Open Chronicles Scourge of Fangs

The carriage moved sleekly through the subterranean street, not by wheels or hooves, but by scaled claws. Zar'Ahal demanded mounts and transports that could easily scale sheer surfaces; as such, preferred mounts often ended with large spiders or lizards. This giant riding lizard spanned about twenty feet from head to tail, trained to move at a slow, graceful pace. It allowed the two highborne drow within its carriage — strapped to its back and fashioned from a combination of the jagged exoskeleton of a bebilith, the sturdy fungi-timber of Zurkhwood and curtains of woven spidersilk — to enjoy a leisurely view of the streets near the Queen's Palace and the District of Pleasure without having to strain their feet.

Nimruil inhaled from the stem of his golhyrrl' chu'tgera ((Dream Smoke)) pipe, enjoying the view and the rich flavour of the twin fungi Araumycos and Timmask working in joint unison, trapped within a glass container and emitting just the right amount of mind-altering gas to be safely ingested. Pedestrians walked along the cobbled path, bathed in luminescent purple and teal, mirroring the arcane glow of the palace towering above in the distance.

Klerzos, his apprentice, coughed and beat his robed chest after his own inhalation.

"I don't understand how you can smoke this toxic alchemy, master. I feel my senses slipping."

Nimruil took another drag from the pipe, languidly watching the pointed spires and commoner drow outside.

"It is an acquired taste. You may learn to appreciate it."

Timmask always helped to still his mind, whereas the mixture of Araumycos added just enough of a fruity flavour to the bitterness of the other, while also allowing his tense thoughts to loosen their coils and wander. And now they wandered with his sight, observing the people of his city.

"If that is what it takes to pull you out of your sanctum, then I will do it." Klerzos grinned sharply; but his grin faltered when it wasn't mirrored by Nimruil, who gave him an unimpressed glance. He cleared his throat and changed tact. "I thought it worthwhile to see the streets again. Perhaps head into the District of Pleasure."

"Perhaps . . ." Nimruil said at length, adjusting the valve and the levels of mildly toxic gas. He didn't want to have to haul an unconscious apprentice back home. "Although I hardly need to wander the streets to know what transpires in them. Word reaches all parts of Zar'Ahal." Pale red eyes flickered; measuring the street with the same methodical gaze as he measured doses of binding agents. It was, as ever, a soup of scurrying servants and paranoia — most having drawn their hoods up to avoid recognition.

"I speak not of knowledge, master, but of feeling. Don't you miss it at times?"

Nimruil scoffed.

"Hardly. I have already seen the repetitious cycles this city undergoes, thank you very much. It is rarely impressive to witness yet another era of degenerate decadence and indulgence . . ."

As if summoned by his very words, a hue and cry went through the streets. Hooded heads turned in worry; people swerved to hide in alleys; shouts of alarm echoed. Klerzos reached out for the reins below the curtain and stopped their beast. Shadows moved past their curtain, aglow with Zar'Ahal's thousand stars.

"See what transpires, Klerzos."

Doing just so, the apprentice pushed his head through the curtain, peering out. A crack snapped out among the streets, like a whiplash against stone and air. Nimruil chewed thoughtfully on his pipe, eliminating a few options. When Klerzos' head returned, red eyes wide and onyx skin drawn into a frown of worry, he managed to narrow it down to a handful of possibilities.

"It's the Fanged Sisters. The daughters of Tuin'Znar. They carry--"

"Scourges," Nimruil finished with a peeved sigh. "I should have known. Their escapades spill out from the flesh-quivering district."

"What do we do?"

The cry of one of their victims answered, followed by malicious cackles and hooting. More cracks of whips. The scourge of fangs — enchanted whips of several heads, fashioned to look like vipers. Nimruil rose from his cross-legged seat, smoothing down the new creases on his robe.

"You insisted on us coming here. So let us indulge your curiosity. We shall observe."

Before Klerzos could protest, Nimruil stepped out from their carriage, nimbly descending the little steps leading down to the street. Facing a gang of female priestesses indulging in their worst vices and cornering a commoner like hook horrors hunting a crippled Svirfneblin.

Nimruil folded his arms behind his back, striding up next to their lizard mount. His chin raised just an inch further upward; already towering with lofty disdain. Eyes sliced from the spectacle a few thirty yards ahead to the voice addressing him.

It came from one of the other stray males in the street, showing confidence enough not to veil his face. Even having the audacity to smirk at the archmage. Nimruil responded with a faint, downward twist of his mouth and an unamused tilt of an eyebrow. Armed and armoured, he noted. An assassin, perhaps?

Nimruil's presentation came to a layered robe and long cloak of matching, midnight-black silk, gently fluttering behind his motions like folded wings. Silver and gold filigree crawled along their edges like a long march of brilliant, beetle legs along his shoulders and sides, laced with intermittent fragments of diamonds. A sizeable and complex clasp of Emril steel at his neck and belt held his clothes together; a nexus point for all his layers, studded with symmetrical diamonds and fitted like a puzzle. A belt with a small pouch and satchel for potions struck a small contrast to this wealthy display; containers sporting simpler, sturdier leather.

His highborn status practically screamed from his attire and tall stance, and he made no attempt to hide it.

"No," he said flatly, wondering if the other had hoped to partake in such crude amusement together. "But I do like to keep my finger on the pulse of this city."

Soon enough, Klerzos joined them, clapping the neck of the riding lizard, who turned its head in a near questioning manner towards them. By now, a group of about eight priestesses had rounded up a single male against a nearby wall, isolating him from the scattered herd. Their voices mingled together in jeers and insults, too chaotic to be made sense of yet.

Alak Rasivrein

Alak Rasivrein said:

"The pulse of the city, huh?" he asked. "And what does the pulse tell you? Certainly not anything to do with the Pleasure District, I'm sure," he said.

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Nimruil stared straight ahead at the grotesque flogging; rigid as ice in his formal stance.

"It tells me of complacency. Of weakness masquerading as strength."

His words were low and punctual; in the same manner a lecturer might dismiss a class, without wanting the whole college to witness their shame. Klerzos came up next to him, and ever more curious than cautious, he asked:

"Who is this, master?"

"I do not know, apprentice. Perhaps we should ask him?"

His eyes moved back to Alak, seeking to tether him with his gaze.

But the old archmage could have spared the effort. A screech pierced the street, as the drow commoner now caught on fire. The priestesses around him cursed and swore, scolding their sister for her incautious use of her Scourge of Fangs. It spoiled their sport by reducing their victim to a screaming, burning pile of rags.

Soon enough, however, they would find fresh, unsizzled meat.

"There!" one of them cried. "Those three appear to be mages! One must have tampered with Xunari's magic."

"Let us ask them," one pronounced and the others cackled their glee.

They had found new game.

Klerzos stepped back, eyes widening with fear, retreating back to their carriage, as the gang of priestesses surrounded them — cutting off alleys and escape routes in the street. Nimruil didn't move a muscle. He hadn't even moved his eyes; still observing Alak carefully, as though merely continuing their conversation:

"What does it tell you?"

Alak Rasivrein

Attention honed in on Alak. Smiles of dark amusement, giggles of insidious delight and anticipatory stroking of writhing, multi-tailed whips followed his plea. They gathered around the three males like a pack of hungry predators, still determining whether they were prey. The great riding lizard stirred and laid itself falt against the ground, tongue slipping out of its mouth in worry, as if it could sense the oncoming danger.

"Look at this one, sisters. A glib-tongued male who knows his place."

"Too glib for me. I should like to wring the truth out of him."

"Like you wrung it out of that courtesan in the District?"

A ripple of laughter emerged from them all. They wore loose fitting garments and clothes of silk, having eschewed any armour or armament, letting their hair run free, except for their Scourge of Fangs. Nimruil knew them to be sisters all, in the plentiful house of Tuin'Znar. Quantity did not guarantee quality, however, that was plain to see. Without the oversight of their matron, they were known to run wild and amok in the Pleasure District. These eight had finished their priestly rites and had time to kill; as dangerous a proposition as any, when bestowed upon young, hungry priestesses of Zar'Ahal. They had succumbed to that greatest of evils which he knew those who lacked a greater purpose fell into.

Boredom. Idleness. Truly, the root of all meaningless vice.

"Would you like to study my Scourge up close, mageling?" one priestess asked, stepping closer towards Alak, offering her whip animated with magic, twisting like some slim hydra. Her cruel smirk hinted at what sort of study she had in mind. The very practical kind. "I could let you taste its sting, to better determine its, ah, fluctuations."

"You will do no such thing."

Nimruil's voice cut across the expanse between them; a boreal wind of words intruding upon their gathered heat of sadistic pleasure. Red eyes turned to daggers, boring into Nimruil. Some of them balked, recognising the archmage -- but only for a heartbeat. Then it was all back to authoritative sneers and disdainful swearing.

"You presume to command us, ja'luk?"

"No." One hand dislodged from behind his back, absently brushing off a flying cinder that had landed on his shoulder -- an errant piece from the incinerated male yonder, whose burnt flesh filled the air with an abnormal stench. His nose creased slightly. He missed the taste and smell of his hallucinatory pipe, and the danger of the priestesses did not go amiss on him, prickling his neck with instinctive worry. He should have known any escapade outside his compound could only end like this. "But I expect you to be savvy enough to realise apparent risks. You are looking upon one of Dalrithia's favourite consorts." He made a curt nod towards Alak, as if acknowledging a fellow magistrate at court, and not spewing a lie on the fly. But such fabrications rolled from his tongue with great ease, by now. Obscuring the truth was yet another tool in his arsenal, and he managed to feign such matter-of-factness and casual observance that it did cause a moment of hesitation. He went on, now rubbing the fingertips of his free hand before him, as if mulling over his fingernails. "I am not someone to question your choice in playmates, but I expect she will be most displeased upon her return to find one of her, ah, favorite possessions broken by other hands. As for myself and my apprentice, well -- we are en route to secure magical reagents for House Suulet'jabar. Matron Bekesha is most impatient for the success of our endeavour. Should I tell her that we were delayed with your delightful company?" With this rhetorical question, he turned his hand around, now inspecting the other side of his fingers, as if discussing something of little consequence. "I shall be sure to send you a little gift for your understanding. Something that may alleviate those inconsistencies in your Scourges. We wouldn't want our priestesses lacking in their means, now would we?"

Shock, pause and fury fought on equal footing in the faces of the priestesses. They turned their heads, weighing their options, glancing at one another and the males. What lent credence to his bluff was the astounding handsomeness of Alak, as well as his own peerless position as archmage in Zar'Ahal. Even if they had cause to doubt his words, the mere risk of them being true could rain terrible wrath upon them from either Dalrithia or Matron Bekesha. Something none of these sisters desired.

But they did desire vengeance, one way or another. And there was one among them that posed no apparent risk to play with.

"Why not give us the gift of your apprentice then, Master Nimruil? It will surely be more desired than any trinket of yours. Besides, we may teach him some new things . . . prudent things, for his education. We wouldn't want to neglect that, now would we?"

Klerzos' jaw dropped. He became paralysed, an animal caught. Nimruil turned his head fainlty, considering the value of his own apprentice, betraying a small, displeased pout at the notion.

He was running out of good aides already. He didn't need to lose another one.

Alak Rasivrein

An unexpected turn of events.

A female, admitting guilt freely? He thought he'd never see the hour. This caused him to eye Xunari like a particularly rare breed, filled with all the curiosity of an academic who saw a specimen act against his hard-earned paradigme. The stately features to her regal face and long neck bespoke of her fine stock. Strange, then, that she would stick out said neck for them.

She must be having an ulterior motive in mind, he decided. However, her intervention did spare Alak and him from further explanation, as the talkaktive priestess had just been about to concoct a reason to claw in both the trinket and the apprentice.

"Bah, Xunari, you take the blame for this?" one of the other sisters said, lip curling with disappointment and disgust. "Perhaps a satisfaction in blood would make this more interesting, Angaste. I'm dreadfully bored already."

"No," Angaste sneered, presumably the foremost and eldest among them. "There is better sport to be had. Maelzafan would not want us to quarrel over so little . . . a paltry commoner's death does not suffice for such a duel."

Her hungry eyes suggested that they might find better reason to fight in the future, however. She approached Xunari and attempted a little, tender caress against her cheek; a mock show of compassion, if anything, bastardised even further when performed by a dark elf priestess.

"Perhaps I'll forgive you, my dear sister in spirit. For now, I trust there will be no more mishaps with our scourges."

She made to move past the men and their lizard carriage. Brushing by Klerzos' shoulder by a hair's breadth, revealing robes strafing him by like a sultry whisper. The apprentice quivered both from fear and repressed desire. She had taken about three steps past him, before she suddenly whirled, her Scourge of Fangs lashing out in a blur of violent motion.

Barely a blink had passed before the whip cracked the air and punished the apprentice's skin, snake whips tearing through his robe to his back. Klerzos fell with a pained cry, falling to his knees. After this initial snap, she coiled back her weapon for another blow, teeth bared in a dragon's snarl:

"Oh, forgive me, I simply had to test it! Now let's see if it still works--"

Another resounding crack. More skin painfully ravaged. But the apprentice looked up from his cowering arms, surprised not to feel the blow, bleeding only from one lashing.

Nimruil had extended his right arm, catching the whip; its forked tongues of misery now coiled around his underarm like constrictors. It bit through his sleeve where his bracers didn't cover him, soaking cloth and whip with blood.

His pained wince transmuted into a cold sneer, staring the priestess in the eye; reason giving way for pride, tilting his head with faux elation, as if pleasantly surprised by a botched experiment.

"Well, it appears to work swimmingly now, Angaste-rin."

Caught by surprise herself, Angaste didn't manage to reply before a small cadre of spearwielders came marching down the street towards them. Heads turned and eyes flickered to watch them, including Nimruil's, who turned back to look at Angaste with predatory malice.

"Now, would you look at that. A Suulet'jabar standard, if my eyes do not deceive me." His arm shifted, fingers snatching the whip, keeping her tethered to him. "Would you like to stay and satisfy your whips with more blood? I promise you this: you will not be bored."

"Let go, waele ja'luk!"

"As you wish."

Nimruil scornfully tore off the fangs of the whip from his arm, discarding both them and the bits of his surface flesh they claimed. Agony seared up through his arm like it was aflame, but the dousing effect of Timmask-laced alchemy dulled it to an acceptable level. If he could pull a few more drags from his pipe, it would be even better.

The priestesses glared dagger, their eyes promising revenge in the future; but for now, they parted and scattered before this oncoming escadron, seeking deeper within the twisted heart of the Pleasure District. Nimruil pulled up his apprentice from the ground, like a parent impatiently dragging up a wilful child, then hissed with pain, grasping his own arm -- awaiting the oncoming cadre.

Beksesha Suulet’jabar
Alak Rasivrein
Xunari Auceus

Xunari Auceus said:

"Who are your patrons and owners? I'd prefer to get ahead of this before I end up with worse PR for getting pretty-things in trouble."

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"Matron Beksesha, of Suulet'jabar," Nimruil said promptly, then with slower deliberation, added: "she is the one who has sent for us."

He gestured briefly between Klerzos and himself, still holding his injured arm. He threw his head at their vornyx carriage, a few teeth still bared as the pain lingered. His imagination could only wander tentatively around the fate of that burnt drow ahead of them; what terrible agony he must have undergone in comparison. The smell of singed flesh mingled with that distinct iron tang of freshly spilled blood, lingering in the air like a foul brew.

"Bring the healing salve, Klerzos."

While Klerzos quickly clambered back up on the carriage, Nimruil glanced at the third male present, who had looked as like to take to his blade as to retreat into a nearby alley. Tension still perked him up like hidden strings, not yet having dropped his guard. Wise.

"I believe we were never introduced before so rudely interrupted." Now his introduction involved both the curious female and the prudent male. "I am Nimruil Suulet'jabar."

Alak Rasivrein
Xunari Auceus
Beksesha Suulet’jabar