RP:An Absence
Note
This is part of the The Obsidian Pool - The First Wave story arc.
In The Obsidian Pool
The ocean was a remarkable thing to the Drow, an element of the world that was both foreign and mysterious. In Drow literature it went unmentioned, and in Drow mythology it was the only occurring environment without its own deity. This ambiguity was the very reason that the D’Onri’s had chosen it for part of their emblem, and through House teachings embedded those properties in its inductees.
To be a D’Onri meant one of three particular things, and in thousands of years there had never been an exception. The highest of the House Order was the Regal, bound to the house by blood and birthright. These were some of the Spider Queen’s own, written as demi-gods by scriptures and scrolls. Of all the houses the D’Onri was the most feared, and the most hated. They had been responsible for the fall of entire civilizations, and they had shed more Drow blood than any army that had stood against it. This reputation was rightly deserved, for while none but the D’Onri knew, it was their patriarch that had planted the seed of Lloth’s firstborn. It was also a D’Onri who had carried out his destruction and the destruction of all his monstrous children when the time came. Because of this the Regal of the D’Onri pledged themselves entirely to teachings too extreme, too difficult, for all but the strongest to survive. They were capable of summoning magics that made even the wisest of magi shudder. Before them –all- trembled and bowed.
And then there were the Chosen, brought into the House by the Regal after a trial of loyalty that included a six-hour endurance test. They were always warriors or assassins, and on rare occasions healers. In the entire House there had never been, and would never be, a single diplomat. The Chosen were unique only to the House D’Onri, and for that they carried themselves with a unique mix of pride and fealty. In a sacred ritual they inscribed the House Seal on their own chests with a scalding blade; taking up to two days to be sure it was artistically and respectfully done. These warriors and assassins were loyal to the House above all things; life, love, and Lloth included. If appointed by a particular Regal it was not at all uncommon for a Chosen to serve them exclusively for life.
Lastly were the Ministers, but this title had no religious or spiritual purport. They were servants, and loyal ones. Dressed in robes of pure crimson they haunted the House’s halls, ghosts that had no words for whatever thoughts drifted through their heads. Silent, half-transparent, they were loyal to the family above all else. That was partially because, in truth, they were allowed nothing else. Ministers were claimed from orphanages, and because of this they lacked family convictions. They were promptly sterilized, and allowed only to worship the Regal for their divine heritage. Never leaving the House’s grounds, they were executed the day they turned seventeen. They were never allowed to become a threat of any kind, and knew none of the secrets that the D’Onri guarded. In thousands of years there had been no break in this institution, and it had all been carried out in utter secrecy. There was not a living soul outside the House that knew any of this.
The House D’Onri was the ocean of the Drow Realm, a vast and alien place unlike anything of its kind. It’s secrets lay too deep for others to find and they were guarded by archaic killers honed by time, evolution, and their environment to be the most ruthless and efficient known. And, while he had never once seen it while in service to the Queen Mother, Castellian D’Onri felt very at home on The Eternity’s raised foredeck. He marveled at the feel of the wood beneath him, so foreign to earth and stone in the way it pitched beneath his feet.
In the cove the water was a flawless green, liquid emerald as it rolled in from the horizon and tumbled toward the white-sand shore. There was no doubt this is where he belonged, with his stunning woman laying sated on the satins of their bed below. And yet, despite it all, everything was suddenly and irreparably wrong. The hypnotic comfort of his schooner’s bob and sway was suddenly missing, and even the breeze brushing in from shore failed to stifle it all. Castellian folded his arms across that broad chest, looking very much like a stone-cut nightmare from some dream. Utterly stoic, he was inhuman in his lack of visible emotion. It was, and always had been, the most unsettling thing about him.
But Castellian D’Onri –did- feel, and he –did- have emotions. Inside him something had been off, unsettled since he had pulled Tenebrae from that pool. He remembered that dark, even now, tugging at him as he walked through it. It was a vision that would not dilute itself in the corridors of his mind, and it haunted him. The sight of their child being enveloped by that horrible wave, and then the shattering realization that it had been an illusion; he remembered how his heart had broken. He also remembered the decision to be the strong one, and to not allow Tenebrae to see what it had done to him.
And still, that was not what had broken him. What had broken him was the sudden and inexplicable power that the Seal he carried now had. He had first noticed it the day after they had left, his hand throbbing as it had when he entered the rift in the waters. The white symbols emblazoned on his flesh seemed to pulse with life, luminescent as they stood pronounced against the pure-ebon backdrop of his skin. The desire to use it when he had been wandering that chaotic landscape had been overwhelming, or so he believed. Now? Now it was maddening.
The difficulty came in what he had seen the complete understanding of what he was capable of with its aid. Their natural affinity for one another, the sheer nature of their symbiosis could allow them an infinite range of abilities. It had flashed through his mind before he had drawn Tenebrae and Renin from the pool’s inky depths.
With Renin revived enough to take to his feet, his wounds both illusory and real tended with what little they had to do so, they trudged their way from the fading beachhead, the light falling like a curtain on the tragic scene. Rabble, they moved with disillusioned strides, Tenebrae sobbing softly into the pliant leather of Castellian's vest. The desire to join her was sharp and sudden, the sadness spreading through them until it seemed to affect Renin as well. He’d saved the illusion of their son from the sea, only to find it absent in his arms. Distraught, broken, Tenebrae had not spoken since they began to follow the chain’s tangled links back to the mouth of the pool.
At the end of the line, the chain hanging vertical before them, the trio begrudgingly lifted their eyes to follow its ascent toward salvation above. Looming, the rift appeared to be tightening steadily, its edge formed by twisting energies and churning waters that lapped hungrily in toward the center. The resistance was first noted there, aesthetic, before abruptly the feeling descended on them -- the pool hungered, wanted, and tugged at their minds with sudden abandon; flashes of seductive images melded with hellish nightmares, straining to shatter the sanity that remained.
Tenebrae pitched a cry of frustration, her small hands clinging to the chain with sudden fury. Castellian, his features contorted in a grimace, did the same, eyes biting closed as he attempted to center himself. Yet, despite it, the Seal would not leave him be. There were three elements in his head now, three separate desires. The pool strained for him, yearned, wanted him to stay locked within the depths with desperation unlike any he had felt; the Seal ripped away at his hand, at his very flesh, demanding its voice to be heard in the matter. Thrilled to be in such a host, it attacked ferociously at his will, determined to be allowed to overwhelm him and claim the body and mind that formed its prison. And Castellian, the strongest of these voices as of yet, held the rest at bay with stubborn, uncompromised will.
Renin was the first to climb, his pain and exhaustion pushed aside; even in this state, his undaunted loyalty and courage had him push to the fore. Tenebrae was next to climb, drawing each small hand forward to claim a higher link along the swaying chain; the task no small matter, a test of strength for even her vampiric roots. Castellian hesitated, ensuring he was the last to go and thus the first to catch the brunt of any sudden trouble as they went. The trio struggled, one after another, speaking little as they made the ascent. And then they were sliding from the inky depths, their hands finding the pool’s edge and lurching themselves over.
With a heaving shudder the ebon-colored pool belched them out, reluctant to the last to yield prey from the depths of its gullet. The taste of them was tease enough and, maddened, the sentient waters reached out with liquid fingers in an attempt to reclaim them. It was Renin that was first to his feet, gathering the others and hoisting them back, his words lost to them as he encouraged a hasty departure.
Beneath their feet the building quaked, a quick rumble carried from the heart of the forlorn fortress. Castellian hooked an arm beneath Tenebrae’s own and rose with her against him, turning and finding a hand to Renin’s shoulder. They hurried down the melding hall, and through the doors, throwing themselves against it and bursting into the familiar plains of Milous.
And yet, standing on the Eternity's deck and feeling it roll beneath him, Castellian knew that he had not escaped it at all. Part of him still laid within those inky waters, ripped from him as he had dragged himself out in Tenebrae's wake. The absence, nagging at him like an ulcer, was only recently becoming apparent. All said, the matter was coming to a head. The continued pull on the Drow's mind could not be allowed to get the best of him, and inevitably...
Something had to give.