RP:Imar's Return
Note
This is part of the The Obsidian Pool - The First Wave story arc.
In The Obsidian Pool
Imar purses his lips, and wipes his blood-speckled blade as he gazes thoughtfully at the three dead drow who lay at his feet. “Why have you come back Imar?” At the sound of the familiar voice, Imar turns, and his dark visage tightens with surprise “Lor!” His heart sinks, and he shakes his head at the powerfully built drow who confronts him.
“I had to come back, brother, I needed to know.” Lor growls, and as his tall, massively muscled form quivers and his dark visage distorts with rage, he grasps the shaft of his great battle axe “You were forbidden Imar, and banished from our house until you learnt some humility”
The tall illusionist straightens and his own fingers tighten convulsively about the hilt of Torment “I had to come, Lor, it is my destiny to find out what happened.”
Lor’s lips spread into a grimace of contempt and raising the axe, he points it toward Imar. “Your destiny was to serve Matron Satori, and lead our armies into victory Lord Imar. You, who defied custom and learnt the magics of the ancients, and fought for your right to lead. You had it all, and you gave it up for a child’s fairytale.”
Imar stares and a frown creases his forehead “If it is just a fairytale, why is it kept a secret?”
Lor’s platinum eyes blaze with anger as he steps forward, his vast form glittering with chainmail, his shield dented, yet polished, and his axe huge and menacing. “That is not for us to ask, outcast.” And without another word, the axe comes around. Imar catches the huge blade on his shield, and it was like being struck by a charging bull. Lor wrenches the axe free, and a sliver of wood is torn away to let fire light glimmer through the broken shield. The axe comes again, and again the shield takes it, and Imar staggers back, the rent in his shield widening. Lor swings a third time, but this time Imar steps back, and flicks Torment out in an attempt to cut of his axe hand. But Lor is fast, snake fast, and he pulls back just in time. “He was our ancestor; we have a right to know. Do not fight me, join me!”
“Liar!”, screams the huge drow, and comes at Imar fast, trying to throw him down with weight and brute force. Imar meets him, shield to shield, and he holds him, swinging Torment at his head. But the blow glances off his brother’s helmet, and Imar leaps back a heartbeat before the axe swings where his legs had been; lunges forward and takes Lor cleanly on the chest with Torment’s point. But he does not have any force in the blow, and the drow’s chainmail takes the lunge and stops it. Lor swings the axe up, trying to gut Imar from crotch to chest, but the tall drow’s ragged shield stops the blow and they both step back.
Lor stares at Imar for a moment. “Traitor!”, he whispers, and steps forward again, platinum eyes reflecting his hate, and he swings the axe in a massive side ways blow intending to crush his brother’s chest. But the calm has come over Imar and the fear and unwanted guilt has flown, and the joy was there. He rams the shield sideways to take his axe, feels the heavy blade plunge into what is left of the wood, and he lets go of the handle, so the half broken mess of metal and wood dangles from the heavy blade, and then he strikes at his enemy. Once, twice, both of them huge blows using both hands on Torment’s hilt, and using all the strength he has taken form the long years of training and battle. He drives Lor back, cracks his shield, and the massive drow lifts his axe, Imar’s shield still encumbering it, and then slips. He had stepped on the spilt guts of a corpse, and his left foot slides sideways. While he is unbalanced, Imar stabs Torment foreword and the blade pierces the mail above the hollow of his attackers elbow, and the axe arm drops, all strength stolen from it. Torment flicks back to slash across his brother’s mouth, and Imar is shouting a war cry, his eyes blazing with crimson fire. There is blood on Lor’s dark visage, and he knows then, knows he will die, and knows he will soon be with his goddess. He does not give up, he sees death coming, and fights it by trying to hammer his brother with his shield again. But Imar is too quick, to exultant, to insane with battle lust, and the next strike is to his throat, and Lor staggers, blood pouring onto his shoulder, more blood trickling between the links of his chain mail, and he looks at Imar as he tries to stay upright.
Imar’s battle lust fades as quickly as it had overwhelmed him, and he is left suddenly empty. He watches as Lor drops to his knees, still staring at his killer, and he tries to speak, but nothing comes. Imar steps forward and without hesitation delivers the killing strike. He then kneels and closes the big man’s nerveless fingers about the handle of his war axe. He remembers the battle long ago, when Lor, young and hungry for glory, defeated the great dwarf chief Krull in single combat and took his war axe for his own. Smiling, the outcast shakes his head in silent and undrowlike grief. “Sleep well, brother, and wait for me in the arms of Lolth," he said softly. As he continues to gaze, he could see that Lor was not dead yet but dying, for Imar’s last strike had pierced deep into his neck. The downed drow gives a great shudder; a wet, croaking sound issues from his ravaged throat, and Imar keeps on holding his brother’s hand tight to the axe, until, with a sigh, he dies.
Imar closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he is kneeling on white sand staring out at the obsidian ocean. A low voice breaks the silence. “Ku'lam Imar Olag, former Senger, lu' ust dalharuk d' qu'ellar Satori. Dos ph' rejected a dosst lodias, lu' abandoned a dosst abbilen. Drill dos ph' naut maglust, whol dos ph' nin uss d' udossa.” The tall drow rises to his full height, and his crimson eyes stare at the stranger. “What now?” The stranger laughs softly and points out to sea “You must go back Imar; back to your fae; back to the land of Hollow, and await your destiny.” Imar nods his snow white head, his thoughts closed, and his visage flat and expressionless. Without a word, and with his memories of the underdark, already receding into the void, he turns and walks toward the ink stained waters of the pool.
Imar doesn’t mind the cold of the obsidian water as it laps lazily around his waste, and with long smooth strokes, he begins to swim. As his muscles push his body easily though the water, they hum with vigour and vitality; their enormous reserves of strength just waiting for the opportunity to erupt into a fury of motion. He can taste the harsh tang of salt upon his lips, and feel the warm breeze which caresses the flesh of his face. Yet, as much as he revels in the glory and freedom it offers, his body feels alien, as though it belongs to someone else. Memories of Lor and of his long life in the underdark seem distant now, and almost second hand, as though it were someone else’s life, and he Imar, nothing but a spectator. The island disappears from sight, and the drow is lost in the infinite vastness of the obsidian ocean. His direction is of little concern to him, and his destination? Hollow he supposes; the Eldritch Cabal and the damn pool where this nightmare began. A wave of despair, as black as the waters in which he swims, washes through him, and his thoughts descend into an abyss of self hatred. He wonders why he should go back; he does not belong there now, for he is truly an outcast to his kind, a beast, one of the forsaken. And Keerawn! His mind recoils in horror as he imagines her reaction to him. A mere shell of the man she loved, a drinker of blood, an object of fear and loathing. His mind begins to wander the endless vistas of illusion made real, searching, searching, for somewhere to hide in this benighted realm.
Keerawn wanders through the now somewhat familiar place; the twisting corridors of black depths, the shifting rooms, locked doors, the memories that randomly pop into her mind, the ghosts, monsters.... All of it- familiar from the many times she comes here in search of Imar. She comes for that tiny little hope that he will be there. Thin brows drawn gently together in thought.. How is it she knows the way- that the first way through was easier than it should have been? Almost like someone guides her steps... Pulls her towards there. The strong desire for the love of her life back, or was there more to it than that? Finally, dimmed visage looks up as she comes into the pool room. Deadly silent, the fireplaces mysteriously lit, bathing the room in a soft glow that further paled her complexion; made her look sick. Translucent-black wings bent and drooped with her mood, the normally proud posture of perfection holds a weary stance; the fae was so close to giving up. Jade sloe-eyes scan over the smooth, pearl-like pool, ever-searching its obsidian depths for any sight of Imar. She dares to go closer to the edge this time.. Tentative steps forwards, charm anklet's jingling the only sound in the echoing room. The pixie peers over its edge; the only want in her heart? To have Imar back. A single tear forms its way in one of her slanted eyes, sliding slowly down her cheek to drop into the obsidian waters, a soft ripple spreading across its surface. Carmine lips part, a moan-like sound ensuing before in a choked voice she cries out, "Imar.." She wants to go but something makes her stay. Something compells her; will this time be different than the others?
Imar is so lost in his despair, and on his decision to stay, that he does not feel the coil of cold flesh as it slips around his ankle until it is too late. With a jerk, he is pulled beneath the calm waters. Not understanding what is happening, he instinctively struggles against the irresistible force of will which drags him down, down, into the inky depths. His ears pop, and his chest burns, yet the initial panic recedes, and with lips tightly closed against the in rushing water, he frantically stares around, looking for his enemy. Finally, he becomes aware of the bone crushing pressure around his ankle, and his crimson eyes, wild with a growing fury, looks down. They widen with shocked fear, as emerging form the gloom, a horribly familiar single eye, huge and malevolent stares at him hungrily, and beneath it, a vast eagle’s beak, wide open and waiting for him. In a flurry of motion, the vampiric drow grasps Torment in powerful fingers, and with a hiss, the blade slices through the water. Once, twice, three times he chops savagely at the tentacle which grasps him so tenaciously. Lungs burning for the blessed taste of fresh air, Imar finally severs the leathery limb, and with a kick of his feet, he heads for the surface. But-to-late, and with panic building in his guts, the drow is forced to stop as the beast, roaring with pain, manages to surround his prey in a vast cage of twisting tentacles. Scanning quickly, Imar seeks an escape, but all he sees are writhing limbs, and the pulsing horror of those suckers coming closer, pushing him toward the squid’s open maw. “Keerawn!” Is his last coherent thought, loud and clear, before insanity takes over, and survival, primal and savage overwhelms his tortured mind. He pivots, and thrusting himself forward with a powerful scissor kick, he launches himself directly for the huge eye. He extends Torment strait out in front of him, and like a javelin, his body slices though the water with immense speed. His sword penetrates deeply into the soft, gelatinous mass of the great eye, and the ocean seems to explode, as the monster lets out a deafening bellow of pain. Clouds of ink, and thick viscous blood, leave Imar blind, and he is battered mercilessly by flailing tentacles. Grasping the hilt of Torment, he tugs it free from the sucking flesh, and his legs begin to scissor kick again, pushing hum upwards. Far above him, the tall drow sees a pin point of light, and mad with fear and fury, he never the less heads for it.
Keerawn stares down into the depths of the waters, yet sees nothing beyond the first layer. So calm and smooth, it callls out to her, driving her to touch it. She bites her bottom lip, eyes wide with pain, need, want, the hunger for desire and Imar. Her arm reaches out, legs bending at the knees and her at the waist as she gets closer to the pool. A slender-boned phalange reaches out, index finger straigthening as she yearns to touch it. Just dip my finger in it, she thinks.. But gracefully pointed ears pick up on the sound of Imar's voice. Could it really be him? The overwhelming water is forgotten about, abandoned, as her true purpose for being here reminds her. Lips part, allowing her to scream out his name, desparately trying to see if he can hear her and if she was perhaps hearin things, "Imar!" The fae jolts straight up, eyes squinting to scan over the entire span of the pool, looking for any sign of Imar.
Imar erupts from the surface of the pool in an explosion of cascading water, and his torso battered and streaked with blood and ink seems to hang for a long moment. Air rushes from tortured lungs, and as he drops back into the water, he reaches out his arms and grasps the edge of the pool. Before he can pull himself out however, a long serpentine limb wraps itself around his waste, and begins to drag him back down into the inky depths. With a clatter, Imar drops his sword onto the stone floor, and the muscles of his arms, and shoulders swell, and bunch into steel bands as he fights the hellish pressure. His crimson eyes, wide and devoid of sanity, blaze with incandescent fire, and his lips draw back to expose his gleaming fangs as he snarls with utter rage. His body is stretched to the breaking point, and his entire attention is focused on the pain of tearing flesh and muscles. He is only dimly aware as more tentacles break the surface about him, and he growls with impotent rage as they move deep into the vast room.
Keerawn sees Imar then; the smooth, glass-like surface of the obsidian pool suddenly breaks to reveal gigantic tentacles writhing about the form of the drow. Biting her lip, the fae knows she has to do something, but is too afraid to get too close to the water lest she falls in and gets swallowed up forever, or the squid grab hold of her, too, just as it has Imar. Formulating a plan, digits seek to the folds of her cloak, withdrawing the sphere of prismatic energies. Focusing, the gift from a dryad begins to grow and bend into the shape of a fine bow. Fingers wrap about it, lifting the weapon to eye level. Her right hand’s slender fingers pull tightly on the ethereal string, left hand’s index digit sticking out and an eye closing as she tries to focus on her target- the gigantic sea monster. Energies charge up; finally, fingers abandon their hold on the electric string, letting it snap back to its regular position. In the air appears an arrow; shimmering in its multifaceted way, the fire and ice twirling about its shaft in a purple, blinding light. The magical weapon screeches as it pierces through the very air around it, the enchantment on the weapon affording it good precision in its target. The woman watches in awe as it makes its way, sparks showering in its wake.
Imar feels the release of tension from around his waste as Keerawn’s arrow strikes the tentacle which binds him, and with explosive force the vampiric drow launches him self from the pool, and into a forward roll. Reaching down, his fingers grasp the hilt of his sword, his sleek fast moving body clearing the flailing limbs, and he rises easily to his feet. Without pause, or even a glance to Keerawn, he turns and glides forward. With a flick of his wrist, Torment sings as the glittering blade swings down and imbeds itself deeply into cold, rubbery flesh. Tentacles seem to be everywhere, writhing, and whipping around the room erratically. The drow grunts with pain and staggers sideways as a thick appendage slams into his shoulder, and snake fast he turns, his blade howling as it slices the air, and chops into dense meat.
Keerawn winces slightly at Imar; it was almost as if she could feel his emotions- as if they were being arrayed from him, surrounding him in an aura of the multi-faceted colours that portray the deep feelings of hate, anger, pain, angst… The fae frowns. Still, she keeps to the task at hand. The drow seems to be doing a good job at defeating this creature, but she helps out as best she can. Again, right hand pulls tightly upon the shimmering string of the bow, straining, making it taut once more. Her index finger points the way, one eye now closing as she aims so very hard for the squid getting slaughtered. Its huge, single eye is what she makes to be the arrow’s target. Quickly, fingers abandon the ethereal string, the arrow appearing mid-air as it pierces its way towards the murky depth’s hell-spawned monster. The arrow shimmers in all its magical glory, electric pulses lighting the darkness that threatens to swallow up the Hollownians in this eerie room. The spell blade concentrates with all of her might, setting the arrow to explode- directly into a whole score of arrows similar in size, shape, and looks. They all are intent on their path, screeching as they soar through the stagnant air for the monster that threatens the fiancé of their drawer.
Imar ’s tall, lithe form seems to float as he dodges left and right, evading the flailing tentacles, and his blade is a blur as it slices in every direction. But the sinuous appendages seem indestructible, and for every severed piece of flesh, another emerges to take its place. The pool boils suddenly, and water spews up in a cascade of obsidian jewels. A heavy body slams against the underside of the pool, and an vast amorphous shape begins to squeeze through the gap. Imar, his attention momentarily distracted by the disturbance, is struck hard in the ribs, and is thrown like a rag doll across the room. With bone crushing force, his body impacts with a large and heavy chair. A flurry of arrows pour into the beast, and flesh and blood fountains in all directions. Yet the beast lives on, growing ever larger, and showing no sign of slowing down. The tall drow rises to his feet, and shaking himself, he stares at the emerging mass of flesh through eyes burning with fear and hatred. Moving with vampiric speed, he darts between the lethal limbs, and flexing his knees he launches himself high into the air. His booted feet land squarely on top of the writhing beast’s heavy body, and gripping torment’s hilt with both hands, he slams the sword straight down with all his strength. With a sickening crunch, the blade penetrates the bony cartilage of the creature’s skull, and disappears to the hilt into the soft pulp of its brain. The squid roars with fury and panic, and erupts into a frenzy of movement. Imar loses his footing as the beast’s body jerks violently beneath him, and he slides down one side of the massive body. Trying not to be crushed between the beast, and the edge of the pool, the drow grips tight to the hilt of his sword, and his boots scrabble to gain purchase on the slimy flesh.
Keerawn begins to worry, her thin brows drawing together and a frown marring her angelic visage deeply. Long gone is the stoic expression that allows no fear to show. Oh, no, it has been replaced by one of worriment for Imar. She will not- cannot- allow this giant squid to take her love under the surface of obsidian- not back to the place he just emerged from; she would sooner die. Breathing tersely, once more she pulls back on the ethereal string of the bow, letting loose a shower of arrows; and again, she does it, the fae firing one after another, furiously, the fear not wanting her any closer to the giant beast than she presently already is. There must be one hundred arrows soaring through the air now towards the squid, flame and ice that explode enveloping the quivers. Finally, determination to get her fiancé back sets in more so than ever before. With a loud scream of the Sky Tribe’s war cry, translucent-black wings are flapping furiously, the fae’s angelic visage contorting into a ferocious countenance. The pixie flies over to where Imar is, dodging over tentacles and twirling around them, hoping the squid is too distracted by the arrows beginning to embed and tear through its rubbery flesh, blackening it with burns. Something intervenes, though; the woman is struck by a tentacle just within a few feet of the dark-elf. The massive limb strikes her back, flinging her the whole distance of the cursed pool. She lands in the churning water, almost passing out from the hard smack of her cranium against a crashing wave. Liquid drenches her wings, rendering her unable to fly out of the water… It is a lost cause, as Keerawn is unable to swim- she has never learnt how. Eyelids droop, legs kicking tiredly as they try so very hard to keep her afloat but to no avail. The only thing that keeps her from drowning now is the tentacles crashing about, the odd time inadvertently lifting her small frame above the water so as she can gasp in choking breaths of the sweet air. She is too tired and groggy to panic; letting unconsciousness slowly take over her; the waves teasing her, the tentacles bruising her whole form; truly, this is Keerawn’s personal Hell.
Imar ignores the insanity of noise and carnage as dozens of arrows pierce the enormous bulk of the squid, and with absolute concentration, fights simply to stay alive. With a last violent heave, the dieing squid begins to descend back from whence it came, and Imar, with a supreme effort of will, manages to gain purchase once more. He tugs furiously on his sword, and bellows inaudible curses as the sucking flesh, and the bony scull refuse to give up their prize. Lower and lower the squid descends, the lashing tentacles withdrawing to whip dangerously around Imar’s head. The tall drow begins to twist the blade of Torment, and he grinds the hilt backwards and forwards, attempting to widen the hole. As he feels the cold touch of the obsidian waters licking at his ankles, he roars and heaves backwards. With shocking suddenness, his sword slips free, and with arms windmilling he staggers. As the sea monster slides beneath the surface of the water however, he steps unsteadily onto the stone wall surrounding the pool. Preparing to move away, his keen eyes spot the ragged form of Keerawn in the water, and instinct more than awareness drives forward. Powerful fingers grasp onto delicate wings, and before the fae can sucked down with the descending squid, the drow heaves her out of the water, and onto firm ground. His ebon body a mass of bruises, and bleeding welts, his blade swings to face the unfamilar women. His dark visage, gaunt and haggard is as hard as granite, and his gaze, fierce with the light of madness stares at Keerawn. His instinct is to attack, destroy, and then hide; hunt again and then destroy. Yet, his senses are in overload, familiar smells, and tastes, and the minds, so many minds. This isn’t right, something has changed. He flicks a glance around, and a memory seeps through the fog. His voice, when he speaks is harsh and commanding
“Who are you, and where am I?”.
Keerawn is drowning, put simply; the waves crashing over her, the thick tentacles smacking hard against her suddenly fragile form, ribs breaking and body a mass of bruises. She begins to give up- to just let the obsidian waters take her. All of a sudden, she feels hands pull on her wings, pulling her out of the water- a shriek pierces the air from betwixt her carmine lips at the sheer pain of it and the memory of Ryliistran tearing off Ciaran’s wings comes back full-force. Choking, coughing, spurting out water, she lies upon the cold stone by the edge of the pool where Imar dropped her. When finally her breath is regained, she looks blearily up at the dark, bleeding and bruised form confusedly. Blinking softly to fight back the tears beginning to well up in her sloe-eyes, she replies to the man in a hoarse voice, “Darling? It’s me, Keerawn… We’re in the pool-room of the Headquarters of Eldritch Cabal…” She stares at him; what is going on with her fiancé?
Imar doesn’t move a muscle, and his blade maintains its menacing vidual. But he is thinking now, the fog is clearing, and memory slowly rolls into his continues mind. The heat slowly drains from his crimson eyes, and a frown creases his forehead. Sanity washes over the vampire, soothing, and calming, and awareness and memory slowly bleeds into his thoughts Imar’s gaze is fixed on the fae “Keerawn! Is that you?” Automatically, he sends out a probing thought, surprisingly delicate, as it merely caresses the mind of the woman. “It’s been so long, but he knew you didn’t he?” The drow shakes his head and his lips twist into a self mocking smile “I knew you didn’t I? Before…” He falls silent for a moment, and his lips tighten with confused anger. “Is this another illusion? Is it real?” It’s different he thinks, somehow more substantial; and the voices, so many voices.
Keerawn continues to stare with wide eyes at Imar, her vision clearing and her throat getting better; easier to breathe and see. When he speaks she glimpses longer teethe than usual- surely she is just imagining it, though. Putting that at the back of her mind, she allows him to gently probe her mind. Still she lays on the ground, making no move to get up or anything; her ribs are hurting too bad and she knows not what else may be broken. Slowly, the fae nods, “Yes, Imar… This is Keerawn. No, Dubhfhaolchu- this is not an illusion. I came here to get you, darling- the time frame you gave me is up. It was time, so I did as I promised you, and promised myself.” She looks down briefly at the engagement ring upon her finger, smiling faintly; it gives her comfort. Then back up to Imar her gaze goes, a questioning look, “Who’s ‘he’? And yes, you knew me… You still do, do you not?”
Imar lowers the sword tip away from Keerawn, and then allowing his fingers to loosen their death grip, the blade drops uselessly onto the stone floor. His gaze softens, and he steps toward Keerawn’s near prone form. He lowers himself to his knees and for a long moment, he simply gazes at the beautiful fae. Finally he reaches out and strokes the soft curve of her lovely face, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think to see you ever again Keer. You are as beautiful as I remember”
Keerawn sighs in relief as Imar finally drops his sword and moves towards her. She winces as he strokes her cheek- her jaw is sore from getting smacked across the face by the end of a tentacle, which gave her a pretty deep scratch. She smiles throughout, though. Using weary arms she raises herself, teeth gritting and eyes squinting as it jars the pain in her side from her broken ribs. Sitting up now, breathing shallowly, the fae kisses the closest part of Imar to her face before saying, “I never thought I would see you either, love… I… You…. Had me worried there, for a minute- thought you were someone else when you did not recognize me.” She looks over his form, “Are you ok?”
Imar is still lost in the sheer bliss of seeing Keerawn’s face again, and touching her warm flesh. Her words at that moment mean little, but the sweet tones fill his soul with a deep calm, and an all consuming pleasure which he never thought to feel again. The vampiric drow finally notices the wounds on the fae’s visage, and the awkward posture in which she holds herself. “Me? He says confused “I am well enough love “His gentle fingers trace the livid bruise on the woman’s jaw, and a frown of concern creases his forehead “We can talk about me later, but you are badly hurt, I shall take you out of here, and get you a healer.”
Keerawn sighs softly and waves a hand in front of her, “No need, love.. I can heal, remember?” Closing her eyes, that same hand comes to lay gently on her side; she waits…. But nothing happens. Opening her eyes widely, frownly deeply, she presses that hand to Imar now. Chanting, closing her eyes, concentrating, yelling eventually- all through this, nothing happens… Not even the faintest of glows. Staring at Imar, she begins to quiver- was it just her healing abilities that are gone? “Imar… What happened to me?” A sudden thought pops into her voice- Imar’s voice from before he entered the pool: ‘none escape its clutches without paying a price. It gives you what you what you desire, and takes what you need’. Damn.. That was it. It one last, desperate attempt, the hand goes to lay on the ground. Fiercely she thinks of a rose- nothing grows. Not even the tiniest of sprouts. Sighing, the fae nods to Imar, “Aye, love… Guess we’d better go- it seems I cannae heal anymore. Or do anything, for that matter..” she mutters the last bit as she struggles to get up.
Imar watches Keerawn’s efforts to heal her self, and he closes his eyes to shut away the growing despair and fury which blazes in their crimson depths. He takes a deep breath, and sighing he opens them again. His gaze drifts to the pool “Aye love, it takes what you need, and gives what you desire.” He shakes his head in self contempt “Forgive me Keer” Without a word, the drow grasps his sword, and re sheaths it. Then, ignoring his own pain, he collects Keerawn up into his strong, yet gentle arms, and kissing her lightly on the lips, he turns toward the exit “It’s time we left this benighted building my love.”