RP:Demonic Darkness and Deadly Drow
Entry to the Underdark
Kuzial stands in the tunnel's perpetual darkness, alone it seems, though in Trist'Oth dark elves are rarely alone. Without a doubt there will be sentries around, warriors watching those who seek to enter the drow city as keenly as they watch the psychotic patron of House Stavret. But Kuzial simply doesn't care. He has little to fear from drow warriors any more, not since he was given the gift, or the curse, of Empusai undeath from Tenebrae. So he stands here in the midnight tunnel, one hand easily resting at his side while the other absently strokes the hilt of the E' et-Nilah blade... it was hungry of late. Kuzial can feel its insidious touch on his mind, seeking death and destruction, hatred and fear; anything to feed its insatiable desire for suffering. But the drow lord is beyond falling into its traps now. He will feed it when he is ready. He assures himself his standing here has little to do with the weapon, but as always he doubts; sword or swordsman, in his heart of hearts Kuzial has never been sure which is truly master.
Xersom had made a deal with the Duerger Dergious for the location of his lair coupled with the protection the short-statured but devious race would offer its location. It was where he was headed before he'd venture into the Underdark, but surprise waited for him; the accursed drow were beyond the borders of his lair. Clad in the worn and thick robes of a hermit or traveler and bearing an old and gnarled walking stick that methodically 'tapped' in cadence to his gait. But there were a few peculiarities that contrasted the appearance of a wandering madman, and one of those was his face. It was flawless without blemish or scar, with intense green eyes that were almost luminous; it was as if it were fake, created, or simply not real. What other exposed parts of his skin were covered with scars of carvings that depicted a forsaken and forgotten language that gave the clear impression of evil. Lastly, half-veiled in the folds of that fading robe, was a blade that hung at his hip. It bore a demon's mouth in design that met hilt to blade, but that very blade was of the deepest darkness in color. It was so impenetrable that it even seemed to suck in the light around it. Those green eyes lifted at the sentries and Kuzial in the midst of them. "Well now, it seems it was less of a walk than I anticipated."
Kuzial hears the muffled footsteps of the sentries around him as the undoubtedly strange stranger makes his presence known in the tunnel. He can almost taste the fear of the dark elves around him; like the patron they are sensitive to the comings and goings of those who seem to emit power beyond the mundane. Perhaps it is the strange resonance in the stones which make up the Underdark, perhaps it is nothing more than the race's unquestionably evil origins having given birth to extreme paranoia. Regardless, they seem to know and fear this hermit. Kuzial suffers no such malady. There is nothing on this world which walks, crawls or flies which the patron fears. But that isn't to say he's not wary; he is. He always is. Those who are not wary do not survive long down here. The hand which stroked the hilt of his sword stops, and instead grasps it in a grip so tight it seems the white knuckles beneath his ebon skin seem like they will tear free of their incarceration, before in a voice which is paradoxically euphonious he speaks. “A short walk when the destination is nothing but death. Who are you and what is it you want in my city?”
Xersom's own voice was naturally dark instead of euphonious; a sinister and soothing sound, like a madman's lullaby. "Death cannot grasp me; it has tried before." He remarked off-handedly, before he began to move toward Kuzial's hilt-gripping form in that arrogant nonchalance that suggested that he cared little for either sentry or the demand of the psychotic patron. "To answer your questions, drow," the name of the race rolled from his tongue with a venomous taint, "I am called 'X' in this era, and your city lies further into the dark. As it is, you stand in -my- home. But you do not seem afraid-" Abruptly those sentries were lifted into the air to hang suspended there as their hands dropped their weapons in order to clutch and grasp at their throats, as if to fight against some unseen hand strangling them. "Unlike them. Now, who are -you- and what is it you want in -my- passage?"
Kuzial allows the smallest of smiles to form on his ebon lips, before he explodes into action. He moves more like a dancer than anything else; his feet barely seem to touch the earth as he twists and spins, somehow having drawn both his odious sword and one of his pernicious daggers within the first turn he made. It takes but a moment, before every drow that Xersom lifted in his grip has been killed before the lack of oxygen could take their lives. Some were stabbed, some had their heads removed, one Kuzial cut just below the stomach so his innards splattered on the rock beneath his floating body like a grotesque waterfall. When done, Kuzial returns his weapons to their sheathes, before facing Xersom again. “There is a reason I am not afraid, X.” The words are spoken with open contempt laced easily into their tones. “I am Kuzial Stavret, Lord of House Stavret, and any passages in this place belong to me.” He smiles again, the look mocking the normal joy which gives birth to such expressions. “What I do in -my- passages is my own business. So I ask again, for the last time... what is it you want here?”
Xersom watched with those intense, realistic but faux green eyes as Kuzial enacted a deathly dance of dangerous blades against the drow that were suspended in the air; their bodies, decapitated, stabbed, or sliced, remained in the air by some unseen power after even the turn and sheathing of those swords. "You, as it were. But I'm afraid I must contest your claim." That power abruptly burst forth explosively from Xersom form in attempt to knock the drow back and literally pin him against the wall; it was like an unrelenting hose of sheer force, or a train that was ceaseless, even as the ancient being stood there. "Kuzial Stavret, Lord of House Stavret," His hand, absent the walking stick that its brother held gently, lifted in order to peel from his features the flawless mask of a darkly charming visage. It literally was peeled from its place with the immensely powerful creature with the expectation that Kuzial was of the power to resist his mind being shattered by looking upon what was revealed. Instead of eyes there were two black holes of impenetrable darkness that, like his blade, sucked in the very light around them; his face was carved in that language of the Dark Immortals like his body, but every cut was constantly bleeding equally tainted blood in perpetual rivulets, as if each wound was fresh. His voice was shrieking; an offense against everything natural born by the knowledge of the very soul, "I am X, I am Sacrilus; I am the Face of the Damned and the Shadow over the World. I led the armies of Arrecation, I killed hundreds of thousands alone, and millions more were dealt death at my command, all in the glory of the Nameless King! Your House, your impudent little world, fails at the extent of my power, and where I go, what I do, is as I please." The force would relent then as did his walking stick seem to simply be gone from his presence as he strode slowly toward the drow, "But you, Kuzial, you have something I do not have, that you could use to benefit me -and yourself, greatly."
Kuzial fights the unrelenting force for just a moment, a feat rather impressive; stubborn dark will added to the power of his undead body enough to resist... but not for long. Soon he is slammed back against the wall, the force enough to kill someone who hasn't already forsaken mortality for undeath. He snarls, an ocean of anger drowning out his reason, but soon the tide once again recedes when Xersom tears off the mask which allows lesser mortals to see him without having their minds consumed by the unfathomable evil which lives in his corrupted visage. The drow has seen sights which would drive others mad before; he watched as Tenebrae cast powerful necromantic magic to incarcerate his fathers soul in the Soul Stone Kuzial wears around his neck, one of the few remaining in the world. He laughed as his father screamed, found joy in the suffering. But even still the strains of his questionable sanity are shown as hints of madness contort his features, before again that stubborn will enacts itself, forcing him to focus on the words spoken. Sacrilus, leader of the armies of Arrecation. This was not a man to antagonize lightly, even for Kuzial who mocked Vuryal more than once after he ascended. When the force finally fades, Kuzial falls forward. His legs shake and every instinct in his well trained body screams at him to kneel, but he will not. Instead he stands there, his one scarlet eye locked onto the pools of endless darkness which makes up Xersom's own eyes. “What..” He shakes his head, trying to clear the remnants of madness from his mind. “What could I have that you seek..?” His voice, perhaps for the first time in his life, is not rich with hatred, anger or arrogance. His words are spoken plainly, it is the best he can do against this man's strength.
Xersom 's mouth, with lips that were cut to the point that the pale red of them were like dotted lines instead of actual lips, twisted at the corners to smile; he was both impressed and pleased with Kuzial's resistance to the insanity that oft came with those that witnessed his true face. He had no doubt of the drow's power, both bargained for and annexed, even as he demured just enough to hold conversation with the damned being without an attempt to slay the ancient. Sacrilus was certain the psychotic patron would eventually attempt to claim his head; he could not fault him for that. He almost looked forward to an extra look over his shoulder during his travels. But it was for the other man's sake of his last few shreds of sanity that the hand that held his faux face lifted the mask upward to lay and press it over the evil that his true appearance offered. As he did so, those eyes blinked and roamed, before they settled on the extremely deadly drow in signal that the mask was once again safely a veil. "Political power. I've done my researched since my return to civilization; House Stavret is a worthy House. Far more worthy than its current place. Far more worthy to rule than the other Houses. I think it's time that it's proven. And using this 'Burrower' against your foes might be the advantage that would seal it." He turned from Kuzial then as stick appeared in his hand, "What I gain from is based on other things to go they way they intend, but rest assured that I do not intend to rule the Underdark. I'm quite content with my single passage and home here." The death toll would rise very high among the drow with a civil war among them. "Do you not think you bear enough strength?"
Kuzial listens to the demonic man's words as he continues to regain control over himself; shaken he was by the sight of Xersom's face, the sound of his horrendously wicked voice, the blasphemous words etched onto his flesh, and those eyes... but as the mask is returned, so too does Kuzial's anger, giving strength to both mind and body. But he is not foolish enough to attempt anything rash. Instead he listens in silence, before nodding. “You are right about one thng, Sacrilus.” Just speaking the man's true name leaves a taste of ash and death upon his tongue. “House Stavret is both mighty and worthy... but do you not think if I sought a higher place on the Council I would have taken it?” He laughs then, the sound ringing hollow in the passages which are now, at least to Kuzial, owned by Xersom. He would not again be foolish enough to contest them, not until he was sure he could slay this man... if he can even be slain. “The one who rules Trist'Oth,” Tiphareth, of course, though Kuzial isn't foolish enough to say the archmage's name aloud. Powerful mages have a habit of hearing such words. “Is much like you. His life, or lack thereof, is now beyond my power to take.” Kuzial almost spits those words. “Are you telling me you will aid me in destroying him? Even with this... Burrower?” Kuzial knows a lot about that creature, but he sees no gain in sharing that with Xersom. “I have the strength to rule, X.” That name is far easier to say, even for one as evil as the patron. “But I have no desire to rule nothing but rubble.”
Xersom used that walking stick to assume the disguise of that wandering hermit by leaning slightly upon it as he turned in order to put those intense green eyes upon the drow. He had the strength to rule, but there was this 'Tiphareth' that stood in his way. House D'artes; Sacrilus researched it at glance but much was hidden about the ruling drow. The ancient being much rather preferred the drow decimated, but he was restricted; he had to move subtly. What might be the better alternative? A ruler that heeded the serpentine words of the forsaken male. "Aid you? Not in battle; Syven's son and the order that is devoted to keeping the Nameless King would surely find me then, and that is a force that makes your Vakmathras look like a scared child." Arrecation himself likely would make that appearance, but Sven had since ascended above perhaps even the Immortals, though the eternal grudge between the Nameless King and the hero of the Light Immortals paled even Syven's offspring's power. Despite X's lack of desire to free Arrecation or the other. "But certainly I can lend what aid I can offer." He briefly looked around, "The ironic thing about turning something into rubble, Kuzial Stavret, is that under a strong rule the rubble turns into a city greater than it was previously. Killing your drow brethren is a small price for cementing your House in legend and power." Walking stick was slowly transferred by gentle movement toward the other hand, "But strength is not in military might alone. All warfare is deception. The one that rules now, he needs not his life taken. He merely needs the desire for something other than the reign of the drow. Perhaps I can aid you in that regard, perhaps not, but I will do as I can. For now, all you must do is bide your time, gather your strength while everyone is distracted by this creature, the 'Burrower', and sow the seeds of turning the populace to recognizing your strength."
Kuzial remains silent for a long time as Xersom finishes speaking. Though his reputation is one of rashness, his psychotic desire to death and destruction well documented throughout Trist'Oth, and indeed the surface, the Patron of House Stavret is a creature steeped in subtlety. He wears a mask just as Xersom does, though instead of using it to keep mortals sane, he uses it to turn their bowels into water with fear. He thinks through the various implications, before at last nodding. “I accept the premise of this plan. I care nothing if other drow die,” He waves his hand at the lifeless bodies around them. “As long as it's understood I will not rule a kingdom of stone and ghosts, whether or not I could rebuild greater. I much prefer to destroy, especially if I can indulge in the sounds of my enemies lamenting their losses.. ghosts do not do that. Call me petty, I care not; even you must fine simple pleasures somewhere. Consider this my own vice in such regards.” He nods again at that. “In turn, I will aid you. In truth, I care nothing of your motives. You could turn the sun-cursed surface into a wasteland and I would still sleep soundly at night.” As if he's ever slept soundly in his life... soundly sleeping drow soon turn into dead drow in Trist'Oth. “I will gather my strength for what is to come... but know this.” The drow takes half a step forward, locking his single scarlet eye on the man, demanding his attention. “If you betray me, I will dedicate my entire existence to wiping you and your memory from the face of Hollow. You are powerful, Sacrilus. Those who you once served even more so. But I will not rest, will not sleep, will not waste a single moment until the ends of eternity until you are destroyed. This is the promise I make.” He nods for a final time at that.
Xersom listened to the words offered in the acceptance of the Patron of House Stavret's will to the mechanism that would propel X's plan forward. He would not rule a kingdom of stone and ghosts, that would be arranged. He cared nothing for the former wraithen demon's agenda beneath the plan that was developing. He would gather his strength. Then the drow stepped slightly forward to lock his eye on the two faux ones of the ancient dragon in order to make clear his determination and words. "A promise that I shall take to heart. Now, I must continue my journey. Remember my words even if it takes years for my plan to unfold; patience will put House Stavret to its rightful place." It was with those words that the man in the disguise of some roaming madman began to move on his way.
Kuzial nods once to the ancient and powerful creature, before turning on his heel and stalking, a little too quickly, back towards Trist'Oth. There was much he had to consider, whether or not this plan of Xersom's was truly worth listening to, who he would choose to betray in the coming storm. A lot needed to be decided, and with such high ramifications for all those involved, it would not be something the decides quickly. Though, he realizes he needs to speak to Tenebrae once more. She would know more of these creatures than he did... it was time he sought her wisdom... but even still, he cannot stop a small smile forming on his lips. Power to rule over the drow. It was something he deserved far more than Tiphareth does. He would end all alliances with the surface and bring forth the true reign of drow over all who are not dark elves. Something which sounds more and more enjoyable with each step he takes.