strangulation. Though he would leave the jury out on whether he wanted to strangle himself or them in frustration sometimes.
Zarianna was definently a strong candidate for the top stop of "Driving Nym to Distraction" with her insatiable curiosity and persistant, stubborn pursuit of knowledge about him. Her sense of 'fashion' (and inability to not chase after him about his own attire) and unbelievable vexing ability to stream and endless line of jibes, dramatic sighs, teases and overly happy expressions this way and that; to name a few. It even intensfied when coupled with encouragement from her half-brother.
She also, apart from her own unique mannerisms shared many similarities with the other strongest candidate: Calylith.
Both were fair, golden-haired, strong-willed, stubborn, sorceresses ruled by emotion etcetera etcetera. Not to mention they both had a rather scalding affinity for fire spells that every now and then managed to break his natural resistance to magic. They also, both, had the infuriating inability to actuall control what they unleash.. something they would have been tortured for in the deep and killed if they did not learn. It was why learned mages were preferred to the innate mages, and generally rose higher; but some sorcerers indeed could achieve great heights with control and cunning.. especially when they did not main their allies with careless spellweaving.
His eyes narrowed at the peaceful figure causing him to let out a quiet sigh of frustration, both at her for inexcusably poor control over her own growing might and at himself for his attraction towards danger. But since he knew the most likely fate that awaited him was one that ended in darkness, blood and a grisly end.. he may as well burn a bright flame while it still has fuel to feed it. His mind however soon wandered to a missive he had hidden away in his cloak that arrived by falcon on Zarianna's window while she was out. An unusually elusive old flame had decided to 'resurface' at her convenience and after their minor spat in Center.. hinted at wanting to reconnect.
He would have to consider it.. and he did so while packing away the deadly arsenal that was splayed out across a desk in a house devoted to art, music, love, inspiration and passion. Ironic that everything on this table could create and inspire those very things in a dark, perverted sense of their stereotypical meaning. He fancied it was rather like him in her home.. a Dark One in the home of a family of Moon Elves.
-
Nym studied his face in the mirror, the room sparsely lit by candlelight which in truth he had no use for; his eyes mastered darkness the day he was born. He tried to recognise himself in the mirror but the face that was his seemed alien. How long has it been since he stopped and looked at a reflection and saw who he was? He settled on too long.
His mind felt fractured or compartmentalized, sections of memories and even personalities stored away in his elven brain, divided between his various lives. Lost, Nym, Nym'roos Claddana, Caenithral/Aerenir, Sar'thaal; the lives he had led in his short time on Layonara felt blurred. The lines between reality and fiction fading out as if they were drawn on sand that suffered the predation of the wind.
He turned and looked at the sleeping form of a Dar'thiiri sorceress, the object of fantasy, she had finally succumbed to weariness and the lure of shelter from heartache. He looked back in the mirror and knew she would cast him out for revealing the truth, it was the only response he could imagine likely from her once their last night was spent. A pleasant fiction Nym'roos called it; a better life Nym said, Aerenir and Caenthral just thought their host was a total moron. He liked those two.. they were the cynnical version of him given form in totality; the ones that cared nothing hither or tither, gods nor politics nor ancient grudges. What they want they took. Lost simply remained silent, judging silently while Sar'thaal urged him to drown his pain in the blood of others. Which life and which personality was his? He had become so involved with his various acts he was starting to lose sight in the absense of his Master and in the presence of the natives. He was growing soft..
He focused back on less qualitative musings, he reviewed what he had done. His foolishness with letting Zarianna asks questions she knew better than to ask. His risky appearance in public so that she would have a fond memory of their time together regardless of future complications which now arose. His rise to Qu'el'saruk in the House and his cadre of warriors who answered first to Ni'haer and second to him. His scheme of revenge against the Unseen Legion that crossed him and his plans for Arnax and power.
He felt like a juggler that struggled to maintain a truly impressive act, and so his mind felt thin; stretched like butter over too much bread. Too many personalities and expectations; he had to end it before it crashed down around him, and already Nym was being buried under the rubble of the fantasy with Zarianna.
Kalan'drira nearly discovered him, she forced his hand to demonstrate his superiority and in goading him, she revealed herself as something with the power to cause the end of it all. One word to Ni'haer and likely he could crush her as well, and that would be enough to call an impasse. But the pride, the anger. He pushed back until she shoved, and when she shoved she found herself upon the torture rack.. and she learnt the darkness that lay within him; the darkness Baraeon saw in him when he came of age, coiling around his heart alongside his vindictive nature. Sadism. The rule of Sar'thaal blurred into Nym'roos Claddana's personality, torture became pleasure when it should be just a tool; that rule that promised a hateful vengance upon those that crossed him, and so he unleashed upon her in full. She submitted to him, more than he expected for she seemed utterly willing to surrender herself now. Perhaps it was honor? The realisation she lived anything resembling life due to his mercy? Dark elves had that, twisted and distorted from the pathetic moral compasses of the surfacers, they had something akin to honor.
And Baraeon... he had started to lose his faith, was still in the process of doing so. Every other dark elf in the Deep seemed to put their personal ambition before faith.. so why should he not? Spiders were just prey, like dark elves, like light elves, like humans and like dwarves. But vengance, that was apart of him that would always keep him tied to the darkness, even if only loosely at the rate he was going. That might have also brought him closer to her, and yet he was evil; an outcast, a monster.
He looks at Zari and notices his her shiver, keen eyes seeing glisten of sweat on her brow even in the darkness and so he approaches. He gently wipes the sweat with a wet rag and lays beside her, covers her, holds her. A pleasant fiction that crumbles with the passing of every second. A night to a human.. a blink of an eye to an elf. How he wished he could slow time down..
-
Nym studied his face in the mirror, the room sparsely lit by candlelight which in truth he had no use for; his eyes mastered darkness the day he was born. He tried to recognise himself in the mirror but the face that was his seemed alien. How long has it been since he stopped and looked at a reflection and saw who he was? He settled on too long.
His mind felt fractured or compartmentalized, sections of memories and even personalities stored away in his elven brain, divided between his various lives. Lost, Nym, Nym'roos Claddana, Caenithral/Aerenir, Sar'thaal; the lives he had led in his short time on Layonara felt blurred. The lines between reality and fiction fading out as if they were drawn on sand that suffered the predation of the wind.
He turned and looked at the sleeping form of a Dar'thiiri sorceress, the object of fantasy, she had finally succumbed to weariness and the lure of shelter from heartache. He looked back in the mirror and knew she would cast him out for revealing the truth, it was the only response he could imagine likely from her once their last night was spent. A pleasant fiction Nym'roos called it; a better life Nym said, Aerenir and Caenthral just thought their host was a total moron. He liked those two.. they were the cynnical version of him given form in totality; the ones that cared nothing hither or tither, gods nor politics nor ancient grudges. What they want they took. Lost simply remained silent, judging silently while Sar'thaal urged him to drown his pain in the blood of others. Which life and which personality was his? He had become so involved with his various acts he was starting to lose sight in the absense of his Master and in the presence of the natives. He was growing soft..
He focused back on less qualitative musings, he reviewed what he had done. His foolishness with letting Zarianna asks questions she knew better than to ask. His risky appearance in public so that she would have a fond memory of their time together regardless of future complications which now arose. His rise to Qu'el'saruk in the House and his cadre of warriors who answered first to Ni'haer and second to him. His scheme of revenge against the Unseen Legion that crossed him and his plans for Arnax and power.
He felt like a juggler that struggled to maintain a truly impressive act, and so his mind felt thin; stretched like butter over too much bread. Too many personalities and expectations; he had to end it before it crashed down around him, and already Nym was being buried under the rubble of the fantasy with Zarianna.
Kalan'drira nearly discovered him, she forced his hand to demonstrate his superiority and in goading him, she revealed herself as something with the power to cause the end of it all. One word to Ni'haer and likely he could crush her as well, and that would be enough to call an impasse. But the pride, the anger. He pushed back until she shoved, and when she shoved she found herself upon the torture rack.. and she learnt the darkness that lay within him; the darkness Baraeon saw in him when he came of age, coiling around his heart alongside his vindictive nature. Sadism. The rule of Sar'thaal blurred into Nym'roos Claddana's personality, torture became pleasure when it should be just a tool; that rule that promised a hateful vengance upon those that crossed him, and so he unleashed upon her in full. She submitted to him, more than he expected for she seemed utterly willing to surrender herself now. Perhaps it was honor? The realisation she lived anything resembling life due to his mercy? Dark elves had that, twisted and distorted from the pathetic moral compasses of the surfacers, they had something akin to honor.
And Baraeon... he had started to lose his faith, was still in the process of doing so. Every other dark elf in the Deep seemed to put their personal ambition before faith.. so why should he not? Spiders were just prey, like dark elves, like light elves, like humans and like dwarves. But vengance, that was apart of him that would always keep him tied to the darkness, even if only loosely at the rate he was going. That might have also brought him closer to her, and yet he was evil; an outcast, a monster. She wanted him to be good, to give up what came naturally to him, for her. If it were as simple as she made it, maybe he might even try it. A life where you are respected as well as feared, a life where you might enjoy happiness without worrying about being killed for a lapse in your guard, a life where you could afford the luxury of trust.. it was so enticing.. but the reality strikes him in the face. It is not that simple.
He looks at Zari and notices her shiver; keen eyes seeing the glisten of sweat on her brow even in the darkness, and so he approaches. He gently wipes the sweat with a wet rag and lays beside her, covers her, holds her. A pleasant fiction that crumbles with the passing of every second. A night to a human.. a blink of an eye to an elf. How he wishes he could slow time down..
-
It had nearly been a year since Zarianna and him had last seen each other; time in the Deep did not flow as quickly as it did on the surface, human slaves expired but society itself flowed in accordance with the timeframes of older, superior entities. In that time he had returned to Xull with his Lord, met that foul little wretch of a God-send and then assisted in the assassinations and schemes that his Master had developed in order to officially declare themselves a House of the city. Further more, he had then been placed in charge of arranging security, training, protocols and rank amongst all those under his command before the merger. Once Ni'haer took a wife however, his duties became two-fold and he was forced to compensate and calibrate everything to accomodate such a union.
His time however had not been wholly unpleasant although everyone had noticed his sombre, foul mood upon beginning their journey home. He was the odd one out, the only one that was not overjoyed to return. Kalandri'ira had officially accepted her public role as his consort and plaything, though everyone knew she was also one of the Apprentices learning to be a Weapon Master. Once their homecoming had been done and the first assassinations moved out of the way, it had been life as normal in Xull. The odd attempt on his life, security, training, pleasure dens, slave markets, screaming Deep Gnomes forced to endure the simplest, to some truly creative and horrible, tortures. Narcotic vapours, alcohol, duels of honor that demanded someone of position to oversee in accordance with the few rules that did exist to keep the subtle or dim-witted off balance (and everyone else entertained). It was good to be in a place where creatures existed that could live and die at your whm and no one would blink twice or ask why, where violent or hedonistic impulses were not considered evil or abnormal, where beauty and elegance was considered the norm; he had missed it even as he missed her.
Nonetheless, he yearned to return to the surface. It was not quite due to missing Zarianna per say; that had always nagged at him and usually led to taking his consort to the bed or whatever slave girl was on hand. No, he had understood her rejection of him and so the Nym he was with her had shrunken and shrivelled into the background to make room for the more appropriate personalities. But he did want to settle accounts with the Legion, and he wanted to be free of his Master's service, and his Master's 'Master' who he knew could not possibly be the Chosen One or whatever other unholy prophetic nonesense was fortold. He was a warrior, and not a superstitious one at that; the war in Voltrex and the problems arising with the Mother would rob him of his chance at personal payback, petty though some might consider it. A small slight, but no slight is too small to seek recompense, but the more he thought about it the more he realised it was a means to an end. To power and freedom. Freedom to find a way to shield himself from that psychotic Prophet, Ni'haer and even Pit-Spawn who considers himself the teacher and guide in this.
So he left Ash'arok in charge, one of his best disciples and an adept of the katana. It had given him quite a headstart but he suspected with a new House Weapon Master needed, and the rebuilding before the inevitable attacks on the House begin to curb his power; Ni'haer would be far too busy to track down his deserting retainer. What he did not count on, but found he did not have the heart to leave to suffer at Ni'haer's side, was Kalandri'ira. In a way he never would have taken her along had he been returning to Zarianna's side, he did not want to think of what would go on were they ever to make each other's aquaintance (or what he would do to Kala were she to harm Zari's mind or body in any way) but leaving her seemed a cruelty she did not warrant. His new retainer infact, had seemed quite taken with him since he had flayed her, more taken than a dark elven female normally is with their master; it put HIM off-balance and made him wary.
But he was not returning to Zarianna's side, or Leringard for that matter. She wanted him gone and so he would go, back to Arnax. Kalandri'ira would help him wreak vengance upon his enemies and carve his retribution into the memory of Arnax's shadowy crime syndicate's that they would know to fear his ire. In return, his retainer would serve him as directed by her blood oath, on pain worse than death but she would still have someone that would watch over her, teach her, guide her and if she stayed faithfully.. free her. He fancied that he might even throw in the bonus of returning to the Deep with her for a time in which to bring about a spite-filled and bloody revenge upon those that had crossed Kalandri'ira's family and foolishly allowed her to survive. No better than the dar'thiiri failure really, it deserved a brutal retort.
But for now, he needed to decide on the path that would make him a little too dangerous to be worth killing, and a little too useful as a potential ally to exterminate for all those he had run from. Except it is never that simple, and he knew from campaigning and war that plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. Were life simple, he might not have ever returned to the Deep again.
-
Nym sat in the darkness of a burnt out building; tending with shaky hands, a wound that bled from his side and sent foul necromantic magic through his muscles to temporarily sap what little strength he had. In time, proper medical care and the magical healing artifacts he possessed, and knew how to tap into, restored him to health.
He laid his head back against the wall behind him feeling the cold, charred and splintered frame grate against the back of his head even as his hair cushioned the most of it. The pull for reverie was strong; his body needed it, and his mind was incensed with a burning desire to discover why it was that he had changed his mind about letting them all die at the last second. His demeaning and degrading duty was door watching, the test of his ability to take orders even when they come from the stupid. He knew he was more used to following the worthy and intelligent or leading than he was to simply shut down and follow orders like an automaton.The darkness drew in soon after his eyes closed and his self-reprimand died down, the unsettling quiet of that city section falling away to nothingness..
The sounds of fighting and and killing echoed throughout the front of the Unseen Legion; he watched the storm of the warehouse wipe out the initial resistance, Blood Fist bludgeoning Legion to death as they tried feebly to fight back or flee.
He looked to the street again turning his back to the slaughter, there was nothing and so he waited and listened. Wood splintered, bone shattered, organs ruptured and flesh tore. The screaming died down to a chorus of new battle cries.. he turns to look.
More Unseen Legionnaires poured forth from the backrooms, outnumbering and surrounding the Blood FIst, he recognises the immeadiate danger, the lack of space to swing weapons the Fist favoured should they lose their spacing and be forced to bunch together; they held their own. Impressive.
He turns to regard the street still nothing, perhaps the Legion guards are all within?
The fighting continued, time passed, and the street remain unchanged and quiet; he peers both ways along it from the wide doorway. He turns to look once more, the Blood Fist are being herded together, two are down with their leader 'Crusher' calling them to circle up with their dire maces and double-swords. Nym can tell by his gait he's bleeding. He looks away as they are corralled and encircled, the battle goes on.. no calls for help are sounded. Nym turns away and leaves the arrogant fool to his own folly.
The street is quiet, where are the reinforcements? How important was this front? Nym looks outside and yet again sees nothing. Another Blood Fist falls picked off by the Legion. It looks to be about six to two now..
A final glance, and the self-doubt starts to war in his head.. if Crusher got himself and everyone else killed Nym would have to escape and return explaining that he literally did as he was told. The man was surrounded and wounded, his partners dying. Nym should relieve the stress and return. No, he should stay and let the human reap what he had sown.. but would Kylara believe him? Or would she have him killed for not saving her men? How does a weaker Fist because of their trust issues benefit him? On the other hand, if he leaves his post, he would risk the doorway. He would take time to reach, his armoured charge would be heard even if he were fast.
A thought occured, the magic in his shortblades, he could cross the distance in a blink of an eye at five times a mortal's speed, cut down the unsuspecting in just as many seconds and return. That would shock the group and buy the idiots space to move and fight. Could he truly surrender ten seconds?
He looks to the street.. the street is empty. He could swear the slowing of the fight was giving way to methodical slaughter. He draws a knife and activates the enchantment.. his vision starts to swim as he moves. Crossing the spanse between him and the melee, he brings his blade up into the back of an unsuspecting legionnaire. The blade punctures the heart and slides neatly out of the woman's chest. He kicks the body, two seconds. He's behind schedule. He lashes out with a flick of the wrist and ends a shriek of surprise by removing a rogue's head in one sweep. Two seconds again. Nine seconds, the Crusher yells him back to his post.
Nym darts away. Ten seconds, barely. Even as he runs in tunnel vision from motion blur, he seesmore Legion burst through the door. How?! The street was empty. Between the adrenaline and speed he enshrouds the group in darkness as they charge. Entering a blade dance to counter their own deadly skills the battle drags on. He knows only Crusher is alive, barely. He cuts down the Legionnaires one by one, but cold metal slides under his arm an inch, robbing him of strength.
The battle drags on, the wounds start to rack up as more encircle him. Crusher is beside him now, everyone else is dead and they both seem to be on the way to the same end result. Nym cuts down two more, Crusher deals with the other three. The last retreats.
"You idiot!"
The words register and incense the dark elf he snarls back an angry retort. And then Crusher tries to kill him.
He awakens, the first tendrils of dawn pushing their way through the clouds to pull back the moon's cloak of night. He knew the human would blame him for his failure, if only to save his own reputation. He also knew the human tried to kill him to cover up the mistake and vent his own anger. Were Nym stronger, he might not have had to retreat. It was what it was, in saving the human he outplayed himself. It was too late to ambush and assassinate the fool, as it was too late to salvage the situation. The situation was likely to be lose-lose regardless and so he would have to abandon his alliegance.. again.
Rising and regarding the city, the dark elf makes his way out of Legion territory to a secluded tavern in a territory distanced from both areas to contemplate his positions multiple failures and present stance. He needed to contact Kalan'drira, order her out of the city so she might not be associated with him and hunted down. For now he had to contemplate his position, contemplate whether or not he would try destroying the Legion even now that their one greatest enemy considers him the same. Would he also seek to claim his vengance on Crusher, if so how? If he left now, his reputation as Sar'thaal would be lost in that area of the world.
Was staying and pursuing vengance now wise and worth it? Even if he did, he had found himself in a figurative burning building coming down around him piece by piece. Whether or not he would chase his goal or abandon and fail even in the eyes of his God was something that weighed heavily on him now..
-
Nym walked into his old den in something of a daze; his body did not fit well in his skin, and his thoughts would not stop racing. He felt sick, and he felt weak. Death had a way of doing that to the best, but he could feel the sickness of death only in the back of his mind, it was barely worth acknowledging.
Across the tables he could see maps that had begun to collect a little bit of dust, maps that he knew outlined mysterious points on Alindor as well as cryptic short-form reminders in Dark Elvish. A small part of him wanted distraction, but his mind raced in bursts of imagery, seeing the sunshine blinding him as the darkness fell away, the blood that sparkled from his wounds as he lay upon his back. The fading shadow of his killer and now his final gambit. The image of golden hair cascading down shoulders concealed in white, small twigs andleaves stranded in it's sunburst falls. The image of two orbs of liquid gold, and the way they looked to him. It made the maps meaningless and so he walked right by those fruits of his labours, the rewards of treachery, assassination and sabotage. He walked by it all just to lie down on the bed in his bloodied armour and close his eyes. He was going to reverie, forever.. if he could.. about those precious few moments and the one night that gave birth to a whole new persona. A persona, or the true him, he could not say. He was too sick to say and too afraid to search himself and know it might have died. Whatever it was, now it stands in the shadows of his mind with all the others, amongst the fictons and the truths about who he is.
He thought it strange, how when something ended, one thinks of how something started. How thoughts of twilight turned to thoughts of dawn. He wondered now if he could find his way through the maze of pain and cruelly shattered dreams, past and the forging of himself to get back there tonight. It was fresh, fresh like the phantom pains that burned his body and his face, and blurred the vision of his left eye; he slipped away thinking it rather likely.
-
Images flashed in front of his eyes, images of sights long past and feelings long gone. Flashes of darkness and of pain and of malice. His mind had been wandering without focus, for rebirth by the Stone had robbed him of it. It was the earliest memories he was remembering, the one's of innocence lost. The servants milling around him and preparing him for his venture to the academies, the nerves and fear that made his heart hammer against the ribcage as if it were prison bars preventing an escape. He remembered the feel of his shaking hands, the buckling in his legs, with such clarity he was reliving it; barely twenty years but physically matured enough to withstand the brutalities of his new path. The memory felt wrong, hollowing and sickly in the way that paralytic levels of fear could make one feel and so his mind retreated from it, bypassing a wealth of memories in flashes. The look on his brother's face as he smiled down cruelly on his baby brother and stroked his head before locking the door and shattering any chance of escape "No tears please little brother, it is a waste of good suffering". The sounds of his sister being tormented. Flashes of screaming slaves and sadistic handlers. The contempt in his father's eyes when he sentenced his son to their adulthood. The humiliations and abuse everyone inflicted on everyone, it was all something he did not need to see again, for he could recall it all in the darkest recesses of his mind without the aid of reverie.
His mind eventually halted its fevered rush amongst the memories of the academies: His lack of natural aptitude for the arcane and the subsequent transfer to tutors of warfare and blade work. The feeling of alienation as he left with those that the mages refused. He remembered walking with the others, boys and girls though the overwhelming majority was of the taller, stronger latter. He recalled their new overseers, the look in their eyes as they separated the ore from the slag, the strong from the weak. This was not where he wanted to be, so his mind began to speed along once more, interrupted only by slips in concentration and lapses into random moments in training. He saw the speeches, the warnings, about how only a select few would survive the process either because of the predators amongst their peers or the regime itself. Looking back at the phantoms of his peers, he saw again how at the beginning many of the girls and boys looked the same, a hard surface to hide the fear and insecurity beneath. His reverie brought him back to images of the trials, the training, the tears that spilt and marked children as forever weak before they were executed by the Overseers or fed to the war beasts while they still kicked and screamed. He caught these glimpses of memory through younger eyes that gradually learned to not strain and puff with the threat of tears from anything but exceptional physical pain. "Pain is transitory". He heard and knew those words and how it moulded the survivors; how the males instinctively felt the predatory stares of their female competitors who were the stronger, but less favoured, gender in the stronghold. He could feel again, their stares, and he knew he and the others had all stared back. It came from the flaying, the beating, the torture of slaves, the testing of various weapons on living flesh that whimpered and pleaded for them to stop. It came from the fighting over dinner, the rocks that broke bones and bruised meat as they wrestled, clawed and fought with training weapons, the murders and those who were caught murdering and were punished for their clumsiness. It came when children killed children for approval and praise and succour over pain. It came from innocence lost.
The whirlwind of memories was a comfort to him, for if he never settled in one place too long, he would never have to experience the full force of emotions that one feels from revisiting such memories. Seeing the trials, the running and the pounding of adrenaline through his muscles, and across his skin; it made his heart beat faster in his chest even as he lay on the bed motionless and safe. This was not the place he wanted to be.
His elevation among the other students, entering the caste of warriors destined for close quarter heavy fighting, one of two males amongst a host of females, their compatriots having all died off or been sequestered into the scouts. The specialised weapons training, the unconventional tactics, lessons on fighting alone and yet as a whole. The way of war and the way of slaughter. The honour of his people, if you could call it that. The way that praised creativity and unconventional tactics, guile and ruthlessness and punished anything else as shameful to their kind; something to be culled and buried lest it infect those that were strong. His final trials, where he killed his ally Velenial at the end of a team deathmatch, a knife through the back and into the heart.. guided by his hand, but held by the hand of one of their foes. An accident, self-preservation, a lie. They liked it, and his punishment was light. A run through the gauntlet with the failed would-be poisoner, the slowest to be caught by the beasts; not he, her.
"Pain is transitory. He was a fool for giving his back to me so close to victory. I know he wanted me dead... they all do."
Words spoken together by a long past Dark Elven child and the scarred young adult that he became. The memory then faded away in silence and under the approving stares of his tutors. Cull two thirds and you never lose many to the Test, no slag. It all fades to a blur, his first missions, his time away, the ambush that saw Kar'shak torn apart. "No tears big brother..", his grin, his fear, and the escape; weeks of starving and wandering the Deep like a feral outcast before his emaciated form stumbled out into the blinding light for the very first time. His new Hell.
-
Nym's body lay across the bed still, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest beneath his breastplate. Slowly but surely he could feel the sickness fading away further and further as he skimmed the memories of his comparatively short life at break neck speed. Seeing only flashes and moments that were randomly chosen or significant enough to draw his eye without intention.
The first dark skinned face, as beautiful as it was terrible,; looked upon him and judged his worth. He recognised her now though he did not then for what she would be: the Mother of Spiders. Days upon the surface, foraging and robbing to feed himself culminated in being drawn to a strange stone surrounded by blood-red flowers. He had never seen a flower before, nor grass, nor sky, nor sun. But when he awoke from touching it, the next flash of memory was always of Solena. The mocking priestess and his guide into the shadow of her Master.
Ni'haer, the sense of arcane power radiated from him just by being in his presence, the sorcerer who gave Nym'roos a place and a purpose. Another father-figure to approve, disapprove, use and judge. At his side, the Priestess Solena with the cruel smiles and the whispers into Ni'haer's ear. He wonders, then and now, how much of what the G'elderin did was not in some way influenced by her voice; and then there was always her own personal shadow: Velkyn, the one who liked to cut flesh while it was still alive and marvel at his artwork. He recalled their predatory eyes shining in the night as they evaluated him. In words, deeds, and he could have sworn thoughts, he was weighed. But they were all gone now, dead or deep beneath the earth. So his mind then drifts from their meeting, to the sealing of their pact and the oath of service to the House.. the House hidden in the city. The House filled with darkness, spiders, dark elves and thoughts of murder.
"Nec'perya d'Oloth"; his lips worked in the real world, giving voice to the symbol of his chains.
That 'sanctum' was where he could be himself.. once.. and not one of the myriad of personae he was forced to construct and don for public appearance on the surface. A mercenary was how he felt, and so a mercenary was the easiest form to assume, and with that he wandered the surface with his features hidden in cloth, shadow and metal. It was through those eyes that he could see the scenes of murder and battle again; the screaming and stink of a battlefield. Allies and enemies bleeding and dying in a carnage that had no purpose beyond honing the survivors.. making them stronger. It was with those eyes that he first saw the she-elf that would highlight his weakness to him. He did not hate as he was moulded to, someone somewhere had failed and he was the result. He never thought much on it back then, but now he knew this was when he should have first realised and purged the flaw.
He knew her to be Keela Moonflower, a tamed Sylvan tied to the Ilsaran Sehky. The one he took into the darkness to torture, but instead decided on healing and saving. He could vaguely recall the logic in his mind as he mended the rent flesh, studied her form. Thoughts of blending in, getting close to the betrayers or simply gaining more allies to make his persona believable to sceptics. It made sense then, it worked as well, but as he looks back over the memories of her lying there and moaning in pain beneath him; he knows deep down he simply lacked the desire to go through with his original, 'expected' intentions. That she-elf was the one who taught him the meaning of 'friends'. Something he never managed to put into practise well, even if the theory behind it could be understood. He knew how such a chapter would end however, even then. He could hear the arguments again, see the pointed arrows from Sehky and his ilk, feel the close call with death when they cornered him in Vehl and attempted to murder him. Phantom pain wormed itself through points on his leg and back, remembering the bite of arrows as he fled under darkness and haste. These memories did not faze him, nor was he truly surprised then or upset now. But it taught him the weakness in their kind as well, how they were incapable of acting without approval of the whole. A woeful absence of independence, of flexibility. There were other memories of the wildling she-elf, and he knew in the back of his thoughts that he would miss them in his frenzied search for the memories he wanted to reach. He had a way to go, and he wishes to himself he had the mental composure to guide himself as effortlessly as he might do in good health.
-
"Taking too long..", were the slurred words that came out in a mumble from Nym's lips in the real world as he made his way through the ghosts of the past. In a flash he caught a glimpse of pale flesh quivering beneath his hands, and it caused him to hope against logic that he was here. But the skin was too pale, the hair dark, and the eyes as terrified as intrigued by what was happening in her quarters. This memory he knew was of her seduction, and their secret tryst inside the Caliomel Trade House.
"Not Her", though he had faltered now, and so before his struggle to regain control would be one, he knew which memories of her would be unavoidable - the most powerful..
Breanna Shadowraven; the virgin, the meek, the traitor, once a 'friend' and once the mother of his unborn child. She loved him once, that unique brand of torment that the surface-born cling to so passionately. He had many a memory of her, from lover's sighs to light hearted laughter, to memories of promise when she came to confide in him and seek advice about how to handle the rejection of her 'friends'. He recalled their moonlit walks near the Lakes of Mistone and their hunts together. They had done many things together, but he had always kept her blind-folded about what he did for his Master, as blind-folded as when he first seduced her in Fort Wayfare. As he looked back over the hundred soul-searching looks she gave the one she loved, he recognised that his secrecy is perhaps why her unwavering in faith in him began to become more finite. She was not entirely alone however, there was another she-elf, a stronger one, one with golden hair and a sharp tongue. Hers was a more fierce soul than the more demure version Breanna possessed. She was Breanna's friend, but she was not the memory he sought for.. her eyes were not liquid gold. She was another lover of the past, a stronger one.. Calylith. But that was not now, not yet, and not what he was searching for.
Together the three of them enjoyed good times on the surface, living one life in the light while he lived another alone and in the darkness. For every laugh, touch and glitter of the eyes shared under the sun, at night he sacrificed Dar'thiiri hunters to the Lord of Spiders. He served his Master and his God, honing his skills and keeping a part of himself for the darkness, lest dread Baraeon come for his wayward 'mercenary'. Calylith suspected however, he could remember it a thousand times in the looks she would give him when she thought he was not watching. The recollection led him to feel something build, as if particular memory was about to surge forth to meet him as she opened her spectral lips to speak; and then they were alone by a river in nothing but their skin and each other's arms. He felt the sting of the sun in his eyes and prickling along his ebon flesh, but her voice never past those animated lips. He was curious now, he wanted to remember what she was going to ask him after their intimacy, he hated that he could not recall while they lay together with his fingers stroking the length of her delicate neck.. but he had lost control and the maelstrom of past lives returned.
Eventually, his mind skids to a halt, seeing Breanna running towards him as she saw his approaching form on a dark road; she clasped his hands and told him she was with child.. and it was his. He saw her now as he did then, filled with inexplicable joy at something that would make her life harder, her body more dependent and her relationship with him more public. She loved that promise of a child with an irrationality that he knew he was failing to hide on his expression. It fortified the doubt he knew now was building in her. Calylith, the one who he thought was Her for a moment, was there soon after. Night had turned to day and the lakeside had turned verdant hills. He desired to turn and gain his bearings, though he had no power over the eyes of the past with which he must always see through. The memory went on as Calylith and Breanna spoke at length about his suggestion.. and he remembered where they were: Dregar. The giants. They spoke of Breanna and Calylith together, raising Nym's child. He had brought them close to him, lured them to one another and himself and so what was a duo had become a trio bound by intimacy, lust, and for some by love. He tried to stay rooted in the memory but it was useless, the end was known to him now even if it was not then; in blood, tears, a bindstone for Breanna and a fractured happiness for the paleskin lovers he kept so close. He felt numb then as he did now, the thought of a child did not particularly stir him then as it once did in the future, nor does it stir him now as he lies on the bed in a state that an onlooker might mistake for death. He did not care about the child's destruction, only Breanna and Calylith. But Breanna cared, and he could sense a well of bitterness rising in his corporeal chest as he subconsciously prepared for the inevitable flashback.
With some semblance of control he forces himself past every other memory, happy, sad, dark, or light; wishing to reach the next anchor if only to get past it: midnight on Lake Splendour.
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He tried to turn his eyes from her guilt-laden expression as Breanna's lips moved and spoke echoes of the past into his ears. He knew it had been a clear night, a bright moon and plenty of stars to illuminate the darkness, he could see in his mind, the layout of the trees and hills near the boathouse. But it was no use, the past is set, and one cannot change their actions to remedy mistakes. He would never scrutinise the tree line to see where they were hiding, nor would he ever be able to react quick enough to the faint whistling. This was to end as it began, and as he had seen a hundred times over: his hand on Breanna's throat as she confesses her treachery; her eyes wide with tears and fear; the sound of something whistling through the trees; the fireworks of pain that shot through his body as armour piercing bolts punctured meat, muscle and bone to cripple him. Always three bolts; one for his leg, one for his arm, and the one that went wide. He released Breanna as pain and confusion left him unbalanced and reaching for his weapons. He could see them now in the darkness, a split second before the tree line erupted with innumerable guards. All this for him? He recalled perfectly how his vision began to swim even as his head railed in wonder at his then-perceived end.
The rush of humans was punctuated only by the brief halt to loose another volley of bolts, and Nym saw as his shield was hauled into position just in time to shudder with the impacts. Pain flared in his wounded arm now as it did then, his nerves sympathising with what he was seeing in a way he wished they would not. Then his vision was restored and a tide of angry human faces washed down onto him.
Breanna's screams for him to stop and surrender, and for the humans not to hurt him fell on deaf ears to all then; only here in the mind could he review and register her pleading but he cared nothing for it now as he would have then. His blade rose up to block a downward arc of a mace, the force causing him to back-pedal and stumble on his injured leg. A jarring wave of force could be felt, shoving his shield against his chest from the impact of another's weapon while the whistling in his left ear and the warm bloom hinted at a near miss from a third. The pain was sudden and adrenaline had no time to truly take hold; he felt it all as he found himself pressed on three sides, blocking and parrying to preserve his life while the humans began encircling him. It was then that the savagery in him mixed with the tactical sense, causing him to back pedal further towards the boathouse while lunging to the human that had gotten behind him in the press. He knew to never let himself be backed up and on the defensive when outnumbered. It caught the man by surprise, and his attempt to raise his shield while his sword angled down failed to save him. Nym's keen blade and panicked rage cleaved a path through the wooden fore and boss before settling in the throat. Being slid free while the dark elf stumbled in a half-spin to face his pursuers, he saw the odds against him; he saw the phantom soldiers of Fort Wayfare numbered in roughly twenty, between the circle that was closing on him and the bolts that occasionally flew into press from over their shoulders. Hopeless, but too proud and hot-blooded to surrender. It was not long now, they corralled him eventually against the boathouse, but the bottleneck was to cost them another of their own and a wealth of injuries before they cut him up and knocked him out. With the blackness enveloping the memory, his mind shuddered and reeled as it avoided the draw of the unconsciousness. Nym often felt such memories that ended in blackouts or death were like stepping around quicksand. When he awoke, it was in a cell.
He recalled pacing like an animal in that tiny cell, chained loosely to a wall but allowed the freedom to walk the majority of his room, as well as sit and stand. He had no interest in this, and so his mind wandered through the images, of guards visiting and questioning him regularly to no avail. He discovered that he was not the only one captured thanks to Breanna, discovered that dark elves were causing havoc in the Silkwood, and how the humans wanted their cooperation to aid them against their dark kin and get at who they believed responsible: Ni'haer. He recalled the threats, with which he answered with mocks and insults. Human soldiers seemed so pathetic, trying to scare him with charges of murder and execution because he killed one or two of their kind when they attacked him. To this day he marvelled at their complete lack of common sense, he would not give them what they wanted, nor would he cry for their dead, nor feel shame for his actions. What he did understand, was bitterness .He could remember it without a reverie, but felt it as clearly as he felt the manacles around his wrists in reverie. Bitterness over betrayal, over knowing he deserved his fate to trust in a Dar'thiir, and to have not suspected a trap of some kind. It was his first, his first true grudge against a light elf. An image flashed, of his wrist up close and weeping crimson from where he chewed the flesh open. He knew about the gambit, the weakness it would cause and suspicion that he was attempting suicide. He knew it would draw them in while he pretended to be unconscious, draw them close. It always did.
The guard captain had returned, bringing along a pair of his men; ones Nym recalled as polar opposites to one another: The more slender man was disciplined, watchful and took himself seriously; the more burly man was non-chalant, undisciplined and relied on his (impressive) size to bully prisoners. He would never know why they sought him out, but when their calls were met with motionless silence, they entered swiftly to check on the prisoner who lay as if dead. Nym's memory was nothing of sight, but of his other senses, of touch and smell and heat as his skin registered the proximity of a torch being drawn near to him. His lids illuminated through the thin layer of skin and he knew that soon the guard captain would resort to beating the him as a way to rouse his prisoner. That kick ended as it always did, trapped in Nym's lurking hands as the elf's crimson eyes opened and glittered up at his tormentors with malice.
Violence and chaos followed next, scuffles and swings of the club-like torch to get the young dark elf to release their captain led only to a sinister darkness blotting out even the torchlight. The sounds of shouting, burning, rattling chains and meat being 'tenderised' was all the stimuli anyone would find as long as the spell held. Feet and fists exchanged with each other as Nym came face to face with the chief tormentor of this memory, rolling and wrestling while he remained shackled to his cell wall. He knew the guards were fumbling about with his clothing, trying to discern captain from prisoner before further confusion erupted from the rolling and flailing limbs. He knew because he could still feel their grasping paws on him as the foul odour of the captain filled his nostrils. Frustration, real and present, surged in his mind as it was forced to relive the struggle and the failed attempt to drive the Captain's nose up into his brainpan; had he succeeded the other two would have been easy pickings for Nym, even when bound to a wall. But as with every other memory, the perfect clarity that hindsight provides will never change past errors. The Captain survived, though he rolled away with a stream of red rushing from his nostrils. He would have bruising and black eyes by the day's end. Somewhere in the chaos Nym remembered his leg kicking out the torch as he rose to his feet and tore at the rags that had since been set alight. His skin burned and blistered and yet in the rush of adrenaline, he could not feel any severe pain, only the pounding of blood into every muscle and the thunder of it in his head.
A brief pause in the melee..
It was then that the darkness fell, and the pacifiers came out, rushed by the three men, the elf's comparatively fragile body bruised and burned easily, skin parting under the bludgeoned weapons even as their impact left his bones with fractures. He should have been broken in agony, but the cornered animal fights the hardest. Forced to defend himself, he would often hunker down and takes the blows, before lashing out at eyes and throats with a fist or questing fingers, but in the end, it was the slop bucket that he put his trust in. Kicking it over to make the clumsy humans lose balance. The slender one slipped up nearly end over end, and landed hard on his back. Nym then saw himself crossing the cell to the limits of his chain length his foot comes down hard on the man's throat; and so he saw once more, the fear and broken dreams of another life being cut short. A brief moment of triumph to stave off the end he knew was coming, he had no chance of escape in such a state, and the humans assaulted him with a renewed vigour. He could only marvel and writhe in pain as he took levels of punishment that very few elves could likely survive. There was little else to remember in such a time, the anchor had been passed, but he let his mind wander past the black hole of unconsciousness that spanned days in the infirmary. The days spent fighting against those trying to feed him, or the time Breanna came in to mewl her apologies and give pathetic reasons. He despised it all, but searched instead for the memory of a particular visitor. Was it the one he sought? No, the skin was pale, her hair dark and the aura of magic emanated strongly from her: Fleur. Checking up on him he knew, and so he moved on before the words they exchanged could be made out. He still had her token to keep his mind safe, and wondered briefly what became of her.
The echoes of anger and pain began to dim, and this drew the weary eye of his mind to the source. He had found his mystery visitor: The traitor, the one who had the power to dispel his hatred and malice just by being near him. The one who could speak to him of healing and yet try to relate with talk of tactics, war and life in the Deep. She was an oddity, and he regretted that the humans murdered her before he could at least discover if she was genuine, or a trick by Ni'haer. He had his suspicions, but they conflicted with his gut instinct.. but none of this mattered. It was time to move on.
Having no desire to recall the pit-spawn rescuing him, those images whirled by in a flurry; only small flashes could be seen: the tiles travelling beneath him as he was dragged from his cell, the blue-skin and masked face of the giant that was Coin, the burn of sunlight on his eyes and skin, and the vial of blood. He knew he was to be tortured when Coin returned him to his old Master, and tortured he was. But none of that mattered anymore, he wanted to find Her; and she was not near.
His eyes fluttered open as the reverie was broken by a flare of pain in his chest, but he soon closed them again and slipped back into the ether. He took control of his thoughts for a brief stint and raced through time to find the Crusade. She and it were tied, and it would help to guide him.
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// http://layonara.com/threads/1283785-caged-others-may-post-ofc - Caged.