Private Tales Machinations of a Drow Lord

[Trevan Soithiel]

The city of Zar'Ahal never really slept, but instead it churned constantly. It was perhaps late at night on the surface, or maybe the middle of the day. There was no way to tell. The completely subterranean city was lit with the same even glow from a thousand glow lamps, never put to rest. The inhabitants, mostly slave and servant, slept and worked in shifts. The masters, the Drow, needed little rest in comparison. Which was good, because there was always some evil dark deed that needed doing. Some plot, some scheme, some conflict that needed rectifying. The churn was constant and showed no sign of ending, ever. The spider goddess was probably very pleased.

Among the Drow elves existed the Queen, ascended through the sheer strength of her house, besting the other noble houses and setting their matron as Queen at the top of the hierarchy. The other noble houses vied for her favor, yet all sought the throne. One such noble house was house Soithiel. Fifth in power among the main twelve, their strength has been steady and rock solid for near on a hundred years. Their plans and schemes set to provide long-term dividends. The drow are a patient long-lived race.

Trevan Soithiel, youngest of the family, was the only male who was of the house blood. His older sisters saw him as little more than a toy, but he was also their greatest weapon. A fact he didn't much care for, but one he could not escape. He was head protector, among a small house militia, captain of the guard. He was their shadow assassin, and their diplomat among the lesser houses that they could not deign to interact with. He was their tool, and he did not belong to himself.

Looking down at his arm, it hung limp and burned, marred and blackened by fire and a crushing blow which had shattered his humerus. He was sat upon a stool, the dark chamber which was most often used for torture was now his place of rest as he awaited the healer his mother had found. They had apparently forsaw the need for this, as it was made known that the man was a renowned healer among the surface world. Something Trevan found most intriguing. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe his mother actually had other plans, and the timing of Trevan's injury just happened to be a coincidence. It wasn't for him to question it.

House Soithiel would be a grand stone mansion hewed from the stone cavern's floor, rising up several stories into the vast open space above. It was a show of strength and wealth. Every luxury that can be afforded would be found here. It was also staffed by a multitude of slaves, mostly human, some drow males. The females were always killed when a house was defeated.

 

[Blazh]

The city of Zar'Ahal never really slept, but instead it churned constantly. It was perhaps late at night on the surface, or maybe the middle of the day. There was no way to tell. The completely subterranean city was lit with the same even glow from a thousand glow lamps, never put to rest. The inhabitants, mostly slave and servant, slept and worked in shifts. The masters, the Drow, needed little rest in comparison. Which was good, because there was always some evil dark deed that needed doing. Some plot, some scheme, some conflict that needed rectifying. The churn was constant and showed no sign of ending, ever. The spider goddess was probably very pleased.

Among the Drow elves existed the Queen, ascended through the sheer strength of her house, besting the other noble houses and setting their matron as Queen at the top of the hierarchy. The other noble houses vied for her favor, yet all sought the throne. One such noble house was house Soithiel. Fifth in power among the main twelve, their strength has been steady and rock solid for near on a hundred years. Their plans and schemes set to provide long-term dividends. The drow are a patient long-lived race.

Trevan Soithiel, youngest of the family, was the only male who was of the house blood. His older sisters saw him as little more than a toy, but he was also their greatest weapon. A fact he didn't much care for, but one he could not escape. He was head protector, among a small house militia, captain of the guard. He was their shadow assassin, and their diplomat among the lesser houses that they could not deign to interact with. He was their tool, and he did not belong to himself.

Looking down at his arm, it hung limp and burned, marred and blackened by fire and a crushing blow which had shattered his humerus. He was sat upon a stool, the dark chamber which was most often used for torture was now his place of rest as he awaited the healer his mother had found. They had apparently forsaw the need for this, as it was made known that the man was a renowned healer among the surface world. Something Trevan found most intriguing. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe his mother actually had other plans, and the timing of Trevan's injury just happened to be a coincidence. It wasn't for him to question it.

House Soithiel would be a grand stone mansion hewed from the stone cavern's floor, rising up several stories into the vast open space above. It was a show of strength and wealth. Every luxury that can be afforded would be found here. It was also staffed by a multitude of slaves, mostly human, some drow males. The females were always killed when a house was defeated.

Moments passed, and footsteps could be heard near the chamber. The approaching footsteps clip-clopped down the ebon-tiled hallway. Someone with a keen sense of hearing could deduce that more than one person was walking, someone even more skilled would likely notice the difference between their rhythm and the way they carried themselves. One pair of footsteps echoed sharply around the dimly lit estate, sounding overly loud and metallic, with a sensation of steel-hitting-stone sprinkled throughout. Each footstep rang out like a church bell on a quiet Sunday morning. The other set was lighter, the stride was longer ad less frequent; this person didn't walk, they stalked, graciously, and with assassin's guile.

Both stopped in front of the chamber's doors, one knocked, giving a warning signal; within a moment, the door swung open, creaking ominously. The door was old; you could tell by just looking at it. Scratches etched their way along the bottom half of it and the edges were uneven and cracked. And before it, stood two men, both vastly different from one another, yet somehow similar.


First to walk in was a grey-haired, grey-bearded drow captain, decked out in a suit of full plate armor. His armor was shiny, but in some places rusted. There were still cuts, scrapes, and dents from when it was used. It didn't look like it was ever polished, just barely taken care of to maintain its utility value. The captain snorted, looking more than a little uncomfortable and discontent as he stepped aside to make way for the other person.

The man number two was visibly taller than his drow escort, he towered over the captain by at least a couple of inches. At 6'8, Blazh was something to behold. He made some contrast in the room, with his soft-colored, gentlemanly coat and a pair of unusually fancy boots. Made from strong leather the color of oak, laced tight to give support right up to the knee.

Everything about him screamed human, even if he was significantly taller than average, with slightly paler skin, he still looked and moved like a human being, nothing stood out; except his eyes. Those were an extraordinary pair of eyes; with sclera black as tar, that seemed to suck in the ambient light. And blue, lightly glowing irises; almost translucent, glossy, like the palest blue glass, too soft to be turquoise, too bright to be baby blue; the lack of coloration in the sclera made them look like floating lights in the endless expanse of space.

The captain gave Trevan a sympathetic look, clearly being older out of the two, he had seen his fair share of brutal injuries; young men being scarred and crippled for life was something that made him wince on the inside. "Allow me to introduce you, this....fine, gentlemen over here is Mister Orlov, your mother hired him to examine your wounds." The older drow tried his best to be cordial and refined, but alas, he was a man of fighting, action; clearly out of his element here. "He will be staying at the estate for two upcoming days, and has personally requested to see in what state you are before unpacking his things."

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

Trevan was above average height for a Drow male, at the meager height of 5' 7". So this human who stepped into the chamber was borderline a giant among the peoples he found himself.

With a smile, Trevan stood, wincing only a little at the pain that shot through his arm at his barest bump against his own side. He studies the human with interest briefly, then turns to Captain Sorn. "Thank you, captain. You're dismissed." Trevan's voice was polite, but curt with the older man. Though Trevan was young, he was still of the blood, and the oldest male in house Soithiel. The only male who was not a slave or servant. Nobility had it's perks, though the cost could be high.

As captain Sorn saluted and gruffly gave his farewell, Trevan once more faced Orlov. Once the two were alone in the torture chamber turned recovery room, the smile upon Trevan's lips faded.

"Mister Orlov." He says, testing the name. "I am Trevan Soithiel, Guard Captain of the house guard. The matron is my mother, and she has requested you for this task." He says, gesturing to his arm with the other good arm. "I can only assume this is within your... abilities to fix?"

 

[Blazh]

Trevan was above average height for a Drow male, at the meager height of 5' 7". So this human who stepped into the chamber was borderline a giant among the peoples he found himself.

With a smile, Trevan stood, wincing only a little at the pain that shot through his arm at his barest bump against his own side. He studies the human with interest briefly, then turns to Captain Sorn. "Thank you, captain. You're dismissed." Trevan's voice was polite, but curt with the older man. Though Trevan was young, he was still of the blood, and the oldest male in house Soithiel. The only male who was not a slave or servant. Nobility had it's perks, though the cost could be high.

As captain Sorn saluted and gruffly gave his farewell, Trevan once more faced Orlov. Once the two were alone in the torture chamber turned recovery room, the smile upon Trevan's lips faded.

"Mister Orlov." He says, testing the name. "I am Trevan Soithiel, Guard Captain of the house guard. The matron is my mother, and she has requested you for this task." He says, gesturing to his arm with the other good arm. "I can only assume this is within your... abilities to fix?"

Blazh hummed to himself, ignoring the pair's conversation. He made himself at home, first by removing his robust coat and hanging it on the wall; he also made sure to properly adjust his dress shirt. It wasn't quite a dress shirt, and it wasn't quite a t-shirt. The collar played about his neck, the fabric was close enough to show the shape of his chest.

It was white and crisp, recently ironed, only wrinkling when he rolled up his sleeves. There was an air of elegance around him, for all the simplicity, Blazh dressed well. He quickly strolled over to the nearest table, at the same moment the bearded drow left. Blazh used the table as a makeshift pedestal to set his briefcase on. The briefcase was shaped and decorated as if it were a biscuit tin. It was a sort of homely orange; he popped it open, examining its content with almost paternal care. Blazh made sure that every scalpel, tweezer, needle, vial, or knife was in place. He didn't take any of them out, spinning on his heel to face Trevan.

His eyes flickered with silent amusement, their glow momentarily intensifying. He looked at the battered arm, dissecting its internal structure with his supernatural eyesight. It was significantly less gnarly than he had expected it to be, necrosis hadn't even settled in yet. The bone was shattered in 3 different places, splintered even. There were some major blood vessels severed, the tendon wasn't looking all that good either, but the nerves were his greatest concern. As of now, he had a semi-detailed overview of the injuries, and what he would have to work with.


"I can fix your arm, but....." He paused, using the index finger to thoughtfully rub his beard. His facial hair was thick, although not the kind that your average man would grow. "The damage dealt to your arm is far from irreversible, but, the nerves have been horrendously mangled and misplaced. Even if I do fix your appendage, it will be a few weeks till you are capable of using it at full capacity."

A slight smile overtook his pale face, usually, he looked as blank as a sheet of paper; but this time, there was some emotion painted on the gaunty canvas. "To cheer you up, I am one-hundred percent certain that you will not remain a cripple for life."

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

Trevan remained reticent, not appearing to care about the outcome of his arm. Though surely someone who ostensibly trained with a sword would desire the full use of their arm. Even someone who did not use it for combat would want their arm back.

Trevan's smile was relaxed and confident as he nodded to Orlov. "The matron mother will be pleased." He says, sitting back down in a chair that was at the center of the room. Hanging above Trevan were various items of constraint, tied up and out of the way for the time being. Trevan paid it no mind. The stones that make up the floor beneath their feet would all have a dark stain to them, further hinting at the room's dark history.

"What do you need me to do?" He would then ask. "I am in your care."

 

[Blazh]

Trevan remained reticent, not appearing to care about the outcome of his arm. Though surely someone who ostensibly trained with a sword would desire the full use of their arm. Even someone who did not use it for combat would want their arm back.

Trevan's smile was relaxed and confident as he nodded to Orlov. "The matron mother will be pleased." He says, sitting back down in a chair that was at the center of the room. Hanging above Trevan were various items of constraint, tied up and out of the way for the time being. Trevan paid it no mind. The stones that make up the floor beneath their feet would all have a dark stain to them, further hinting at the room's dark history.

"What do you need me to do?" He would then ask. "I am in your care."

He nodded in approval. Moving away from the drow and closer to the center of the room, where a sizable table laid. The table was a recycled wood upon strong iron legs, each at a jaunty angle as if it was stretching before a pleasant jog. Its grain eddied and swirled as if it were the ode of the tree to the river. This was not your average implement of torture, as a matter of fact, Blazh very much doubted that this was an original piece of furniture. It seemed out of place, a real torture platform would be made out of solid stone or metal, something cold and discomforting to sap the heat from the victim's bones; inspiring a feeling of primeval terror within them.

A sigh overcame him. "So." He said, stopping to take a deep breath. He let it all out in one sigh, watching it float off like a whiff of smoke in the fresh air. He turned back to the table in front of him, pondering quietly. "This is not the operating table I was hoping for, but it should suffice." Blazh tapped the wooden surface with his dominant hand, gesturing for Trevan to come closer. "Sit here while I go fetch a few instruments."

Blazh made his way back to the briefcase, his large hands curiously shuffling through its content. There were several things that he brought over to the operating table. Most numerous were the scalpels; they were the surgical kind, with a two-part design, a blade, and a handle. Both were reusable and he would likely have to replace them at least a few times to keep the wound clean. He also made sure that none of the instruments were touching each other, for the sake of remaining as sterile as possible.

Besides the scalpels, there were also needle holders and skin hooks present, neatly laid out across a clean cloth sheet. He needed them to keep the wound open once the incision was made, that would probably be the hardest part of the operation, making a wound large enough for Blazh to properly re-adjust the splintered bone and mangled nerves; but not large enough to cause life-threatening blood loss.

Blazh also needed to sedate Trevan with local anesthesia, without it, the drow would certainly squirm and move in ways that were counter-productive to the operation's success. With that in mind, Blazh produced a large-ish syringe, with a metal frame and glass cylinder. It possessed a masterfully crafted hypodermic needle; the canister was filled full of pellucid emerald liquid, refracting light to the point where one could mistake it for molten emeralds. "I will have to numb your arm with this drug, once I administer it, you will feel no pain whatsoever during the operation. Okay?"

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

Moving to sit at the table, Trevan's stride was purposeful and exact. The measured movements of someone who knew what he was about, possessing confidence. He sits at the table, gray eyes watching the man with continued interest.

When the hypodermic needle and canister were revealed, Trevan would raise an eyebrow as the man explained it's use. "A local anesthetic?" Trevan asks, gaze shifting to study the man's face. "Very well. If it does not effect my mind, you will not require a tourniquet to stem any bleeding. I have... ways to stem the blood." Trevan would quirk a small half smile. "So long as the procedure takes fewer than six hours. Is that feasible?"

 

[Blazh]

Moving to sit at the table, Trevan's stride was purposeful and exact. The measured movements of someone who knew what he was about, possessing confidence. He sits at the table, gray eyes watching the man with continued interest.

When the hypodermic needle and canister were revealed, Trevan would raise an eyebrow as the man explained it's use. "A local anesthetic?" Trevan asks, gaze shifting to study the man's face. "Very well. If it does not effect my mind, you will not require a tourniquet to stem any bleeding. I have... ways to stem the blood." Trevan would quirk a small half smile. "So long as the procedure takes fewer than six hours. Is that feasible?"

He gently tapped the canister, pressing down on the plunger to remove any excess air, gods forbid, Blazh would prefer not to kill his patient with air emboli. With great care, he gripped Trevan's wrist, pulling on it to fully extend the forearm.

His hands were the size of dish plates, ones that could casually engulf a human face like octopus tentacles. They were rough but taken care of, showing signs of nobility. Hands of the common man were often frayed below the fingernails, Callused yellow, bitten, and ripped. Yet he only showed signs of training, from holding and moving heavy objects for hours. That would explain why he was so muscular.

Once the hold was firm, he inserted the needle right into the Median cubital, his precision was impeccable, aided with supernatural eyesight. A normal doctor would have to figure out where the vein was via palpation, but Blazh was not bound by such trivial obstacles. The canister was emptied within mere moments; it didn't take more than a handful of seconds for the mysterious drug to block nerve transmissions to pain centers in the central nervous system by binding to and inhibiting the function of ion channels in the cell membrane. It was a terrifyingly potent drug, most other anesthetics would take minutes to act on a smaller area, meanwhile, a single shot of "this" thing rendered Trevan's whole arm, including the upper shoulder, entirely unresponsive. Treven could still feel some pressure or movement tho, but his ability to react to it was non-existent.

Blazh was more than satisfied with the outcome, reaching down to pick up one of his 5 different scalpels. He pressed it against the drow's grayed skin, making a small, but very deep incision along the humerus. From there, he would apply skin hooks and needle holders to keep the wound open, otherwise, the skin and muscle would retract, closing it off. There was some blood from the skin-deep layer, which made Blazh raise an eyebrow.

A normal elf would bleed like a pig right now, Trevan had some extra-ordinary coagulative abilities. For an eight cm deep, and seven cm long wound to bleed so little was an astounding surprise. "All good so far." Blazh put down the scalpel, admiring his handy work with a sense of pride swelling within his chest.

"Now, I will ask of you to be as calm as possible, what comes next might be slightly unnerving." Blazh extended his fingers, only for his nails to pop off; yes, pop off, partially unhinging from his digits like garage doors. Strangle tendrils started to slide out from under them, one for each finger. These tendrils were moving, wriggling as if their slimy bodies were made from pure muscle. Each possessed sharp fangs, and an elastic, flexible form. The individual tendrils appeared to have a slightly bulbous head each; said head was a solid sphere, but it opened its jaws extremely wide to let out a wet noise, unfolding itself almost like an onion and revealing rows and rows of yellow teeth.

From those teeth, some thick, heavy, whitish liquid fell onto the stone floor.

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

It didn't take much time at all for the numbness to set in, and Trevan could feel as it inched up and over his shoulder, but stopped short of his neck, chest, and back. He did not move. In fact, he hardly reacted to anything the man did. It was as if Trevan had put himself into a meditative state. Should the healer feel around within Trevan's flesh and brush against a vein, he would probably notice the extremely slow heart rate, and the low blood pressure. There was most certainly something out of ordinary going on.

When Olov requested that Trevan stay calm, the only reaction Trevan gave was a slight nod of his head. Apparently, whatever it was he was doing with his blood required him to be in a near death-state. It was a nifty trick learned by those few drow magic users who were able to use hemomancy.

 

[Blazh]

It didn't take much time at all for the numbness to set in, and Trevan could feel as it inched up and over his shoulder, but stopped short of his neck, chest, and back. He did not move. In fact, he hardly reacted to anything the man did. It was as if Trevan had put himself into a meditative state. Should the healer feel around within Trevan's flesh and brush against a vein, he would probably notice the extremely slow heart rate, and the low blood pressure. There was most certainly something out of ordinary going on.

When Olov requested that Trevan stay calm, the only reaction Trevan gave was a slight nod of his head. Apparently, whatever it was he was doing with his blood required him to be in a near death-state. It was a nifty trick learned by those few drow magic users who were able to use hemomancy.

The tendrils extended, carefully sliding into the wound channel. Their curved teeth acted as anchors, grabbing onto flesh and bone alike, pulling it into place. Each tendril acted as organic prehensile needles; pumping magical, formless sludge over the damaged areas. The sludge in question was undoubting of supernatural origin, acting loosely similar to stem cells by replicating the host's tissues, mimicking their structure and DNA composition by simply coming into contact with them. By perfectly imitating Traeven's own flesh, there were borderline zero chances that the body would reject these newly formed tissues.

The nerves and tiny blood vessels were the hardest to repair. Blazh's tendrils had to eject an array of their own, miniature appendages, thousands of them, each one about ten times thinner than a strand of human hair. These extra appendages worked tirelessly to put everything back together, using themselves as living stitches, connecting severed blood vessels, muscle fibers, and the horridly lacerated nerves.

Even after the bones, tendons and muscles were largely repaired, allowing Trevan to at very least flex his injured arm; there was another issue, infection. All would be for nothing if the wound got infected, and for a procedure, this deep, sepsis was a serious obstacle. That is why Blazh forced his body to produce potent natural antibiotics in the form of antibodies and immune cells. They would offer a temporarily heightened immunity until the body itself was back to full capacity, regaining its ability to fight infections on its own.

When everything was finished, Blazh slowly and carefully retracted his tendrils out of the wound. Using a modified one to stitch the muscle, skin, and fat tissue jointly. The tendril which acted as an organic stitching needle and thread would quickly dissolve into the tissue, melding with it to the point where not even the slightest, most insignificant scar remained.

Blood coated his fingers like caramel over an apple, only brilliant red instead of soft golden browns. The blood has concentrated in the folds of his knuckles making the usually pale creases dark. His eyes watched each finger move, entranced by the new color of his skin. It felt no different from wet mud but it wasn't. The congealing red-brown fluid had become caught in the webbing of his fingers, he knew that he should have felt repulsed, eager to wash it off but instead, he felt a laughter building in his belly.

"Give me a moment, and do not move yet, I have to wash my hands." Blazh reached for a water jug, spilling its watery content into a ceramic dish, dipping his fingers inside to clean them. Once perfectly clear water was quickly polluted by coffee-colored blood, giving it the hues of a muddy puddle. He made sure to be thorough in the cleaning process, applying a hefty dose of an alcohol-based antimicrobial liquid to his hands once the washing was done.

"That should be it, your bones, tendons, and muscles have all been fixed; you should have no issues flexing and rotating your arm," Blazh spoke with a dose of reserved confidence, it would still take some time for fingers to properly recover and regain their motor functions. He grabbed fistfuls of disposable, wiping paper; clear and perfect, as white as new snow once the storm has passed. The male wiped his hands dry, before stuffing the excess material into his pockets.

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

As Blazh finished up and started to move off to clean up, Trevan seemed to reawaken, drawing himself out of the reverie state he had put himself in. He would then feel as his blood pushed back down into the veins of his arm, circulating through his limb and starting to tingle down into his fingertips. The anesthetic would take some time to wear off completely, but Trevan managed to lift his arm and inspect it. The work was quite remarkable, and if the man wasn’t over-boasting, the complete restoration of his arm was going to be a welcomed one.

“This is quite the talent, Mr. Olov. Where did you learn it?” Trevan asks, his voice a confident but friendly one. His gaze shifted from his newly healed arm and over to Blazh as he wiped his hands dry upon the snow-white cloth. Trevan stood, as well, stretching his back and limbs as the blood continued to restart its normal circulation. It was an uncomfortable experience, but well worth the price considering how that particular ability had saved his life once before, and proved useful this day as well.

 

[Blazh]

As Blazh finished up and started to move off to clean up, Trevan seemed to reawaken, drawing himself out of the reverie state he had put himself in. He would then feel as his blood pushed back down into the veins of his arm, circulating through his limb and starting to tingle down into his fingertips. The anesthetic would take some time to wear off completely, but Trevan managed to lift his arm and inspect it. The work was quite remarkable, and if the man wasn’t over-boasting, the complete restoration of his arm was going to be a welcomed one.

“This is quite the talent, Mr. Olov. Where did you learn it?” Trevan asks, his voice a confident but friendly one. His gaze shifted from his newly healed arm and over to Blazh as he wiped his hands dry upon the snow-white cloth. Trevan stood, as well, stretching his back and limbs as the blood continued to restart its normal circulation. It was an uncomfortable experience, but well worth the price considering how that particular ability had saved his life once before, and proved useful this day as well.

Blazh paced away from the operating table, curiously snooping around to find himself a comfortable piece of furniture to sit on. His search was not fruitless, after a few seconds, he stumbled upon an ornate looking chair. The chair was carved of fine white oak, crested with several jewels and decorative metals forming an elegant coat of arms. He made an educated guess that this comfy chair was where the torturer would sit to rest, in between bouts of inflicting horrifying pain upon his or her victim.

A grizzly thought, for sure, but he felt a little tired from all the walking, and the utilitarian part of his brain just told him to ignore the repulsion and sit down. Which he promptly did, diving down into the chair's warm embrace, sinking further and further as he adjusted himself for maximum comfort. "Feel free to call me Blazh; Mister Orlov is too verbose for my liking." Blazh reached into his pockets to produce a pipe and a paper wrap containing dried, finely minced tobacco. He carefully and proportionately stuffed the pipe, before using a primitive form of lighter to ignite the tobacco.

He moved the open flame in steady, circular motions to thoroughly ignite the whole charge, once satisfied, he took a test puff, making sure that the flow of air remained uninterrupted. With a satisfied chuckle, he blew out a gust of smoke from his maw. The rich oaky smell of the fire permeated the room, wisps of silver-grey smoke curled and danced their way through the thick, hazy air as if excited to escape the gentle pull of his lips. The pipe was smoked for flavor, unlike cigars, it was a refined and gentlemanly instrument, and no gentleman would allow a cancer-inducing substance to reach his lungs directly.

"That is a clever question, but you are not the first to ask it." Blazh removed the pipe from his lips, holding it to the side while crossing his long legs, this position made him feel comfortable in most conversations. "People usually fear death, and as a young man, I did too. Especially premature one, it horrified me. So you can imagine my reaction when physicians diagnosed me with a severe, life-threatening form of lung disease."

His eyes seemed to shimmer, if only for a moment, but there was something otherwordly about them as he spoke. The corners of his paper-thin lips seemed to dance, tugging back to form a brief, faint smile. "I worked tirelessly to acquire physical wealth that would allow me to travel across the world. In my desperation, I searched for magical artifacts of power that could cure my ailment; fate had dug me up a premature grave, it was on me to avoid falling into it."

Blazh brought the pipe's elongated stem back to his lips, this time, his draw was stronger, evident by the rapidly burning tobacco ball centered right inside the pipe chamber. His cheeks puffed up like he was a frog in the middle of a mating fall; softly deflating once he expelled the smoke through his flared nostrils. "It was one hell of a journey, and here I am now, a new man, alive, well and with a craft that can keep me fed for life."


Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

Stepping toward the center of the room, Trevan was clearly comfortable with the space and it's purposes. You do not grow up a noble among the Drow of Zar'ahal without having to face the horrors of such a room. He smiles lightly, his gaze peering at Blazh with a confidence that comes with the territory of his heritage. Flexing his newly healed hand, he continued to try and work blood into it, forcing the flow to reach into the smallest of capillaries. He could tell it was going to take time but he felt confident that it would completely heal, based on what he just saw this man do.

Nodding politely as the man spoke, Trevan waited until he was finished speaking before he probed a bit further. "This is a powerful tool, and it begs the question what it is that my mother requires you for. I do not believe she would go this far to heal me, no matter my usefulness to her. I am also just a tool, one of many, to her. This is the way of things here. I assume you know this, volunteering to come so many miles below your world. So I must ask. It would not be only keeping yourself fed that draws you here... you seek something else...?"

 

[Blazh]

Stepping toward the center of the room, Trevan was clearly comfortable with the space and it's purposes. You do not grow up a noble among the Drow of Zar'ahal without having to face the horrors of such a room. He smiles lightly, his gaze peering at Blazh with a confidence that comes with the territory of his heritage. Flexing his newly healed hand, he continued to try and work blood into it, forcing the flow to reach into the smallest of capillaries. He could tell it was going to take time but he felt confident that it would completely heal, based on what he just saw this man do.

Nodding politely as the man spoke, Trevan waited until he was finished speaking before he probed a bit further. "This is a powerful tool, and it begs the question what it is that my mother requires you for. I do not believe she would go this far to heal me, no matter my usefulness to her. I am also just a tool, one of many, to her. This is the way of things here. I assume you know this, volunteering to come so many miles below your world. So I must ask. It would not be only keeping yourself fed that draws you here... you seek something else...?"

"Hmmm, you are not incorrect in your assessment." The male ran a hand through his hair, sliding it back to reveal a small widow's peak. "I assume that your mother either wants me to assassinate someone for her, or she needs my occult expertise for some...more devious reason."

He reached to unbutton the top of his dress shirt, revealing the strange object that rested against his chest. It was a jeweled talisman, the size of a ping pong ball on a heavy golden chain. Blazh held the jewel in his outstretched hand and it lay there just as heavy as a common rock. Yet in the sunlight it glittered like the sun-kissed ocean lapping the sands; the brilliant red hue was so vivid it was how one would imagine crystalline blood would appear if such a thing existed.

"The former I would likely refuse, but the latter? I am an occult scientist if she is capable of paying me with artifacts, then I'd be more than interested in her nefarious schemes." He smiled. Perhaps 'smile' wasn't the right word for it -- the top row of teeth was showing, and there was a faint curve to the lips, but there was no crease below the eyes, no movement of the cheeks. On anyone else, it would be a grimace, at best. On this face, however, it was a sign of bliss.

"I have heard that drows possess many tomes of necromancy, both those written by their magic users and those stolen from ancient ruins, in places where no sane man would dare dwell." Another wave of rich, wood flavored smoke assailed the insides of his mouth, tickling them tentatively; it teased and eddied until the inhaler had it enough; he puffed it out again in rings which breasted the air bravely for a moment; blue, circular.

"Are those rumors true? If so, your mother has the right tools to bargain and negotiate with me. I will take an educated guess that you are in a similar position, being her male heir and all."

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

Trevan considers the man's words with a grave expression. It certainly wouldn't be mere assassination. There was plenty of help with such a deed, and his mother was not above it herself, should the situation be ideal. Trevan's mind had also carried him to the conclusion that there was some devious deed that would require such magics, and he started to perhaps piece together what it might be, though he kept his thoughts to himself on that matter.

"There might be things here you would find worth your time." He says, a cryptic answer but rather straight, for a drow. It was as good as saying 'yes' in the realm of backstabs and courtly games.

"I suppose you will find out soon enough. When you do, come speak with me. I may have something valuable enough to warrant further discussion."
Again, his tone seems to make it clear that he does in fact have something that the man would want, should he come to Trevan after speaking with the matron mother Narrais Soithiel.

"Fair warning. No matter how useful you are. Show respect. She will not suffer any slight against her name."

 

[Blazh]

“Your mother is an intimidating woman, that doesn't mean that I will bend my knee to her, or anyone else for that matter. All that I do, I do out of my own goodwill and whatever payment I am offered for my effort.” Blazh tilted his head to the side, both sides actually, his neck felt stiff for no apparent reason, and he felt the need to unwind it. He reached into his pocket to retrieve more tobacco. This one was a different variety, compressed into granulated pellets instead of being sliced thinly.

He added a couple dozen pellets to his still ignited pipe chamber, since some embers remained inside from the old tobacco, Blazh had no need to use the primitive lighter for the second time. He took a couple of empty draws, forcing the air to circulate through the pipe, amplifying the ember's heat until ghastly who's of smoke started emerging. A good sign, pellets were now thoroughly lit.

“Trevan, mister Trevan, I am not a man who deals in 'ifs' and 'maybes', you forget who I am.” His eyes rested, not unblinking but slowed; yet the effect was soft and inviting instead of harsh. Perhaps it was his lips that give away his intention, not quite smiling but tilting as if they meant to. “I am a scientist, a scholar, men like me deal in facts and information; nothing more, nothing less.”

Blazh tilted his head back. He was never a fan of vague, cryptic answers, if people wanted to speak with him, he'd expect them to do it clearly, with palpable intent, and we'll define goals. The drow were fickle, backstabbing, hard to trust and confusing. He never found himself desiring some long term relationships with them, unless there was something to gain from the interaction.

“If you wish to do business with me, I expect detailed information, cut and dry. That is how I work, someone like me has to keep his clients informed. For example, I never claimed to be a miracle maker.” His shoulders shrugged, and he moved forward, eyes snapping in place to get a good look at Trevan. “Even before starting to heal you, I told you that your arm wouldn't magically return to its full capacity the moment physical damage got fixed.”


Blazh, too lost to the machinations and spinning wheels of his wayward imagination, barely noticed that the tobacco burned away into nothingness. Taking a quick puff, he regained his senses “If you wish to do business with me, give me some bargaining chip, something I want. And I'll see if I can meet your demands.”

He left the room moments later, leaving his pipe and coat behind. Blazh was going to see the drow Matriarch, but deep down, he just wanted the chore out of his way as soon as possible.

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

The Matron Mother's chambers were a grossly extravagant affair. The large wooden desk, solid oak and seemingly carved by master elves of the wood-land variety spoke of her tastes in things made well and done right. The surface was pristine, nothing adorning it. Behind the desk, Narrais sat, poised and exuding regality. There was no crown upon her head, but instead a myriad of perfectly white pearls woven into her stark white hair, and wire-netting woven in what looked like a root latticework. She wore a beautiful silk gown, and it was absolutely see through, but in the dim light of her chambers her form would be obscured beneath the fabric's folds. To either side of her knelt two human slaves, both sitting back on their heels with their heads down, completely broken and subservient.

The walls were also quite something to behold. Several shelves and recesses held on display a myriad of grotesque sights that might interest one such as Blazh. Various limbs decaying in glass display cases, insects turned inside out for the beauty of what was within. Paintings hung on the wall depicting gore-soaked battlefields, both topside and underrealm battles. Large red tapestries also hung from the high stone ceiling, depicting the house sigil.

Also hidden within some of the recesses were soldiers, well armored and standing at the ready. Most men, a few women, all drow.

 

[Blazh]

Blazh made his way inside, looking behind himself to make sure no one was following. Drow were fickle creatures, it was without a doubt that the Matriarch had several dozen enemies at very least, each one of whom would enjoy spilling her blood with inhumane glee. Her life was not something he cared about on an emotional level, but he needed her resources and political ties; without them, Blazh couldn't get his payment.

He stepped into the room with a blank face. It was impossible to tell what he was truly thinking, minus the strange aura he gave off, there wasn't any negative intent to be held, but no positive one either. Blazh made sure to bypass any possible guards and soldiers, getting within Matron Mother's line of sight, there was only a handful of meters between them, and despite the darkness, they could see each other with commendable clarity.

His eyes glistered in dim lighting. Their depth resembled that of a black hole in space, an air of eeriness and unsettling coldness emanating from the lack of light.

Perhaps, their most unnatural quality was the fact that they were light absorbent, it was not a color, it was nothing, a void. It caused the temperature to drop a few degrees even though the entire building had a central heating system. His irises worked as a contrast, the darkness surrounding them, only made them more pronounced. They soaked in the ambient light, but instead of greedily nullifying it, his irises acted as reflectors, glowing softly.

“Good evening, you have summoned me?”

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

The matron mother sat, studying Blazh, scrutinizing his every inch, weighing him, her mind calculating behind her cold gray eyes. She did not immediately respond to his question, choosing to let his words hang in the air for a time. A tactic?

At last she spoke, her voice sharp and with a tone that suggested she did not put up with foolishness.

"Blazh Orlov. Be welcome in my home." Her hand gestures toward a set of plush seats, though she does not seem to care if he takes one or not.

"I do not intend to waste much time here with you, so I will be short. There's a chamber below our manor that has some specimens I would like you to work with. I desire for you to ply your considerable knowledge in an effort to make me a pet."

She smiles, a soulless smile that stretches ear to ear. "One meant to kill, ruthlessly and efficiently."

 

[Blazh]

The matron mother sat, studying Blazh, scrutinizing his every inch, weighing him, her mind calculating behind her cold gray eyes. She did not immediately respond to his question, choosing to let his words hang in the air for a time. A tactic?

At last she spoke, her voice sharp and with a tone that suggested she did not put up with foolishness.

"Blazh Orlov. Be welcome in my home." Her hand gestures toward a set of plush seats, though she does not seem to care if he takes one or not.

"I do not intend to waste much time here with you, so I will be short. There's a chamber below our manor that has some specimens I would like you to work with. I desire for you to ply your considerable knowledge in an effort to make me a pet."

She smiles, a soulless smile that stretches ear to ear. "One meant to kill, ruthlessly and efficiently."

Blazh didn't bother with sitting down, it was an unnecessary courtesy on her end. “Pleasure of meeting you is all mine. Your son has been tender to, he will be fully recovered in 2 weeks.” The male wanted to squint, but didn't, he wasn't interested in starting an unnecessary conflict. Matron Mother clearly wanted something from him, leering and probing him with her sugar coated words. The feeling was weird, in more ways than one. And tho he didn't want to admit it, her figure was pleasing to his eyes.

Blazh took a step closer to the Matron Mother, giving an offhanded wave at her request. Yet again, it was vague, these drows were always vague, and it proved to be quite an obstacle to his work. She wanted a living weapon, but didn't give him nearly enough specifications. Blazh wouldn't leave this room until he had them, moreover, there was payment to be discussed too. Even disregarding the matriarch's personal project, he still healed her son, and it meant she owed him half the payment.

“I will tell you the same thing I told your son, you might be beautiful beyond mortal recognition, and in possession of inhumane charms, but it will take more to sway my interest.” He cracked his neck, relieving it from excess tension, unwinding like a clockwork soldier, his gears twisting and creaking. “I deal in information, give me further details on what you need the creature for and what kind of targets it will face, I shall craft it accordingly.”

His lips curved faintly, giving him a thoughtful expression. Blazh placed the index finger on his forehead, as if he were having an 'eureka' moment. “Almost forgot, we still haven't discussed my payment, it is an urgent matter that I expect you to attend on with precision and swiftness.”

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

She hissed at his responses, a low disapproving sound that caused a little bit of a stir from the guards that stood post against the walls of the chamber room. Her eyes narrowed upon the man and her distaste was clearly evident.

"You will get what you seek." She says, beckoning a servant from behind a curtain. The servant comes out and holds up a very old, very large tome. It's leather binding depicted grotesque figures seemingly clawing their way out from their own graves.

She sets this book down upon her large wood table and slides it forward.

"Take the book. I believe you will enjoy its contents. I've marked a page, and I would have you create what is marked, or something akin to it. Should you need provisions or more subjects you may ask."

When Blazh takes the book, he would quickly discover that it is an ancient one, written in an elven script, depicting varying degrees of necromantic spells and rituals, as well as various methods of creating ancient monsters. The one bookmarked would be a Drider. A horrid mix of Drow and Spider.

 

[Blazh]

She hissed at his responses, a low disapproving sound that caused a little bit of a stir from the guards that stood post against the walls of the chamber room. Her eyes narrowed upon the man and her distaste was clearly evident.

"You will get what you seek." She says, beckoning a servant from behind a curtain. The servant comes out and holds up a very old, very large tome. It's leather binding depicted grotesque figures seemingly clawing their way out from their own graves.

She sets this book down upon her large wood table and slides it forward.

"Take the book. I believe you will enjoy its contents. I've marked a page, and I would have you create what is marked, or something akin to it. Should you need provisions or more subjects you may ask."

When Blazh takes the book, he would quickly discover that it is an ancient one, written in an elven script, depicting varying degrees of necromantic spells and rituals, as well as various methods of creating ancient monsters. The one bookmarked would be a Drider. A horrid mix of Drow and Spider.

Blazh rolled his eyes at her statement, firmly gripping the book out of the matriarch's hands, taking curious looks at it. The tome was .... satisfying enough, he'd see if it was possible to get more from her later on, possibly another book, or some other magical artifact.

“That will work, I shall attend to the work as soon as possible, until then, I want to drag one of your lackeys with me, they can be a vocal link and deliver information from you to me and vice versa.” Blazh surveyed the room, trying to see if any of the guards looked interested in being messengers. Then again, they didn't seem very content with the business deal that their mistress had struck with him. He wanted to laugh at that, haughtily and openly, these people were trying too hard to keep an air of aristocracy around them; it must have been rather uncomfortable, a part of Blazh was relieved that he wasn't a royal, nor subservient to one.

“I will be off for the time being, expect news from in the early morning, farewells.” He turned on his heel, marching out of the room, he started heading for the lower chamber, as the Matron Mother had instructed him. He was whistling the way down, it was an eerie, out of place gesture on his end. It was that kind of jovial whistle with two changes in pitch, and with the middle note being both lower and held for much less time than the ones before or after.

Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

The matron simply gestured toward one of the guards, and the guard snapped a formal salute, and without question began to follow Blazh from the room. The guard woman was a drow, beautiful and strong, and apparently the silent type. She did not speak to Blazh, only followed him down to the chamber below. She made no mention of the eerie whistle, nor did she seem to be put off by it. Stoic in every regard, well trained and obedient to her last fiber.

Trevan had stood at the end of a dark hallway, the shadows concealing him as he watched Blazh and the guard leave his mother's receiving hall. His eyes caught a glimpse of the book that Blazh had received, and he furrowed his brow.

 

[Blazh]

The room underneath was damp, damp and made almost entirely out of blackened granite. It was chilly to say at least, the only heat sources were large bonfires, six of them in total, one for each of the room's corners. They burned brightly, radiating heat in waves, but to no avail, the walls only sapped in the heat, demanding more and more.

It was a hollow cube of stone, one way in, no windows. In there you could have no idea how much time had passed or even if it was night or day. It was totally disorientating by design. Given enough time a person could forget their own name in there. The isolation was total and the stimulation was zero.


The drow were truly cruel, these conditions were just barely fit to keep the slaves alive, their misery was but an afterthought to the dark elves; treating their captives like subhuman cattle must have been a custom around here. Moss-laden marble pillars stood as despairing guards on either side of the inner Sanctum.

There was a multitude of cages present, in different shapes and sizes, he could even see a child's skeleton in one of the smaller ones, it was sickening. Some cages had living people in them, different races. Some were human, some orcish, some were even a different species of elves.

Blazh strolled to the rooms center, gliding across the granite tiles like a slick panther. With curious eyes, he stared at a metallic table, complete with chains and leather straps to keep whoever laid upon it properly immobilized. At least he gave him adequate tools to work with.

A jolt ran down his spine and he turned to one of the cages, removing the chain lock and swinging its doors open, the woman inside was malnourished, but she still had enough strength in her to throw one last ditch effort of escaping her captives.

He had broken the woman's legs and severed the major tendons, rendering her disabled for life. All that the poor creature could do was attempt to futilely crawl away from Blazh, using her arms that were still intact to do so.

But there was simply no hope of escaping, the injured woman could not expect to outrun her fully functional tormentor by crawling across the stone. Like some sort of grotesque slug, the woman was leaving a bloody trail behind herself, courtesy of splintered bones that penetrated and escaped her soft tissue.

She was gaunt and malnourished, sickeningly light. Blazh grabbed her by the neck, lifting her as if she were a pillow and hauling her body onto the table like you'd expect a grizzly bear to haul a crack whore.

He strapped her in, both arms and legs tied with chains and leather straps. She started screaming and crying hysterically.

The screaming sobs were only interrupted by the person's need to draw breath. It was a primal sound, one people are programmed not to ignore. When the wracking sobs passed she cried in such a desolate way that no-one could bare to listen for long. In any other situation Blazh would find himself fascinated as to how someone so underfed and sickly could have such defiance hiding within them.

With a silent bob of his head, he reached for the knife, cutting of a large chunk of the woman's raven hair. He pulled it up in a messy ball before shoving it down her throat; muffling the previously powerful noise to a more tolerable whimpering.

“Please, do not make this any harder than it has to be.”


Trevan Soithiel

 

[Trevan Soithiel]

The soldier that had followed Blazh down as his liaison stood silently in the corner, a smile upon her lips, watching as Blazh worked, showing interest but remaining at her post. The sight was a cruel act, and something nearly all drow would enjoy, and it likely greatly pleased the spider goddess.

In the manor above, Trevan stepped into the matron mother's chambers, bowing low to her and greeting her formally.

"Matron Mother. I humbly request an audience."

"Granted. Come in, my son."

Trevan straightened and stepped forward, stopping just in front of the large wooden desk, eyes remaining lowered until she spoke again.

"What is it you need, Trevan?"

Trevan's eyes lifted to gaze into his mother's own, and he smiles lightly. "I only wished to show you that my arm has made great strides toward recovery, and to inform you that I should be back to guard duty within a day or two. It may take more time to get full functions back, but I can resume my post."

"This is good news. Tell me, what did you think of my new pet?"

"The human healer?" He asks, and she nods.

"He is a capable healer, and I suspect with abilities like that one could be equally as capable with inflicting harm. His motivations seems clear, so I would keep him appeased."

The matron mother laughs, a dry laugh that felt like it lacked any actual humor in it. "He will do what I need. I have what he wants, he has what I want."

Trevan bows in deference to her, then she dismisses him and he takes his leave, closing the door behind himself.