RP:It's a Dark, Dark, Dark World

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopisis: Shortly after escaping/being freed from Laezila's creepy keep, Krice finds himself outside House D'Artes at the exact moment Gevurah leaves the estate with her entourage. One of her men recognizes that Krice fits the description of a human combatant who fought for the elves and slaughtered drow during the recent battle in Sage Forest. Gevurah interrogates Krice, then arrests him. Krice fights back, killing one of her guard and maiming another, but Gevurah's voodoo-esque spell brings him to his knees. In a final act of defiance, Krice throws his katana at her chest,and although the priestess deflects the attack, he does draw blood from her hand. Krice is taken to the D'Artes dungeons, though not without putting up even more fight. Meanwhile, Lita has sent her hellhound Chio in search of Krice, and the hound finds Krice just as he is dragged into House D'Artes.

Reverent Path

Krice had been Laezila's captive for the better part of ten days, yet here he was, meandering freely through the Underdark; clean-shaven and seemingly none too worse for wear. A cut spanned most of his cheek from ear to mouth corner but it looked like it was healing, at least sealed, and his hair was damp, indicating along with his fresh scent that he had recently bathed. No other injuries were visible on the warrior, dressed in silk trousers and a long-sleeved silk shirt as he was, clothes not his own. Had he escaped, or was he set free? As much was not clear, but as he ventured through the din of the Underdark, he walked slightly stiffly but with no visible weakness; to show weakness down here was to die. Intermittently, vampires seemed drawn to the warrior's scent, his pure blood alluring, even crisper given that broken skin of his cheek - or perhaps there were other injuries concealed from the eye but apparent to keen senses of smell? Whatever the case, Krice did his best not to engage them, his sword held down at his side - in his right hand, in a sheathed slightly too big and straight for its narrow, curved blade - not brandished in any aggressive fashion. A black chain was around his neck, but its accompanying pendant or gem was hidden behind his shirt. Krice moved as inconspicuously as possible, especially past The First House, though he was practically pasty pale in comparison to all the dark-skinned creatures who lurked here.

The D’Artes estate’s double doors crack open. Only one door glides outwards at a lethargic pace. The interior of the estate is darker than the dimly lit path on which Krice finds himself. Those with infravision would see an entourage of figures, all of drow height, creep out of the ruling family’s stronghold. Five male bodies, with one female at their center that is marked by a small bustle which gives Gevurah’s silhouette the impression of a drider. But those without the benefit of heat vision would see shadows undulating in the darkness -- soundless movement, and sense the unmistakable presence of those who would rarely wish to do you well. One of Gevurah’s rogues, the scout trained to look at every face and turn every corner, spies Krice in the pale light of faerie fire and slips towards his mistress to report what his eyes spy. He could be mistaken, but he believes this man fits the description of the grey-haired human who fought in Sage during the battle with the elves. Neither the scout nor Gevurah knows that Laezila and Krice are well acquainted, but the scout recalls that the grey-haired man, who may or may not be this one, fought on behalf of the elves. Gevurah signals in the darkness, her hands creating fluid patterns of red, blue, and yellow in the heat-seeking sights of her guard. They quickly move to encircle Krice, but keep a distance. If the man does not immediately attack, Gevurah penetrates the perimeter to address Krice herself in common tongue. “Tell me who you are.” Her accent over enunciates consonants and shortens vowels in line with the phonetics of the drow tongue. Her voice, rich and resonant, belongs in a temple.

Krice did not have heat-vision, or anything like it, but he was in possession of eyesight greater than other humans who weren't magically - or otherwise unnaturally - altered; He could see in the dark, make out shapes and figures and corners and straight pathways, but details were hit or miss dependent on the details themselves. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the House D'Artes doors had opened, less oblivious to the presence of the shadows that maneuvered to encircle him. The warrior slowed to a halt, kept his blade low and down at his side, though the appearance of these would-be foes compelled him to grip the hilt of his katana with his left hand, across-the-body readiness to withdraw it. Gilded eyes, turned liver-red in the dark, shifted from one face to the other, regarding only those immediately in front of him; his hearing was attuned to the guards at his back. With Gevurah's emergence through the quintet, the silver-haired man's focus diverted, aligned with near-perfect steadiness on the face of the imposing woman. Krice lifted his chin slightly as she commanded his identity. The stalwart warrior pushed forth the smooth tones of his own voice in something other than the direct answer sought by the matron: " Tell me who's asking."

Gevurah slowly circles Krice. Her eyes scan his frame for any objects that obstruct his heat signature, thus indicating hidden weapons. Her guard stand at the ready, but do not advance without the First Daughter’s instruction. Gevurah doesn’t seem to believe that Krice will strike her just yet — call it a predator’s instinct. She indulges his insolence with a matter-of-fact response. “Gevurah D’Artes, First Daughter of House D’Artes, the ruling family of this very city which you deemed a fit place for a holiday.” Her head cants in mock thoughtfulness to the side; her eyes focus on his cut cheek. “A bad choice, hm? You surfacers make a habit of blunders.” Her head rights itself, spine stiffens straight and tall. Her lips curl into an impatient, wicked sneer. “So who are -you-.”

Krice wore no hidden weapons, or anything else that would block his heat signature from Gevurah's view; his left arm was hotter around the bicep than the rest of the limb, indicating exacerbated injury likely from being stretched across his body to hold that katana hilt. House D'Artes... He had heard stories. -Everyone- had heard stories. As the matron humoured him with an answer, he listened, respectful in his attentiveness. Her taunts did little to sway him to either submission or aggression, for he was far too focused in the situation that developed around him to engage in trash talk. He gave the name, " Grey," and followed it with the title of, " Warrior of The Surface, and... Producer of bad pick-up lines." Red eyes shifted in his head, leaving Gevurah for only a moment to ensure that his senses were accurately telling him of the location of her five guardsmen. Adrenaline kept him aware in spite of his lethargy, kept his senses relatively accurate, and smoothly, his gaze returned to the dark-skinned face of the matron.

Gevurah‘s face scrunches in confusion at the common tongue phrase ‘pick-up lines.’ She never had a need to learn that translation, and she has no idea what he produces badly. “Alright, Grey.” Having come from Laezila’s company, Krice may notice the ways in which the two drow women differ. Laezila typically dresses provocatively, and isn’t afraid to use her sexuality for personal gain. For Gevurah, sexuality isn’t in her top ten list of favorite weapons, and she dresses conservatively by drow standards, preferring to cloak herself in dark, rich textiles and jewelry rather than in the allure of her gender. “Why are you here.” She speaks questions like statements, like a woman accustomed to being given everything upon demand.

Krice 's fingers were loose and motionless around the hilt of his katana, which remained dormant - for now - in its atypical sheath. When Gevurah spoke, she commanded his attention, though whether that was due to her naturally commanding manner, or his inherent attentiveness on potential trouble-causers remained unclear. In response to the woman's secondary statement-question, he opted to take a line from something she had said only a moment ago. " Holidaying." Despite the quips, he harboured no clear amusement or humour; this was a situation where amusement had no place. " I've never before been to a place like this."

Gevurah grins darkly at Krice’s response. She doesn’t answer right away, and Krice’s keen ears may detect the hiss of vipers. Something hidden writhes beneath the priestess’s piwafwi at her hip. “I heard it through the spiderweb that you have a more personal reason to be here.” If this is even the right man, but free humans are such a rare sight in Trist’oth that she’s confident enough to bluff. Her hands slips into her small, priestess satchel and withdraws crushed wolf’s whiskers, a thorny, dry weed which grows in the Underdark. She mutters a drow phrase, inhales the substance in each nostril, then sniffs the air in Krice’s direction. Her enhanced sense of smell, thanks to the regent and spell, picks up on various scents, but she has never performed this spell in Laezila’s company and thus she does not recognize the matron’s scent. She does, however, recognize the bath scents as being distinctly drow, suggesting that Krice has recently bathed down here, and not in some squalid inn, but at a fancy estate. Curious.

Krice briefly wanted to listen to that spiderweb, to glean what other secrets it might have had to share. but brief meant fleeting meant his mind had already moved on by the time he'd consciously become aware of spiderweb-centric thoughts. As Gevurah reached down to retrieve and subsequently inhale that weed, he watched her actions closely; the lowering of her hand, the lifting of the weed, the subtle flare of her nostrils as plant grains filled her olfactory. These were details difficult for him to see in such darkness, but he managed. Curiosity filtered into his guarded gaze as he looked on. Gevurah's enhanced senses would allow her to detect not only those rich, fancy bath scents, but also broken skin, wounds that were cleaned when he bathed but still weeped in some places where flesh was cut deeper. In response to the grinning matron's comment, Krice broke his silence to usher forth a quizzical, " Why ask if you think you know?"

“Rumors are an ugly thing to spread,” she replies smartly. “Your shiftiness only confirms my suspicions, Grey. But perhaps you are reluctant to speak in such a public setting. I could host you in my home.” She waves grandly to the D’Artes estate behind her. “If that would free your tongue.” Her attempt at a welcoming smiles yields something horrid and grim. It’s entirely possible the terrible effect was intentional, not accidental. Gevurah rarely plays with her food, but humans sometimes provoke her fun side (this is her fun side, congrats?) They don’t provoke her blind racism (like elves or half breeds), or threaten her with their great power (like shadow gnomes and dragons). Thus, she can tease a little, and stall on the inevitable drop of the guillotine.

Krice glanced northward, regarding the large D'Artes estate through the memory of that horrific smile. The warrior didn't appear too worried, but something about his demeanour changed, something a little more defensive coming to the surface. When he returned his attention to Gevurah, it was with a smoothly-spoken suggestion that he opted out of entering her house. " It's beautiful, but I prefer the street. You need only tell me what you've heard - I'll truthfully confirm or deny it." He was telling the truth, though whether or not a drow matron would trust the tongue of a human remained to be seen.

Gevurah plays the game, curious to see how this human ticks. Humans are the most versatile in character when it comes to the surfacers, that’s for certain. “That you are sympathetic to the elves, and slaughtered drow during the recent battle in Sage Forest.” One of her guards sputters a percussive laugh. He seems to understand where this game will ultimately end no matter what Krice says. He slides his thumb along his dagger in eager anticipation.

Krice paid little mind to the vocal guard, instead keeping his visual focus steadfast on Gevurah's face. As he had pledged, the man answered her honestly. " I'm sympathetic to those who are unjustly attacked." Rumour one. " And yeah, I killed a few drow who attacked me first." Squinting, the man opted to take the potential tension out of the encounter by instead asking something that genuinely was baffling him. " How long ago was that, anyway?" He queried, even glancing toward that bloodthirsty vocal drow as if -he- would have an answer. Then quieter, more to himself than to anyone else, " Feels like I've been down here forever..."

Gevurah rolls her eyes to that whole ‘those who are attacked unjustly’ nonsense. Pelarin, Gheneroc, now Grey. Lord Vakmatharas, spare her this noble sentimentality garbage. Justice has nothing to do with war and imperialism. Don’t they understand? Krice may as well be speaking preklek. She signals in the fluid, hot-glowing sign language of the drow. Through the dance of her hand she instructs her men to arrest him, but the warrior changes the subject and unknowingly buys himself more time. She gestures for her men to halt. “You smell like you’ve been down here forever. Where’d you take that bath.”

Krice 's fingers tightened around the hilt of his katana, ready to draw it upon the approach of Gevurah's men. When they ceased their approach, however, he did not relax his grip but -did- return his gaze to the woman herself. Where did he take that bath? He seemed perplexed by the question but answered it all the same. " Some house... I don't know what it's called."

Gevurah snorts at Grey’s lippy response. She starts to tire of this dance — two steps forward, one step back. She glances at the lit obelisk across town, Adnon d’Chath and tells by its light that she has enough time to go one more round with this sassy man. “Grey. Jim. Bob. Jane. Yes, drow names are complex in comparison to human names. But try harder. What was the given name of your host.”

Krice smirked wryly at Gevurah's retort and lifted his chin, inhaling less than halfway to exhale a sigh. " Could hardly call them hosts. About as bloodthirsty as your lot, though - I'd wager to guess..." He trailed off and directed his gaze out across faces of the guards at his left. " If we're done with Twenty Questions, I'd like to continue on my way." Here, he returned his focus to the drow matron's face, visible to his keen eyes in the darkness, but only just; his own harboured an expression not of submission, but of defiance. He was on his way out when they encountered one another, and he fully intended to accomplish that goal.

“You lost the wager.” Her hand dances in the air and her men close ranks. They draw their swords and advance slowly. Their circle squeezes tightly and slowly on Krice, passing Gevurah so that she falls outside the circle. Their five sword points seek to pinion this little bird and cage him, ideally with some struggle and a little blood, but if Krice goes willingly they won’t draw unnecessary blood. Hopefully Krice puts up a fight. They like to fight. But they don’t jump straight away into a brawl, because their charge, Gevurah, prefers to preserve a chance to flex her own muscles. The guards are really there primarily as a show of force, and secondarily as a back-up. The High Priestess of Vakmatharas can take care of herself and her business just fine. As the men advance, her hands work in tense, ritualistic formations before her chest as she invokes the will of the God of Death. She inhales sharply, taking in Krice’s scent, and holds it in her lungs as she rakes a hand over her right leg from calf to mid-thigh. The magic should cause a raking sensation in the same trajectory on Krice’s right leg. She repeats the breath and clawing on her left leg; Krice should feel a repeat of the magical attack on his left leg. If he has high defenses to magic, he’ll feel no more than a searing pain. If his magic defenses are low, he may lose control of his legs. They don’t break or bleed, but they would stop cooperating with his brain for now. And of course there is a spectrum of effects in between those two extremes. Most humans would struggle with intermittently obedient legs - sometimes responding to commands, sometimes short-circuiting. The attack is neurological at its base.

Krice didn't think such a bold request would be taken well, so as the drow were once again directed to advance upon him, he twisted his wrist to slowly withdraw his katana from its borrowed sheath. Gevurah's magic-invoking gestures drew his eye and he tried to watch them for as long as possible, but her five guardsmen ensured that such a task was impossible. As they neared, their swords drawn and pointed, he waited until they were within reach of his own. Despite his injured state, despite the darkness that swirled around him, the warrior moved with speed below a vampire but above a human; he pivoted in place and pulled his sword free, swiping its blade at the steel cage that sought to enclose him. His intention was to move the other swords to the side, creating enough of an opening that, when he spun into his momentum to swing his katana again, he'd be able to catch the two guards behind him in the middle of their recovery. Muscle concealed by silk tensed and contorted to convey the power of his attack, extended forward in a tight arc in direct line with the two dark-skinned throats immediately in its path; discomfort was evident through Krice's expression of intense focus, indicating effort under strain. Whether or not his assault found its mark, the silver-haired man was felled by Gevurah's first magical gesture, her voodoo-esque attack first buckling his right knee, and then causing both to fail beneath him. He fell to the ground with a grunt, a wince, and a gasp as domino-pains filtered up through his body, touching the fractured ribs in his right side, the healing gashes on the left of his abdomen, and the bite punctures in his left arm. On hands and knees, his legs tingling with the sensation of a strange, cold fire, Krice opted not to attack the drow guardsmen further, but rather, to lose his sword in an attempt to save his legs. He twisted at the waist, turned his katana into a reverse-grip in his left palm, and then with what might remained in his injured body, volley the curved weapon in a direct horizontal trajectory for Gevurah's chest. If he could injure her grievously enough to break her concentration, then he'd be free of her spell."

Gevurah watches Krice behead one of her guards and feels nothing. The second guard defends his throat by sacrificing his shoulder, taking a deep gash in the connective tissue of the join which rends the arm useless. Better than rending his throat useless, eh? Krice is faster than the entourage expected. If it weren’t for Gevurah’s interventon, the grey-haired warrior would likely have disposed of more than half the guard, and escaped before the survivors figured out how to counterattack such speed. But then Krice falls. Gevurah feels a warmth spread through her chest and gut as she relishes every gasp, grunt, wince, sputter. It’s like warm milk to a kitty. A bubble bath after a long day (for the sane). This moment right here, where she inflicts pain onto another person, this is what she lives for. It rouses her deep-seated sadism — the barbarism of her race and upbringing. Being a noble forces upon her the need to be civil, and at times even diplomatic (unthinkable), but in this moment she frees herself of all that wine-and-dine drivel and gets to be her true self — and joy! It is liberating! A deep, resonant cackle peals from her throat, rising in pitch as it progresses. It reaches its climax, the highest, shrillest laughter her small, ebon frame can manage, just as Krice’s sword hurtles through the air at her chest. Thank Vakmatharas for decades of training on D’Artes coins, because before Gevurah has even figured out what’s happened, her instincts have thwarted the katana to the side with the adamantite handle of her viper-headed whip. A gift from Daath (thanks!) The katana slashes the back of her hand badly before clattering on the stone ground by her feet. The cut bleeds profusely. Though Krice succeeds in breaking her concentration and relieving his legs, the guards have already pounced on Krice. They take full advantage of his unarmed and weakened state and layer on punch and kick after elbow and even a headbutt, hoping to subdue him. Two already use rope and metal cuffs to try and bind him. Gevurah grabs Krice’s katana and holds it behind her back. It weighs more than she expected and its metal tip scrapes against the stone. She would never be able to wield it as a weapon. The scrape of metal trails her, announcing her stalking advance. Her men restrain Krice as best they can (hopefully with rope and cuffs). “Don’t kill him. The bastard is already falling apart,” the priestess growls. From an arm’s length away, she extends an arm to smear the bloody back of her hand against Krice’s eyes. “Take him away.”

Krice may be damaged, wounded, bleeding, and on the north side of the grave, but he still fought to retain his freedom. His legs trembled beneath him as he tried to rise, but the remaining guards were already upon him, seemingly in an instant, and he was forced back into defensive mode; you couldn't attack or win or escape if offensive actions were not allowed. He ducked under blows, took them against his arms to protect his head, but before long, his wounded body could take no more of the punishment and an unwittingly well-placed kick to his right side stunned the warrior and he went down, onto his belly, wheezing. Somewhere in the distance of his stressed mind played the song of steel on stone and he knew that it was his. With his face pressed into the ground, he tensed against the manhandling guardsmen who fought to position his arms in such a way as to bind them, and squinted through the darkness at the woman who advanced, dragging--dragging! The bitch--his sword behind her. In the black of the Trist'Oth, Krice saw the blur of a hand close in on his face and he pulled his head back, but since he was being restrained, he didn't get far. Gevurah smeared her blood across his eyes, which closed tight beneath the touch - how revolting - and then, uncharacteristically, he curled his tongue and spat at her feet, the fire of malice burning in his eyes; he was hardly the respectful, civil man he had been but a moment prior.

Gevurah mirrors Krice’s barbaric glare. She wipes her spit-covered foot on his pants then steps away, retreating to her estate. Three guards take the beaten Krice to the D’Artes dungeons. The fourth cradles his shoulder and seeks a healer in the sprawling mansion. The fifth lies dead. Servants leave the estate to retrieve his valuables, but otherwise the body is not reclaimed. He disgraced the house. He will not be remembered.

Krice actually felt some loathing for Gevurah, a feeling that wasn't entirely familiar to him, as he watched her walk off. The guards hauled him to his feet, which he struggled to stay on, but in-between managing to walk and collapsing from that strange spell Gevurah performed on his legs, the warrior pushed back against the guards who escorted him, testing their grips with his waning strength. He didn't want to go into the estate, clearly, for his efforts were more forceful the closer they got.

Gevurah cannot believe Grey is still struggling and fighting for his freedom. Can he not see how futile it is? He’s got tenacity, she’ll give him that much — well, that and a dark cell in a scary place. She turns within the frame of the estate’s double-breasted doors and glares at the stubborn human. From her bag she fetches an ice cap mushroom, sourced from Frostmaw, and grinds it in her palm so that its oil seeps out. She coats her hand in the oil as she recites a prayer. Leaving the katana inside the door frame, she approaches Krice and touches his exposed cheek with the mushroom oil. If her touch lands, and her guards aid her goal, the heat will be sucked from Krice’s body sending him into severe hypothermia. The effect does not require her concentration, but will subside within 20 minutes — plenty of time to get him behind iron bars. If he goes cold, she enjoys his suffering for a moment before turning back into the estate, fetching his katana, and cleaning herself up before paying him a visit.

Krice made rigid his legs as the guards stopped and awaited Gevurah's arrival. He had been distracted through her preparation of that mushroom so he didn't see her do it. When she neared enough to place the resultant oils against his cheek, he lashed out with his left leg, attempting to kick - or knee - her in the stomach; he moved with enough force to at least jostle one or two of the guardsmen, but not enough that they would be drawn from the place where they halted.

Krice really is a sucker for punishment. She retrieves from her hip the same whip which deflected his katana. Her hand still bleeds, but she has enough hate in her to power through the pain and discomfort. Seven live vipers extend from the whip’s adamantite handle. They hiss in Krice’s direction and lick the air, hoping to taste fear. They are disappointed, but soon they’ll feast upon a greater delicacy: real flesh. Gevurah itches to let them have at it, but as a noble with ambitions, she has better uses for Krice alive. He hates her, and she hates him right back, but she can’t act on impulse now. She shakes with her hate, and takes a deep breath to try and calm herself. “Listen, human,” she snaps the ‘n’ harshly. “These vipers -will- bite you at my command. You are already weak. I do not wish to kill you yet, but if you force my hand, so be it. You choose: a cell, or an dose of poison which in your current condition may very well be lethal. It is impossible to know what you can currently tolerate. Choose.”

Krice didn't go -completely- still when Gevurah brandished her viper-headed whip his way, but he -did- opt to stuggle a little less. He was shaking as well, not from anger or hatred, but from exhaustion and pain. His features were drawn and he could barely keep his eyes open; his attempt to kick Gevurah may very well have been the last effort he had in him. Halfway through Gevurah's ultimatum, his head drooped and he sagged in the arms of his guardsmen escort, limp and unconscious at last.

Chio followed the scent of the warrior's blood as it grew thicker. The hound was smart enough to keep out of sight as much as possible, sticking to the cavern walls and the shadows, keeping quiet. The few looks he might have gotten from passerby were quickly dismissed. He padded past people looking for all the world like he belonged there. On a mission, but perhaps in no real hurry. The mutt's pace quickened as the scent of the warrior's blood grew stronger. Through its pale left eye it could make out distinct shapes in the darkness; a figure lying still in his path. He drew closer to the figure, lips pulled away from its teeth in a snarl. Looking up between hunched shoulders, one eye a golden yellow and the other an ethereal pale blue, the dog caught sight of the warrior being dragged through a set of doors. Its snarl was low and guttural, more a fierce warning as it took a tentative step forwards.