RP:A Motley Crew
Background
This is part 1 of the Sojourn in the Underdark story arc.
Kuzial guides Jolie and an oddment of companions on a hunting trip into the Underdark's Dead Caves.
More than one Vailkrin citizen would turn their heads to stare in aghast silence at the morbid parade shambling down Vailkrin's main road that evening. Led by the diminutive and armed-to-the teeth necromancer Joliette Thorne (better known to some as 'that bad-tempered woman who owns the tavern) were a half dozen corpses of mixed variety - not so unusual a sight, one might think for the Dark Lands, but every corpse was wearing a different and brightly coloured scarf, so that they seemed oddly cheerful, while behind their company lurched an unidentifiable creature, dark of wing and barbed of whiplike tail, which loped on its knuckles and had no face at all. Joliette walked on, oblivious to the gawping of passersby, until she reached the western caves Kuzial had indicated as their meeting-place.
Here, at the mouth of those recesses, she paused to inspect her crew. The undead were all fresh, newly made and killed by toxins, no gore and no decomposition to be seen, and were dressed as if for battle. Two large orcs bore pink and green scarves respectively, the one in pink carrying a large rucksack. There was an ogre, with a magenta cloth about his neck, the elf wore lilac, and two stout humans had on turquoise and buttercup yellow scarves. All seemed in order. Maladroit hunkered down, wibbling his long and many-jointed fingers expectantly.
The necromancer ordered the orc to put the sack down. "Thankyou, Mister Pink." She smiled, and rummaged for her own armours, light enough to run in but tough enough to repel at least an arrow or deflect the brunt of slashing claws. She was buckling, right now, a custom-fitted breastplate made of hardened rawhide moulded to her own shape and reinforced with steel bands. From the sack protruded glimpses of various items, bottles and boxes, bone saws and other tools of her trade.
Kuzial steps from the shadows of the cave with his typical silence, which is broken when he enquires, "Need help with that, lady?" Which almost surprises him; he never thought he would offer to put clothes on the necromancer. A typically predatory grin flashes across his ebon lips, which lasts until he eyes the assembled troupe. The patron of House Stavret is dressed as always in his drow-crafted chainmail, sister daggers on his belt and a fine ebon sabre resting easily its sheathe. He also has, strapped to his back, a vicious looking butterfly-bladed axe. On his right wrist is a wickedly sharp throwing knife and his left wrist holds a thin pointy length of metal, ideal for driving deep into a beast's eye. Yet even with these additions he still moves with his typical stealth, and as always a hand is resting on his dagger when he speaks to the necromancer, "Greetings, Lady Darkness. I present you Nalyr, a scout who will lead us beneath my city." A slender drow steps from the shadows and offers Jolie a slight bow that seems like it was torn from him with burning pincers. The dark elf doesn't bother to speak and instead flashes a rapid series of hand motions at Kuzial before vanishing into the cave. The young drow cannot help but shake his head, "You realize we are destroying horrific beasts, correct? Not leading some sort of... parade?" His voice is incredulous; clearly this is not what he was thinking when she said an army of undead.
Jolie eyed him, darkly. “Perhaps with my bracers.” Her fingers worked quickly on the buckles of her plate, and she bent to retrieve said bracers, handing them over. Her lips thinned a moment. “And I am fully aware of what we’re here to do.” Her gaze might’ve curdled milk, had she been glaring at that, rather than Kuzial.
Kuzial offers the lady a slight bow, "Wise." He wanders closer to one, though not close enough to be within range of any weapons they might pull. Maladroit is spared a disgusted grimace, before the drow enquires, "How silently do they walk? We must evade certain areas... I would rather not fight every beast that stalks the Underdark if possible."
Jolie kicked one of the boots worn by ‘Mister Pink’. “Rubber soled. No slip, little sound. And the bodies are fresh. Less stumbling. Watch.” She stepped back, waving Kuzial to do the same, and barked a sharp order in some arcane tongue and the orc took up a fighting stance, the mattock he bore arcing heavily through the air between itself and Kuzial. Another order, and the orc ceased, bent to pick up the sack and was still. She sauntered back toward the drow, stepping close to him, looking pleased with herself. One small, leatherclad palm was offered out. “Now. I need six of your hairs. Please.”
Kuzial nods his head again to Joliette as the orc slashes his mattock. The drow appreciated the irony of going underground with a warrior armed with digging tools, albeit a dead warrior. Nevertheless, the smile that would have formed on his lips fades as she makes her strange request. He casually rests one hand on his belt, close to his weapons, before speaking to her, "I have seen you tear the heart from a fallen man. You have slain and raised formidable warriors. You control.. that." He motions with his head in Maladroit's direction. "What makes you think I would be foolish enough to give you my hair, Lady Darkness?"
Jolie took the liberty of slowly raising that glove-covered hand she’d offered out to Kuzial and would, unless prevented, smooth her fingertips over the silken white that swept back from one dark temple. “Because if you do not, then when I speak the canta for them to turn berserker, they will as likely go berserk on you as any foe.” Her voice was as silken as the drow’s pristine hair.
Kuzial grins at the woman as she wisely moves her hand slowly to his hair, "As fine a reason as any, Joliette Thorne." He bends his head slightly forward, "Six you may have." He remains motionless, letting her pull them herself.
Jolie perhaps made that procedure a tad more painful than it needed to be. Once she had the hairs in hand, she made short work of the necessary spells, one hair tucked deep into the armours of each warrior as she did so. All that remained then was her leg armours, leather and steel plate strapped to her thighs and calves, while Maladroit ambled closer to the dark space into which Nalyr had vanished. Jolie noted this, and looked up from where she knelt, to Kuzial. “You trust him?” Clearly she did not mean the familiar. “To say nothing about my presence in the caves?”
Kuzial does not react as the hairs are tugged from his head, though the stinging pain will not be forgotten. Perhaps this is the beginning of the revenge he must suffer for not warning her last time of the dangers as they stalked the caves in the Underdark. A reminder not to do it again, perhaps. As she motions to the cave where Nalyr vanished into the drow smiles a passionless smile full of certainty. He replies to her in the silent hand code of his race, 'Where we go there are many dangers. Not all of us will survive, I fear.' Aloud he speaks, "He can be trusted. He is Stavret... Are you ready, Lady?"
Jolie nodded to the drow’s silent speech, having got the gist, and gingerly patted the items strapped to her belt, small pockets of leather with metal pins, four to each hip. Slipped a bristle of small, thin daggers from a dark case in the sack into narrow spaces specially made for them on her armaments, leg and arm. Finally, she drew from the bag a dark blade, also thin and with the look of duergar make about it, and which made a soft, almost subsonic sound, more a dull vibration, as she swept it through the murky air in a graceful series of parries, as though to test its weight. “Ready,” she said, at last, and sheathed the sword.
Kuzial eyed the weapon with approval. Duergar, though hated by the drow, are known to be fine smiths. "Then let us go. Walk warily..." And so it is that Kuzial leads the party down, deep into the heart this vicious monster they call the Underdark; a place that screams in oppressive silence, 'be strong or die'. There is no give here, there are no second chances. Woe to those who fall while walking these dark caves, for never will they rise. The sense of lurking menace is a tangible thing, and even walking with formidable dark elves, undead warriors, gruesome Maladroit and the powerful Tenebrae... still there is the feeling that death's icy touch is a mere breath away. But following in Nalyr's footsteps, that remain as faintly glowing patches on the rocky floor, they make good time. Kuzial is ever wary, eyes and ears finely attuned to anything that may stir in the perpetual darkness. As he enters a slightly larger cave with thin trails of glowing fungus on the walls he stops and motions Jolie closer to him, before putting his finger to his lips to indicate silence.
Jolie's party came to a uniform halt when she raised her hand, her fingers crooked into a subtle sigil. She too had kept her senses keen and open for the slightest sound over the soft pad of rubber soled boots behind her, and her insignia-enhanced vision upon Kuzial's form ahead, knowing too well that he would draw weapon at the slightest provocation and quite prepared to do the same. When the drow ceased walking and beckoned, she stepped close to his side, hand on the hilt of her sword - which was, by its occasional vibratory hum, to be discerned as not merely a blade. Her eyes glinted green as marsh-wisps in the dim glow of the fungi, when she looked to the Patron.
Kuzial leans in to whisper in Joliette's ear, so close his breath would brush across her cheek, "See there." In the distance is a faintly glowing spectre that seems to float in a small cave. "That was once a male drow, long before the females were driven from their dark goddess... His crime?" There is an anger in his voice, though it is laced with a certain sadistic glee. "Was to deny a priestess. Four centuries later, and still he suffers. I am glad Astrala is no more. What male wouldn't be? But you must appreciate her talent for bringing her own twisted order to our malevolent chaos."
Jolie had to stand on tiptoe, sans those high heels she liked to wear usually, to whisper in the drow’s pointed ear, “Denied her what, I wonder?” Dropping back to the flat of her feet, she grinned and turned to study the phantom a moment. Behind them, the necromancer’s familiar swivelled its bony neck, blank face canting in the same direction. “You know, I think I’d have gotten along well with this Astrala…” Jolie mused in a near-inaudible tone, her gaze drifting back along the tunnelled recesses leading deeper into the caves.
Kuzial smiled a very brief smile at Jolie as she asked her question. But it does not last long. He is far too on edge; each slight noise from the undead warriors seeming to echo in his ears, betraying their presence to whichever foul beast stalks this cave. And then there it is, behind him stealthy footfalls very few would even hear. In one motion Kuzial has spun, drawn his large axe named 'Nuial'Ashier' - which translates from ancient drow into 'Soul Splitter' - from his back and retracted it for a vicious strike. But it is just Nalyr returning to report. The patron of House Stavret is not angry his scout didn't let his presence be known. Only a fool would willingly pronounce their presence here. He merely nods before using one hand to speak in their silent tongue, 'report'. He gets a brief message back saying, 'none close', before vanishing once more into the shadows. Kuzial turns to Jolie and asks, "A short rest here, lady. Then we delve deeper. I take it they are not on a time limit?" He indicates the deceased warriors.
Jolie re-sheathed her own weapon, the silken shirr of its shadowy steel hardly a whisper. “None has a date for the evening, no,” she said, low, her eyes on the dark to which the lesser drow had retreated. She glanced to the axe, a subtle nod given to show Kuzial that she appreciated its make. The undead, in their parti-coloured scarves, stood still as a row of statues, while Maladroit knuckled closer to the necromancer, ghastly visage tilting as if in question. She nodded to it, and then said to the Patron, “My familiar wishes to follow your man, if he may.” And added, if it was necessary, “He has senses other beings do not.”
Kuzial nods his head before whispering, "Wait one moment." Silently the patron turns and seems to fade into the shadows as he makes his quick way from the cave. He knows these caves well, and has planned spots with his scout to meet. So upon these paths he walks, not taking long at all to catch up to young Nalyr. He explains that the familiar will accompany him, waves away any protest with a casually drawn dagger that happens to prick the scout's throat, before making his silent way back to the cave. He smiles as he feels the scout glaring daggers into his back, but he knows the young idiot, though as fine a scout as any you would find, would never risk battle with Kuzial. When back in the faintly glowing cave he nods to Jolie, "You may send him, lady."
Kuzial said, "Him... it... that...."
The necromancer forced a look of concern from her face, as the approaching footsteps and scent were recognised as Kuzial’s, so that by the time he was in sight of her she would almost look bored. She did not have to speak to the gaunt for it to lope away into the tunnel, its motion oddly smooth for such a strangely put-together and angular creature. Jolie then found a reasonably flat lump of rock to perch on, checking over her weapons again, in particular the bulbous containers on her belt. This was no place for conversation, casual or otherwise, and so she kept her silence for the most part, aside from one brief and quiet commentary, made without glancing the drow’s way. “I can make you one. A guardian, scout –“ she smirked, “- an unusual consort...”
Kuzial does not reply to Jolie, though he does think about it. Could he begin to trust anything she made? Could she really make it without adding in an arcane chant that would set the great monster attacking him? He doubts it. But now is not the time for such thoughts. Instead, he moves away from Jolie until he stands in the centre of the cave. He places his axe on the floor at his feet then draws his two daggers. A deep breath is taken, before the patron drow begins to flow through a series of motions, as if he were fighting off an enemy. Faster and faster he moves, as graceful as a dancer, though there is something dreadfully barbaric about this dance. He spins and leaps, daggers stabbing and slashing, feet flashing out to strike at his invisble opponent, though he makes barely a whisper of noise throughout it. This goes on for many a moment, until abruptly he stops. He returns his blades to the fine belt he wears, before bending down to pick up his axe. Slowly he makes his way to where Jolie sits, before kneeling down to whisper to her - his axe laid to rest across his knees. "If you need prepare anything, do so now. We will leave shortly." He is not at all short of breath after his elegant dance - if anything he breathes more easy for having warmed his muscles and released some tension.
Jolie had watched the whole occurrence with brash interest, her eyes barely able to follow along with the red haze of his motions as they appeared to her altered sight. When finally he ceased, she was leaning back, supported by her palms pressed to rock, and would shake her head to indicate that she was as prepared as she needed to be; tension sat better within her than dispelled, coiled in gut and limbs like the springs of a mechanised weapon, wound tightly and ready for release. She had seen a few moves in Kuzial’s routine that she had never practised herself, and several she didn’t understand at all. Her face canted toward his, to return quiet words, “We must dance sometime, Patron,” and the precise meaning of that would remain a mystery, as she rose then and made a needless inspection of the undead troop, which had not moved so much as a finger the entire time.
Kuzial got up at the same moment Jolie did and simply nods at her words. He does not even offer her his typically lewd smile, or even flash her a predatory one. He is focused on the task at hand, and cannot let carnal distractions stray him from this path. Though, she was tempting... No. He shakes his head slightly as she inspects the undead troop, before deciding on something he was not going to do. He walks over to Jolie and takes her hand in his own. "Come." He leads her down a path different from the one Maladroit and Nalyr left on. It twists and turns, eventually losing its rough edges of jagged rock and becoming smooth, like water had once flowed through here. They move further in for quite a while, before Kuzial abruptly stops and ensures Jolie does too. He leans over to speak in her ear, "Look though the regular spectrum of light, lady." He lets his own gaze shift back to the normal view and before him is one of the wonders of the Underdark, a sight never before seen by anyone from the surface. It is a vast pit, deeper than malice, and in its center pours a great waterfall. It is almost silent, for it comes in from high above and doesn't stop until far, far below. It pours from an overland river, and over many thousands of years has carved a deep hole within the land. Were one to fall, it is rumored they would die of starvation before hitting the bottom. The walls around the falling water glow with a vast variety of the Underdark fungus; free as they are here from any who would harvest them. Their light filters through the water, creating a sight quite unlike anything else seen in Hollow, a rare spot of true beauty within the ugly stone of the Underdark.
Jolie glanced down at his hand as it curled around her own – the drow had surprised her, truly, for the first time. Perhaps that was why she allowed him to lead her like a lamb to slaughter thus through those tortuous passages until she felt him halt, tug her to her own cessation of motion, and at his behest would lift the Stavret insignia, slipping its chain over her head to allow for surface sight. “Ohh.” It was merely a breath, a barely voiced reaction to the natural loveliness that almost perversely insisted on existing in this harsh, subterranean world. Much as it exists in the drow themselves, she thought, holding more tightly to his hand – whether she had to retake it or not to do so – while her frame tilted a little closer to the edge of that fathomless abyss, to catch a glimpse of the colours fading into darkness where dark claimed all light below, and to peer up to where it did the same at the nadir of visibility. “It’s…” There was no superlative good enough for it, so Jolie let silence speak it for her..
Kuzial nods his head to Jolie, though he is sure she doesn't notice. He stands there staring for a long moment, before pulling on her hand, "That it is, Tenebrae. But now we must go claim your prize for the work you did. Come." He leads her back from the edge of that abyss, pausing just long enough to let her return the insignia around her neck, before they wind their way back to the cave where their cadaverous party remains. He releases her hand when they sight the deceased men, but does lean in to whisper, "Be ready, for death lurks where we will walk." His voice is cold as he speaks, an ominous warning to remind her of the dangers they will face. Before he walks to the entrance of the cave Maladroit and Nalyr exited. There he waits until she is ready.
Jolie would have reminded him that Death, really, lurked everywhere, had she been in a more jovial frame of mind. Instead, she merely turned for the undead six who still wore those ludicrously coloured scarves that hid the terrible wounds in their throats. She poke a low and guttural command, so ugly a phrase as hardly fit to cross the woman’s lips, and the corpses came a sudden and nearly natural-seeming burst of motion, weapons poised and bodies shifting to battle-readiness. They moved in file behind her, silent on those soft-soled boots she’d paid a fortune for in Cenril, when the necromancer followed Kuzial toward the greater darkness and a few steps closer to the unknown terrors for which they were hunting.
Kuzial leads Joliette and her warriors deeper into the Underdark. He draws the large axe from his back and holds it ready, sensing something is close rather than any physical reaction to a danger. And where is that damned scout and his grotesque follower. No longer do the faint footsteps glow in the infrared spectrum, but they had decided upon meeting spots and it is to one of them the patron drow leads...
Jolie followed him, and followed suit as well, her own deep-dwarven blade a shadow unto itself in her hand. She sensed Maladroit somewhere ahead, too far to gauge his state of being but he had not been beheaded, she could tell this much.
Kuzial silently walked through the caverns, his weapon ready, his eyes alert. As they pass the last caves regularly patrolled by drow parties Kuzial grows more tense. Each whisper of noise is like a drum in his ears, and the fate of those who alert the predators is never more apparent than when they push through a small cave into this cavernous opening. Littered all about are the rusted remnants of the vast majority of fools who decided to enter the Underdark. Kuzial pauses his walk to give Jolie a look that says, 'I bloody told you it was dangerous!'