RP:Drow Patrol

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: After being taken from D'Artes Dungeons to the custody of House D'l'Sel D'issan, via barely civil agreement between house matrons Gevurah and Laezila, respectively, Krice is once again released from D'issan. Though he is not yet completely healed, he bravely makes his way through Trist'Oth and the Underdark to escape, encountering drow patrols and liberating surface slaves. (NPCing by Eyris)

Andon D'Chath

Krice walked through the Underdark without hurry, dressed in fresh black clothing and smelling of his pure blood, along with the distant trace of House-grade bath salts. Etched into the left side of his face was something new; the four scratches of a lycan's claws, deep enough that blood had once flown freely. The wound was dry now, however, blood caked in between the fleshy edges of each gash. From eyebrow to jaw, one might have thought the injury to bother the warrior's vision, but that eye seemed to operate just as well as its counterpart, albeit a fraction narrowed. With his unsheathed sword held down at his side, the blade saturated in red liquid, the silver-haired man moved through the Underdark without apprehension but with understandable caution, passing his previous captors' House D'l'Sel D'issan in search of a surface-facing exit. His steps were naturally quiet and sure, eyes finding everything to which they looked, having adapted to days of uninterrupted exposure to such unyielding darkness.

Few actually had business with the time stone of the city, though traffic by the thing would occasionally pick up as denizens made their way in a hurry to this place or that. Patrols were common enough in this sector, and it was just one such that rounded a bend in the street, chattering away with each other as they rushed along non-drow slaves and ignored those drow beneath their own stations. They nearly did likewise with Krice, but that bloodied blade...that weapon stole one of the guard's attention. He cried out in his native tongue as he drew his own sword, something along the lines of "Drop the weapon and die easy!" or some such. His cohorts were drowning out his words with laughter at a shared jest. Perhaps the patrolman would have slapped another atop the head to garner attention, but the attentive bloke seemed to be the lowest man on the totem pole, and so he simply tried yelling his command again. The others, suddenly distracted from their joking, now followed the first's attention to Krice. Eight blades total suddenly filled Krice's chosen path. "Whose slave are you?" one of the more educated drow called to the man in heavily accented and unused Common.

Krice took note of the drow men patrol who had rounded the corner, and more notably the collection of non-drow prisoners they escorted. Before the warrior could react to that visual, a command in the drowic tongue drew his eye and his gaze flicked sharply to the man who had issued it, and then to the rest of the group who seemed too preoccupied with their own nonsense to realize. The warrior halted and kept his weapon low, though the brandishing of eight others in his direction certainly inspired a want for aggression. Just briefly, the warrior's gilded eyes diverted to the faces of the gathered slaves, but no longer than a few seconds did his focus stray from the threat. Lifting his chin, the warrior addressed the more educated speaker - replying in perfectly fluent drow tongue. " I am slave to no one."

The flawless use of their own language unsettled the educated one. The low-ranked dimwit, however, barked out a laugh. "It thinks it's one of us!" he said, boldly putting up his sword. "I should beat the sense back into him." And he may have moved to do just that, until his commander's blade smacked him flat in the face, leaving a gash in the man's cheek. "You'll stay put," the commander said before returning his attention to Krice. "You must be lost, then," he said, reverting back to drowish. "None that are not drow traverse these caverns freely. Get in line with the other slaves. You will be put up for auction." Orders were barked and slaves began to shift about, making room for another to be added to their number. "Disobey and you will fetch a lower price after parts of you are forcibly removed."

Krice had never been very good at listening to those who were aggressively authoritative, this much reflected in his reaction to the order that he 'get in line'. He raised his sword, shifted his left foot outward, and adopted a stance that poised him for movement. Rather than wait for the drow to attack -him-, Krice advanced one slow step, and then another, perhaps testing their reactions before an inhuman burst of speed carried him into range of the drow escorting those slaves. A tight jerk of his left hand drew the katana left-to-right, swiping the blade for the nearest drow's throat. Whether or not his hit was successful, the warrior succeeded his attack with a kick, right booted foot seeking the drow's abdomen to at least knock him away. If he managed to incapacitate that male, Krice would move on to the next-closest, past the line of slaves, careful not to brandish his weapon so recklessly as to endanger them. His movements were concise and accurate, and escape from his attacks was reliant on how skilled the drow themselves were.

How unfortunate for the too-bold low-ranked guard. He was the unfortunate who was the closest to Krice, and there was a good reason he was the lowest ranked drow on the patrol. He sputtered as Krice moved, struggling to get his sword in line to block the katana's slice. His fumbling was, perhaps, the only thing that saved his life, an awkward angle causing the blade to only cut a shallow line across the drow's throat instead of opening his trachea and allowing his lifeblood to pour out. The kick, however, sent him stumbling back into a pair of his comrades, effectively putting them out of commission for a few moments as they untangled themselves. The educated drow held back, instead ordering the remaining drow to move forward to intercept Krice, and thus making him the next in line to face the surfacer warrior. Sword and dirk are brandished with no small amount of skill against the katana-wielding man, and that probably saved his life up until the point where he tripped over his still-fallen comrades. But the guard was drow, after all, and so he shoved that lowest of ranks in the path of Krice's weapon, offering him as the first victim to fall to the wicked blade. Slaves were cowering for fear of their lives. They didn't know about Krice, but they knew the guards wouldn't hesitate to throw one of them to intercept death on their behalf.

Krice didn't mind which drow died first, as long as he killed them all. The order in which he dispatched them was not irrelevant, however, for first he worked to ensure the safety of the slaves by killing their immediate escorts, or at least decommissioning them, which allowed him enough time to turn his attention to the others. The guard thrown in his path would receive a puncture through the heart if he didn't evade, the katana's curved blade driven through the drow's side, between the ligaments of whatever armour or reinforced clothing he was wearing. This did not distract Krice for long as the dual-wielding educated drow stole his attention almost immediately after. Whatever the fate of the drow he had already struck, the warrior's intent was always to kill if he could, but to at least nullify if bigger threats drew near; for instance, if the distraction-drow was not dispatched, then at least Krice sought to knock him aside long enough to deal with the dual-wielder. After a small miniseries of contacts between katana and sword and dirk, the silver-haired man darted back to let the dual-wielder advance toward him, crimson eyes attentively assessing his surroundings; drow guards were still grounded, and it was toward the nearest one that Krice took a swift step, driving his sword down into the male's neck - between throat and shoulder - to sever the brachial artery in his arm. He would bleed out in mere seconds if too slow to avoid. And so the Surface Warrior advanced, killing with the accuracy and efficiency of a years-experienced warrior, but hesitating where necessary to keep the slaves out of harm's way.

The poor drow fellow, he became skewered like a shish-ka-bob. Blood leaked copiously from his wounds, and his fellows couldn't have cared less about him. One of the fallen drow cast his body aside, freeing himself from his pinned position to rise to his feet. But drow were not loyal creatures. The newly disentangled man fled as soon as he was able. With three left, one still grounded, the drow numbers were beginning to dwindle enough for the slaves to start gaining courage. One particularly plucky slave, a grey-skinned orc, reached out and took hold of the other drow still on his feet. Superior strength alone was all that kept the orc from getting killed, slender drow arms pinned to the creatures sides. That left the educated drow to handle things. With a tsk he stepped forward, his posture that of a warrior who has seen more than a few fights. In he came, leading with his primary sword, a thrust angled directly at Krice's groin. The single thrust is followed by a drowish body spinning aside, his dirk flipped point-down in his hand to come in at a backhanded stab as the patrol leader completed his spin.

Krice hadn't expected the slaves to rise up, though it did not surprise him; he had seen something similar before--weaken the leadership, and oppressed people rise up. With the orc slave ridding him of the last remaining lower drow, Krice was able to focus on their leader. His left eye squinted slightly, indicative perhaps of the fact that the scratches down that side of his face were stinging, but it was not enough discomfort to unbalance his focus. As the final drow arced his sword forward to cut through him, the silver-haired warrior darted backward, pulling his left leg out of range of the attack; he sacrificed his upper thigh to protect his groin, a superficial laceration far more appealing than a severed femoral artery. Rather than waste time assessing the damage, Krice immediately retaliated, deflecting the Drow's secondary weapon - the dirk - up and away with a tight swipe of his katana. Pulling his elbow back, he retreated the sword to slice it through the side of the Drow's throat, a forceful flick of steel-toward-skin made more so with a step forward, hopefully ensuring the success of his attack by closing the space between them - and thus, leaving -less- space to evade. It truly was just a one-on-one now.

The other slaves capable enough had risen up and slain both the apprehended and the fallen living drow before fleeing into the different streets and tunnels of the city. The captain cursed. He'd have to round them up later. But that was for later. For now, he needed to keep focused on Krice and his katana. Ack! That katana! The captain is forced to retreat from the blade he nearly failed to see coming. His riposte was a weak one, his dirk slapping lightly against the curved blade to just barely send it out wide from his throat. He had no room to recover, however, with Krice moving in, no room to gain effective lethality with a strike. All he could do is shove himself forward into the surface dweller and hope he could push him back and off balance.

Krice -was- pushed off balance, but only slightly, and only for a moment; the collision of the drow's body into his own forced the warrior into a temporary recoil. He slammed his left foot against the ground to stay the drow's momentum and anchor himself, and then pushed off the same appendage to close the space between them. Rather than relying solely on the blood-covered steel of his katana, the silver-haired man thrust his free hand out in an attempt to punch the drow in the face, right in the space between cheekbone and jaw, a backhanding fist that would open up the dark-skinned warrior to a follow-up strike of the curved sword. Variety was unpredictable, and unpredictability usually meant a higher chance of success.

He thought he had some breathing room. He thought he could get himself extracted. But no, instead he got punched. Now where did that come from? And where did those lights come from? The space in front of his eyes looked like someone lit faerie fire on his nose. He staggered, uncertain of his own location for a moment until that blade of Krice's bit into flesh. He hissed, pain stabbing through like the katana, but he had to press on. He refused to go alone. With dirk in hand and proximity close, he stabbed forward with the short blade. He didn't care where he stuck the man. Face, stomach, throat, it didn't matter. He couldn't see where he was stabbing, anyways.

Krice put himself at risk every time he got close enough to attack, so it was no surprise that, whilst his katana was half-buried in the drow's body, that said drow took the opportunity of the resulting closeness to retaliate. The dirk glanced Krice's right arm because he saw it coming and pulled his shoulders inward to avoid it; silk fabric tore beneath the pathway of the steel, and underneath -that- the flesh was broken, blood seeping freely from a new wound. The silver-haired man grunted and reacted as hastily as his wounded body would allow; keeping his katana embedded in the drow, he hoped to keep him near enough for a grapple-throw. The surfacer brought his right arm up, between both of the drow's, and reached in to grab at any part of his opponent's clothing near his neck. If successful, he'd use the height of this hold to push the drow backward whilst his left foot swept in to kick the drow's feet out from under him in the opposite direction, tipping him forcefully into the earth. Whether or not he fell, Krice twisted his katana in a quick bid for exacerbating damage before he pulled the sword free, ready to strike the drow's throat in a death-blow.

He felt the dagger bite into Krice's flesh, but he didn't have time to savor in the success. No, instead he got the front of his piwafwi grabbed and he was hefted up onto his toes. With that katana still buried in his body, the guard was in agony. He gasped, and then he was tripped. Krice nary needed to twist the blade such as he did, what with the damage that was done just from the fall alone, but there it was. So much blood was pouring from the guard's body that the coming death blow was a mercy. In the moment it took the drow to realize what was happening, he couldn't help but silently mock Krice with a smirk. He wouldn't have shown any such mercy to the surfacer. But that was life and death, and he soon faded into the oblivion of the latter.

Krice stood over the fallen drow with his katana held out to his side, his body covered in blood, some of it his own, and his memory replaying the dark-skinned male's smirk over and over in his head. He knew what it meant. The warrior panted quietly, a sure sign of the effort it took him to fell so many foes whilst in such a condition. After a few seconds of gaining his bearings, he remembered that the slaves were still standing nearby. What to do with them? After taking a deep breath to better settle his lungs, the warrior addressed them all, his voice quiet but firm: " I'm leaving. You can come with me, or stay down here." As the stoic warrior stepped away, he stumbled and leaned slightly to one side, indicative of his tiredness. This place was really getting to him. Before he could falter further, however, a grotesque-looking creature emerged from the deeper shadows, its skin missing in places, flesh and muscle visible where it shouldn't have been. He was a hell hound, and he pressed up against Krice's weaker side to support him. The warrior was surprised by the contact and looked down, already raising his sword in self-defense... but before he committed to a strike against the beast, he realized that this hound was familiar to him. The fingers of his right hand pressed down into the space between the hound's shoulder-blades in a combined touch of affection and reassurance, and as he lowered his sword, the man murmured a named: " Chio..." His features seemed to soften at the realization, before some of the slaves undoubtedly drew his thoughts to them, with their panic. " It's okay. He's an ally," Krice reassured, before his thoughts drifted to the whereabouts of the hound's owner. Given Chio's lack of panic or distress, Krice deduced that his owner must be okay, though he knew not of her location. He wanted to act selfishly, to find her by Chio's lead, but these slaves... If they wanted to get out, they'd need an escort, and -he- was that escort. The silver-haired man frowned and scrubbed at Chio's neck before he said to the hound, " Hey, boy... I need you to lead these people to the surface." The hound growled, though it was not in aggression; he was reluctant to leave the silver-haired warrior to fend for himself. With a half-there smile, the man hoped to reassure his canine companion. " I'll be fine. These people are not fighters. They need someone to lead them out." He looked out at the once-slaves, from face to face, and said, " This is your best hope to get out. Do it now."

The slaves were looking at the bodies of the drow on the ground, flabbergasted at the sight before them. They never thought they would be freed, let alone in such a fashion. And then the man was addressing them, telling them they would be free if they followed the frightening hound. But it was a chance. It was a way to be away from these evil elves. And so one after another fell in with the hound, waiting to follow to their new lives. Some might take paths shunned on the surface, but others might yet blend seamlessly with the folk of the upper world.

Krice was reluctant to let Chio go, reluctant to let go of the link that would help him find the owner, but he did. The hound was likewise hesitant to leave the wounded warrior, but the canine did as requested and walked through the darkness to lead the slaves back to the surface, defending them where necessary. Krice watched the group disappear into the black of the Trist'Oth with the hope that they would find their way out. After collecting his thoughts and steeling himself anew, the man left the bodies of the drow strewn across the ground and moved forward, venturing into deeper territory.