Quest Those Who Walk Below

“You’re a woman?” Dante spat back.

Dante listened as he honed his weapons. All of this was over his head. He didn’t dabble in gods and dragons and songs and it was clear that would be a disadvantage on this journey. J’rell seemed to think this Dragonsong was something to fear, something that could drive a man mad… but they were already crawling through the innards of the world, how much madder could someone be?

“Ack!” Dante spluttered as the wineskin came flying at him, it smacked him in the face and then landed in his stunned open hands. The whet stone and sword were quickly forgotten as he took a swing and let out a refreshed sigh.

He caught Zathira’s eye, held the skin up, then tossed it in her direction. When it was appropriate he’d thank Vyx’aira for sharing. It wasn’t often he had the chance to drink a little wine while basking in the dank darkness of the underrealm.

The Queen’s words were powerful. The memory clearly something she held dear, something she didn’t spill frivolously. Dante made sure to remember these words.

Then their guide decided to cross a line they shouldn’t have. Mid drag, his whet stone stopped. In the blink of an eye Vyx had covered the space between her and Vernutar, or whatever she was called, and had her by the throat. He sat up a little straighter, a small sense of foreboding developing in the back of his mind. Not because violence was close… but because he couldn’t look away from her. Falling for your employer was bad for business.

Then the tension was over. Vyx’aria made her point, and Vernutar had accepted. Dante returned to his blade.

“If disguises keep up out of the sewers, then by all means work your magic, but I am not being tied up and hauled around.”

A smile worked its way onto Dante’s face and for once it wasn’t the mocking sneer, “Sounds like we're going to the city then?"

J'rell carefully watched the vicious display of violence, cross-legged in his own seat. Among drow, it was hardly surprising — but it was enlightening. It told him that Vernutar was playing a cautious game, while Vyx'aria succumbed to pride. He felt a tinge of remorse for Vernutar's poor treatment; she didn't seem quite as callous as many other dark elves, but perhaps she merely hid it well. But Vyx'Aria didn't suffer the smallest slights. This he knew already. Today, Vernutar had learned that lesson as well.

Dante Storta said:

“Sounds like we're going to the city then?"

Click to expand...

"It would appear so. We've made it this far. It might be a wasted opportunity not to take our chance, when we can still seize it."

He bit his lip, considering Vyx'aria's tale. To think, something like this could have happened in his confined slumber. The Great Ones, awakened. Could it be a lie? No, she had spoken with conviction and earnest memory. It seemed that indeed, the drow had sought to ally with the mother of all dragons. A terrifying prospect, if it had succeeded.

And now, she sought to finish what they had started. Find the divine progeny, and use it to . . . to what? Fuel her own ambition? Conquer in the name of her people? Revenge against those who had usurped her? Perhaps all three.

"May I ask, Lady Vyx'aria. Once you have the dragon's egg and your mageling . . . what then?" His face had drawn into tight lines, looking at Vyx'aria, expecting the worst. Expecting some plan of furious conquest hatching with that egg. "What will you do with it?"

Vyx'aria Zathria At'Arel Dante Storta Szesh Vel'duith Voiryn

Vel'duith nodded at Vyx'aria's assertment.

"Six disguises shall be taxing indeed, Valsharess. But I have lived all this past moon under the sun..."

Her hat still held in her hand, it was apparent that she wore her hair not in any house's style, but in a simple, precisely even plait, its curt, neatly brushed tail tied with a well tucked dark red spidersilk cord. She rolled back her left sleeve and removed her left glove, and the eldritch patterns of silver and moonstone etched into the ebon flesh of her hand and forearm gleamed boldly, almost painfully bright in the dark chamber. This act also revealed a pair of shake-holstered darts, adamantine tips glistening darkly with the telltale sickly green cast of freshly applied sleeping-poison. She rolled her sleeve back down, and tugged her glove back on. Lastly, she replaced her hat, ever so briefly meeting Vyx'aria's gaze so that she could see the dimming dweomer at work below the hat-brim, before once again inclining her head and flourishing her palms briefly.

"My luminancy has benefited as an unexpected boon of the experience. I should manage holding our disguises for at least an hour before my embeddings wane considerably. Longer, if the disguises need not be fast against a living touch."

J'rell's dark eyes kept lingering on Vyx'aria, unerring and hooded with thought. His silence brimmed with tension, filling the space of their little cavern with imperceptible weight.

He hadn't heard such a faint tremble in her voice before, nor the brief halt in thought. Sharp and decisive as a blade, she had been. But now, before this question . . . doubt?

Could he trust it? He hadn't thought her capable of sparing a thought for the fates of others. It almost disturbed him more than any proclamation of future glory could have.

For it raised two options.

Either she was a master pretender and veiled her true designs with the facade of concern. A cunning tactic to keep her subjects in the dark about her plans, while fostering trust in her intentions.

Or, she was more than simply the callous, murdering drow regent he had borne witness to in Hollowmere Crossing. This nearly seemed the more insidious proposition. For it might make her appear sympathetic in her cause; perhaps even cause him to lose his guard around her. As if her past killing, raiding and looting held a higher purpose, some nobler aim that could justify it.

His memory slingshotted back to her carving him out from the worm. Firmly keeping him in her grip, on the threshold of life, not willing to let death claim him. It stood clear among muddier memories, pristine; as yet uncorrupted by the decay of time.

People defied to have their moral integrity set in stone. They could be as ever-changing as the elements. An incredibly frustrating trait, when one attempted to make up their mind about them.

Finally, he shook his head, breaking eye-contact. A huff of air escaped him, baffled. It was eerie how much she reminded him of his former charge. Shifting like a chameleon from moments of great generosity to acts of even greater cruelty, and then back again, always defying a firm pindown. His former empress had assured him that all her vile acts went towards a greater good. He had been burned once before by such notions. Grander goals that could supposedly outweigh lesser evils.

He would not be tricked again.

With a great heave of air, finally, reluctantly, he took word again.

"True concern for another's fate is admirable. Especially when done with disregard to one's own safety. And you have risked much getting here."

Eyes raised again to observe cautiously. No accusations and no assumptions. Just a principle he held dear. He still didn't know if she truly cared for something beyond herself, but if she did, he let those words hang like an acknowledgement of such intent.

Vyx'aria Zathria At'Arel Dante Storta Szesh Vel'duith Voiryn

Taciturn was almost too mild of a way to describe Szesh. The common language was physically difficult for him to speak, which worsened his pre-existing desire to avoid long conversations anyway. His people’s warrior caste were not poets or philosophers, and they owed their survival to sound, decisive actions on the field of battle. This group prattled on far too long, when truly the only voice that mattered was their employer (or leader, or queen, depending on their view).

Despite this assertion, that very voice was now saying some very concerning things. Szesh visibly reacted to Vyx’aria’s revelation. He took a half step back and his dark eyes flared wider in equal parts shock and incredulity.

”Her spawn?” he hissed, louder than he should have. He grit his teeth, trying to choose his next words carefully although several different thoughts were colliding in his head at once.

”I was there.” His voice was low, gravely, and severe. ”I was there when She broke the earth… poisoned the sky.”

That day still plagued his nightmares. He could remember the chaos, the smell of deep earth and fire, and the existential horror of seeing Neha. She had dwarfed the city, dwarfed everything. He remembered Zeri.

”She was of Dron. A destroyer.” Szesh had felt her evil then and he felt it now. Reverence does not mean blindness, for not all gods are benevolent. He absent-mindedly scratched at his arm, his body remembering Neha’s toxic ash. It had blanketed him as he flew. It felt like it was seeping under his scales, unlike any natural dust.

”You would bring Her child back?”

There was no mistaking the tint of anger in his voice. This was information that should have been given earlier. He did not know if he would have refused the job, or accepted anyway had he known… but he would have had time to think.

The other banter, the disguises, the chosen route, he didn’t care about those right now. Szesh would not abide destroying the egg, but neither was he keen on awakening it. ”Some things are best left asleep.”

Zathria made an obscene gesture at Dante but didn't respond further. The conversation progressed to discussion of the dragon and Zathria listened in silence, the tensions in the small cavern growing. Nerves frayed from combat and the stress of still being in danger did nothing to help with the moment either.

"But it won't remain asleep. Whether in our hands or someone else's it will awaken," she added.

"It's either destroy it or recover it and help it to hatch and grow," she said.

Everything in life was a risk and this was no exception, but she wasn't eager to snuff out the life of something that had not even had the chance to draw its first breath. Especially not something so powerful and potentially world-changing as the offspring of the dragon.

While the queen and the dragon-kin had their close conversation about the potentially apocalyptic egg of Neha the Destroyer, and the sell-sword and general played catch with stare-daggers, Vel’duith unstoppered a flask and took a quick sip of dwarf-ale, then fished out a broken piece of the ripplebark-shelf from her carryall. She grimaced slightly. She had of course been crushed up against her carryall during her own close conversation with the queen a few moments earlier, and she could only imagine how many little bits of fungal detritus were inevitably working their way into the waft of the spider silk. While she nibbled absently at the chunk of mushroom, she couldn't help but frown slightly at the prospect of cleaning out all those crumbs later.

Dante’s sneer widened at Zathria’s obscene gesture, “Thanks for the offer, maybe when we’re alone, love.”

In what small greylight he could find, Dante checked the edge of his weapon. The broadsword wasn’t a slicer. It was a brutal weapon made to bash and break as much as it was to cut and as he looked around he wondered if he’d be forced to break anyone here.

Dante’s eyes followed Szesh, it was clear The Draconian didn’t like the plan, and as far as The Sellsword was concerned reservations in the midst of a mission were useless. Everyone knew what they were getting into, the end prize shouldn’t change that.

The Sellsword was on his feet, bare steel exposed and ready. Vyx’aria spoke before The Draconian could make a comeback. Good for her, better to cut the loose ends off before they tangled everything up.

As Zathria got after her orders Dante mouthed, “I’ll miss you,” with a sneer and then fell in behind The Queen as she marched them toward their next objective.

As he passed Szesh, Dante clapped Ole Scales on the shoulder and said, “Good luck seeing in the dark, mate.”

The path was as identical to what had come before as anything could be. Darkness, damp, and stone all around. Dante couldn’t help but wonder if this was what a coffin felt like. He didn’t like that thought too much so he tried to chase it away with anything else to occupy his wandering mind. It didn’t work.

Between the worm, the cave fishers, and the spider, Storta assumed they were due for something terrible to come their way at any minute, but nothing ever did. Instead the tunnel they were in opened up before them revealing a ladder at the other end of the room. Professional Paranoia screamed: Trap.

Dante stepped into the room first, one hand up in a pseudo ready stance, the other on the pommel of his dagger. Storta eased into open space, his eyes flicking from corner to corner then sweeping the floor before each step… nothing.

Well, I look like a moron…

Vel’duith said nothing about the queen apparently discarding her idea, silently biding her time as the misfit circus snaked and glowered through mazes of decades-hardened fisher detritus. She also seemed to nearly melt into the shadows as they walked, her cloak’s mottling making it difficult to fix her exact silhouette in the gloom, though she was mere steps away from those ahead and behind her.

Once she saw the ladder ahead, she realized that her ‘detour’ had barely been even slight from the route the queen had likely planned all along. She nodded slowly, approvingly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Ah! Slaves would once have descended yon ladder and passed through this very shaft to toil in the sewer, before the cavefishers took over the cavern. It would lead up to the lower city, near the slave pens, and quite near where the main road rises up into the main circle, the epicenter of the great houses. Easy to blend in disguised amongst the steady stream of drudges and drones passing back and forth.”

The trickster’s mind kept a defensive illusion visualized the whole while. She would not be so easily surprised by a second attack.

"I'll see it done," Zathria said with a nod to Vyx'aria, her face shifting to that determined look but with the hint of excitement that spoke to this being where she thrived. She loved what she did.

"I know you will. Haven't stopped staring since you first saw me. You just need a woman to order you into a good time," Zathria said as Dante shifted past her. He was an interesting one if a bit impertinent for a maleling. Still, entertaining enough.

Zathria moved out ahead of the group, traveling through the remainder of the course before ascending upward at the edge of the city. The people milling about paid little attention to a single Drow puttering around and Zathria pulled the hood up over her head to obscure her features further.

Few likely would be able to tell her face by sight these days, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.

Zathria's eyes darted beneath her hood as she approached the emporium, the gnomes inside who ran the place casting their gazes toward the door as Zathria entered.

"Potions of disguise," was all she said and the gnome behind the counter looked up at her.

"Potions of ice storm. See there little missy, I can do it, too," the gnome said, looking up at her with a mischievous look in his eye.

"Or was that just a question? You're looking for those potions and want to buy some. Otherwise I can list all kinds of magical items. Swords of soul severing, shields of counter spell, elixirs of healing. By the skies I think I could list items for the rest of the evening!" he said and Zathria screwed her eyes shut before letting out a little sigh.

Astather was known to be a bit on the eccentric side, an eternal grandpa to everyone that came into the shop. If your grandpa had a shop that was absolutely packed with magical traps, glyphs, and items that could defend him if a customer got a little out of line. He'd been in business long enough that everyone knew not to try to scam or rob him. Back when Zathria had been a commander she'd heard a story about how Astathar had scorched a whole group of five Drow who had tried to rob him at sword point and had only had to lift a finger.

"Yes, I am looking to buy potions of disguise. I'll pay handsomely for a rush. I need them now," she said. She wanted to bypass the heme and haw of "I don't have any on hand." She knew he would and he had no shortage.

He named a price that made her soul shriek a bit but she laid the coin down and he disappeared and reappeared several minutes later with the potions in hand. Now she just needed to make it back to the others without being caught.

"Always a pleasure of sorts, Astathar," she said with a half-smirk toward the gnome.

"You as well, Z," confirming that he did, in fact, realize who she was. She knew that he would, but it had been a long time since they had seen one another.