RP:Feces, Feces Everywhere

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopisis: Zendor is thrown into a tiny, fecally decorate D'Artes dungeon cell. Gevurah visits him, and after some tense moments and a whipping, Zendor reveals that he is an ally of the drow - by way of occupation, at least. Gevurah weighs the pros and cons of killing him, and decides that he may prove useful alive. She takes him to the soldiers quarters of the estate where they hash out plans, and Gevurah exacts reassurances that Zendor won't betray her -- though she is fully prepared that he eventually will.

D'Artes Dungeons

Zendor wasn't given the grand tour of House D'Artes. He was led into the dungeon through a side entrance. His ears would pop as he descends into the cells buried yet deeper into the ground. Sparsely decorated -- perhaps an odd gargoyle or effigy of Vakamatharas here or there -- the seedy underbelly of the estate poorly reflects the grand wealth of the First House. A wealth which Zendor may have glimpsed from the outside. Faerie fire dimly lights the mansion's ornate, foreboding facade. The light strategically creates intimidating shadows and highlights menacing statues. After being stripped of his weapons, the human is left alone in his cell for half a day. No light enters the pitch-black cell, and if Zendor needs to relieve himself, he can do so where he stands, or fumble for a chamber pot, the stench of which oppresses the thick atmosphere of the tiny cell. Should his hand find the chamber pot in the darkness, it would discover that the pot has not been emptied in months and that D'Artes are fond of keeping prisoners. The tiny cell, designed for drow, is too small for Zendor to lie flat. But he can stand, and sit. Small blessings. Eventually he will hear the rattle of keys, the sliding of iron and stone, and the gentle tap-tap-tap of heeled shoes. Gevurah's sharp perfume plumes into the room. The tapping nears his cell and stops just before his gate. Glowing red eyes open and stare right at Zendor. "Who are you?" Her accent, harsh in its consonants and vowels due to drow phonetics, strikes a sinister chord. The High Priestess can see him, or his body heat at least, but he cannot see her except for her glowing red eyes.

Zendor was a little groggy as his escorts ushered him to and fro, having put up a small bit of a fight before being flogged. So for this reason, it was difficult for him to remember just how he'd become entombed in the bottom of a toilet, alone. He peeled his face off the cold stone, and rubbed the nob on his cheekbone. Presumably created when they lobbed him into the room. After regaining some equilibrium, he found that he was leaning pathetically against the wall, scrunched like a slinky. He tried to stretch out, only to bend his arms against the ceiling and then the walls. He felt his way along the ground with his foot, until he came to a basin, upon kicking it he heard the aqueous substance gurgle, and determined this to be the source of the smell. Definitely in a dungeon. "Tylania?" He whispered, out between his bars. "Tylania!' He whispered again, in a much harsher tone. From some direction he heard some derisive sounding remarks in a foreign tongue. It was drowish, and they couldn't of been compassionate. But they're language is so angry sounding who can tell? "Speak common, punk?" After several moments he heard the reply. "They gonna kill you, Human! Ehehehehe!" Zendor didn't bother talking to anyone after that, but he hummed the sad tune Nymh played. He hummed it a lot. For about 12 hours... "This is boring...torture me or something my gosh..." He tried sleeping, but the smell was too powerful, so he tried working out. But there wasn't enough room. "This is extremely inconvenient," he concluded. Finally he heard the telling noise, and took a dignified cool guy pose. Sitting with his back against one wall with his feet scrunched up halfway to his chest. The first thing he noticed, was the perfume dedicated to overpower the ubiquitous sewer reek. And then the eyes, a drow...as expected. He budged slightly upon hearing her voice, and question. He considered that it might be the one he met yesterday, concluding that who else would it be? "Sorry," he said, intentionally making her wait, "my head's a little fuzzy and I might be hard of hearing. And blind. You want to know...who I am? I am Zendor. Do you know the name?"

Gevurah is unimpressed by Zendor's hot-glowing cool guy pose. Give her a powerful, magical drow with a ruthless ambition, an estate built on at least three stalgmites and enough servants to fill the tavern, and maybe then she'd swoon. Not that you'd know it; her swooning resembles her scowling. But presently she laugh -- a short, mocking guffaw. "Not a name worth knowing." Poor Zendor. Red keeps both employees and employers confidential to ensure a lengthy career as a middleman. She is unmoved by Zendor's complaints about the dark. Suits her just fine, what more is there to consider? "Why did you come to the slave market today?" So long as he keeps talking and she doesn't suspect him of lying, he can keep all his nails and fingers. The High Priestess enjoys administering a good torture as much as the next drow, but the war keeps her pressed for time, much to the mercenary's benefit.

Zendor is too handsome for Gevurah anyways...on the inside. Maybe. These questions were fairly important, since he understood his predicament. He refused to look at her, or the two red stars he'd come to know her by. But why did he go to the slave market that day? "Two nights ago I'd come across Nymh, paid his keeper for a song." Visibly, he was taken back to the time, and began to hum the same tune, but kept it short. "If you could buy such a talent, wouldn't you?" Then he chuckled, because, "Of course! You did! Well I suppose it's more like you stole it, isn't it? Because I would've paid more than 300." He nodded to himself in a forlorn way. "But! No hard feelings!" He suddenly stood up, "I really must be going though, my business concluded and all." And he ignorantly tries to simply shoulder himself beyond her and out the door, as if he didn't know he was here against his will.

Gevurah would love to shove Zendor back inside his cell, but there's no need. The cell door was never opened. An honest mistake. He can't see the door at all, and the sound of a door opening did echoe against these feces-speckled walls, but it was the dungeon entrance door, not his cell. The priestess grins in spite of herself as Zendor bumps blindly against the iron bars. He's entertaining. Maybe she'll keep him as a court jester. Or gift him to Matron Laezila to strengthen their alliance. "You would have paid more than 300, because you surfacers overpay for slaves. A slave should never cost you more than a good bed," she recites the drow aphorism matter-of-factly. You're welcome for that pearl of wisdom, chump. "Your mission...soft-hearted, and foolish, as I would expect of your race." If a drow had said that she would assume it is a lie, but a human might actually be that repugnantly sacchrine. "And this Tylania, the one you call for. Is that the avian?"

Zendor bumps face first into the cell walls, with enough potential that he's replaced on the fouled floor, promptly. With tender hands, he tests the integrity of his face, assuring that all nobs are here and all dents are there. Fine. Then he rises once more undaunted (and a little prideful!) having to overcompensate for his blooper. "I would never pay 300 gold pieces for a bed. But I don't consider my 'mission' too sentimental (what an investment), foolish maybe. But...!" He chuckled a little toothily, "You buying a bard? Now that is unmistakably inappropriate for someone like you, isn't it? Is he gonna play sad songs for you while you go to sleep?" Then he suddenly knew better, "No, that's not it. But you should never pay as much as a good bed for someone who's just going to lie in one." If he hadn't been smited by now, then he stops pushing his luck and backs away from the bars. "Tylania's nobody," he says conclusively. "Anyways, it's getting time to realize your mistake, and let me out."

Lippy, brave, dumb Zendor. Gevurah's in a good mood; he could have gotten away with questioning the appropriateness of her purchase. Can't expect a human to know the ins and outs of drow society - especially not one dumb enough to risk the underdark for the company of dark elves. But he crosses the line at suggesting she would lie with a half breed. She can taste the bile rising at the mere thought. Iron scrapes against iron. The cell door whines open. Snakes hiss. Suddenly faerie light ignites. It illuminates Gevurah's hand clutching a whip of seven vipers, who writhe and stretch towards Zendor, eager to appease their master's rage. Darkness veils her face, save for those glowing red eyes. "You over estimate your worth." With Zendor's focus presumably on the whip of vipers, a second, hidden whips cracks in the darkness and lashes at Zendor's legs. If it makes its mark, she stays her hand after a single lash. "To remind you of your predicament." If he evades, she'll try again and this time lash him twice: once for insolence, and a second time for evasion of punishment.

Zendor had gotten just the response he wanted, but soon after, he forgot just why he wanted to make her emotional? Everything else seemed so trivial in the against those 8 hissy faces, highlighted as they were by the mysterious faerie fire. Instinctively, he dodged the first lash, scrambling backwards against the wall. But there was no time to dodge the second or third, and the scourge bit into his legs with a venom that seemed designed only to inflict pain. His leg inflated and he crumbled. Having only now truly understood 'his predicament', he held up a hand against her, to protect his face, or for mercy, or to shield his eyes from her burning gaze. Slowly he cradled himself as he held close the 4 punctures, trying to to apply too much pressure lest the pain aggravate. Deliriously, he mumbles, "I'm...your ally...sent to watch the elves..." Why didn't he bring this up earlier? What purpose was there to wait? Of course he knew, but its importance faded or vanished.

Gevurah is glad she slathered a little poisonous kick onto her second, leather whip. Zendor irritated her enough to provoke the finer nuances of her sadism. But his honest words bewilder her more than his teasing. An ally? Perhaps she accidentally applied too much poison and it's addling his mind. Oops? Eh. Whatever. "Explain yourself," she demands. In an act of either mercy or curiosity, she expands the faerie light to illuminate the entire cell and herself. Hopefully some light will help Zendor regain his senses.

Zendor coughed, seeming to choke on his own spit as he shriveled further into the corner, still holding a hand up. "A man named Red..." he panted, sweating profusely..."Hired me!" The light proves too much of a shock for his unacclimated eyes, and he cast his them down until they can adjust. Finally he gets to see her exactly how she looks. The voice matches the appearance well enough. She even looks mean! "A man named Red hired me," he repeated, "To spy on Gilwen. Some advantage in this petty war!" He started laughing pathetically, "I'm going to resign, however, in favor of my newest occupation." He spit some of his excess saliva from his mouth. And what a terrible benefits package. "Unless you turn me loose," because he surely wouldn't have any thoughts of revenge.

The name Red doesn't register recognition on Gevurah's cruel features, but the mission to spy on Gilwen and the elves does. She studies him in silence before shouting down the corridors to the guards in drow. Doors open and close; feet scuffle in the dark. One minute of silence passes. Then another. A third, fourth, fifth, and si- Finally! Doors opening and closing again, but no footsteps. Is anyone approaching at all? Gevurah's captain of her personal guard materializes from the shadows. He never made a sound in his approach, and yet Gevurah isn't at all surprised by where he stands as if she knew where he was. He and his mistress converse, civilly by the look of it, in their native tongue. The name 'Red' can be distinctly heard, and the personal guard points at Zendor without looking at him, then the ceiling. Finally Gevurah regards Zendor once more and asks, "Alright. What have you found out about the elves? Gilwen?" The poison coursing through Zendor's leg should begin to give the sensation of burning, without actually producing any heat.

Zendor is thankful at least that he got captured by the right cruel drow matron, and not some other one who would simply not believe him. What's happening now? Eyes widen while trying to see through the darkness, knowing that there has to be someone there but never does anyone appear. A guard captain shifts into being, as if he was already there. Realizing the futility, Zendor hangs his head, no longer content to let himself fail. Yet another pointless endeavor, trying to understand their words. But wait! Zendor becomes alert, they know the name Red? Then all is well, he'll be out of here instantly. "Gilwen is an elf, the elves miss their woods, and I think something about this smelly room is holding back my memories..."

This prisoner never knows when to stop pushing his luck. The answer was the moment you stepped into the Underdark. He's failed to grasp that truth several times. Gevurah must continuously sheperd him back onto the right path. "Let me explain to you my thinking so that you can better position yourself to not anger me. If you cough up something of value about Gilwen and prove that you're of value to me, then I may be persuaded to let you live. If you have failed at your task and came into my city and started a riot, then I shall end your miserable existence and ask this 'Red' to find me a more competent mercenary. Competent mercenaries can think under stress. You are acting like a buffoon, a pampered prince whose sensibilities are spoiled by a little feces. Make yourself impressive, or make yourself a grave."

Ever the slow learner, Zendor continues to rattle the cages. "I've infiltrated her company, but yes she does not trust me, or perhaps it's something else." He demonstrated to his face, "I detect that without being an elf, she does not think I have the right cause to go against you, however, I have witnessed her magic change her into a bird. Such that she may become irrelevant to even those who see her, while gaining positional advantage. I think she can change into other things too if she chooses." He paused, but not too long that she would interject, lest her be continued to think that he wouldn't measure up as more useful than a slave, or as fertilizer. "I need more time, and some way to convince her that I hate you more than enough..." After he took another breath, he became seemingly reminded, "And there is a LOT of feces."

So, she should ask Red to hire an elf mercenary? Good to know. But that may be a tall order given the very real hatred the elves have against the drow. An elf willing to do Zendor's job may not exist. She takes a sharp inhale -- through her mouth, because feces, feces everywhere -- when Zendor's final comment reminds her as to why she's been breathing through her mouth this entire time. She murmurs something lengthy in drow to her guard, then takes a step towards Zendor as she explains in common, "Don't do anything stupid. I am neutralizing the poision." The poison she lashes into his leg, but they've moved past such fussy details, no? She hesitates, eyes him keenly, then lowers a hand to his lashed thigh and whispers a prayer. The effects of the poison should slowly subside, not that Gevurah sticks around to see how he's faring. She pivots on her heel and leaves. Her guard approaches Zendor and grabs him by the elbow. He isn't unnecessarily rough. "Hands," he commands. If Zendor provides them, he cuffs Zendor's wrists and guides him out of the dungeon. He's led through a series of tunnels, most sloping gently upwards, others opening into staircases. They ascend to the soldier's barracks. The decor befits the common class with a militant bent. Notably, there is no feces here. It smells normal, perhaps a little on the sweaty and testosterone-y side, but that's a dreamy perfume compared to where he came from. Inside a small den reserved for officers, Gevurah sits at the head of a table and waves for Zendor, still cuffed, to sit opposite her. "I hope this makes you more agreeable. You were saying you need to prove to Gilwen that you are my enemy. After this encounter, I imagine that would be your truth."

Zendor is startled to find her willing to heal him, so much that he eyes her with scrutiny during the process. In just a moment the pain begins to subside, and he is assured. Soon after he's able to come back to his senses, and realizes the wisdom in saying nothing. He supposes, that they might be escorting him to a t shaped board to nail him to, or an even deeper hole to toss him into...But why bother curing him...? So he does go along willingly, allows his hands to be bound, and led through the labyrinth. Sure they aren't rough, but Zendor can't see so good in pitch blackness, so at almost every turn he bumps into another wall. He's good about not falling down and becoming lost forever though, hustling back to the sound of the heels. Finally the reach the dimly lit barracks. A familiar smell, but they were cooking his least favorite type of pasta. Testosteroni. The ambience is indubitably improved over the infinite dookie, however. Upon reaching the table, he plops his hands on top of it, and hunches low, seeming to be a little tired, perhaps. "Your accommodations are exceptional," he offers her a hand (closely followed by the other), and a bowed head, "My gratitude. But...surely you don't think after our little misunderstanding I would turn against you? I would've done the same thing." He leaned back in his chair casually, "It's behind us."

Gevurah is suspicious of Zendor's about face. "I would think you'd turn, yes. I need assurances that you have not -- and good ones." She signals in the darkness. The drow equivalent of a squire (a whipping boy?) brings Zendor a glass of water. Good news: It isn't poisoned. Bad news: He'll have to hold it with both hands like a child and their sippy cup. Hopefully Zendor's own testosteroni doesn't have a problem with that. "I already knew Gilwen can shift into a bird. I saw it with my own eyes. Tell me what else you know. Have you participated in their elven council?"

"Of course I understand the predicament, but how much can I hurt you? I don't know you, and I haven't seen anything important I could report to Gilwen or anybody else." He purposely didn't mention that he suspected Nymh was very important. "I haven't been paid, you wouldn't have much to lose..." Obviously Zendor didn't have much to offer her in the way of assurance. "You have my word, and the words we'll share soon after I resume my mission, they will assure you." He wraps his linked hands around his cup and pulls it quickly to his lips, forgetting that he'd been wanting to appear dignified...for the moment. After voraciously drowning himself into the cup of cleanish water, he slowly replaces it on the table. Dabbing his mouth tenderly with the edge of a napkin. "Thank you, I suppose I was quite thirsty." He's tempted towards snark, but stifles it smartly. "I have not been invited to their Elven council just yet, though I am confident that I will be able to, once I am given the chance to convince them of my loyalty." He nods thoughtfully, "perhaps...you can help me with that. If I were to tell them of the many important things I'd heard or seen (disinformation of course) while I was down here before I so -narrowly- escaped, then I would earn their trust, but further: lure them into a trap so exquisitely planned by yourself."

Zendor's line of thinking dovetails nicely with Gevurah's plan, which includes spreading a little disinformation and setting up traps, as well as a third element - a little insurance to hedge herself against either Zendor's betrayal or Zendor's failure, both of which seem likely. She grows silent, looks inward. Her mind rifles through good plans and better plans, poking holes in plots. She doesn't commit to any of them just yet. To many unknowns. Too little time to dissect her own schemes for weakness. She needs to open with something that would help her progress in various ways, and she needs to do it now. Keeping him here too long will make the elves suspicious of him. She signals to her guard and he leaves them. "Your idea isn't unsound." As she speaks, she rises and crosses to an officer's desk. Zendor can track her movements by the reflective sheen of faerie fire upon her ebon skin and fine clothing. The sound of papers rifling against fingers underscores her rich, resonant voice. "What lie will you tell them to explain your visit to our glorious city?" She retrieves a paper and crosses towards Zendor's side of the table, careful to maintain an arm's length distance left he think they're friends now. No. The paper is a map of the Southern Sage Forest. She draws and writes on it in drow as she listens to his plan.

In the silent darkness he begins to grow anxious for her answer. She puts him at ease, but only for a moment before she moves. With wide eyes he traces her movements from here to there, curious to meet her in the light. One day, he decides, they will. At the question, he waves his hand almost dismissively, back against the seat coolly. "The lie would be an easy one. I heard the drow, Nymh, play his instrument. It enticed me to procure him for my own benefit. That's true. I would tell the elves that I witnessed a slave, melancholy in his predicament, with transcendent abilities and sought to free him. So with a portion of my savings, I would purchase his freedom. That's why I and two friends delved deep into the woeful Underdark. They escaped and I was captured." Still remaining in his seat, he looks up to her, searching for her gaze. "A much more dubious dilemma would be conniving a convincing escape. Your defenses are nigh impregnable, how would one man escape on his own on foot? I assure you there would be no one looking for me." Now expectant, he asks, "This is your domain, surely you can think of something reasonable?"

Gevurah shrugs at the question as though the answer is obvious. "You are right. No one could escape here. The answer is simple: you were never here." Her guard returns carrying a collar. He sets it down on the table by Gevurah then stands sentry against the wall. "During your escape, you were forced to hide in the city, out of sight, for an entire day. You had to wait until the streets and tunnels were clear, making your crawl out of the Underdark slow." Her speech pauses on an inhale, a shift in topic and not an invitation for him to speak. "What were the names of your two accomplices. Tylania is the avian, correct? And the other?" Unseen in the darkness, her open palm turns towards her guard. A clink, like keys, lands softly in her hand. During a lull in Zendor's response she instructs, "Do anything stupid, and my guard will put a bolt through your skull. Continue. Tell me about who they are and where they came from." She unlocks Zendor's cuffs and lets him roll and flex his wrists as needed to alleviate stiffness and pain. Once his joints still she demands, "Arm." If Zendor provides his arm, she winds the collar in two and slips it over his hand like a double-strapped bracelet. "Insurance," she explains. Although the collar looks loose on his forearm, he will eventually discover that through the binding of some dark sorcery he cannot remove it. If the collar is enchanted with any other effects, they are not immediately apparent nor does Gevurah divulge them. The D'Artes insignia is pressed into the leather collar in one place. "Cover the insignia. With paint or whatever works best." Why she doesn't do it herself is unclear, but the meticulous priestess would not have overlooked such a glaring misstep. An educated guess would presume this is a test of some sort.

Zendor nods and seems to approve. It seems a sound explanation, maybe with a little embellishment, he could convince the elves. "Accomplices! Ah! No. Tylania, the avian was quite taken with the slave, and I was able to manipulate her emotional state to my advantage. The other...it was a foreign name..." He pinches his chin thoughtfully, "What was it now. Navia? Nivio? Something like that." Suddenly he's about to be bolted, "Please. Civility, I have no thought for them. Actually it was only the day before the auction that I met them outside the tavern in Kelay. I did not bring the avian and the feline along with me, yet I met them there. The foolish harpy would free him if possible, you may yet meet her again. And I do not know the feline's motives." He rolls his wrists gratefully, and braces himself for the collar. "Actually, I'd rather have it on this arm....oh." It stays on the arm. "This is what? Insurance? In what way are you defended by this?" Zendor sees the importance of covering it of course, and makes plans to visit a far off blacksmith. He stands up slowly so as not to arouse. "My mission is clear, I suppose our date must sadly end...would you have one of your men point me in the right direction?"

Gevurah can't help the genuine grin that arrests her features when she puts the collar on the wrong arm. Small pleasures. In response to his question about insurance she lilts, "Call it a drow superstition." The sound of glass sliding on stone rasps towards Zendor and the map of the surface. A flame of faerie fire dances within a glass bulb before Zendor's face, and Gevurah blows it into a giant, pale blue lantern. A glass sphere sits on what resembles a vase. The light is strong enough to fully illuminate Gevurah's face, which thus far has been shrouded in darkness, exposing no more than a jaw or an ear at a time. Long white hair sweeps into a braid over her shoulder. A few bangs frame a young, ebon face that more easy lifts into a scowl than a smile. Her lips purse in contempt. Red eyes glance down the regal slope of her nose, held high and imperiously. She points at the map. "Take this. I have annotated the map with false patrol routes for our soldiers, and false supply lines and timetables. Tell me what the elves do with this information if anything." What she doesn't tell him is that one of the patrols in Northern Sage is real and enticingly vulnerable. Few men, bright day light, away from the drow military camp and reinforcements. If the elves attack here, or anywhere else, then Gevurah will know that Zendor did not betray her. If the elves do not act on this information, she assumes he tipped them off. Her collar will ensure that she can find him no matter where he hides, but she doesn't feel the need to divulge the collar's tracking features, or its ability to send the wear a shock of pain should she feel the need to inflict it. Hopefully she'll not need to track or punish him. She instructs her men to show him to the tunnel that opens in the Forest of Abysmal Darkness outside Vailkrin.

For some reason, Zendor is not eased at all by the naming of the collar. Superstition doesn't lock a piece of leather to one's body. "Ah. To see your face finally and match it to the voice. You look suited to your position." What might be an insult on the surface is probably a compliment in this abyss. Then he studies the important article, the illustrated map. "Of course they would ask me how I came upon such intimate knowledge..." Then he came to a conclusion he decided to keep from her. "Very well. The proper eyes will gaze upon it and be deceived. Such appetizing advantage won't be easily turned away." Upon this conclusion, he commits to a vaguely practiced bow. The dark elves return the seized effects, and allow him on his way. He stifles concerns regarding his new bracelet, and where before he might've seen it.