RP:Messing With Kuzial

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

A Dark Tunnel, West of Trist'Oth

Maladroit was just hanging around in the cavern offshoot from Trist'Oth. Quite literally, as it were, the gaunt suctioned to a smooth spot in the tunnel's rough ceiling, wings furled tightly to its sides. In the darkness, and with no body heat to betray it, it may as well have been another bit of lumpy, black rock.

Kuzial hates of all things to be idle. There was a psychotic anger within him the drove his every motivation. So he readily enough demands to lead the groups of scouts out into the wild Underdark - trusting himself enough not to be slain by any beast they may encounter. And it is upon one of these such trips that he wanders through the cavern where Maladroit so silently sits; quite far ahead of the rest of his men as he acts as point on their journey to face whatever dangers pursue Trist'Oth, and completely oblivious of the creature above him.

But not for long. Like a gigantic, winged insect, the abomination plopped dramatically down in front of the drow, apparently either unaware or uncaring (with the latter being more probable) of Kuzial's present percentage of likelihood to attack without forethought. Far from showing trepidation, the creature stood upon all four set of knuckles and 'peered' in its own, faceless and inexplicable way at the Stavret Patron, its aura chill and redolent with a fell kind of urgency. The tunnel, if it were possible, darkened yet more, to a physically tangible blackness that might seem to pluck at the drow as though in possession of life. Like a candle being slowly snuffed, the reality of the Underdark bled out into that blackness. Odd sounds, shrieks and moans, other more horrible exclamations, echoed through the space, which was not at all the same space Kuzial had occupied, only moments before. That is, unless he was massively armed against Maladroit's honed illusory capabilities.

Kuzial is not caught entirely unawares as Maladroit drops from above. He lives in a dark world of creatures and creations that each have spent an age learning to kill those who stalk their tunnels. Yet what he isn't prepared for is what exactly had sprung upon him this time. Before conscious thought has time to catch up, the drow holds the E' Et-Nilah blade in one hand and the engraved morning-star in the other. He would have done better to grab Shattered Dream from its sheathe on his back, but he has no time to contemplate this mistake as he prepares to strike out at the beast before him. He stops, though, just in time as he recognizes one of the very, very few things in this world that disturbs him. Maladroit. He almost spits the name out loud, before he finally notices a darkness seemingly permeating the already lightless Underdark. It is there, though; darkening against all spectrums of vision in its lurking, creeping manner. The patron is about to demand an answer from a creature unable to give it to him, before he stands in a new place. He hears the shrieks and moans coming from about him and within moments he is crouched, ready to defend against whatever revenge the lady Tenebrae had planned for him... for that is what he assumes is happening, and part of him applauded her cleverness in leading him to this horrid place...

The gaunt beckoned, a manyjointed gesture that Kuzial may find disturbing in itself, and with which Maladroit gesticulated toward a vaulted stone window. Yes, window - for the darkness was peeling back now, to reveal a room, in which the window was set. The shrieks faded to low, terrorised whining, all appearing to emanate from a series of voluminous vats lining the extremities of this peculiar space. The walls were dim and unlit yet a fungal sort of red glow permeated the air, allowing Kuzial glimpses of slithering extrusions flopping at the edges of those containers, whereon the slow sound of thick liquids sloshing interspersed the cries. If the drow followed Maladroit's direction, he would meet a view from what might be the lower portion of a tower. The land beyond was barren and clearly suffering the ravages of a recent and bloody war. The bodies that lay littered about were of various sizes and shapes, none of them recognisable except perhaps in parts - a beak here, a claw there. The jagged wings of bats. All colossal, apart from those that held a semblance to humanoid, albeit vague and terrible. But the finger of the gaunt did not point at those. It pointed at a lone figure still standing, a small one, shapely as a woman is shapely, clad in abominable armors, striding through the corpses on that alien battlefield. For that.. she .. is what the gaunt was here to show Kuzial.

Kuzial stands still for a long moment within a room that seems to almost dissolve into a twisted existence all around him. He is struggling to stop the fear which is rising within him, giving birth to an anger that would cause him to lose the thin remnants of what control he still clutches at. The grotesque finger that does its twisted parody of a gesture is met with a thinly disguised shudder, before the dark elf warrior walks forth. He ignores as best he can the slithering, those quiet cries of agony and torture. The entirely inhuman design of this place that grates upon his nerves like the screech of nails down chalkboard. But still he stands by the window, defiant against the onslaught of disgusting sights, to stare down upon the battlefield. His experienced eye takes in the details, the twisted animals and creatures that very nearly resembled creatures from his own place. Before his single scarlet eye rests upon the woman. For a moment he is silent, almost unwilling to break the oppressive silence, before his voice whispers in still lyrical tones to the creature beside him. "A mad-woman running through a field of death. You need not have taken me so far to see such sights."

Maladroit did not correct him. Rather, it let the scene play out... The armoured female whistled shrilly. From some gloomy recess in the red-lit sky, a creature of unimaginable atrocity lowered itself to the ground beside her, retracting its array of vicious hooks and claws as it settled, rolling its saucerlike eyes, exuding visible clouds of steamy gases. The women ascended to it back, whereon it rose again and flew, like a vast manta ray, on rubbery-textured, unpinioned wings, to the very window where the drow and the Necromancer's helpmeet stood. A quick dismount, onto a ledge made, like all other parts of this tower, of a chitinous sort of stone, and Tenebrae stepped into her Chamber of Making. She made no sound, though her lips moved with the semblance of speech. She was pale as sun-weathered bone and possessed of an entirely unnatural sort of perfection. Tucking a loose strand of black hair behind one ear, a pointed and conch-like configuration, the Shadow Mistress appeared to become irritable. Her brows bunched into a delicate frown, her chin set at an angle that must have been all-too-familiar to Kuzial Stavret, Tenebrae gave soundless vent to whatever was irking her, to whomever she was addressing it - for it was clear by now that this was all illusion, a convincing mummery of another reality. And while the sight of this woman in a fit of temper might not be new to the drow at all, the change wrought upon her by it may have proved utterly shocking. Her teeth bared, rows of needle-like fangs, as her features shifted, perfection melting away to a mask of rage that seemed to manifest in her flesh itself. Across formerly soft lips flickered a bifurcated tongue, snake-like. One hand, gloved with a dark-metal carapace obviously designed for maximum damage, rose to shake its razored fist. This, this transformation from woman to hellish harpy, from humanoid to something only barely so, this was the entire point of Maladroit's little show. The gaunt stood, and let Kuzial absorb it.

Kuzial remained entirely still as Tenebrae seemed to walk into the room. He was certain this was her trap and he was ready to tear the necromantic bitch straight to hell with him!.. when suddenly he noticed the change to her. Gone is the woman who wore the twisted deeds she had commited upon her face; it appeared now as close to perfect... almost too perfect, so one could not appreciate the contrast between her and anything else... or so he thought. For soon enough the venting woman's features shift before him; a vicious rage that shapes his perception of her through the illusion into one that is truly horrendous, horrific... horrifying! Words fail the drow as he watches her demonic shift, though his face grows more and more angry as further proofs of her withered humanity have been shed. And here he found the contrast he needed... she had given up everything for this... power? He is uncertain. She seems more annoyed now than the many, many times she was annoyed in his presence, and this too disturbed him. He knew of her strength, better than most; he still wore the insignia around his throat that incarcerates his father. But this unleashed... creature... the gods alone only knew what power it possessed, and even they probably didn't want to look at her long enough to find out. So with a snarl he speaks again, "Do you want pity, creature? Are you saddened that she became as much a monster as you are, so now she no longer needs you?" He doesn’t really expect answers, but speaking aloud does something to alleviate the feeling of terror that is stalking within him.

Maladroit had no capacity to offer reply, and it was doubtful it would have bothered, if it did possess such organs. It merely stood, like a hellish, winged hound and allowed Stavret the full brunt of this scene. Tenebrae's anger vanished as quickly as it arrived, mercurially replaced with a return to haunting perfection. Stripping off her weapon, the parti-bladed glove, she let it fall, and where Maladroit had done (for whatever motive) Kuzial the service of sparing him the sound of the necromancer's ire, here her voice came, soft and sweet, but just as startling, maybe, for its dulcet familiarity. "Be a love, now..." she said, and her green eyes lost their red horrendous glare, "And find me something good to eat." Then silence, once more, while that forked tongue licked lips soft and rosy as the flesh of flowers. Tenebrae smiled, and the dark world she inhabited seemed to suddenly own light. On this beatific note, the vision vanished utterly and with no doubt disorienting swiftness, and the comforting tunnels of the drow's homeland once more surrounded him, and the insects chittered, the fungus glowed.

Kuzial had, in truth, not really expected an answer from the hellish gaunt. He glared at it, though; a cold look that to most would promise death and destruction, but to the hideous monster before him... who knows. He probably didn't even notice the withering hatred from the drow. But this is soon lost as the dark elf is again caught by the image of Tenebrae; her fierce rage that had given birth to the grotesque creature fades like morning mist, leaving in its wake the appearance of a nicer day in whatever hell the gaunt had brought him to. He hears her words spoken and eyes that tongue somewhat ambiguously, before this world seems to spin around him. He closes his eye against the onslaught of disorientation that threatens to drop him to his knees, before he senses he once again stands in the tunnel where they left from. The scouts behind him do not seem much closer, though to Kuzial it felt like he was in that place for an age... He shakes his head, clearing the last of the insidious images from his mind, before he spins on his heel and stalks off. No more words offered to the creature behind him, and no scouting would be done by the Patron of House Stavret this day. Instead he would go back to his private quarters and think, shuddering on more than occasion as his mind replays the vicious image of a perfect woman shifting so quickly into a demonic beast and the various implications this entails...

Maladroit waited until the drow had gone before suction-padding back up the wall of the tunnel to regain its position above. There, it furled once more into a cocoon-like shape, its spongy mind flitting across the immeasurable depths of Time and Space, seeking the elusive threads it needed. Something was coming, this it knew. And this little world, and all its occupants. Like a plague. Like a fresh wind, scented with blood. The gaunt settled in, content to digest wandering beetles and random bats. If it was to perish in the process, it figured, at least it had had the pleasure of unnerving Kuzial once more, before it went.