RP:Learning About D'Artes

From HollowWiki

Part of the Surface Tension Arc



Synopisis: Nymh visits Krice in the D'Artes dungeons again. The warrior is feeling marginally stronger, and begins to ask questions about the estate, the number of soldiers, the nobles -- anything that can help him escape. Nymh warns Krice of how dangerous it is, and how unlikely it is to escape the First House. Krice discovers that Nymh was not captured, like him, but born into slavery. Krice also learns about the crulty of D'Artes first hand when the slavers attack Nymh for cleaning too close to the prisoner, and a poisoned bolt lands inside Krice's cell.


D'Artes Dungeons

Krice was sitting up the next time Nymh saw him, hunched against a wall with his legs straightened out, his right hand down on the ground to keep his body upright, and his left arm curled across his chest; that hand was pressed around his right lower ribs, as if to hold them in place. The silver-haired man was still exhausted and terribly injured, and his mouth harboured signs of more blood-vomiting that he'd done during Nymh's absence, not to mention the older blood smeared across his eyes. Despite all this, at least he was awake, though barely, and intermittently cast his gaze over to the drow standing guard. Bastard.


Nymh was to scrub yet again, furthering the torture of his knees, which he secretly healed as time went on. Gevurah had thought to give him a mercy by doing so for him, not knowing the full extent of his musical magic. Then again, who could blame her? The ways of the Bae'qeshel had died before worship of the spider queen had fallen. The only reason Nymh could learn it so was likely because of his wood elf mixed heritage, which he was so despised for. When he came back across Krice's cell, a quiet whistling keeping the guard just a little bit distracted, he'd take in the sight of the man. He was at least awake, and looking... better, he supposed. Better than dead, at least. "I still haven't had a chance to contact Emilia." Hushed whispers, lost in the darkness beyond Krice's ears. Nymh knew how to control his voice, well. "I can't heal you, for whatever reason. I'm guessing you're cursed. You'd best heal quickly, if you want a chance at escape." At least he was still thinking of chances. He'd thought the man would be dead by now, honestly.


Krice had drifted into a light slumber in the moments preceding Nymh's return, but when he spoke, the warrior was drawn from that momentary rest. His head lulled forward, away from the wall, with only a little jolt but it was enough to cause him discomfort. He winced, pressing his hand more firmly - but tentatively - over his right side. Crimson eyes were droopy as they stared across at the dark face in front of them, nearly hidden in the lightless room, even to -his- sight. The first thing Krice said was a hoarse, " I have to concentrate." His sentences were purposely kept short, breathless, to try accommodate his broken ribs. " You can heal me... In a second. But first..." The warrior tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and sent a barely-open glare at the distracted guard. Speaking again, Krice asked of Nymh, " Can he hear us?"


Nymh looked to the guard, and back to Krice. "He's seeing something very pleasant, right now. From the tent in his trousers, and the twitch in his eye, I'd guess he's dominating a matron with a gag and a heated rod." He shook his head. "I would not risk speaking to you if the odds of getting away with it weren't in my favor. Still, keep your voice down. Even a strong daydream is yet only a daydream."


Krice 's lips curled into a smirk and he released a chuckle, but the sound was airy and tense, and he grimaced immediately afterward. Forgoing the amusement borne of Nymh's creative mental manipulation, the warrior focused anew on the drow slave, remaining right where he was, rigid and uncomfortable. " Tell me about this place," said the silver-haired man, speaking quietly. Speaking any -louder- wasn't possible for him right now, anyway, given his injuries. " How many guards... How big is it... What's this magic barrier..."


Nymh sighed for that. "Make me the harbinger of bad news, won't you. This is the house D'artes, my friend... first house of Trist'oth, and by leaps and bounds the most powerful. One word for the defenses of this house? Without peer. I am fortunate to be the only Bae'qeshel bard in existence, for my manipulations are able to operate under the defensive enchantments. Woe if I'm found out for the truth of my abilities. We sit upon no less than fifteen spears of the earth, and the enormity of the slave army, and the warriors, magi, and priests dedicated to this house is daunting. They are prepared, at all times, to make war upon their neighbors, and anyone else who rouses their ire. The patron of this house is the lich that ended the Spider Queen's reign, though it is the matron Gevurah that see's to most of the houses details these days. I hear he is in seclusion, and thank all the gods above for it. I'd not be singing another day if he were tending to the slaves."


Krice struggled to keep his features neutral as Nymh spoke, not because he was the 'harbinger of bad news', but because of the pain in his body. Typically, it would be relatively easy for him to mentally deaden some of that pain, but right now, so weak as he was, and in so foreign a territory, he struggled. By the time Nymh reached the end of his explanatory answer, the warrior understood just how grim his situation was. If he had any thoughts about the 'lich' of which Nymh spoke, he did not show as much. Instead, Krice asked, " Tell me about Gevurah."


Nymh looked to him. "Your average entitled, egotistical, powerful matron priestess of Vakmathras. Usually keeps a contingent of assassins about her person, and a snake whip at her side. Delights in cruelty, and mind games. She's good at what she does, and is as dangerous as a drowess gets."


Krice studied Nymh's face with an intense and attentive stare, despite himself. " Any weaknesses?"


Nymh smiled. "They have too many slaves, don't expect any of them to have the talents I have. That's the only one I've been able to exploit. I can get out into the underdark, which is why I've been able to contact your friend, Emilia. She's hidden in a safe spot I made before I was bought by D'artes. I'll tell you how to find it, in case you ever get the chance... if you have friends willing to brave such dangers for you, it might save your life." He'd tell him of the old wizards lab, hidden beneath the stones in Trist'oth. It had once belonged to a minor wizard, and wizards were always wont to create secret places for their learning. This one had been forgotten when the wizard was murdered, and only Nymh had been able to find it, due to his ability to 'sound out' the hollow beneath the rocks.


Krice as before was ever attentive when Nymh gave him directions to Emilia's location. It wouldn't help -him- to know that, but perhaps it could help others. He nodded, carefully, to show that he had accepted and understood the drow slave's words, before changing the topic to ask a quieter, " Who sold you to D'Artes? How were you captured?"


Nymh shook his head. "I wasn't captured. I'm a half breed. I was born into slavery. I've been a slave my entire life. Was going to sell for a pretty penny for the minor house I belonged to, too, until Gevurah showed up and bought me with no thought to the auction. Not as though anyone could tell her 'no'."


Krice 's head lowered following Nymh's reply and he adopted a more curious expression - which shifted to guarded sympathy. To be born into slavery... Whatever his thoughts on the matter, the warrior kept them to himself. " I see," was his only answer, before he asked another question about the D'Artes' method of operation. " Where do they store..." Wince. He coughed, once, the sound wet and telling of more blood somewhere inside of him. He grimaced but managed to focus enough to ask his next question. " The weapons... Where do they keep the weapons of their prisoners?"


Nymh shook his head. "I don't know, but I might be able to find out. It'll be tricky. I'm not sure who has the knowledge, and the more people I have to go through to find it, the riskier it is." He paused, wondering. He had friends among the slaves, certainly, but there were many weak willed guards he could use.


Krice shook his head at Nymh's offer to 'find out' the answer to his question, followed by a quiet, " No, don't worry about it." There was a span of silence during which time the silver-haired man mulled over the words shared with him, digesting the information and storing it away for later use. Blood oozed from the left corner of his mouth and he lifted his left hand off his broken ribs to wipe the cuff of his sleeve against it, discreetly smearing away the sanguine liquid. After a period of time, the man asked, " Are we allowed to have water?"


Nymh would look towards the guard again warily, before turning back. "You should have it, but it's not uncommon for the guards to 'forget'. For a week or two." He'd move a rock, and pull out a flask of water, sliding it to Krice under the bars. That was for his needs, but he didn't doubt that the surfacer needed it more at the moment, and it was looking like he might actually have a chance to survive.


Krice 's eyes seemed to gain a new focal intensity when Nymh revealed that flask of water. He tried not to move as it was slid across the floor toward him, but in the end, he needed to stretch a little to reach it. Using his left hand, the right arm still rigid with hand-to-floor to keep him as still as possible, the man extended his reach and took up the flask, bringing it to his lap so that those same fingers could unscrew the top whilst the bottom rested on his left thigh. " I need more than this," he whispered, hoarsely, casting a glance in Nymh's direction whilst lifting that flask to his lips. " Can you get some more?" Would Nymh be able to replenish his small supply of water, at least for -himself-, if Krice drank what was currently in the flask?


Nymh bit his lip. "I can steal from the troughs. I even make my own flasks, hide them here and there." He'd been at this for a long time. Usually, he was able to make friends among other slaves, though Rauva had ruined those prospects for him. He nodded. "I'm scrubbing the floors. I can bring a fresh bucket, cleaned, right now, though I can't fit it through the bars." He could refill the flask from it, though. It was good to be on cleaning duties, though he'd rather be playing his music, like he used to.


Krice hovered the flask beneath his lips as he listened to Nymh, ready to speak further; during this time, he was able to smell that the liquid in that flask was, indeed, water. Before he took a swig, he said of the drow slave, " Don't do it if it's too dangerous." Those words were concluded by the warrior lifting up the flask and taking a mouthful of water, which he swished around from cheek to cheek first. After rinsing through the taste of blood and spitting it out beside him, Krice drank mouthful after mouthful of water until the flask was empty. As he pressed his lips together and felt the moistness return to his mouth and throat, he replaced the stopper and slid the flask over to Nymh once more.


Nymh shook his head. "Not risky. They want me to get this place clean, as much as they want to destroy my knees and back." He'd take the bucket with him, hiding the flask once more, and go to the guard, telling him he was refilling the bucket. The guard waved him on by, and within minutes, he would be back, the bucket filled with clean water. He'd watch the guard carefully, whistling a seemingly harmless tune to himself, before refilling the flask and handing it to Krice anew.


Krice didn't know how much time they had before Gevurah or less-malleable guardsmen would wander down into the dungeons, so when Nymh returned and gave him that refilled flask, he gladly took it and began to drink. He finished the second helping of water in much the same fashion as the first, and when he was done, he slid the flask over to Nymh and murmured a quiet, " Thanks." Following that, he asked of the slave. " One last question..." A wheezing breath. His damn ribs were hurting, and his lung on that side was aflame. " Do you know what they want with me?" Was there something specific, or was Krice simply another poor soul in the wrong place at the wrong time?


Nymh had no answer to give. "Sorry, but hell if I know." He'd refill the flask once more, and slide it to Krice. "Hide it under the straw. You might need it." He'd return to washing again, and just in time. The guard came, and said for him to wash further away from the prisoner, delivering a sturdy kick to Nymh's ribs. "Yes... sir. Right away." He'd scurry off away from Krice, washing, washing, scrubbing the grimy floors.


Krice seemed bemused by the return of the flask, but with Nymh's instruction, it made sense. He reached for it and quickly pulled it back behind him as that guard came in, the movement causing him discomfort. When Nymh was kicked by that guard for so mild a reason as 'cleaning too close' to him, the silver-haired man lifted his gaze and, in the darkness, locked red eyes on red to accentuate the promise of his warning. " You're lucky I'm locked in here."


Nymh winced as Krice spoke to the guard, who looked at him with dangerous eyes. He started whistling, hoping to calm the guard before he decided to poison Krice with a bolt, which earned another kick from the incensed guard. "Enough with your whistling, half breed! If I hear it again, you'll wish you were born without a tongue." Well, damnit. These little meetings just got that much harder. You did note that the guard was no longer paying attention to Krice, and looked the man, pleading that he stay his tongue this time.


Krice 's gaze did not waver from the guard, but when he delivered another kick to Nymh, the warrior became veritably incensed. He was always aware of his injuries so he remained where he was - for all of two seconds. The man pushed to his feet, using the wall at his back for assistance, and grunted as he stepped toward the bars. " Hey," he called, addressing the guard. " Come give -me- a kick, asshole." Nymh's warning to stay his tongue was dismissed, for now; he couldn't sit by and watch someone beat on an innocent. " I'll kick you back." Yet Krice could barely stand on his feet without feeling a twinge of discomfort through his body, in particular that right side, let alone move enough to kick someone. Still, the intent was there, and the honesty behind the threat.


Nymh winced yet again, as the guard drew forth a hand crossbow. He knew what poison was on the end of that bolt. The guard would fire it from its concealed position under his piwafwi, aiming for Krice's thigh. The poison was terrible... it caused one to vomit and void their bowels uncontrollably, for days. Krice would be hard pressed to stay hydrated enough to stay alive, and his cell would be a hell of a stinking mess.


Krice side-stepped the projectile, but it went through his left pant leg and hit the wall behind him. He went down on that side, hard on his knee, which jostled his broken ribs and hurt like hell. He grunted, gasped, and then clenched his teeth behind pinched lips to stay further sounds. The malignance in his gaze was a tangible thing as he watched the guard through the darkness, finally quieted.


Nymh watched as the guard looked singularly impressed that he'd avoided the bolt. And in that condition? Nymh was impressed as well. Few drow could have pulled off such a feat. The guard 'hmph'd', too proud to stand there and reload for another shot, looking the fool, and strode away. Nymh looked back at Krice, with newfound respect in his eyes, before going back to scrubbing.


Krice curled his left arm tight against his torso and eased down onto his rear, finding the wall at his back once more. He winced but calmed shortly after, and heard the miniscule crackling of stone debris that settled around that bolt in the wall to his left. Hm... Rather than immediately reaching to extract the projectile, Krice locked his gaze onto Nymh's and, hopefully before the slave looked away, he'd mouth the word 'sorry'. After all, that second kick to Nymh's body had been a result of Krice's initial interjection.


Nymh would nod for Krice's apology, but he was fine with it. Krice had turned it into a tactical advantage, and proven his capability... even in his condition. Nymh was glad it had happened. There was a much better hope now, in his mind, of some plan actually succeeding. Hopefully, with a little extra persuasion, the guard would forget all about the poison tipped bolt he'd left in Krice's cell.


Krice didn't dare speak to Nymh again, not until the drow slave had assured him that it was safe to do so. This wasn't out of a fear for himself, but a concern for the dark-skinned youth; it seemed as though these D'Artes goons needed little excuse to inflict pain. The Underdark was such a wonderful place. He should've visited sooner. Rather than sit there staring at the wall, or watching Nymh clean, Krice shifted carefully to lie down on his left side, keeping his back to the wall and keeping his arm wrapped over his chest. With his eyes closing, it appeared as though he was drifting into sleep.