RP:A Bit of Rough and Tumble

The Summons

Though sensed as an extra consciousness that is tucked away, like the conscience of a drow - there always, but nothing more than a stone's ripple in the ocean - the bond which binds Kuzial to Tenebrae no longer sits as still as it has for the last months. Like an agitated spirit that Tenebrae so easily commands, usually to quite a nefarious end, a similar agitation of the awareness between them would begin again... a calling... emanating from a place so dark, so deadly, it could only ever have one home, if places like Trist'Oth can ever claim such a name.

It is far from a plea, far from a command, merely an acknowledgement that tasks which had to be completed are done at last; that there is a twisted parody of peace within the myriad of anger that makes up Kuzial Stavret. It is time once more for the two to be rejoined, and etched upon the very edge of this sensation would be the urging not to let it lay too long... for patience is not a virtue the Lord of House Stavret has ever learned, nor craved, nor desired.

It matters nothing where Tenebrae is now, or what she does. She would hear this call... whether or not she herself answers, not even the Gods would dare guess...

House Stavret, Underdark

As any good summoner worth his salt knows, summoning is dangerous business. If one even slightly underestimates the forces called upon, or over-estimates one’s own capacity to forge and maintain the necessary protective measures, said forces may escape the confines of the summoner’s circle and .. obviously, the consequences of that might not be pretty. In this instance, with this particular summoning, however, the results were very pretty indeed, for the Lady Darkness had spared no effort in outdoing by a long mile the exacting standard of sensual aesthetic held here in the Underdark – even the most racist and bitter of the males would not sleep for years before her image fell from the backs of his eyes, and the most deservedly vain of females may ponder suicide to avoid the agony of such dire envy. Barefoot, barely armed, the Darkness sauntered through the gate – any mouth open or hand raised to halt her found itself withering like a dry leaf, brittle and dead as a mummy’s pizzle. Perhaps, given her state of grace, it wouldn’t happen often as she trod, like she owned the place, the mazy and opulent halls of the Stavret compound. However much carnage was left in her wake, she was soon separated from the Patron by only a single door. She did not knock, nor did she call out to him, but only stood there – the bearer of the Eye, devastating as the storm she was – like a caryatid of stone and infinite patience.

Neither knowing nor caring of the fate befalling the fools trying to stop the lady darkness from her path, Kuzial sits in a horrific parody of a king upon his throne; for no judgement nor wise decisions come from him this day. Instead his single scarlet eye burns with an inferno of impatience, which is nothing really new for the drow, while his armour rests curled up at the corner of the ceiling, looking much like the spider it was in life. But even that seems unnoticed by Kuzial as he broods, waiting; unwilling to travel to the surface to hunt down Tenebrae unless he truly must. His hatred for the sun-cursed world has grown of late, and even the perpetual darkness of Vailkrin cannot stir him from his House. There are no more ties which shackle him, even against his better judgement, upon the surface any longer - severed cleaner than the heads which the E' et-Nilah Blade has claimed, they are. The drow neither knows nor cares how he feels about this, other than being angry. So he waits for Tenebrae, seeing her not as a shackle to him - though perhaps she is - but rather a partner in business far too twisted for any who're not damned to stomach. And just as his fingers begin to tap an off-rhythm on the uncomfortable obisidan arm-rest beside him, he senses her. Or perhaps he senses the devastation she left. Either way, he understands her patience is like an ocean compared to the droplet of water of his own, so he stands with his languid grace, wearing nothing but a tight, sleeveless chainmail shirt and dark leggings, and begins to stalk the path which leads from his throne to the doors which bar it from those who seek him. As he reaches the door a hand is raised and fingers wrap around an ornamental handle, before he pulls it open and stares. It was his intention to glare, to scower, to mock in faux-anger the woman who made him wait. But he had forgotten, almost, the way she can look when the mood takes her, and such a thing is more than enough to, albeit temporarily, rob the powerful vampiric-drow of his voice.

Tenebrae was ever a thief, and in the past might have delighted in having the opportunity to torture Kuzial with this small moment of weakness via disdain and its best friend, mockery. However, in the time which had elapsed since last the pair had met, time and fate had wrought change in her, also… Rather than petty cruelty designed to inflame the male to the kind of violence Tenebrae enjoyed, the response to his silent stare was her own, like a silent echo of it – then a delicate pace trod to cross the scant stone of floor between them – then a hand, cool and white as ancient marble, rose to cup the right edge of Kuzial’s strong jaw. Who cared about words, anyway? They were the clumsiest of messengers compared to what passed between Empusai lord and lady, two damned souls more akin to themselves than to any other on the planet, two peridot eyes, and a singular red one exchanging all the greetings necessary. He might notice the fourth Eye in the equation, currently dormant, set upon Tenebrae’s brow and bereft of its ornate setting now, as if it had become a extra ocular organ.. Finally, it was Tenebrae who decided it was time to indulge in the vulgarity of speech: “I am coming back to Vailkrin, Patron. The stars have whispered it to me, so of course, it must be true.”

Kuzial remains motionless as the bodies Tenebrae left in her wake as they share words which are unspoken, silent whispers that need not be shattered by a voice. Her hand is given free reign to rest upon his jaw even as he notices her extra eye. But despite the obvious curiosity the additional orb would instil in almost anyone, Kuzial merely glances at it, before setting his scarlet gaze back upon the woman who sired him, then made him far more than merely one of the undead filth which call themselves vampires. Much is said between them without anything being said at all, the caverns of time that separated them filled easily, before at last she speaks, shattering the spell, and without hesitation the Patron of House Stavret replies. "The stars are merely proof that the surface-dwellers fear well the dangers of true darkness, but if they whisper to you I suppose they speak the truth... Come." He reaches out then, almost as if to touch her, before his hand presses against the door he opened, sealing them within the confines of the throne room. When done he extends his arm with a dark grin, like a suitor to a lady, in an offer to lead her towards his grotesque seat of rulership. "Have you dwelt once more with your vile God, Tenebrae? Or is it simply yourself which smells so sweetly of death and damnation?" It was an unspoken question within one spoken, for the corpses she effortlessly left in her wake is a feat which is impressive in its simplicity; a banner of her strength which she would usually keep well hidden... unless provoked, of course.

Any other female might have pouted at her scent being described thus.. Tenebrae found it a rare compliment, which she deigned to reward with the curving of her blood-rose lips in an indulgent little smile. Stavret. He always knew just what to say. As she entered his chamber properly, a passing glance afforded the arachniform armour hanging in its resting-place, she nodded. “Aye, you might say I have been.. communing, with the echoes my God has left behind him in his Passing. I have learned much, Stavret.” The smile here took a curve he’d find more familiar in its cruelty and humour. “Such things… I won’t bore you with.” Wherever the two had ended up in that royal lair, she’d wheel abruptly to face the Patron. “But the burden is vast, and exhausting. And I…” have missed you, your brutal simplicity and simpler complexities .. missed you, said her pale green gaze, “.. have craved a return to the world at large, only to find it tediously filled with vermin which might be better employed as raw materials in my vats.” Of course, she was talking about vampires. Of course, she left that statement and its implications and its hinty-winty tone hanging in the air, tantalising as a thief on a gibbet.

Kuzial understands this woman better than anyone else alive... or dead, for that matter... or those who dance in between the two, chained to an existence eternal. Her enjoyment is reflected briefly in his own; a mere whispering confirmation that though a lot is different about her, not too much has changed within Tenebrae. With that thought in mind, he nods once, briefly, before turning as she did so they face each other once more, close to the foot of his horrifying throne. "You are correct, Lady Darkness, in saying I would be bored by such things." As she spoke in silence to him, so too does he; the words clearly saying that though the wants, whims and whereabouts of a God mean nothing at all to Kuzial, Tenebrae is an entirely different beast altogether. "As for the vermin." He grins then, flashing white teeth in the darkness of his House. "You know as ever my blades are hungry. Just as I know you are well skilled in putting together the parts of victims which I leave behind." He shifts in a single movement, then; abruptly he turns, wrapping an arm around Tenebrae even as he drops into his chair and places her upon his knee. Through the fluid movements which would have been difficult for many a warrior in the world, his words continue to sound unchanged, "Though, perhaps you wish them alive? It is not a sort of hunting I like. But if the burden is too great, I will cast aside my doubts and aid you in that which you seek..." As if those words needed to be spoken at all; none in this world make such nefarious fun as Tenebrae, and ever would she find a willing partner in such matters with Kuzial.

Tenebrae’s gaze would narrow slightly at the ease and fullness of Kuzial’s indulgence of all her various desires. While the two were what they were, and shared what they shared, still he was Kuzial Stavret, born a drow and reforged as more, but in possession of a spirit she did not doubt would have called him to the dark had he been spat from the loins of a hobbit. So she was right to keep a sharp edge on the axe of caution, even while she physically relaxed into her new, delightfully muscular seat. Nuzzling his throat with lips and a hint of fang, she spoke a cool breeze-worth of words to his flesh. “Dead will do, my Lord, for most – it’s only meat I require for my infant creations. But if you would..” Nicking his ebon skin, minutely, like a razor cut she’d kiss better, the necromancer drew back a little so as to gaze upon his face. “.. perhaps not dispatch any who possess a modicum of worthy power? For those I would indeed be grateful for, alive. I am in need of sentient beasts for my gas chambers and as suitable mounts.. in case our number should increase, Kuzial.” Yes, that was yet was another cliffhanger offer, screaming by its fingertips to be pulled from the brink of oblivion. Tene mimicked the adorably sweet expression of a wealthy Cenrilli doyenne, hinting to her fat banker of a husband for a shiny new bauble.

Kuzial cannot help but let out a laugh which would almost sound musical, were it not drowning in obscene amounts of sadistic joy. “By my standards, worthy power? Sometimes, my lady,” his tones are rather similar to the honorific she used for him, “I think you know me not at all.” That's about as close to a joke as Kuzial will make, but it seemed fitting to indulge her desire for playing the sweet suitor to a rich man's wealth. His enjoyment is only possible because she spoke nor communicated nothing about him being the same even were he 'spat from the loins of a hobbit', a comment which would, of course, promise a lingering death, despite how apt it all is. “For you, Lady Darkness, I will stop my hungry sword from devouring those who cross me.” He eyes her, then, for a moment, “But if you continue to speak in such riddles, perhaps my hungry sword will sate said hunger on you.” There isn't really any true threat in those words, despite coming from Kuzial – a place where threats are never idly given – and when they fade, he speaks once more. “Gas chambers..? Numbers increasing..? I do hope I have a say in those who will be given this gift...” He eyes her then, in silence saying that if any of the Frostmaw vampires, or Kasyr, were given the gift, Kuzial's threats would no longer hold any twisted-playfulness... they would be entirely, deadly, unerringly serious. “You are going to drag me back to the surface, aren't you?” His look becomes lascivious, “I will not go without proper payment.”

Tenebrae’s smile was sweetly coy and a little crooked, thanks to the way she bit down softly on her lower lip in the manner of a cheeky whore. “I assure you, all accounts will be settled.. in full.. in due time, Stavret. And of course, I would not presume to grow our number without your agreement on the candidate’s suitability.” It probably wouldn’t need saying that such inferior choices were the one kind of disgrace Tenebrae would never indulge in. “For while we proliferate, as we should, we also will be the forebears of our own worst enemies.” And, which as well did not need saying, inferior enemies were also on the list of things not-desirable. Unlike Kuzial, who was presently pretty much at the top of the opposite end of that spectrum. The woman of shadow trailed her forefinger over his hard mouth. “Now.. as for your hungry sword. I will owe you an extra fee, I expect. For I have been so… “ lost, solitary, consumed.. “.. busy, with all this god-bothering and so forth, that I fear the needs of the flesh have gone somewhat by the wayside.” The affect of the salacious tease was dropped for a moment, and those peridot eyes shimmered with the shadow of something more serious, and that she suddenly indeed did quit speaking in riddles might indicate a matter of greater import. “The stars have also told me not to drop the ball where my proficiency in battle goes,” she frowned at the implications of that, “.. and no-one, nobody at all is better, my beautiful Lord, at honing the edge of my senses. In that, and other ways..” And there was Tene’s inner concubine, surfacing again.

Kuzial nods at Tenebrae's words, finding them much to his agreement. Any who seek the strength of vampirism, made proper by being moulded into an Empusai, a true master in the drow's eyes, would have ambitions great enough to seek the deaths of even those who grant them their gifts. Perhaps especially those. It would not be fitting to their race to allow any others to join their ranks. To the rest of her words, he falls silent for a moment, contemplating the meanings both apparent and hidden in them. One side he was eager for now, the other... the other he could indulge her, perhaps. “There is a saying amongst the drow: Spend too long looking forward, and you'll miss the dagger at your back. Spend too long looking behind you, and you'll walk straight into the dagger in front of you. Be wary you do not listen too deeply to the wisdom of the stars, for they may deafen you to the soft footfalls of those who seek your destruction.” He nods at that, his face serious, even as he lifts a hand to rest just briefly upon her cheek. “And we wouldn't want that... especially if your proficiency in battle has waned.” There is a slight challenge in those words, unmasked by the drow for he doesn't care enough to hide it. “I can hone that edge for you, even as you... hone... my edge.” The words are shared with a sly smile; a little crude, perhaps, but Kuzial has never been accused of being poetic, even if often what he says shares more meanings than a bard's song.

What proper Cenrilli doyenne would ever allow her lover’s weapon to tarnish? said the return of –that- expression, and the bifurcated tip of her tongue flicked across the pitch-dark and battle-calloused fingers of the hand cradling her cheek. “Then I suppose you’ll be demanding a downpayment, Kuzial. Though you know I’m always.. good.. about my debts, one cannot be –too- trusting of one such as I.” And with that taking-snow-to-Frostmaw bit of redundancy, she slipped from off the drow’s lap, turning to stand before him. “Though I will happily swear a vow on bended knee to keep myself honourable, if you would demand such a thing.” The white grin she gave him, as she pulled the pin on that scarlet bit of stuff she wore (where was her armours? he might wonder.. though the startled screams emanating loudly from the direction of Trist’oth’s main road might answer that..), a flutter of spider-silk dyed with deep-mined ochres. “And tomorrow, Lord Stavret, I do hope the hunt may begin.”

Kuzial reclines for a moment upon his throne; it is jarringly uncomfortable for anyone, even Kuzial, yet for the moment he doesn't care. He eyes her without hiding it as the pin is removed, and as she speaks of a bended knee to keep herself honourable, he thinks of many things she could do on said knee which were far, far from honourable, at least to normal people with silly things like morals.. or shame. “I need not trust your word to repay debts, lady Tenebrae, queen of darkness and death. For you've never met nor seen a debt collector as... thorough as I.” He grins at that; none other than Tenebrae could ever find the smile enjoyable to see. It is filled with twisted anger, undiluted hatred, and the horrifying joy of it all shared between the Empusai. The screams which jarr throughout the caverns throughout Trist'Oth merely cause a single white eyebrow to raise, before the rest of Kuzial catches up to it as he stands and casually stretches without his eyes ever leaving Tenebrae. “I do hope you've not let them wane too deeply, lady darkness, for if you have I will destroy you.” He would do it, too. For her, in his mind; she would not want to be someone who has fallen from the grace of battle. It would be a favor to her.

Tenebrae said, "I would be deeply insulted were it otherwise, Kuzial.” She didn’t often use his given name, perhaps a remnant of her scant mortal years in the blood-soaked alleyways of Vailkrin where names were just signposts for murderers. Or, perhaps, it had a taste she favoured a tad too highly on her tongue for comfort. The mask of sweet doyenne died a sudden death, as she removed all distance between them, barely holding back a snarl that rose in her throat, for whatever pretty faces these beings may wear they are really just beasts of lust and hunger under it all… Swallowing that, she muttered a thing she knew would engorge his capacity for rage.. and hopefully, a few suitable punishments, “I hope you have not, in your neglect of me, grown soft yourself."

Kuzial doesn't bother holding back the snarl which growls into life deep within his throat; he was psychotic before he was turned a true predator... what he is now goes beyond such petty labels. “I am Kuzial Stavret.” In one motion his hands snake out, wrap around her waist, before he lifts her and turns, placing her briefly upon his grotesquely beautiful throne. “Growing... soft... is nothing something which has ever been a problem for me. In battle, or in this.” It's rather clear the priorities the dark elf lord has – he was not warned by the stars to hone his skills, but the urges which run throughout his undead body are, to his mind at least, more important than the petty whims of any deity, be them alive or dead, giving or demanding. “I will show you, lady of darkness, that the gifts you have given me have not been... wasted.” That said, he snaps his gaze to the corner of the ceiling and speaks a few quick words in the drowic tongue; a command to his armour to get out of here, and quickly. He could have done so without speaking, but his concentration is upon she who sired him. When the spider crawls off, through doors no other can enter, perhaps to find the source of the screams coming earlier form the streets outside, Kuzial once more lets his single scarlet eye fall to Tenebrae. “Tomorrow you can show me how sharp your daggers still are. Tonight, I will show you mine have not waned.” That said, he once more takes liberty with her, taking her beneath the knees and back and lifting her to the secret door which hides his own personal chambers; rooms which he opens with swift kick. There his bed lays, unused since the last time the two were here. Tonight would be a proper reunion between them... tomorrow, they can play another game altogether, one which, surprisingly enough, probably isn't any more deadly than this one... Kuzial is sure neither of them would have it any other way.

Morning

Morning.. or rather, afternoon, had broken by the time Tenebrae roused from her well-deserved torpor in the Patron’s chambers. He slept – she suspected he never really slumbered, though, seeing as he only had the one eye, and sleeping with one eye open wasn’t all that feasible except as a euphemism for typical drow paranoia, likely on overdrive in Kuzial’s case. Anyway, the Lady Darkness fully realised that sneaking away like a common courtesan, half dressed and shoes in hand, was probably quite pointless. So, to his apparently unconscious form she’d whisper: “An hour’s head start, my Lord. For we should at least make sport of it.”

Kuzial never really sleeps, but rather falls into what the drow term reverie, though it's quite far from the normal fancy of daydreams and wishes which other races enjoy. More, it's allowing the body and mind to rest without completely giving up consciousness. After all, in the drow language sleep and death are almost identical words. So as Tenebrae whispers, Kuzial's single eye opens only a little, allowing the scarlet light of his iris – glowing as it views Tenebrae in the infrared spectrum – to look at the woman before him. “Tire me out all night, wake me from my slumber,” there's no reason to tell her he doesn't really sleep, despite the fact she already knows, “and now you want to make it sporting? Begone, woman! Hide well, prepare even better... for today, you're hunted by one without equal.” He grins evilly with a hint of mock sleepiness, “and wear your armour. You will need it.” He's not foolish enough to close his eye after those words... knowing Tenebrae, she'd make sure Kuzial dies a natural death for speaking them... naturally, a dagger in the face kills someone, after all... so he simply waits. He'd give her her hour... then it was time to hunt.

Tenebrae returned the grin – the time for daggers was not yet at hand, for she had yet to fully heal from the wide and very nearly deadly range of sins they’d explored the night previous. So whatever revenge the woman plotted for this and sundry other little verbal jabs he’d thrown her way in their time together (all of which she’d appeared to blithely ignore, whilst in truth accumulating them the way our familiar and fictional Cenrilli doyenne might horde her diamond baubles) could indeed wait. Kuzial would suffer further disturbance of his reverie when she intruded on it with a parting kiss, longer and more lascivious than it would have been, perhaps, had it not so possibly been their last. Then, half dressed and shoes in hand, she did indeed skulk out of the chamber, first order of the hour being to hunt up her wandering armour. That didn’t take long. It was outside the door (she’d ponder how Kuzial managed to open it for her without moving his lazy ass out of bed later..) crumpled in a heap with the Patron’s own arachniform creature. She blinked.. Armours couldn’t.. wouldn’t…. would they?.. ew… was her brief and disturbing train of thought as she roused her own creation with a kick. Nobody at all stood in the way of their leave-taking. Funny, that.

Kuzial thinks after the lingering kiss that getting out of bed is going to be the second hardest thing this morning, and with a quiet snicker at that thought, allowed only because he is alone, the drow Patron gets up and stretches briefly, straps his sword to his hip and exits the room; he'd not locked the door the night before, in case their little... dance... got too out of hand and one of them needed to flee. Praying Mantises have less violent nights together than these two, after all. Though, he did promise her an hour, he waits about half that time upon his throne, before calling out to his own living armour. It scuttles in through its own entrance point, crawls down the room with a bit of a spring in its eight legs... what was it doing last night?.. before Kuzial stands with arms extended and allows it to wrap around his body, encasing him as it has so many times before, and aiding the drow, and Tenebrae too, in hindering their bond. Kuzial shuts out the rest with his formidable willpower; this would be an honest hunt between them, or at least honest as these two are capable of. That done, he pulls the E' et-Nilah Blade out of its sheathe, places it upon his throne – not worrying any would steal it - the sword would devour any who try – before exiting House Stavret. There seems a decided lack of guards this day... funny how having Tenebrae in the House has that effect... but Kuzial doesn't care. His armour is open at his head and he draws in a deep breath through his nostrils... he can scent the death and destruction she wears like a Cenrilli courtsean would her flowery perfumes (Kuzial far, far prefers Tenebrae's), and with a dark grin he stalks out of his house, following her apparent trail regardless of where it leads...

Vailkrin

Any drow worthy of its race would argue, but really there was a strong sort of parallel between surviving to adulthood in the Underdark, and achieving the same thing as a tiny runaway human on the seedy streets of Vailkrin. So foul had these streets been, so filled with vice and cruelty of every sort in those centuries gone by, that little Joliette not only surviving but –thriving- was nothing short of a miracle, which might mundanely be explained by her wide streak of stubborn, her natural paucity of conscience, and her capacity to charm the pants (or purses) off anyone. Really, just look at the way she’d coerced Kuzial out of his cavernous moping and back to the surface.. Point being, that scent he followed, all vanilla and wickedness and yes, perhaps an undertone of death, would by half an hour’s time trail through the blackstone city in such convoluted loops and twists, doubling back on its own doublebacks, that even his prodigious tracking skills would be hard pressed to sniff out her path. Armoured now, the living carapace she wore for armour snug on her as a second skin, she swiftly retrieved a few weapons (tick-tock, Tene..) and blazed that mazey path before taking to the high, elaborately gabled rooftops of Vailkrin. Where’d she wait, like a spider, not shrouded in tell-tale magics but ordinary shadows with which she blended neatly enough, for any sign of Kuzial passing below. She’d designed that circuitous route to double back twice here, just so he might be less suspicious of a trap. Thank the gods she didn’t need breath - no shame then, in holding it, nerves tense as piano wire, new weapon in hand, her eyes shrouded by the overhang of her armour on her brow but wide for the moment of opportunity, if and when it came.

Kuzial stalks through the streets of Trist'Oth in his horrific armour, much like a malevolent demon which haunts the darkest places where crimes beyond description were perpetrated. He is silent as he trails Tenebrae, and other drow, seeing the patron walking with such purpose, decide it is best to leave him be. Through the caverns and caves he moves without disturbing anything he wishes to be left ignorant of his passing... higher and higher until he smells the sickeningly disgusting stench of fresh, circulated air. He scowls. Of course she would travel up rather than down if he hunted her, but he did hope she sought freedom in the caves beneath his house... there are none alive save perhaps the head ranger of his house who can stalk those deadly passages as well as Kuzial Stavret. He pauses at the cave which opens into the dark forest and swears in his lyrical language for a long lingering moment, before he carries on, weaving through the trees like an eldritch spirit and making his way eventually to Vailkrin. Her home. A place he hates less than anywhere else on the surface, but still more than it's possible to truly describe. Nevertheless, this was the game they chose to play, and play it well would Kuzial. His gaze shifts between spectrums, seeking any hint of her, even as he stalks through the alley ways and streets, circling around himself more than once and finding a strange sense of vicarious pride at her cunning ways. He'd have been disappointed if this were easy. Even still, from somewhere a dagger soon finds its way into his hand, and his walk slows; like a panther close to a gazelle he senses she is close, though nothing magical just mere instinct. But he knows not where she is... even as he walks beneath the building which she waits high above, like a spider on its nest... like a cancer hidden in the cells of a soon-to-be dying man. He knows not where she is, but is as tense as she is... he suspects not a trap as a moves forward, but also knows not to suspect this isn't a trap... he is ready, like a coiled snake... but sadly, this snake is unaware that its prey is above it already, wait like a boot set to stomp this viper dead.

Ah, the joys (read: incredible dangers) of testing out the range of a new, untried weapon while in the process of being stalked by Kuzial Stavret. One couldn’t exactly call it adrenaline, for she no longer possessed such humanoid glands, but the effect of facing potential, imminent demise was much the same on her as ever – a mix of dread and pleasure, addictive and delicious. She didn’t have long to wait; he was intrepid, unparalleled in the stalking of prey.. Tenebrae could hardly risk him looking up (which of course he would, being that cavern-ceilings in the Underdark are an obvious place for deathly things to lurk) so she hung back by a set of chimney-pots, where the overhang of the roof might obscure his vision of her. Her ears, by dint of rebirth-by-vat and the mongrel heritage of her maker, were pointed and as convoluted as a shell, sensitive in the manner of bats and adept at picking up the echoes of echoes, when she bothered paying close attention. Even then, she heard nothing at all until the drow Patron was almost directly under her chimney-side roost, so silent was he, so sure of foot. If it wasn’t for the loose scattering of gravel she’d strewn on the pavers she might have missed his passing altogether. But she didn’t! Thank all that’s good and evil and everything between. The weapon – a shard of vat-hardened bone sharpened on one side to an obsidian-like edge, curved oddly and chiselled with blasphemous runes – was weighed in her hand, then.. thrown. Not at Kuzial, directly, but rather at the rooftop opposite - its spinning, curved flightpath was engineered precisely enough that it would barely scrape a tile, causing a minute scatter of sheared-off stone. Just little enough for him to perhaps think it a deadly mistake on her part, before the weapon, akin to a boomerang, swung its arc back into her hand. With the drow’s attention thus diverted (hopefully) he might not be entirely alert to the heavy stone gargoyle, black and jagged, plummeting his way from above, freed from its mooring in horrid preparation for this very moment. She’d be on the run before it landed.

Kuzial reacts with fluid grace the moment he hears the scraping of a roof tile. He spins on his heel, not caring anymore about the sound his boot makes upon the well-prepared street's new gravelly surface, and hurls the dagger with all his strength at the spot where his fine hearing picked up the scuff. The throw is true, and were Tenebrae truly there, and not quick enough to move, she'd have the same amount of eyes as Kuzial... except she probably wouldn't know that due to the whole... dagger sticking out of her skull. But alas, it is but a tightly wrapped feint, one Kuzial can appreciate as he catches in his limited peripheral vision the first and final flight of a gargoyle as it plummets down towards him. He has no time to evade, but that doesn't stop him trying. He springs forward while holding his arms in front of his head, ensuring his brains are not another addition to the street's surface. The drow is not quick enough, though, and soon a tsunami of horrific agony was through him as stone crunches into his armour, crushing one his arms with brutal strength. Were he dressed any other way his shoulder would have been torn from its socket, as well as the stone's weight probably breaking more than just bones. But he is somewhat safe cocooned within his armour... in agony now, enraged, grotesquely appreciative of Tenebrae's cleverness... but not dead. He attempts to reach through his armour to draw another dagger, but finds his arm will not obey him; the damage too much for his vampiric body to immediately deal with. So with a snarl he enacts his innate levitation to join Tenebrae high above the streets, even as he uses his other arm to pull out the Penzance Sabre. Where it was kept is a mystery only Kuzial knows, but armed now with the all-too-fitting weapon, he is ready. Feet soon find purchase on the roof where Tenebrae once stood, though gone she is now. But he doesn't care. With one arm hanging limp, the other holding a finely decorated hilt, he begins to pursue the woman, leaping over gaps in buildings with his levitation aiding him, not caring about the noise he makes – replacing stealth with speed. He would hunt her down and reintroduce her to Cornelius Von Penzance... even if the introduction was only the edge of the deceased dandy's sword...

Swift was she, but not as swift as a levitation-aided drow, damn his armour-plated hide… Too well Tenebrae knew that greatest error prey can make when being run down was to look behind, but such a fatal error was hardly necessary now he’d shed subtlety for brute attack; she could hear his occasional landings and footfalls on the clattery stone rooves and eaves of Vailkrin’s homes.. stylish at first, but soon descending into the rubbly shacks of the poor, as she led the drow on a wild chase into Vailkrin’s famous slums. Here, the homes were hardly so sturdy, but their rooftops were places she knew well from youth, these being her primary route through the city as a young ne’er-do-well three hundred years before. Indeed, she was counting on the occasional thin tile or rotted patch of thatching to impede Kuzial in his relentless pursuit, even just a little, while the necromancer’s mind desperately sought for any kind of effective next move. All she could do for the moment was create and maintain enough distance from him so that the notoriously sharp Penzance blade would not separate head from shoulders. Oh, it came close a few times – though her armour obediently retracted itself from her front, to concentrate on thickening at her vulnerable back. But even with the vat-spawned imperviousness her carapace had to most mundane weaponry, -that- sword (which had taken many heads in its time, she’d even cheered for a few when it still belonged to Cornelius) slicing divots from its chitin when she failed to keep far enough ahead. Finally, it dawned on her that she would have no recourse but to stop – because Kuzial never would, until his legs were worn to bloody nubs, and hers as well – and face the ‘music’. Thus she made a graceful spin-about, and stopped. But faced nothing, yet, her cessation sudden and accompanied by the buckling of her knees, which brought her flat to her back. The necromancer prayed the swift drow would overshoot, just long enough for her to draw her own secondary weapons from the many pocket-like sheaths in her armour, which was slower to obey her now it was it wounded and leaking ichors. If –if—he did indeed find himself abruptly ahead of her, he’d have a plethora of slender, pointed darts thrown at his rear – well, not his –rear- as much as at the back of his knees, where she knew armours had to be thin enough to allow for ease of motion. With no way to effectively outrun Kuzial, all she could do was her best to slow him and impede the inevitable onslaught to come by whatever fraction that allowed.

Kuzial leaps and twists past broken chimneys and more frozen gargoyles as he chases the lady darkness through the perpetual night of Vailkrin. At times he enacts his levitation, using it to stop him falling through tiles which have eroded over time; undead, it seems, care less for house keeping than beggars in other cities, and add that to the slums that they stalk through, even high above it, it's inevitable that decay would rule here. And so he chases, feeling that growing warmth within his pain-addled mind as the hunter gets closer to the prey, even though with these two the line between who is truly being hunted is ever grey and shifting. But Kuzial doesn't care... aside from the slow, painful torture of elves, and the occasional mauling of any other race which happens to piss him off (which is all of them), he lives for moments like these. The chase, the hunt; matching instinct against another in a game that, despite the relationship shared by these two Empusai vampires, is one which is more deadly than most could ever hope to survive. His weapon is swung more than once, but no blow strong enough to fell the woman could be struck while they ran, yet he is not caught entirely unaware by her swift stop, dropping down, and oh-so-clever attack. Oh no, he is more than ready for her tricks. As he charges passed her, seemingly unnoticing of her quick stop, he commands his armour's front to open, and like a horrifying mother giving birth to an equally disgusting child, the armour lets Kuzial free. He wastes no time in stomping down on the roof, falling through it immediately to land on the floor of the attic below. His armour remains standing, and is struck by the barbs Tenebrae through. It stumbles, as if Kuzial were still inside – though the noise he made more than likely betrayed his true location. Nevertheless, it remains standing, swaying like it were greatly injured, while Kuzial quickly moves silently across the attic's floor to where Tenebrae was laying. He allows himself a viciously brief smile of triumph before he drives the Penzance Sabre up through the tiles, stabbing it once, twice, thrice where the vampiress was laying earlier... if she hadn't moved yet, she'd find herself and her armour having to deal with the powerful stabbings of Kuzial Stavret, a man not given the obnoxious nickname 'Stabret' for no reason...

Tenebrae was certainly not slow of wit, but even she was fooled by that treacherous, multi-limbed armour playing decoy to her vicious little darts -- just long enough for her to feel an iota of smug before the Penzance heirloom tore away any right she had to such prideful nonsense. She’d heard the clatter below, but assumed it merely falling rubble – for surely, that was Kuzial over there? That sword-point punching up to pierce her from underneath said otherwise, the blade catching her once – through the abdomen, and lack of organs or no, it bloody hurt! – but not again, for she would roll left, right, cussing her armour’s leaky gaps which permitted the smooth passage of Kuzial’s sadistic thrust. Talk about taking the wind out of somebody’s sails.. For the space of two human heartbeats she was fair game and, where the Patron was concerned, that was enough to kill her... Luckily, Stavret was still in the hovel below and so once more she’d keep a good head on her shoulders (literally), commanding her own obedient carapace to shuck itself away from her, and on its multiform limbs swarm the drow’s once-arachnid armoured shell – Kuzi and Tene would be battling, for as long as that struggle lasted, without such benefit as vat-spawn could offer, and that suited the necromancer just fine. Risen to her feet, black liquid spilling from the hole in her midriff, she’d play pussyfoot with any further upward stabs, so that anyone glancing up would wonder (unless they knew her…) why the woman in red was dancing on a roof. She was gathering that most precious of commodities – time. Time to smear her ichor on the boomerang gripped in her hand as a short but deadly-edged cudgel now, that vivified fluid in turn lighting the runes on it afire. By his sounds, she gauged the drow’s general location and stamped the ceiling in – no doubt he’d be expecting such a move, so little hope of cheap plaster or the odd woodwormy beam staving the Stavret’s cranium in. But perhaps he would be so expectant of Tenebrae’s dark blood abruptly lacing a circuit about him, arcs and arcs of it, thin dribbles solidifying where they were drawn from her body as a web is drawn from a black widow’s spinnerets, and flung off the weapon’s edge to the air. Flailing whip-like, garrotte-like, a dark web of tensile organic razorwire via those horrid engravings on the boomerang sought to not only entangle Kuzial but slice him in cubes like a block of Venturil’s finest cheddar as well.

Kuzial can feel that sweet, sweet sensation of sword slicing through flesh, and he savours it with each stab upwards, regardless of whether or not he is striking true. There are few things more delectable to the drow than carving someone apart, even if it is someone who he doesn't actively wish dead. But like all things beautiful, this is short lived. Soon enough the roof is caving in, a move he did expect, though living in a place forged of solid and rarely crumbling stone, he doesn't expect the onslaught of dust which assaults not just his eyes, but his throat and nose too. Blinded briefly, and thankfully not needing to breathe, he crouches down, sword held ready; thinking she would attack by more traditional means, and being so, so painfully wrong. The whips of her ebon-vitae which lash the air with an almost sentient malice are true to their mark. His unmoving arm is lacerated almost to the point of being severed; a horrific wound, but one not so devastating for an enraged vampiric drow Empusai. The fine features of his face are marked soon by deep sanguine mouths which spew his blood like a too-inebriated drunkard. Calls to his armour cannot be answered, for both his and Tenebrae's fight a battle mirroring their master's beneath, one which sadly Kuzial's seems to be losing. So with a snarl he does whatever he can to alter the situation before he's cut into a thousand pieces of ebon meat. He spins his weapon in his good arm – one which is bleeding now in a myriad of places – and slams it into the attic's floor. The sword's unnaturally sharp edge easily slices through the wood, and without hesitation Kuzial swings it wildly; luck and fate more than skill causing it to sever one of the support beams holding the floor up. Usually he'd enact levitation to be saved from such a fall, but this time he doesn't – letting gravity itself save him from the lashing webbings of Tenebrae's nefarious attack as he plummets below. He lands in a crouch which is horrifyingly painful, and acting on instinct alone he drops a globe of darkness in the house at the same moment he kicks a splintered piece of wood towards where he hopes Tenebrae will fall. It is a crude attack, one not highly likely to work. But it is all the powerful drow can manage while he seeks in vain to gather his senses in light of the horrifying wounds which would be mortal to any who'd not already given up life for the dark gift if undeath... he gave her half an hour... he shouldn't have given her even that...

But when you’re only a whisker above five feet tall without heels, and inclined to savour the company of the dead, the undead and the damned, it’s in one’s best interests to develop the art of seduction – not only in its most obvious applications, but subtle and refined ones as well. She’d asked for an hour, knowing she’d get less – but still, she got –something- which is better by far than nothing! The necromancer had barely a moment in which to silently celebrate the drow’s suffering, before the hovel was as lacking in light as Stavret’s own soul – and once more, she was falling, sadly not with the same measured deliberation as last time but with an embarrassing lack of grace as the basement floor gave way below and she tumbled into.. or rather, onto.. that pointed bit of wood. A stake? Really? Such things pass through her mind, much as the sharp end of that splintery greeting passes through the meat of her thigh. The black humour of it ripples from her lips, for she is pinned in place, lacking in vital fluids, slow to heal and sore of wound. As physically thrashed as the drow might be, here was his opportunity to employ his blade to its best advantage. Named for Darkness or not, Tene was not a drow and as drained as she was now, did not possess the kind of vision which could pierce through this magical pseudo-midnight easily. Sitting duck, was a phrase that came to mind (or rhymed with it, at least). But she held her grip on that boomerang, nevertheless. If she was to perish this day, Kuzial’s blood and guts would be the exclamation point with which her story ended.

Kuzial has never developed any such arts, probably because he prefers being the one to make people into the dead, undead and the damned, rather than the one who seeks their company. Nevertheless, he can appreciate, within the swirling ocean of agony which rapes his bleeding body, the skill in which Tenebrae played him this day. The first trap, divine. The second, anticipated, but no less clever in its maliciousness. The third... the third was what separated her from all others. He knew she needed him as he needed her; more because there are no others in this world who are as twistedly entertaining as Kuzial and Tenebrae together. And if they were truly damned to an eternity of existence, such moments in time, where sadistic joy is so easily obtained, should never be abused... and yet despite that, they still actively, violently and without any sort of hesitation tried to repeatedly kill each other. Kuzial grins at that thought, the look demonic with the blood which flows down his face, even as the globe of darkness dissolves, letting a small amount of light back into the ruined house. He eyes her laying there, no hint of defeat in her eyes, as he knows, even with the stake sticking from her leg she is far, far from defeated. He briefly eyes the weapon in her hand, before he steps forward, sheathes his sword, and with a grunt that is entirely animalistic, wraps his hand around her leg and violently pulls the limb from the splintered wood. And they say Kuzial isn't a gentleman! He lets it go, allowing it to fall beside the now blackened wood, before he steps to the side, kicks some rubble off an old, once red but now a vile orange chair, and with a grunt of blood congealing with dust he drops into it and grins again at Tenebrae, despite the pain. “I will not say I concede, for I do not. But I think it... wise... we pick this game up another day.” He uses his free hand to lift his other, and gives it a squishing pull that stretches the thin tendril of skin which holds it to his body. “Otherwise, I'll have to pull this off completely and beat you to death with the wet end.” He grins again at those words, even as he lets the limb fall to his side. “Truce?” That word doesn't really sound sincere coming from the mouth of a drow, but it is spoken regardless.

Tene snorted, by way of reply, though her scowl was betrayed by her lips, which could not help curving into the tight bow of a reluctant smile. If this were anybody else, she would see such mercy as a terrible fault, unforgivable weakness. But with Kuzial, she could nearly regard it as an act of tenderness, the way he ripped that splinter-shedding board out of her, and neglected to lop off her head. She knew that he knew he’d been played like an avian harp, and fully expected there to be consequences. But she also knew that deep down, he thought she was more amusing alive than dead. For now. And this she chose to view as a high complement indeed. In short: they both were as twisted as (rhymes with duck again) and in their own sick way did need each other, for whatever dark joy they may share, for however long they’d share it. “Never,” was her verbal response as she crawled painfully over to him, to lay her head amid the blood he leaked across his knees, gathering the strength to help him with that arm. Above them, all had fallen silent, but the armours did not appear.

Tenebrae held brief and silent hope that the vat-spawn were licking their wounds, rather than each other.

Kuzial flashes another dark grin at her words, the look saying he'd be disappointed if she'd accepted his offer, though he does not bother to say the words himself. The agony is enough to make the levity they share as twisted as the relationship between the two of them. Briefly, Kuzial does ponder calling his armour to him – the cocoon-like shell would do much to help him heal, and help him hunt fresh meat to further aid the situation. But the silence above is disturbing, and the drow has absolutely no desire at all to know what they are doing up there. Though a drow lord, a vampiric Empusai, a patron, a warrior... a dark elf who has seen a thousand souls tortured slowly to death... he doesn't think his stomach could handle seeing his armour and Tenebrae's locked in any sort of amorous embrace. Instead he merely leans back on the chair, allowing time to begin the healing of his wounds; the gift of vampirism aiding him, a fresh meal which he's sure the two will soon find all the bandages he would need, especially with Tenebrae's aid. So he rests, content in his own savage and barbaric way... he would hunt Tenebrae again, he is sure, in more ways than one... but at the moment, the carnage all around them is enough to almost settle the vast ocean of his psychotic rage... for now, at least.