Fable - Ask Unclogging Arteries

[Sol'aufain]

The point of Fain’s blade burst through the back of his enemy. The dwarf wheezed and sagged, Fain pulled his rapier free, the sound of trickling blood could just be made out behind him as he lunged at the next foe. The sound of fighting reverberated off the walls, clashes of metal, groans of pain, cries of victory. A song to hold dear, an art to maintain. A respite from the ignominy of being assigned to a scouting party being sent to secure the route from Zar'Ahal to Maekerrith.

The Matron of House Ulthrel, his mother, had seen fit to relinquish him and him alone to the new queen. The betrayal had blindsided Fain. He’d clawed his way up the hierarchy of his own house finally becoming The Weaponmaster, and now…. Now, he was a grunt in The Queen’s Scouts. Fain’s jaw was clenched tight, the fighting was over as quickly as it had started, and his crimson eyes burned while the air around him was ice cold.

Fain looked down on the battle from his perch. He took in the full breath of the skirmish from an elevated vantage point which let him read the notes of this interlude as simply as if it were on a sheet. A frown settled across his lips as he picked up on something he’d missed in the heat of battle. He slipped from the stone outcropping, a shadow in the dark, and landed next to one of the dead dwarves. He sniffed the air…then promptly returned to the group. His hands moved quickly and concisely.

<<This wasn’t a normal scout party, these dwarves were sent here. Eyes up, there is magic near.>>

 

[Nimruil]

Magic suffused the stale, bloodridden air.

Different magic to what was taught in Zar'ahal, to be certain. The deep dwarves favoured a particularly blunt and ruthless approach to their arcana. Much like a hammer, their evocations went for direct and efficient strikes; with just enough subtlety to confuse before the blow.

In this case, the confusion lay in their deaths. But their deaths didn't end the danger.

It started it.

One dwarf exploded in a fiery combustion ball, taking two drow scouts with him, incinerating into screaming silhouettes. Stone loosed and tumbled from the walls at the shockwave, as if the cavern itself cried in pain. More bodies convulsed, about to follow a similar path.

A robed shadow unlatched from the darkness. A swift gesture, and a green wisp flew past Sol'aufain, eating into the neck of the body near him; devouring the rune tattooed there with jaws of hissing acid. The convulsions stopped before that one could explode, and two more orbs flew out, seeking other bodies, working to defuse these flesh-bombs before they could claim the whole cadre.

"Inscriptions in their necks. We must cut them out, before they bring down the cavern upon us."

Nimruil didn't bother communicating with hand gestures. Perhaps it was arrogance, the mannerisms of a mostly city-bound drow; or perhaps it was efficiency, letting go of stealth before speed of communication.

Sol'aufain

 

[Sol'aufain]

The explosions came fast. The cacophony wrought was expounded by the shockwaves rebounding off the stone walls. It was shameful… but it was effective. One of the party was swept up in a blast. Fain didn’t wait to see where the body landed or what was left of it. His rapier was in his hand and the temperature around his free hand plummeted, the air crystallizing around his fist as he prepared for the attack that was surely to come.

Suddenly, a figure in the dark stepped forth, seemingly materializing before his eyes and unleashed an attack. Fain’s head instinctively shifted away from the trajectory of the caustic globule. It shot past and landed with a wet smack across the throat of a dwarf five paces behind.

The mysterious interloper was none other than the Sun Spider, Nimruil. Sol’aufain Ulthrel didn’t need this brothel loving wisp of a Drow’s help… but that didn’t stop him from slitting dead throats as he moved. A handful of intense minutes later and the stone around them had once again fallen silent…

Fain’s hands moved and the other two remaining scouts found their way to his side. He stood before Nimruil, his expression as menacing as the stone around them, “Your assistance is appreciated, but unwarranted, the situation was under control.”

Did this worm think he could show up right at the end of the route and take Fain’s glory? Did he really believe that the War— former Warmaster of House Ulthrel was so inept that he couldn’t complete a simple scouting mission? Fain’s hands were balled into fists, his stance was rigid and his eyes glared into Nimruil’s. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

Spoiler: Music

The moss-green orbs floated up above in unison, before slowly drifting to the Sun Spider's side. There they orbited his ash-haired head, like three planetary spheres; vigilant and wholly arcane. Their triad of lights threw his face into shifting shades of green and dark, flickering across stone-grey skin and cold eyes.

Nimruil folded his arms, sizing up the erstwhile warmaster Sol'aufain, once of House Ulthrel. Aggression billowed off of him like invisible fire -- a dangerous weapon put to a task below its station. This the archmage knew well.

For it was a situation that he shared.

"Was it, now?" Pale-red eyes drifted to the charred remains of the two, dead cadre scouts; one blackened arms curled up in a final spasm of agony. A click of his tongue escaped him; like a master come home to find a terrible mess. Anticipating Sol'aufain's follow-up question, Nimruil raised a placating hand. "House Suulet'jabar sends me and my own to bolster your forces, sut'rinos ((commander)) Sol'aufain."

At this, two apprentices staggered up behind their master, understandably nervous before the commander's barely checked wrath.

Sol'aufain

 

[Sol'aufain]

Fain’s eyes radiated contempt as the mage clucked his tongue. If this had happened weeks ago the back of Fain’s hand would have introduced itself to the side of Nimruil’s face at the first cluck, but standing here now, the world was different. He wasn’t a Warmaster. He was a Scout Commander.

Before he said anything else, The Sun Spider’s magiclings appeared. Fain’s eyes fell upon them, their weakness was disgusting.

His eyes flicked back to Nimruil, “I shall send my regards to your sister when we return, then," even speaking, Fain was quiet. His words were the crunch of gravel underfoot. His hands gave orders even as he turned from The Sun Spider.

The other two scouts shot off ahead. They were hunting whoever was transporting these damn exploding dwarves. Both scouts had a fey fire spell scroll ready to burn. The multicolored light would be easy to spot down here. He had no doubt everything in the Underrealm was aware of their presence, and that was good. He’d be sure to make an example of anything that tried to stop him from completing his mission.

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

At this, Nimruil couldn't help but curl a small, sardonic smile. His sister could be rather picky with her consorts, but once she found one pleasing to her whims, she usually didn't hesitate to sink her claws into them. It was entirely possible Sol'aufain might already have caught- or would catch her eye in the future.

As they progressed in the dark tunnels, Nimruil's orbs sunk back below his robe; dissipating into the golden links of his spine. He crept along, attempting to match the skilled scouts in their stealth. His hands deigned to speak in signals, usually reserved for invocations rather than the silent speech of cadres. His gestures were overly studious and sharp, lacking the fluidity of daily use, but intelligible enough.

<<I never knew that Matron Beksesha would pounce on-->> Nimruil's mouth twisted, correcting the gesture. <<--track your affairs. A high honour.>>

Sol'aufain

 

[Sol'aufain]

The class system in Zar’Ahal was a warzone of sharp barbs and barely veiled insults, so as Nimruil signed, Fain wasn’t surprised to find a throne.

<<You would know better than I.>> he signed without looking in Nimruil’s direction.

Fain stopped at an outcropping, he knelt down and surveyed the space, motion caught his eye to the left and he lifted a hand. Two dwarves were squabbling over something in their brutish hammer on nails language. There was a flash of red light and a dim glow continued to pulse rhythmically behind a rock to the left of the dwarves. He relayed what he saw and called for a halt, they were close to the city now, and the last thing he wanted was to raise alarms.

<<Eyes up, where there are some, there will be more.>>

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

Hand signals could only go so far in banter and repartees. Nimruil let his hands drop, attentive to the danger ahead. No doubt the matron of his house held a particular reason for sending Nimruil all the way out here, working together with the Cleaver of Ulthrel.

No matter. Perhaps he could glean something useful from this expedition.

Nimruil closed his eyes. Concentrated. A green wisp flew on high from his neck, hovering above the dwarves. His gaze shifted from his eyes to its point, looking down upon them.

It appeared the two stone children were pawing over a helmet. But a helmet far too large to be worn by either drow or dwarf. It had a 'Y' shaped slit down the middle, from which the red light glowed.

The dwarves looked similar to the ones they had already encountered. Runes tattooed in their necks. Cannon fodder. Likely casteless dwarves with no family to speak of.

<<They appear to have an artefact. A helmet fit for the size of a war construct. They also carry the same combustion rune in their necks.>>

The wisp only allowed visual scrying, preventing him from overhearing their furious argument.

Sol'aufain

 

[Sol'aufain]

Nimruil’s report gave Fain a moment of pause, so the Sun Spider wasn’t a useless whoremonger, interesting.

The thrill of the fight was starting to seep into Fain’s blood. His hands sent commands to the remaining scouts and they shot off, shadows flitting across the dark, shortbows out. They’d take up flanking positions and be ready for his signal.

<<That artifact is now the property of The Queen, I’ll distract from the front, you hit them from behind>>

Fain didn’t wait for Nimruil to respond, the order had been given and even now the hum of battle was starting. He reached into a pocket in his belt, pulled out a pair of faerie wings and crushed them in his palm. A glimmering shine pulsed in his palm with growing repetition until, finally, the dwarves stopped mid-squabble and looked in his direction.

Fain threw the crushed wings and a conflagration of multi-colored light blanketed their view. The dwarves screamed as they’re eyes were blinded by the bright spectrum of color that exploded before them.

Nimruil

 

[Nimruil]

The distraction saw the dwarves scream and turn towards Sol'aufain. It was needed, since Nimruil was of a mind to test a new spell of his.

And where better to test it than in the field?

Merely killing the dwarves wasn't enough; their corpses would turn into weapons against them. He needed to ensure that nothing of them remained.

The orb from above swooped down to his palm, converging with his two other foci. This spell required substantial power, and so he couldn't afford to split his resources for this invocation. A pinch of diamond dust mixed with a crushed lodestone made it from his component pouch to his glowing hands. He muttered the long, cryptic incantation as he strode forward, boots thudding across pebbles and gravel, moving around the outcropping with his fluttering robes trailing behind him.

The orbs pressed flat between his palms, forming a sickly green blade. At the end of his invocation and after slicing harsh, geometric figures into the skin of the air, he finished with one palm cutting over the other -- and launched a long, malformed spear of grey-green energy at them.

The greatest disadvantage of this spell was the need to aim it, and the possibility of a timely dodge. Fortunately, these dwarves were looking the wrong way.

Their screams cut short, as the aggressive transmutation magic pierced through their matter; destroying all their organic tissue like a breath of death. The dwarves turned into statues of greyed ash, bits of their entropied skin flaking off, while keeping their clothes and gear perfectly intact.

The spear-spell continued well past them, whizzing past Sol'aufain, dissipating against the inorganic stone.

The weight of their belts and satchels were enough to scatter their disentigrated ashes, barely holding together, becoming nothing more than a puff of dust.

Sol'aufain

 

[The Narrator]

The Drow scouting party were not the only ones making use of more than just dwarf-wave tactics this day. Indeed even this cruel, perhaps pragmatic, tactic was done with deliberate consideration behind it. The artifact that the deep dwarves had seemed to be hauling they were, in fact, in the process of burying. It was the head, or helm, of one of their war golems. Altered, enchanted to serve as a sort of trap, to explode underfoot and cause localized cave-ins as the Drow advanced. Nimruil could decipher such things with a few moments in possession of the artifact.

As for the reason an archmage such as Nimruil's self and the ex-Warmaster had been assigned to a simple scouting mission, that was rather simple. It was not the quality of the enemy troops that demanded their personal competence, but the enemy commander they were only just coming to blows with.

Meanwhile.....

Far from the fighting in his command tent Caladgar the Second stood in stone-like contemplation over a table of his own design. Quite literally shaped by his own magic. While the Drow had been contending with the slave-fires Caladgar had set his dwarves to mapping out the local area, using their natural sense of direction and mastery of mining to allow him to recreate the arena of their confrontation in vivid detail. He had, after all, had the memories of it's layout torn from the minds of the slaves personally.

In any case as a scout delivered his report that the Drow were both advancing as expected and resorting to their usual use of shadow magics Caladgar would nod. Gently, slowly, wittling a figurine of Vornyx-soap into Nimruil's likeness as the scout described the Drow Archmage. At the description of Sol'aufain he would nod, place the figurine of Nimruil down, then gently begin whittling the next figurine of Fain.

Spoiler: Caladgar II

At the finished report, and placing the figurine of Fain down alongside Nimruil, Caladgar would hum. The old dwarf stroking his beard as his fire-yellow eyes scanned the layout before him. He wore simple robes, not the thick armor of his people, and was something of a renowned general among his people. Allowed the scarce honor of a life of study, contemplation, and a near-inexhaustible supply of slaves and soldiers with which to test his military theorem.

Furrowing his brow Caladgar would nod and begin to speak in a firm, low voice.

"New pieces enter my board....."

Pulling up a stone slate and whispering his commands into the stone Caladgar would pass off the encrypted orders to the scout and wave him away. The scout would bow, set to his work, and the deep dwarves would obey. Those currently burying construct-traps not in direct confrontation with the Drow would finish doing so before retreating to a set point. The remaining slave-fires would pull back just enough to reposition themselves per Caladgar's command. While a specialized hunting pack of cavefishers would be deployed along the Drow's path, with the slave-fires just behind.

The slave-fires would have standing orders to only re-engage the Drow once their numbers began to be reeled into the ceiling by the cave-fishers, using the distraction to blow apart the hearts of the Drow units and even aid the cavefishers in picking off isolated Drow if a comrade couldn't come to their aid after the slave-fire detonated. But there was also a special order standing for the largest cavefisher. It's primitive mind was to be burdened with a command to target Nimruil's magi specifically. Thich, enchanted plates to make it more resistant to magic would be bolted into the creature with no regard for it's health, it's sheer size would see it persevere, and the most insidious aspect of it's enchanted armor was that it turned the cavefisher's already near-translucent saliva-lure completely invisible. Caladgar would then nod, moving pieces about his board, and smile a small, not-quite-pleased smile as he grunted.

".... let us see if they can leave it intact."​

 

[Sol'aufain]

Fain’s head tilted as the grey-green energy shot past. He pulled a leather strap from his pouch and tied his hair back. If Nimruil was going to pull off magic like that, then there was no reason for Fain to hold back. His hands moved, recalling his archers. The Commander picked up the helmet and handed it to Numruil, “This is your area of expertise.”

He had no doubt the Archmage would pontificate at great lengths about the magic inscribed on the helm, all mages did this, he just hoped Nimruil was able to get to the point quickly. This had been the fourth dwarven party they’d come across, and while he knew they were close to the city, he also knew a trap when it waited too long to spring.

“We are being toyed with,” he said, crimson eyes glaring toward the next glowing object on the horizon.

Instinctively, Fain took in their current location, they stood on level ground, flanked by an outcropping of stone— most likely put in place by the dwarves that were here— and a natural wall to the right that ran north to south. In front of them lay the path toward the next glowing camp site, behind them was the way they’d come. It was thin he realized… the trap hadn’t been sprung yet… they were being positioned.

Nimruil The Narrator

 

[Nimruil]

Spoiler: Music

"I believe you are actually correct, Sol'aufain." Nimruil turned the helm around in his hands, before letting it drop to the ground with an unimpressive ping of steel against stone. "These creatures are re-engineering their own artifice to serve as traps. Curious. This is but one of many such traps, I expect; one they didn't manage to plant before we got here. An unseemly switch in tactics for deep dwarves, indeed. I wouldn't be surprised if they are conducting experiments of their own for their warmachine. And we may be its test subjects."

He cupped his chin, taking in the two dust piles that were once dwarves. Bending down, he picked up a belt, giving it a cursory glance, before handing it to one of his apprentices.

"Identify their equipment. Keep behind the cadre and complete this task."

The apprentices gave hasty bows and promptly started pilfering through the items of the two erstwhile trappers. Meanwhile, Nimruil traced a sigil in the air before the helmet, touching it once to prime it for his Locate Object spell. Then he rose, brushing off a drifted speck of dust from his robe. His pale eyes looked intently at Sol'aufain, lowering his voice to confer with him in private:

"I am beginning to suspect this to be more than a mere scouting task. After all, you do not send consort pieces to deal with umbrals." His eye drifted back to the awaiting glow of the camp beyond. "Tell me, commander. Do you happen to play Zilchess?"

Sol'aufain