Open Chronicles Scourge of Fangs

[Nimruil]

Spoiler: Music

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. As such, it allowed the two highbourne drow within its carriage — strapped to its back and fashioned from a combination of the jagged exoskeleton of a bebilith, the sturdy fungi-timbre 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.

 

[Alak Rasivrein]

Alak had fully embraced the life of the nomadic mercenary, splitting his time between Drow cities like Zar'ahal and Z'th'arr and even making his way back up to the surface. The Gloomstalker mercenary company had made a name for itself not only in battle but in the spying and occasional dips into political intrigue, becoming a force that worked behind the scenes of the Drow society and even creeping around the surface.

It meant that Alak spent a great deal of his time within the city's underbelly, now roaming around the Pleasure District when he heard the sounds and saw the commotion. His wrist rested casually across the pommel of his sword strapped to his waist as he paused to survey what was coming, evidently several others had stopped as well.

One in particular - the noble and fancy type - caught his eye, stopping with almost rapt attention on the cruelty that was to unfold.

Fancy yourself a little voyeuristic sadism? he asked with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He knew better than most the things the nobles got into in their houses. Degenerates the lot of them, and it was no exception down here.

They didn't normally sully themselves with coming this far down, though, and that caught Alak's attention amidst everything else going on.

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

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]

Alak didn't take any pleasure in watching what happened. In fact, he would have almost wanted to step in if it didn't mean risking his own neck and backlash. At the end of the day, so long as it wasn't him that would be taken then that was all that mattered.

"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.

He was sure it had nothing to do with the pleasures of the flesh or anything of the like. The scent of intoxicant smoke leaked from the carriage itself.

The truth was that the pulse of the city was restless. The nobles were restless and some thought that civil war was going to happen soon. Others like Alak knew that things were never that much different. Whoever was at the top, the lower parts of the city still indulged in grotesque violence and cruelty like the abuse that was now befalling the male.

The amusement on his face fell away and he frowned as he watched before turning to leave the square. He wouldn't stop it but he didn't need to watch either.

Nimruil

 

[Beksesha Suulet’jabar]

Beksesha Suulet'jabar stared out the window of the mage-tower at the city below as she waited. Goddess willing, her city, soon enough.

Dalrithia was already losing her grip on it before she left on her absurd campaign to seize the Duergar capital. Soon the reports of the losses would begin to trickle back, adding to the discontent and anger percolating through the streets below. The wizards were angry because components and slaves we’re in short supply and costs had doubled and tripled. The priestesses had never fully accepted Dalrithia, a mere warrior, in the first place. And the commoners’ daughters and sons had spilled so much drow blood in foreign caverns that many households were entering truly dire straits. If the regent’s own first-daughter wasn’t at the gates of the Duergar, she would have likely crumbled in the crucible already. It was only a matter of time.

The regent, Tyrnael Myrlochar, was formidable, the most accomplished priestess in Zar'Ahal, but beyond her, her house's talent waned rapidly. Dalrithia had made Tyrnael's children her highest officers over much more competent choices in hopes of keeping her loyalty. Even her vapid party whore of a second-son had been elevated to subcommander of the guard, and his vanguard had taken to sporting ridiculous gilt edged armor plates and glaive hafts, like emissary guards from the rivvil empires were prone to wear.

Her thoughts turned back to her brother Nimruil, ever the hole card in her power plays. A spider had just brought a report that his carriage had just departed the compound. Ironically, Dalrithia’s incompetence had actually slowed her timeline, as Nimruil was the magic traders’ single biggest customer, and things had gotten so bad without the once-steady flow of gems, rare metals, and potent fungi that he had lately taken to leaving his tower and even venturing out of the undercity to procure such wares himself.

Even the reliable if completely insufferable Kyona Voiryn had claimed ‘unforeseen delays’ repatriating a particular tome that could have put everything back on schedule. It was all rather vexing, as the right moment to strike was swiftly approaching…

 

[Xunari Auceus]

Xunari had something of an odd fall from grace - her appetite for war and combat had dried up with the unexpected death of her mother. Despite being her mother's only heir, her aunts had done the reasonable thing as most Drow were want to do and immediately tried to assassinate her to gain control of their family name and fortune. The money and even the name were less important to them than being seen to be trying their best to improve their station at the expense of their niece.

In her travels on the surface, she had come to realise that some of the people she had met would not be able to understand this. That, to them, kinslaying was some unforgivable sin but for Drow?

For Drow it was a Tuesday.

Still, fighting off her aunts' clutches had become a full-time pursuit and she had resigned from her position as a commander of troops in order to use her energy against their schemes. She had fought tooth and nail and she had won the right to call herself the head of her family by being the one to attend the funerals of both aunts.

And all it had taken was every bit of money that her family had left her.

She won the titles, the estate and the Name - and a stack of bills and debts as tall as she was.

Which was why she was here - in this wretched hive of scum.

Giving up her time to make runic-inscribed whips and chains to better torment victims. Sighing, she eyed the nobles even as she made some adjustments to a runic enchantment on a whip designed to stop blood from flowing through opened wounds.

By the Gods, the great and the good were all coming here?

Wonderful.

She accidentally overloaded one of the runes she was empowering and the whip caught fire - causing her to curse and fling it away like a particularly petulant snake.

... gods damn it, they'd probably seen her making an ass of her enchanting.