RP:Blood on the Road

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis Daath and Krice find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time as they are caught in the crossfire of yet another conflict between the wood elves and the drow.Worse still, a goods caravan is also caught up in the violence. Daath dispatches both freely, caring little whether those in his path are drow or elven. On the otherhand, Krice seems loathe to interfere at all, only assisting where he views necessary. The battle reaches new heights when they are attacked by two high ranking members of the Fourth House, House Orbb Quar'Valsharess, the house mage, Frenzariin, and weapons master, Rekarr. Both are met with death, though Daath ensures their is no evidence of the murders...

Road to Milous

Daath wanders along the path leading from the south, as his trip into southern sage was completed and the rarer herbs, flora and even specialized components needed for working arcane spells were found. Usually the dark elf would have just used a spell of teleportation to return to one of the numerous sites he often haunts, but instead opted to walk and take in some fresh air. Even as war seems to be once more on the verge of breaking loose between the drow and wood elves, and even though he himself is often in the company of many vile undead creations, denziens of the lower planes and muderers of all kinds, Daath still finds beauty in the world. Looking up at the clear sky, taking in the fresh air once more and watching as people move about their daily lives all serve to remind the magus that he was rather happy where he was at. The muchs of the muddy road has stained his new shoes, pollen fills the air causing his nose to crinkle and the sensation of him having to sneeze being teased constantly. And these lowly commoners, all casting him disdainful looks as they pass. Yes, he much rather preferred the Undead City of Vailkrin. Where he could walk freely, and often among those of a like mind. Even the underdark itself has become a borish place, locked in an endless game of lies and murder, it was all boring. The longing to return to his chamber, and summon forth a creature from another plane, who can beguile him with tales worthy of any bard. Wars of endless slaughter in the lower planes, kingdoms beyond imagination in the chaotic realms, and crystalline towers and roads of pure energy in the higher realms! Bah! These poor fools can hardly imagine the wonders he has seen, the true power he has felt why in the presence of creatures most can only dream of! Yes, walking among the common folk reminded Daath of many a thing, but most of all it reminded him of his true purpose, and his goals. Let wood elves and drow fight over a forest. He had plans to reach further, and do greater things than allow himself to be trapped in a blood war started so long ago its nearly faded from history! So, he stands, watching as people come and go as he ponders upon how he will take his next step t getting closer to his ultimate goal.

Krice walked among folk who were also common to him, though for a different reason, and from a different perspective. He was a man not of arrogance or reared status, but rather a man who could immerse himself in the passing crowds or completely dislodge himself from them, visible or invisible depending on his mood. He walked down from Kelay, a naturally silent gait lending to him the aspect of stealth without the intention for it. As he neared Daath, the long-haired man lifted his chin, redirected gilded red eyes, and glanced across the unfamiliar face of the drow. A katana was sheathed and strapped to the warrior's back, though he did not reach for it; Daath's behaviour was benevolent, and so would Krice's continue to be as he turned southward.

Daath continues to take in the world around him, scrutinizing every detail of his surroundings as he nearly loses himself in his inner thoughts. But he attention is gripped by the sudden burst of commotion that erupts from the forest surrounding them, as drow and wood elves come forth from underneath the canopy of Sage as the blood war spills over into the streets. Arrows fly, blades collide as two small groups of elven kind collide in the beginning of what most likely turn into a full on war. Chaos is the end result of this conflict, as in the middle of it all is a small caravan of people moving goods from Kelay to Cenril, the people caught in the crossfire scream and shout as quarrels from crossbows bury themselves into the carts, spells sets fire, freeze and erode the landscape. Yes, the chaos of war was an ugly thing, lacking in any true meaning more times than not. And standing in the middle of it all is the magus, whose robe covered form seems frozen in time as the madness that goes on around him carries on. If one was watching, they would see a deep sigh, almost as if he regretted something, before Daath outstretches his right hand. With all the commotion going on around, it would seem as if a staff just appeared in his hands, as one moment its not there, the next its in his hands as it its always been within his grasp. Pushing his hood back, the necromancer looks about the fray, just as both a drow and a wood elf near his position. The drow stops, and eyes what he believes to be an ally in the cause, while the wood elf pauses due to this sudden shift of power in the fight. This moment of hesitation was more than one of his degree needs. Words of occult magic pour forth from his lips, as his bursts into motion with startling speed for one so slender and weak looking. The xalious staff is twisted about in a flurry of motion, and as his spell reaches its climax, the crown of the weapon is slammed into the nearby drow's chest, causing the startled creature's eyes to go wide. A wicked smile forms upon Daath's thin lips now, as he watches the necrotic power of his spell take effect. From the epicenter of the bow, the dark elf's leather armor bursts open, revealing beneath a large rotting and festering wound that continues to grow and grow until the drow's life fades into oblivion, and his body slumps over onto the road. The on going battle still wages, and seeing that his action was otherwise unseen by other drow, Daath turns his attention to the wood elf, who seems dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events. But that drow was of another house, and the death of another house's soldiers was a good thing to the Eldest Son of House D'Jiv'Undus. But wood elves were not a race the magus was overly fond of, and this idiotic blood war had interrupted his thoughts and peaceful moment, so with the same startling speed as before, Daath unleashes another spell. The crystalline stone atop his staff swirls and shifts color, until it assume a blood red color. The wood elf's eyes turn an eerie milky white, before his mind becomes victim to the powerful fear curse that the magus has cast. Images of the most horrendous manner play over and over in the woodland defender's mind, causing him to run about screaming of the unseen horrors that now plague him. His madness causes him to crumble upon the road, to which he falls victim to drow blades within a matter of moments. Daath hates this war. He hates both sides of it. He hates his own people for never evolving past their own murderous chaotic ways, enslaving themselves to this longing for power in the service to a bitch spider goddess who gives nothing in return but death, and he hates the wood elves for their lack of ability to stop his people, yet continuing to stir the beehive that is drow culture and cause yet another senseless war. But, then again, as Headmaster of the Necromancer's Guild, perhaps he should be thanking them! Corpses were hard to come by these days.

Krice tilted his head, drifting his attention from Daath to the shadows in the southwest - over his left shoulder, past the hilt of his sword. He slowed not enough to stop but enough to better discern the identity of that which had caught his focus. Blood. Nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the metallic scent through his acute olfactory, and then he blinked a little further south, through a copse of trees at the battling opponents that rushed forth.The warrior stopped just shy of Kelay Way and turned to watch the events unfold. Without interfering, the silver-haired man observed Daath ruthlessly dispatch both a supposed friend -and- foe, though the wood elf's terrified screams did not escape him; he watched the soldier flail in fright, before the Headmaster's ruthlessness came full circle and ended the elf's suffering. Krice lifted his chin to once again regard Daath, though sounds behind him caught his attention and he whirled around, flicking his head left to avoid a poison-tipped dagger thrust toward him. Arms bending at the elbows, the warrior retaliated swiftly and without warning; he gripped the drow's wrist, snapped the elbow with his right fist, and twisted the poison dagger back onto the drow with enough force to pierce his protective leathers, the dark skin beneath, and the heart beyond that. Krice's assailant sputtered against him and he tossed him carelessly to the earth, hastily readying himself for the next. A wood elf moved swiftly past his left, pursued by another drow whose strength was equal to his lighter-skinned victim, which allowed Krice to engage a pair of soldiers in a series of succinct, damaging blows with bones fracturing beneath his knuckles and shoulders dislocating in the unforgiving torque of his strength; disarming, disabling, and ultimately dispatching the duo. Krice's speed was uncanny, hardly human, and the ferocity of his grace spoke to elven training with drow-like flare. Only once did he intervene, assisting a wood elf who had fallen by the blade of one assailant and subsequently found himself the target of two at once; Krice made even the odds, driving the dagger previously procured into the base of one soldier's skull and twisting upward, past the brain stem to cease all function, whilst the wood elf himself managed to resist the death call of the remaining drow's blades. The silver-haired man spun on one foot and halted on both, crimson eyes directed upon the magic-wielder who seemed without specific interest in either side.

Daath's features were one of absolute calm, even as the chaos caused by the battle rages on. Women with their children try to find cover as the blood lusted drow move about to try to regain the dominate posture they were so used to after years patrolling the surface realm. Watching as a trio of warriors fan out around him, the magus raises his left hand, exposing his arm for a moment to reveal a tattoo resembling a horrendous monster of the abyss. Words of command are spoken of the abyssal text, and the tattoo writhes and slithers before the creature bound within oozes into existence to do it's master bidding. The creature is a blood fiend, a towering brute that stands eight feet tall, with red hide that is covered in scale, four arms that end with razor sharp claws and a lupine muzzle that drips constantly with a seemingly acidic drool. The creature moves without warning one it is fully materialized into this real, two of its hands going out to grab the closest dark elf, while the other two dig into its body and tear chunks of flesh and vital organs with such ferocity that it seems more a wild animal than an actual thinking creature. Within moments the drow in its grasp is dead, its body tossed aside like a used rag to paint the road with the remnants of its body before the blood fiend turns its attention to the two remaining prey left. Meanwhile, Daath's attention shifts, as he is fully confident his servant is more than capable of dispatching whoever it wishes, the necromancer finds himself a new target. A simple spell is set forth, but before it makes contact it is blocked by an intercepting spell. The would be target is non the wiser, for he stalks about an injured wood elf and aims to go in for a kill of his own, but the one who blocked his spell becomes the focus of Daath's attention. Emerging from the forest comes yet another small band of drow, though this time they are not simple warriors left upon the surface to act as guardians to Tiphareth's interest. This time, it is an elite band of the fourth house of Trist'Oth, led by the sons of Matron Obelven. It seems the weapons master and the house mage have decided to try and earn some credibility by leading a surface raid, most likely due to the current events. A scoff escapes Daath at the thought that Frenzariin, a rival mage of the underdark, would be so bold as to stand against him. But, once the two mages lock gazes, the rest of the new arrivals span out. Drow assassins, and battle mages stalk through the battle, slaying wood elf and innocent traveler alike, making the number of enemy drow now fourteen to five, in favor of the dark elves. Leading the warriors, is house weapon master Rekarr, whose blades cut a bloody path through anyone he finds, be it friend or foe. Cold and calculating, the seasoned drow warrior is a terrible threat to anyone who finds themselves unable to escape his advance. Empowered by his brother, he is stronger, faster and more resilient than the others here. But, such a threat will be dealt with later, for Daath now faces off against a rival spellcaster he has long wanted to dispatch. It seems this battle may become beneficial after all...

Krice's attention on Daath was diverted by the materialization of the strange, blood-demon summoned from who-knows-what-Hell, and then furthermore by the swift approach of a drow's deathblow to the fallen wood elf nearby. The warrior dismissed all thought of Daath, of his beast, and spun into place behind the nearest assailant to encase his dark-skinned neck within both arms for a tight squeeze and a swift death; vertebrae popped, spinal cord severed. Krice dropped the dark elf aside and reached out to offer the lighter-skinned victim a hand. Said victim reached up, found his feet, and responded with a nod and hasty movements to the warrior's direction: " Tend to the innocents. Lead them away from here." As the wood elf departed and Krice turned, he found himself the witness of a new force, violent and better skilled upon their arrival. He could not save the first pair of civilians who fell to the viciousness of Rekarr, but he -would- save the rest. One step forward and the air took him, moving hastily across the distance between the warriors in nary the time it took to blink an eye. As Rekarr drew his sword upon a wood elf, Krice emerged from the space to his right, katana drawn, held in both hands, and swept upward to stay the progress of the other warrior's attack. Magic crackled around the battlefield but Krice paid it no mind. As he swept his blade down the length of Rekarr's, he provided distance between them and allowed the wood elf to escape, to battle with other drow, whilst the silver-haired warrior himself remained attuned to the skilled foe before him.

Daath watches as the newfound defender of the innocent and wood elf alike moves to intervene with Rekaar and his prey. Such noble acts are unknown to drow kind, himself included, but if the warrior wishes to test himself against a capable foe, it seems he has found what he is looking for. Fezariin's pause gives the master necromancer enough time to perhaps even the battlefield. Corpses litter the ground, and with a few words of occult power, Daath unleashes a black cloud that seems forth from the earth. This darkness moves towards each corpse about the area, and invades its host by entering through the mouth, eyes and pores if the fresh cadavers. The moans of the dead echo, as the new soldiers rise to answer their master's call. Grabbing, clawing and hacking with weapons they used in life, the undead even out the odds and allow Daath and Krice to focus upon their intended targets, while the remaining living wood elves evacuate the innocent people caught in the crossfire. Xzar, the blood fiend the magus' has enthralled turns to lead the undead Daath has at his command, and by the magister's will alone do they listen to his chosen general. The battle wages on, as drow blades dig into undead flesh, most having little effect as the newly risen dead feel no pain, and continue the assault upon the dark elves with little care for a loss of limb or impalement by blades. The battlemage's of the drow fair a little better in that regard, but the blood fiend focuses upon them enough to negate their effect to minimize the damage. It seems Daath is a calculating foe indeed. But now Fezariin focuses upon him, and sends a flaming bolt of flame towards the necromancer, which collides with the major enchantment of shielding that is always in place around him. Flames fan our and litter the bloodstained ground, searing some undead and dark elves who were caught in the crossfire. In retaliation, Daath sends forth his own blast of darkfire, a necromantic version of the elements, these pale green flames rush forth to devour the opposing spellcaster and consume his essence utterly. The battle wages on as these two casters continue this back and forth, sending magical flames all throughout the battle without a care as to who gets caught within the fiery hell of an inferno. Xzar continues to lead the assault against the drow forces, grabbing one battlemage in his overly large claw and crushing his skull while he plunges another into a nearby drow warrior, all the while the ever growing undead continue to rise, as with each death the black cloud that lingers over the area continues to raise another servant of the Headmaster of the Necromancer's Guild.

Krice had no time to spare toward Daath and his magical opponent, for he was focused on Rekaar, the seasoned weapon master of his House, who stood before him with malevolence in his eyes. However, as the dead became the undead, and rose from the ground by the manipulative powers of a sinister black cloud, Krice managed to take in the situation in his peripheral vision. This was enough of a signal to Rekaar to attack, which instantly drew the human warrior's attention once more. Blades clashed, swiped for dark skin, swiped for light, and hit nothing but air or each other, the warriors evenly matched as they each defended and offensively attacked in ways that allowed them to gauge each other's style and prowess. The silver-haired male was efficient, more than human, and comfortably maintained a speed of movement that kept him most times at least level with Rekaar, and sometimes above. As Daath waged his magical battle with Fezariin, Krice exchanged blows of metal with Rekaar, intermittently disturbing the flow of attacks with a punch thrown at the drow's jaw, or a kick aimed for his knee. Briefly, and only once, Rekaar managed to get his free hand around Krice's nape and gripped him firmly as his other hand drove his poison-soaked blade toward the warrior's chest. A lesser man would have been doomed to suffer a painful death marked by hallucinations and fear, but the crimson-eyed enigma prevailed, deflecting Rekaar's blade into wayward silver strands instead by punching a fist upward into the underside of the drow's wrist. Immediately followed was the swipe of his own dagger, procured from a scabbard secured to the small of his back beneath his shirt. Rekaar withdrew, but only long enough to avoid the coming swing of Krice's katana. The warriors were once more engaged within seconds, locked in a swift and seemingly unending dance of efficient violence. Intermittently they broke away from one another, but only to avoid tendrils of magic and flame that drifted their way, remnants of attacks passed between the two nearby mages. Dagger sheathed and katana once more the focal-weapon, Krice thrust and swiped at Rekaar, the efficacy of his body lending itself to speed and agility without sacrificing energy or stamina. Ultimately he was the prevailing warrior. Rekaar lay at his feet in a crumpled heap of dark flesh and blood, mouth full of it, his own dagger submerged to the hilt from chin, through palette, and up into his skull. Yet Krice himself was not unscathed; a thin sliver of blood dribbled down over his left hip, escaping the sliced skin just below his last floating rib. Undoubtedly this was the result of a blow he had not evaded, likely from the poisoned blade now embedded in Rekaar's ugly head. Krice gazed down at the injury, only briefly, through the tear in his shirt, but shortly afterward brandished his weapon in preparation to attack other foes who neared him. The innocents who survived had managed to flee, so there was no reason for him to linger here other than to dispatch those who posed an immediate threat to his person; the drow had started this, exacerbated by Daath - who could no doubt finish it on his own.

Daath continues to press his assault against the rival house mage, even as the battle around them both seem to be coming to an end. With every fall on either side, the bodies rise again as servants to the D'Jiv'Undus heir. Xzar, the blood fiend, carries the host of undead onward, closing in on Felzariin's position as the two mages continue their back and forth. But it is perhaps the sight of his fallen brother, Rekaar, the unsettles Felzariin the most. The lifeless eyes of the former weapons master are held open forever for in a false representation of life, yet he still moves with the deadly grace that carried him to be one of the deadliest warriors in the underdark. Felzariin's anger rises, threatening him to unleash his fury in a wild siplay of raw power, but he made a critical error by taking his eyes off of Daath. His hands making the articulate gestures needed, the words of occult magic pouring forth as he reaches into his robes to bring forth a small vile of what seems to be dirt, the master necromancer tosses the vile out, where it lands and shatters before the opposite mage sending the contents mixing in with the ground below him. The pale green flames continue to come in, as Daath uses his Xalious staff with his free hand to finish his newest spell. Having to defend against the dark flames, Felzariin tries his best to prepare for whatever spell is coming next, while still trying to fend off the undead horde that is closing in on him second by second. But as Daath finishes the proper incantation, it seems for the time being nothing has happened. Maybe the spell failed? Thinks the fourth house's mage, as his starts to regain hope that all is not lost this day. But that was the point. Daath wants him to hope beyond hope, even as everything around him falls, he wants his rival to still believe they were equals in power, that Daath has stumbled and he has a chance to win. But the truth of the matter was, Daath and Felzariin were no longer in the same class as far as abilities. Where a drow has years of training in magic, it is mostly limited due to what life is down in the underdark. Where Daath has traveled above the fallen kingdom of his people, and trained with masters of the arcane arts, seem and done things far beyond what a simple house mage could dream of. And so, it is now, that hope has returned to his foe, Daath shows his enemy just how different their skills are. He hits the butt end of his Xalious staff upon the ground, causing the earth to moan and twist beneath Felzariin's feet. The sands twist and move about like a snake, the earth darkens and seems to wither and die, become a twisted shell of what it once was, before two hands made of stone and earth reach out to grab hold of Felzariin's legs with incredible raw strength. The earth necromental's appearance serves as one example of Daath's talent for the darker arts, but just a glimpse of what is to come. The assault of dark flames, the shadow form of elemental magic that is taught in the guild, twists and grows darker before it twists about and takes the shape of a giant basilisk snake, which roars before it strikes down with incredible force, pushing through the wall of elemental flame that Fezariin uses to protect himself. The dark flame serpent plunges its fangs into the dark elf, who is an easy target due to being trapped in place by the necromental that slowly drags him down into the defiled earth below. The shadow-fire that now courses through Fezariin's body acts like a vile venom. Black veins course across his body, as a terrible scream of agony escapes him. The shadow fire begins to consume his very life essence, burning out his very soul to leave behind an empty shell and nothing more. Heaven nor Hell await Fezariin this day, for his essence is utterly destroyed is a slow and agonizing manner by the Headmaster of the Necromancer's Guild. As life fades away from his body, the black mist that still lingers approaches, ready to possess yet another body. As his foe's life is extinguished, and he rises an undead in his service, Daath turns to Xzar and says. " Move them to Vailkrin, you know where, but take care to keep them out of site." The Blood Fiend nods, and due to it being bound to Daath's service, it listens. But, before they leave, all members of the fourth house are stripped of any insignia they have, making them seem as nothing more than regular slaves of the drow war machine. Daath sits back, having spent a good deal of energy in the proccess, the master necromancer looks about at the carnage left behind. One or two corpses are left, of both drow and wood elf, to play part in the tale he will have to spin. Killing nobles of another house is a sensative matter in the underdark, but if no trace of the murder can be connected to him, then he will recieve a silent applause from the other noble houses. Such is the drow way of life. Leave no trace of it, and it never happened. The fourth house's mage and weapons master were never here. In fact... Daath's never even heard of a Fezariin and Rekaar before.. Such is the way of the dark elve sof Trist'Oth. Such is the way of the Underdark.

Krice was at the ready, poised to defend himself and slow any attackers who outnumbered defenders, when it became clear to him that the battle was dwindling, and the new undead were falling under Xzar's leadership; even those the warrior personally had dispatched were animated once more. He watched from his place by the western copse of trees from whence the battle erupted, his role in the ensuing calamity to be onlooker, nothing more. A prudent warrior always kept himself aware that an attack could come at him even in the quieter times of battle, so his guard was never lowered; even less so as the magic between Daath and Felzariin erupted through the earth and culminated in another wave of flame, and a second summoning of some kind. Krice was no expert on the ways of -this- kind of magic, but he knew to keep his distance, especially if the poison injected into him by Rekaar's blade was to take effect soon. He was by no means a coward, but certainly not an idiot; he would be of no use to anyone if his senses were compromised in the middle of battle. The warrior remained as long as he could, fingers flexing around the hilt of his katana, which he kept low at his side, and gilded eyes scanning the scene from Daath, to Felzariin, to Xzar and its fresh horde. As the battle unwound from intense and hot to calm and sinister, per the necromancer's overheard directives. This was a war between wood elf and drow, and -drow- and drow, it seemed, and the warrior had no place in it apart from being in the right place, at the right time, to assist outnumbered surface-walkers. Soaked in the blood of the assailants felled by his blade, Krice awaited Daath's next move, watching perhaps until the darker male was gone from sight.

Daath's eyes flow over the scene before him as he ponders upon his next move. The feud between wood elf and the drow was close to tipping into full fledged war, something that held many opportunities for him, in both his chosen field of study, and within the more dangerous battlefields of politics. Under Xzar's command, the undead are gone from the site within moments, leaving the magus there with the lone champion that aided the innocents in the battle. Guessing this looks like nothing more than drow on drow on wood elf hate, Daath is confident that since no apparent house insignia is present, nor any damning evidence of anything truly revealing to who he is, that if asked this wanderer wouldn't be able to pin point him if asked. But seeing the effects of what he knows to be the drow poison his people use all too regularly, the magus reaches into his robes, and procures a vial. Tossing it at the swordsman, the dark elf says. " It will counter-act the poison's effects, though you'll still be a tad bit groggy come the next day." Without waiting to hear a responce, Daath activates the spell stored within a ring he wears upon his right hand, and vanishes in the blink of an eye. With the fall of two rival house powers, a new stock of useful undead to command and a more recent battle to stir the beehive that is the underlining tides of war that have been stirring, it seems that today may have been a very good day, after all.

Krice stared intently at Daath, only moving when the vial was tossed in his direction. He lifted his free hand - the right one - and snatched the vial from the air, glancing down at the liquid there-in. An antidote for poison - gifted by a drow? That was a story no war-weary surface-dweller would believe. Once the magus had disappeared in a swirl of ring-activated magic, the silver-haired warrior twitched his wrist to flick off excess blood from the blade of his weapon before sheathing it. Thereafter, he turned, departing southward at a slow, unsteady gait, with the vial of anti-poison tossed over a shoulder and left on the battlefield.