RP:Below, the Unintelligible Truth

From HollowWiki

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc


This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.


East of the Causeway, Venturil

It was a nervous habit, this pacing Tenebrae was doing, much as a trapped predator will wear its paws thin padding up and down the bars of its cage in abject hope of freedom. Tene had all the freedom she could presently enjoy, but what she chafed for now was knowledge… Her boot-prints ringed the outer edges of the deep hole in the ground east of the Causeway, into which several persons so far had entered and none emerged. She was muttering at it, her tone thick with resentment, though her words were not distinguishable.


Eboric approaches the woman, coming from the direction of his encampment. He is accompanied, as ever, by an honor guard of his men, including the scout who had brought news of Tenebrae's presence. It is toward her that this contingent hurries, the smaller men nearly running to match Eboric's long, purposed strides. "You," he calls as he draws near. "I have been looking for you."


Tenebrae ignored Eboric utterly. Which is to say, she had heard him, and of course sensed his approach and that of his men, but chose to continue with what she was doing while employing such a profound lack of response to the were-bear or any of his company as to elicit an almost tangible sound of mock-crickets.


Eboric storms his way right over to Tenebrae, stopping only just short of running into her. "One of my men died, in his sleep. His body was...dried out, shriveled. I saw no footprints leading to or from the tent, nor did the sentries see any enemy. You said that there was something here, something evil. Could it have done this?"


Tenebrae paused then in her pacing, having turned at last toward Eboric with a single raised brow and a forefinger pointing to herself - as if enquiring whether he was talking to her. Her smile was small and polite, in the generic can-I-help-you sort of way. "Your manners are appalling, Eboric. But seeing you are in a terrible flap, I'll let it slide this once." Her chin tilted at a haughty angle, and perhaps several of his men would experience a sudden weakness at the knees, and/or the desire to loose their bladders in terror. This revenge for being addressed as 'You' exacted, she gestured toward the dirt cavity, "And yes. Yes, it could have."


Eboric apparently feels no remorse for his behavior, nor does he seem affected by her body language, although his men do seem slightly less interested in standing behind him. "When my oathmen are in danger, I have little time for manners." He glances over at the pit, studying it warily. "Have you discerned what is down there? Perhaps found a way to contain it? I cannot afford to lose men, not with a war brewing."


Tenebrae cleared her throat gently and pondered having not a lot of time for persons who couldn’t remember that she was not some grubby barbarian to be addressed by a diminutive pronoun. In fact her pause was long enough to convey such a sentiment, but seeing as she had a personal interest in this matter, she decided instead to indulge Eboric. For the moment. "I believe I have, yes," she said, throwing a brief look at the hole. "Discerned what it is. And if I am correct.. the means to contain it will take time to prepare." The Necromancer flashed Eboric a sudden, sharp smile. "Unless you and your..." she eyed the gaggle of warriors now standing at a wider berth from them both. "... friends there feel like leaping down that hole and exploring.. I promise, I won't stop you."


Eboric stares pensively at the hole, still seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had caused offense. He is, after all, not used to obeisance, nor often mindful of others' feelings. After a moment of silence, he frowns. "I think I know better than to jump into a pit for you, and I'll not order my men to do so, either. How can I stop it from destroying my thegns?"


"You can't." Came the blunt reply. "And it will destroy more than your.. thingies... if it is not contained soon." Tene's features bore an expression that mingled concern and a peculiar sort of pride, as she expounded, "It is ancient, as this land itself, or near enough. It has woken from its long rest, its centuries of sleep in which it has drained the very vitality of the soil in order to sustain itself. But it stirs now. And it's .. hungry."


From somewhere nearby could be heard a nervous bleat.


Eboric glances to his men, who begin to mutter to each other at the necromancer's words. His look seems to calm them, at least for the moment. Looking back to Tenebrae, he says, "I cannot have this. Not now. How can I help contain it?"


"Aside from acting as bait?" A gesture with her oddly-discoloured left hand pointed Eboric's attention to the goat tethered amid a stand of twisted, withered trees closeby. "I was just about to conduct a little .. test. To ascertain whether I am indeed correct. Man-flesh would be a welcome addition to the ritual." She smiled again, a horrid smile mainly aimed at Eboric's guard. Then said, "Or.. you could gather me some light mages and druids. Lots. I am fairly certain, " she was lying, ".. that my plan will work." Or you know.. make the thing really angry, she didn't say. "And I have no patience for such people, it’s like herding cats. You, however, seem to have a little skill with organising.. " again, that smile, ".. people. Is this a task you could manage?"


Eboric 's head is already shaking at the necromancer's first words before they are even out of her mouth. "I'll not put myself or my men at risk. This ritual of yours, with the mages and druids...will it kill them? I only ask because, if it will, I will gather them from outside sources, with no help from my own contingent. If you think that they will survive, however, I will supplement with my own thegns. I have some who work magic. Not many druids, but the arcane lore of my men from Frostmaw is fairly considerable."


Tene pursed her lips tightly and was silent for the space of several mortal breaths. "I cannot promise they will live, if their skills are less than spectacular.." she shrugged lightly. "My plan is to drive it east of here, where my Guildsmen will help me contain it, bind it to a far more limited area and thus stop it... wandering. But what you don't appear to understand, Eboric is that..." Tene paused again, lowering her voice. "It might be best were your men not to hear this."


Eboric frowns. "I will tell you of it later," he says to his men. "Return to the camp, and gather the thegns. I will address everyone when I return." The men salute and hurry off, already muttering to each other again. When they are out of earshot, the warlord turns back to Tenebrae. "I cannot afford to lose many men, especially those few that can wield magic. I aim to wage war on the archmage himself, as I have told you, and I will need all the help I can get."


Tenebrae waited until the men were at a substantial distance before she spoke again, "You will tell them nothing," she muttered at Eboric, her pale green gaze as stony as a gorgon's stare. "Or lie, I don't care which. This thing.. let me put it this way: I dare say you've heard rumour of the creature that recently all but levelled Vailkrin?" She didn't pause for his reply, "Well, if I am correct - and I believe I am - the thing that has burrowed in its millennia of restless sleep below this land would make the one in Vailkrin look like a .. a..." she flapped that dark hand about again, as if to gather an appropriate term, ".. a hamster. Think about how large this nation is, Eboric. And how far its desolation is spread. The Fengoth.. the woods to the north-west, the lands for miles around where we stand right now. Think about that, and then ponder - how large- the creature responsible may have grown, in its time."

Tene quite deftly avoided reference to Eboric's apparently imminent invasion, there.


Eboric shrugs his shoulders. "I pay little attention to Vailkrin. It is not a land I want, and I think little of the one who supposedly rules there. But all that is well and good...I can imagine the enormity of the beast we face here. But it does no good to bemoan the size of it, or the odds that face us. All that is to be done is to destroy it, or contain it...the task is before us, and must be accomplished. There are no other options."


The Necromancer gave Eboric a slightly harder stare, at the word 'bemoan' and this would shift to a not very subtle roll of eyes by the time he was done speaking, "And it is no good barging in like a troop of..." her chill gaze lifted to where his men had gone, her disdain evident. "Unless you wish the corpses of your troops to invade nothing but a large hole in the ground." Her patience was waning, and but for the task of gathering the necessary assistance, she may have elected to simply allow the were-bear and his men to become fodder for the Burrower. "Perhaps you ought to stay and watch this.." Once more she gestured to the goat.


Eboric meets Tenebrae stare for stare, and there is a cold sort of intelligence in his eyes. "I know that there is no use in that method, else I would have tried it already. We must learn what can be learned of it, and use that knowledge to destroy it. I can excercise caution, when it is necessary." He shrugs again, and glances at the goat. "I will watch."


Tenebrae muttered something gruff, though the syllables of it would make no sense to the warrior. From that stand of ruined trees melted a half dozen cowled and shady figures, all of them exuding the sort of chill ominousness that spoke to their association with the Necromancer's Guild. One paused to untether the goat next to the hole, a fine animal with glossy coat of black, not a single coloured hair to mar its perfect darkness. What followed then was a display of ruthless efficiency, half the Sclerati busying themselves in the creation of a double set of circles, the others intoning the necessary words while the goat-handler administered some soporific or other to the increasingly frightened beast.

Tenebrae herself took merely a moment to instruct Eboric not to move a muscle and he'd perhaps feel a dark crackle of magic about him when she incanted a powerful protective spell drawn from memory of similar cantas learned in another, distant land. At a short distance, the Sclerati's work was soon complete - rings of jagged sigils surrounded the goat, now tethered and standing quietly on slightly unsteady legs.

With a snap of fingers, Tenebrae ordered the men back and walked their handiwork's circumference, correcting small errors and throwing them looks promising direst consequences for carelessness. Within the outer perimeter of the concentric ring surrounding the sacrifice, she spoke a string of words not heard in this world for untold centuries – though, in her new home, more recently - and knelt, her palms pressing to the barren ground, black hair spilling about her features which were white as old bone and contorting with the effort of such dark speech.

The Sclerati were humming now - or so it may seem, so deep were the chords of their chanting, so loosely were their words a semblance of any humanoid tongue. Darkness fell, eerie and artificial, and the air grew thick with an oily kind of mist.

From a sheathe at her belt, the Necromancer drew an elaborately wrought but slender blade, lashing this out to nick the artery at the joining of the goat's head and throat.

Something below the soil rumbled, and was still. The Sclerati were swaying as one, eyes rolling back in their heads as sigils darkly lit both air and ground. A strange sense of pressure was building about the whole fell scene, making ears thud with heartbeats for those who possessed them, and hairs would stand on end.

Finally, through the ground at the feet of the sacrifice, a slithering ribbon of blackness with suckered extrusions erupted, like for all the world like some hellish leech or ungodly serpent, and the chanting ceased so suddenly as to make the silence to follow an awful thing.

Left hand held splayed to command this hush be kept, the right still holding the kris-like knife, and with her brow wet with bloody perspiration, the Thanatos Domina watched the Burrower drain its prey to a husk, the blood-drained goat’s feeble kicking growing still as the horrific feast continued.

And all was quiet for the moment, in that fulminating darkness.


Eboric , never comfortable around even benign magic, remains still, hand resting on the axe at his belt as he watches the ritual with a hooded gaze. To his credit, he does not even move when the tentacles of darkness burst free to drain the sacrifice of its life blood. Only his eyes move, flicking from the goat to the necromancer, and back again, waiting for the darkness to lift.


In the dim and purplish glow of sigils, the goat would be seen to slowly wither to a furry sack of bones, its body drained of not only moisture but minerals, salts. Trembling with the effort of sustaining her spell - the one keeping Eboric, herself and the Sclerati absent from the creature's awareness - while her Guildsmen sustained the summoning canta she'd taught them, Tenebrae tensed in her crouch. Once more the magic-laden blade snicked out in a deft slash- this time, at the foul tendril, causing a small tentacle-tip to plop to the ground. Tenebrae snatched this up, rising fluidly to her feet, and before she could turn toward Eboric, even as her mouth opened to speak the single word she had not yet imparted, the earth shuddered again and it would seem all about them shot up from its surface a veritable forest of black and angry flexible trees, the branches writhing, sprouting suckers and hooks, barbs and spikes, all of them flailing and smacking about.

Then came Tenebrae's word: "Run!" Too late for two of the Sclerati, who were now being tossed about like a couple of badly stuffed straw dolls.


Eboric draws both axe and seaxe the moment that chaos erupts, a snarl of what might be legitimate concern twisting his mouth, baring his teeth. At Tenebrae's shout, he begins to move, but more cautiously than he might have; he moves backward, his head constantly moving, while the rune-marked blades in his hand flash out from time to time in an effort to maintain a clear path so that the necromancer herself can escape in the same direction.


Tenebrae was pale - even for her - and wincing as the small portion of the Burrower held in her weak left hand whipped and stung her over and over, tearing circular chunks of flesh free with its tiny, barbed 'mouths'. That pair of unfortunate necromancers were now little more than empty skins pocked with holes, discarded by the foul 'forest' of limbs that even now broke afresh from the ground behind Tenebrae, a furious onslaught held back only by her desperate incantations of Warding, perhaps somewhat aided by Eboric's runes.

However, while a narrow path was afforded this pair, the black chaos forked around them and churned the earth madly as it charged toward Eboric's men. The remaining Sclerati shrieked, scattered, another falling to the welter of horror. Amid this, in that scant channel of relative safety, Tenebrae reached Eboric's side, her fingers white about the knife, her other hand a bloody mess but still somehow able to stuff the horrendous leech it held into a pouch appending her belt, "What part of 'run' do you not comprehend," she gasped, eyeing the feeble glimmer of Arandon Rift-walker's ancient protective canta as it hung about them, the dimmer light of Eboric's own magic. "Perhaps better to pray now, for all the good it'll do." But she had her prize, and if Tenebrae herself prayed, it would be that this exercise in loss was not for nothing.


Eboric wastes no effort on speech. Rather, he sheathes the seaxe and take a grip on Tenebrae's arm, meaning to all-but frog march her away from the mass of tentacles. A quick glance is sufficient to tell him that his camp is as yet quite far from harm's way, and that those men that had accompanied him on this venture are no longer in sight. Rather than making for the camp itself, however, he endeavors to escape, Tenebrae in tow, south and west of the monstrous tentacles, as quickly as he can.


Tenebrae dragged her boot-heels in the dirt as makeshift anchors to prevent her being hauled away with hell in tow before she could finish speaking the words that would bundle herself and Eboric in a swathe of necromantically-charged insignificance - to the Burrower's rudimentary senses, at least - so that to that ancient horror they would appear to be little more than extra shrubbery.

Not so fortunate, those lesser necromancers - and strangled screams from the near-dead woods might speak the fate of some of Eboric's guard as well. The spell as complete as she could make it, Tene ceased resisting the irresistible force of a were-bear's muscular insistence, and permitted herself to be bustled off, as behind them the Burrower wreaked its blind and dreaming vengeance on the very earth of Venturil..


Eboric winces as he hears those far-off cries, but can do nothing about them now. Instead, he simply focuses on escorting Tenebrae to the relative safety of the barrowlands to the west. As they move, the sounds of horns fill the air as the alarm is sounded, and the men of the camp arm themselves and prepare to defend, though the tentacles themselves have only just destroyed the outlying patrols.


Tenebrae's breath was not necessary - but rasped in her lungs anyway, motivated by a visceral memory of that response to abject terror. The pouch at her belt bulged and shivered, but the magics keeping the tendril-tip contained held fast, for now. "They must not fight," she gasped. "Or all will be lost..." Not that she cared all that much for the welfare of barbarians, but Tene supposed she owed Eboric something for his bravado in helping her to this blighted patch of sanctuary.


Eboric lifts his own horn, blowing out three sharp blasts to order his men to stay where they are, and is soon answered by the echoing calls of the camp's horns. "What the hell just happened?"


Tenebrae plopped herself down on a flat-topped boulder, wincing at the divots of missing flesh and leather scarring her hand and arm. "You just met the Burrower," she said. "Or.. a very small part of it. Like I said - it stirs in its slumber. Now, try to imagine that debacle, times half the area of Venturil, fully cognizant and out for blood." She was trying - and failing - to sound casual. "But if all goes well, I shall soon have the means to contain it." Her chuckle was dry, and humourless. "Or you can come at it with your axe, Eboric, if you wish to attempt destroying it.."


Eboric grins, perhaps exhilarated by the near brush with death. "I have waited long for a foe worthy of me. I have tried out the best of this world, and none have been much of a challenge. But I think, now more than ever before, that this particular fight must be one of cunning, rather than sheer might. You are welcome into my camp, and you may bring a few of your magical friends, if any survived. Those of my thegns that can use magic will be directed to aid you, and I myself will do what I can. Together, we will rid this land of the blight of this monster, and of the line that allowed it to continue unmolested."


Tenebrae paused to wonder at the prodigious thickness of the were-bear's skull, but would finally nod. "Appreciated. But we must bide our time, Eboric. This is no simple beast, easily dispatched with a wave of a hand or a blade. Its roots run deep into the land itself, and it has feed well on Venturil, these many centuries.. and any attempt to destroy it may well cause more damage than simply leaving it be. But as I said, there may yet be a means to control it, trap it.. " She patted the pouch, which strained at the seams for the violence occurring within, "I will go to my necromancers and rally them to the cause. In the meantime, you might gather those light mages we spoke about, and have them stand at the ready. And perhaps move your camp out of ground zero, eh? The thing’s activity seems more concentrated in the area close to the Causeway."


Eboric nods his head once. "We will move into the barrows themselves, near the Throne. There, at least, the ghosts of my kin can help to protect us." He glances at the pouch. "I will see to that at once." That said, he turns and walks swiftly northward, toward the camp; he has never been a man to waste time.


Tenebrae grit her teeth and poked her knife-tip at a loose flap of leather and skin hanging free of its proper place on her forearm. "Good luck," she muttered. And then spent a few moments both gathering her wits and doubting her own sanity, shaking her head at herself for what she'd just done. Valentin and Leifong were foremost in her thoughts, next, her two most trusted necromancers (well, least likely to perish quickly, at any rate) ought to be contacted, post haste. So much to do.. and - if the rapidity and ferocity of the Burrower's response to this little 'experiment' was any indication - so little time..


That Night, in the Remains of an Elven Camp, Sage Forest

Kuzial is once again sitting upon his charred throne, absently picking at the wood as he muses over what is to come. There are a few quiet guards watching the patron, ensuring no stray people get close to him, though they have specific instructions to allow one person through, even if he partially hopes the order is made inane by her staying the hell away. But he doubts it. And so he waits, sitting there as king of this stolen kingdom of trees, enjoying the brief quiet and trying to ignore the desires of Tenebrae's special present, which seems to demand he feed as often as he can. Something he refuses, if only to spite it. He would not be slave to her severed limb.


Tenebrae, despite all drowish desires otherwise, eventually arrived at the war-wracked glade, entering it in silence, treading past the guards as though they did not exist - perhaps daring one to attempt to prevent her approaching the makeshift throne. Her silence was not broken, even as she closed that distance and came to stand before the Patron, her resurrected hand and the forearm it appended from wrapped in leather winding, through which a peek of white bandage could be seen. She looked weary, as a child looks weary after some vast family tragedy, and in this silence she would seek out Kuzial's one good eye for a cryptic stare before lowering herself to a seat on a bit of stump close to his feet.


Kuzial , despite his orders, shares Tenebrae's wish that one of his guards takes offense at the woman and tries to kill her. He would find the entire thing altogether amusing. But sadly, they are either too scared of the patron's temper or of the necromancer's wrath to dare attempt such things. And so he watches her, his single gaze keen as she wanders in and takes her seat. He meets her gaze with his own, his face somewhat impassive, and once she is seated he lets the silence drag on for a long time. Despite it all, it's not uncomfortable; there is no tension in the air as deceased drow and this demoness of death sit quietly, until Kuzial's euphonious voice shatters it with a simple statement ripe with his typical eloquence. "You look terrible."


Tenebrae said, "I do not!" though her tone held less indignance that it might have, on a different day. "I was.. hunting." And, as no death-lance nor knife had found its way to her throat yet, she dared to rest her head upon the patron's knee, pale green eyes a little glassy as she canted her face up for a clear view of Kuzial’s features. "And neither do you. Look terrible, I mean." And the reason for that observation would be plain in the flicker of disapproval crossing her slightly dirt-smudged features.


Kuzial doesn't stop Tenebrae from resting her head on his knee. Instead he falls back into that silence for a while, before speaking again. "Yes... hunting..." Quiet again fills the clearing for a moment, before he speaks again. "I had wanted to speak to you about that. This.. hand you have given me..." His silence is this time heralded by a snarl, "I see it is as demanding as you are. Tell me why, Tenebrae. Not that it is armour, or that I will sit beside you. It is time for the truth... you have hunted once this day, do not become the hunted." There is little real threat in those words, though no threat of Kuzial's is ever idle. But he couldn't now, even if he wanted to, cut her to pieces. Being sired by the woman had robbed him of even that.


The drow would feel the slight weight of Tenebrae’s skull shifting against his knee as she nodded gently. She had been expecting him to express such a desire for the bare truth, and had put much thought to how she might reply. "In truth..." she sighed, more from the effort of moving as she sat upright, her good arm's elbow now invading his space as it leant on him. "It is a parasite. A symbiote, wrought of my flesh. But not of me alone." This riddle imparted, she gingerly picked at the lacings of her arm-wrap, the tender left hand moving stiffly in its bandages as it freed the pale skin of her right arm to his view. Flexing the healthier appendage, she continued. "It is a creature unto itself now. See this arm? At every joint lies a tiny ganglion, a cluster approximating a primitive mind. Did you not wonder how the thing could be so.. persuasive?" Her smile was tired, but a familiarly sweet malevolence crossed it briefly. "Before I go on, though, I have a question for you." And she lowered the injured hand, leaving the other at rest on Kuzial’s lap while her peridot scrutiny once more sought into his own solitary red eye. "Do you hate me, Stavret?"


Kuzial does not enjoy the woman's response. A parasite... the only such creature he knew was the Time Lord, and the drow hated him profoundly. His very desire to oppress and dominate all around him, and the fact the patron of Trist'Oth follows him... the drow finds these things deeply offensive. Any sort of slavery wrought not by his own hand is something Kuzial detests. He would never be slave to any man... perhaps it is lucky Tenebrae isn't a man. He nods his head as he sees her arm, but he doesn't immediately respond. Instead he answers her final question first. "I do hate you, Tenebrae. But take solace in the fact I hate you less than anyone else I've met in this world. Which I suppose is akin to answering your question with a no, but are we not now speaking with honesty?" He laughs, then. The sound isn't entirely pleasant, nor is it malevolent or dark. "There is nothing that walks this world that I do not hate. It is my nature." That said, and a slight shrug offered, he speaks again of her earlier words. "Explain to me what a symbiote is. And tell me... if it is not just you, yet it came from you, where does it originate from? What are your ambitions? Is it just to return to this husband you speak of?.." Before she could answer his many questions, he asks a final one quickly, "I suppose I should know whether or not you hate me? Not that it matters. I trust you, Tenebrae, in this. Though, many dead drow have spoken those words moments before they were destroyed, it is a truth I cannot escape from... as much as I want to."


Tenebrae was quiet for a time, as she manipulated the order of his questions and appropriate replies in her mind. First, she smiled wryly and gave his thigh a squeeze. "Love has, in the duration of my life, served me very ill, Patron. All my loves lie dead, several by my own hand, and all but one..." but she wouldn't say which one, "I was glad to be rid of, in the end. I believe it is a poison, subtler than any of your drowish concoctions.." perhaps realising she'd been rambling, the Necromancer halted, and changed tack, "I hate you less than anyone in this world, though my hatred is a mild thing, and not so encompassing, compared with yours." And changing tack again, "I asked, because this symbiote enhances all things. Strength. Intelligence. The ability to heal, even regenerate. And beyond the physical.. desires, passions.. hatreds. All enhanced, enriched. I do not mind if you hate me, Kuzial. So long as you never fall so far as to love me." She glanced away, then, into the burned shell of a forest. "I do not wish you to become a slave to anything at all. Not even me." Her moroseness lifted, her mood as mercurial as ever, a wicked glimmer of amusement alighting her eyes, "Not for real, anyway. You will be the master of your symbiote, or it will master you. And if it does, I promise you a quick ending. Though I may be tempted to use your body in.. different ways. The mastery of the symbiote is the real test. It will change you, your flesh, your mind, but all will be yours to command in the end. If I trust anything, it's your damnable stubbornness, your will to not only survive, but to conquer."


Kuzial answers her words with a sly grin on his face. "There is a saying amongst the idiot surface dwellers that there's a thin line between love and hatred. In Trist'Oth we have a different saying: The only thing a drow should love is his desire to hate, for when that is gone he is no longer drow." Kuzial's voice grows quiet; within his lyrical tones is a force of strength that is almost tangible in the dark forest's night. "No matter what these things do to me... no matter what you do to me... I will always be drow. Rest assured of that." He nods once, before carrying on in far more lighter tones. "I am surprised, Tenebrae, you wish to enhance my passions." Another sly look, this one far more salacious than the first. "But I think I understand. This... thing; parasite, symbiote, it is the test of what you are... or were before your armour was destroyed. It is what lifts you above the rest of these feral vampires. It is the separation of those worthy and those doomed to serve. The test. The reward. The challenge. And though by any reasoning it is disgusting, I can see why you find it... beautiful." She had not said it was beautiful, but he says those words anyway. "There is a grotesque beauty in embracing that which you hate, forcing it to serve you, driving it to make you more powerful... more than what the rest of these animals are. I will conquer this test, and when it is done, you and I will drown this world in an ocean of blood. Perhaps then you can build a boat and sail back to this husband of yours."


A frown so slight as to barely shift her brows greeted the last of Kuzial's words, but again, Tenebrae changed the topic smoothly. "The armour is not the symbiote," she said, and bowed her head low, until silken dark hair parted at her nape, aided by that one good hand. "Mine is weakened, but intact.." and as she spoke it, her vertebrae swelled, momentarily standing out from the line of her neck and upper spine, a row of pointed protrusions that threatened to slide through delicate skin. But they didn't, and the Necromancer raised her head. "The armour is its slave. And so, your slave. The symbiote is controlled by you, and it controls the armour. Do you see?"


Kuzial pays special attention to that frown. He was hoping for a response similar. To see at least in part the truth behind this husband of hers. He is a master of these games, as all drow are, and as such nothing of it shows on his face. He merely responds to her words, "Protrusions... every man's dream in a woman." He snorts, before answering in more serious tones. "You are saying... this symbiote that you... gave me." He almost says forced upon me, "will be my slave. Yet it will control the armour I wear." He frowns for a moment. "I understand." He doesn't really, at least, not beyond the basics of it. "Perhaps you should explain to me how this armour is formed... Unless you've had enough?" He moves a hand from the arm of his chair and briefly rests it under her chin. He strokes her flesh almost absently, the gesture seeming tender were it not coming from the dark elf. "Will I turn like you do when angry? Or rather, will this face be the mask I wear to hide the monster I'll become?"


Tenebrae's split tongue flicked out to touch its bifurcated tip to Kuzial’s hand, briefly. "You know me, Stavret. I never know when enough is enough." Were she a feline, she might have purred, said the half-lidded look she gave the drow. "I told you," Tene said then, blinking herself to back to the matter at hand, "To be careful when choosing the body that will form the armour. I meant it - it will help to shape you, later. I chose the body of a woman, a beautiful one.. desire is a power, among our kind," and she'd leave that fact hanging there for a second, "As much as physical and magical might. Some choose beasts, for the bestial aspect and strength it offers them. Others choose worthy men. Warriors, or mages. But these are almost always enthralled as vampires - mortal flesh does not fare all that well under such rigors as to which we put ourselves. Occasionally, a troll or some similar creature is chosen - but again, caution is wise. If the armour has too strong a will, the war between it and the symbiote can be..." one shoulder lifted, and dropped. "Devastating, to the host." Perhaps the way she grasped his fingers, then, and pressed her lips to them, the limpid look she gave him, the subtle throb of adoration in her tone, would warn the drow that he might not like was coming next. "Are you curious, Kuzial, about the vats?"


Kuzial lets out a very rare laugh of genuine amusement at Tenebrae's first words. That was something he understood all too well. It was something he enjoyed about her, in truth. Restraint was for those too weak to control everything around them. "I will choose wisely, Tenebrae. Rest assured of that." He would not yet speak of who or what he was picking, though his mind is already made up. He nods along to the rest of her words, though as she presses her lips to his fingers and gives him that look... the all too sweet look... he cannot help but let out a small shudder. "Curious is not the right word." He shakes his head, before leaning forward and lifting the woman. He drops her on his knees so she's no longer sitting on the small stump by his chair, before speaking again. "Tell me, Tenebrae, the words I do not want to hear. Explain to me what these vats are."


Tenebrae made a business of settling herself cosily into that lap before speaking again, her fingers tangling into the silken whiteness of Kuzial's hair. "You asked whether you'd be a monster.. is that how you see me, now?" She did not give the drow time to reply, "Control over the symbiote is a matter not only of survival, but of pride. To lose one's desired image is a sign that all is not well.. " The slight grit of her pointed teeth might hint to how much chagrin she felt at this, and its admission both. "My .. arrival.. was stressful on the entirety of my system. That anybody saw.. my baser instincts on the surface.. well. That is a shame I must bear. In the fullness of my strength, only those slated for death or slavery at my hand would see such a thing." Her voice lowering, she nuzzled the smooth darkness of Kuzial's cheek, "The vats.. The why of it is a very long tale, known only in parts but long all the same, and perhaps best left for when you have patience for it. Suffice to say, the proto-flesh of which the symbiote is comprised must be controlled." He'd feel her shudder, ever so slightly, as she thought of this day's events. "The symbiote, as it is now, is .. wild. Given time and enough fuel, it would become a monster indeed, bereft of reason and driven only by the basest of material needs. When controlled, its instincts toward survival are a great gift. When they are not...that is what is truly monstrous. The vats are used to aid the process of symbiosis, to help ensure that it is your will which wins the battle. And to .. deal with.. the results, should the host fail anyway." There was more, this was plain in her eyes, but she'd pause there for Kuzial's response.


Kuzial doesn't respond to her first question, he simply listens to what she says. His face remains somewhat impassive, though he is listening with deep interest to the words. Some of them he doesn't understand, but in truth, he realizes he doesn't want to. So all he says as she pauses is, "Go on." Even though the tones of his voice show he doesn't really want her to. The fact she didn't answer his question about whether he'd be a monster isn't really a concern to him. He'd been called a monster enough times not to care... most of those who did are long dead and buried.


"You are a warrior, not a necromancer. This will serve you in some ways, not in others. Without knowledge, without skill in certain necromantic arts, you will never be able to make another Empusai. It is not a condition spread by blood but one created in the melding of proto-flesh and host. You could try.." Tene doubted he would, but it had to be said, "However, the host would soon become fodder for the symbiote, and you will have weakened yourself for nothing." Tene held up that bandaged hand, the dark one newly wounded. "There are only so many times even a necromancer can create one of our kind. Each symbiote requires ganglion, and these are most easily controlled when grown within an existing host. So.." she chose plainer language for what was a complex fact, "If I cut this hand off again, there's a chance it'd not come back.. as a hand. Or anything I could control easily. And that.. it's like a cancer, Kuzial. You don't want that to happen to you." Her wince was open, "Some time I will tell you of Golgran the Stump. An amusing tale.. but also a warning to be heeded. Anyway, this is yet another choice for you to ponder." And, as if filled with such kindness as to want to add some levity to a heavy topic of discussion, Tene started over in her quest to find the cosiest position possible on Kuzial's lap.


Kuzial snorts her words away with a dark look. "Have you ever known me to give anyone a hand?" He shakes his head. "I am less than certain I like what I will become. Rest assured I will never create another one. Two can sit side by side. Three... Three will lead to conflict and death." He doesn't say two could well lead to that, though with Tenebrae he doesn't need to. As she adjusts herself on his lap, her actions stark contrast to her words, he thinks over them very carefully. He is often lead by his emotions; led by instincts to desecrate and destroy anything near him. But contrary to popular belief, he is not entirely insane. At least, not how people think he is. His house isn't high in drow's hierarchy by accident, nor is he respected throughout Trist'Oth and the surface world by luck or chance. There is always method behind his madness... or at least, most the time. "I have much to think through, though my path is already laid. I will not walk it blind, nor will I walk it for the reasons you may suspect." He nods, then, before draping one of his arms around her, resting it on her leg. "I will think through this all, lady of darkness... how long do I have until you wish to.. finish this process you started?"


Tenebrae rolled her eyes a little at the pun. Lounging comfortably at last, she murmured, "Not too long." Clearly, she was no longer in the mood for explanations. "Perhaps later, Stavret, I will tell you of the glory, the beauty, we create in ourselves and in the world. You only know of the horrors, and it was best you knew them first. But there is so much more.." Languid now, the Necromancer summoned memories of monumental spires, of vast feasts and triumphs in battle, the excesses of lust and gluttony she knew were part and parcel of what she was.. and what Kuzial soon would be. She hoped.


Kuzial nods his head a final time to her words, before he lets out another sly grin. "Perhaps later, Thorne," He wasn't even sure if she still used that last name, "instead of sitting and talking, you can show me how you hunt... and I will teach you how a drow warrior hunts... We are not complete, I know. There is without a doubt much that needs doing. But even despite it all, the horrors you speak of, the pain and the struggles... we must take what pleasures we can from this.. unlife." And it's clear by his words and tones he means pleasures found in the pain and death of others. "But until then, I will think on what you say..." That said, he seems to relax upon the chair... though he is never truly relaxed around Tenebrae, he knows she will not kill him. There is too much darkness to come for them both...


Tenebrae seemed content with that offer, though pouted slightly at the slant of definition given some of Kuzial's phrases. But she was sure she could twist the meaning to suit her own wants, sooner or later. "I would rest a night. This," she indicated her weak limb, "Needs to heal. But then..." she grinned, her face - currently wearing that aspect of beauty he was more familiar with - turning toward him, "Do you remember your promise to me, Kuzial?'


Kuzial smirks at the pout before responding, "Rest here. You will be safe." Close to Kuzial.. surrounded by drow... not what most would call safe, even if the words are true. "And remind me, Tenebrae, before you allow me also to rest... unless it is not rest you truly want?" His last question is spoken somewhat lasciviously, though not with his usual passion. He did have a lot to think about; fate had a terrible, twisted sense of humour involving those unprepared for power.


Tenebrae herself smiled faintly at the strange turns Fate took, at times. "There is no rest for the wicked," she murmured, "But perhaps it's wise to reserve our strength.." though her tone was gravid with petulance at the thought. "Anything," was the abrupt follow-up to that. “You promised me, in return for my assistance.. anything in the Underdark I desired. And I don't believe you have fulfilled that promise. Not.." she smirked, ".. to my complete satisfaction, at least. So first we hunt your way, in your land. Then I'll show you mine."


Kuzial nods his head at those words, "Aye, I remember those words. Spoken quite literally a lifetime ago. I will not pretend to be a man of my word, but that is a promise I will keep. We will hunt first in the dangerous depths of the Underdark, then you can show me what kind of monster you have truly become." He snickers at his final words, a quiet final dig at the woman who causes him so much trouble, before he lets his ebon lid of his scarlet eye close. "Just be wary... because even beside a master such as myself, my homeland is more dangerous than most imagine..." He didn't need to tell her that, but he spoke the words anyway before falling into a silence he wouldn't break until the cursed sun once again brightens this light-blighted world...


Allowing the drow his rest and she her own, Tene refrained from waking him during the long hours his eye remained closed, and hers did not. Her peridot-hued gaze watched the slow meander of moon and stars through the bone-fingered canopy of dying and dead trees above, her mind ablaze with memories both desirable and unwanted. ~Perhaps then you can build a boat~ he’d said. And so, she came to rival Hygar Unsleep, that terrible old insomniac, in skill at staring at the sky for hours unblinking. When lack of consciousness finally took her, the Necromancer dreamed – of great feasts and warring spires. Of dark hands and light, and the two with fingers twining, and the two at war with knives grasped in each. Of a world dying of plague, a terrible disease spread from heart to heart. And Tene dreamed herself a shadow, a woman dark as sin, a spider with eyes like eight cold, black stones… A girl with white ribbons in hair, leaning over a man with pennies on his eyes. And a boat without oars or a wind for its black sails, drifting for all eternity on delinquent waves, its captain a monstrous shadow tossing candy valentines into the angry swell of a dark, dark sea.