Quest Those Who Walk Below

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria did not look away as Nimruil recovered.

She watched him wrench the blade free. Watched the cauterization. Watched the effort it took not to retaliate. She said nothing through the exchange, only listened, only measured. When the apprentice began to plead, her expression did not change.

She took Zel’rath with her as she stepped closer.

The movement was effortless. Inevitable.

Now she stood close to Nimruil, her tall, powerful frame eclipsing him, the heat of her body unmistakable. The scent of the Surface clung to her, the faintest pull in the air as the blood on the knife answered her without command. Nimruil would feel it then: a subtle weakness creeping into his limbs, a soft, invasive tug, as though his own blood had decided to listen to her instead. To prevent him from making any sudden gestures.

“You have not been listening,” Vyx’aria said quietly.

Her voice was not raised. It did not need to be.

“I grow weary of this,” she continued, her gaze flicking to the rod he had been reaching for and then back. “Of drow turning blades on one another while pretending it is devotion and advancement. We are all little puppets on strings, dancing for the amusement of a faceless goddess who has not spoken to us in centuries.”

She leaned closer, not threatening, but inescapable.

“You asked what I would do for those who follow me.” Her gaze bored into his. “I would do whatever it takes. With or without an entity's permission."

A pause. Then, deliberate.

“But that belief does not begin at the top. It begins at the bottom. With how we teach. With what we protect. With whether we choose to break the destructive cycle or perpetuate it.”

She reached out, smoothly, and took the knife from his weakened hand. The pressure eased at once.

Vyx’aria released the apprentice. Then she turned and walked toward the door.

Behind her, she left a choice hanging in the air, heavy, unspoken, absolute.

Guide him. Teach him. Trust him.

Or silence him.

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

Apprentice and master alike were motionless. Both quite confused and disoriented; by her words and her actions.

Zel'rath dared to nurture a flicker of hope. Could it be that he would be shown mercy?

Nimruil's brow, in the meantime, had sunk so low it near hooded his eyes. He was reminded of a quote from a book he had recently read. There is a difference between speaking change and being that change. It had been a book on philosophy that still resonated with him; its ideas so far from the conception of their own society as to be near heretical. It had been written by a human hand.

Yet for all their short-livedness, wisdom still flowed through their quills. It was these words that helped cool the embers of his animalistic rage at his injury. Wounds would heal. Maelzafan knew he had lain far worse injuries upon himself.

The old Vyx'aria might well have sought to kill him, too, rather than restrain his hand. And the Nimruil from centuries past might well have allowed pride to take the reins before reason. Perhaps . . . change truly was possible.

"Wait, before you leave . . . there might be some use here, for the shedding of my blood."

Transmute every failure and setback into new opportunity. Take advantage of your losses.

"We have worked quite the defences on Aboletha's Eye. You would need either counsel from Velathina or myself to circumvent its wards and measures of protection competently. And I doubt she will end her stubborn silence anytime soon."

He pointed at her knife with a curled finger, still slick with his blood.

"I could weave a scrying focus upon that blade, now that it is stained by my blood. It would allow me to communicate with you from great distance; and to follow your actions. To increase the odds of your success."

He caught himself from saying our success.

Zel'roth stared open-mouthed between the two of them, but Nimruil's gaze held steady onto her. Now that his anger had subdued before cold realisation, part of him was loathe for her to leave. Had she truly meant what she had said about taking him to the surface? Or had it been some jest in passing?

Vyx'aria

 

[Dante Storta]

Dante wasn’t sure what was going on, but he kept losing time, losing a moment here, or blinking and then boom, he was somewhere else and something else was happening. He looked down at his hands… they were still bluish gray, was he having an allergic reaction to the potion? Was that something that could even happen? Deciding his mental breakdown wasn’t what he needed to focus on— When had a glass guardian gotten here? OY IT’S ATTACKING!

The Sellsword hissed his surprise— which honestly was pretty Drow— and dove out of the way. Needle-like shards of glass slammed into the wall where he’d been. The Guardian wasn’t done, it’s attention seemed to flit to whoever was nearest and unfortunately for the Commander… she was the closest.

The Glass Assassin lunged, jagged crystal clear dagger held up and aloft to strike— a crossbow bolt smashed into the side of it’s fragile face snapping it’s head to the side a spider web of crack spread out from the collision point. The rasp of steel on leather announced his broadsword's arrival. Dante didn’t speak, he knew what he looked like, but he was also acutely aware of what he sounded like.

Zathria At'Arel Vel'duith

 

[Szesh]

Szesh followed the band of followers to the ledge. His loaned darksight did not extend far enough to see beyond the ledge or how far down one would fall if they fell. Luckily that second question was answered by Zathria's has catapulting of an invisible stalker. His screams diminished steadily until they stopped altogether. Whatever the distance, it was quite sufficiently lethal.

He caught sight of the translucent construct as it lunged. Ice cracked into being around his weapon's handle, reforming the blade just as Dante's bolt struck the golem's face. The brief spark was enough to illuminate the thing's face, but it quickly returned to obscure ripples. It may have been the ever-dim environment of the underrealm, or maybe it was just his own eyes, but the glass construct was very difficult to see.

It was fast, though, and Szesh could see just enough to bring his axe up to parry a blow from a seemingly unarmed hand. The strength behind the attack was immense, and Szesh felt even his muscular arms tested at the moment of impact. He silently cursed magic yet again for granting such power to one that should be very frail.

What Szesh did next was not the most thought-out thing he had done that day, being given a clear target was release of the pent up frustration and anger he had felt at Nimruil's degradation, the strenuous transformation of his body, and the veiled pretense of their entire mission. The fires in his chest had been simmering for too long, and he was all to eager to let them free.

With a cursory check to make sure none of his allies were too close, he filled his chest with air before bellowing a plume of orange flame, engulfing his assailant. It lasted only a second, perhaps two, but it was sufficient to char the balcony from where he stood to the banister. The glass golem stepped back, but did not fall. It didn't seem to feel any sort of pain at all, and it quickly readied itself to retaliate.

On the plus side, it now glowed a warm orange, outlining it clearly in the dim. The glow was fading, and would soon be dull red. If only Szesh knew anything about glassworking, then he may be able to say if the heat had weakened the thing at all.

Alas he was no artisan, so he just swung his axe at it.

 

[Nimruil]

Spoiler: Music

The heated glass glowed, outlining a face suffused with cracks from the bolt; sporting something that could be misinterpreted as a frown in its breaking brow.

Szesh's axe cleaved, shattering glass. Its blocking arm exploded in a shower of prismatic shards.

One might wonder why glass, of all materials, would be chosen for a golem. It rendered it brittle enough to be smashed to pieces by common bolts and axe-heads, even heated up to near explosion.

Perhaps that was the point.

Only a mage incredibly covetous about his artifice could have conceived of such esoteric protection. An insurance that his guardians would rather shatter before breaking any item, injuring intruders by a thousand cuts rather than a single blow.

The glass guardian continued in its onslaught, counter-attacking Szesh with its one remaining arm in a bludgeoning hook; and a swing from its left stump, trailed by a shower of shattered pieces, telekinetically held together by some obscure arcana. Though broken, the shards continued to follow the motions of its arm, pelleting with needles rather than hammering with a crystal fist. Such broken glass pieces availed little against Szesh's tough scales, however; clearly, they were designed to injure and weaken those with softer tissues. Such as infiltrating drow.

For those attuned to the arcane, some invisible nexus point undoubtedly maintained the magical integrity of the creature, allowing it to move with purpose, no matter how many pieces it might be split into. For all they knew, it could continue attacking even rendered to a mere cloud of tiny glass fragments, needling into skin and bone. But perhaps such a storm of glass could be contained.

 

[Vel'duith]

Vel’duith cursed under her breath. Why couldn’t it have been Largo Ruby-HAMMER?

But then, as she whirled to protect herself from the molten shards with her mantle, she caught a glimmer from within the construct, revealed by Szesh’s axe-stroke.

Kneeling to hopefully avoid its notice for the moment she needed, the luminancer reached out with her silvery shadow hand, sending it up into the monster’s thorax, then solidifying and tugging frantically at anything sphere- or rod- shaped, hoping to undo the glass warrior from within.

Zathria At'Arel