RP:Razurathian Genocide Pt. 1

Part of the Saurian Onslaught Arc

Summary: Time to put Gevurah’s death curse in action. With the help of the Mage’s Guild (Daath, Kasyr, Odhranos, Quintessa, Karasu), she expands her curse across the entire city. The Razurath (NPC’d by Valrae) retaliate, but the guild and drow persevere.

However, in their final throes the Razurath secure one last win over the drow: the total destruction of The Temple of Endless Death, and the giant, ancient, all powerful statue of Vakmatharas inside, the source of the drow priestesses’ outsized power.

Trist’oth

Gevurah slipped out of Daath’s bed very early this morning, after very little sleep and some troubled thoughts. Still in her evening gown, with her white hair disheveled and feet bare, she descended a series of twisting stairs and portals to Keter’s tomb. She seeks her father’s ghostly console when anxious before large battles, or when in doubt, or when distressed, or when afflicted by all three, as she is now. Her focus is disrupted by the sudden arrival of Quintessa, the bearer of bad news that Kasyr’s plan is off to a bad start because of her lack of restraint, and his supremely misguided idea of bringing along an unvetted apprentice on a highly sensitive mission. The drowess slaps Quintessa so hard she hopes Kasyr feels the sting too. “Get out. I don’t want to see you until I need you. Don’t f*** anything else up.” Upstairs in the grand banquet hall, D’Artes staff remove tables and chairs and install a floor-to-ceiling obsidian idol of Vakmatharas, and in front of it, a large bronze cauldron that is surrounded by a flat skirt of crushed black velvet. When Gevurah joins the makeshift shrine, she’s in her priestly robes, her hair ornately coiffed, and eyes devoid of the doubt that plagued her in the wee hours of the morning. She gets to work setting red and black votive candles around the cauldron, and connecting the candles with thin lines of grave dirt to form a fifteen-pointed shape that looks crudely like a serrated scythe. She orders everyone out of the room and spends 20 minutes alone in prayer to desecrate the cauldron. She glances at a faerie fire clock on the wall. The time draws near. The mage’s guild members have been instructed to meet her and Daath here at the appointed time. Kasyr is already out in the city hammering out a Plan B after Quintessa’s monumental mistake. When the mages arrive, they will be instructed to take two magical items from a long table: the first is a fluorite gem that has a bubble of the lethal brew injected into its center, and a small black bead. Daath arrives first and Gevurah beckons him to come closer with a magnetic stare. In close quarters they whisper about the battle to come. Daath is aware of his role, a vital role for the protection of House D’Artes and Gevurah herself. She also catches him up on Kasyr and Quintessa’s colossal error, but when talking to Daath she reserves most of her venom for Kasyr. She shares some choice lines, in drow, such as, “His stupidity is astounding” and “If this battle fails because of him, he better hope he does not survive it.” When the first mage trickles in, the drowess puts a little distance between herself and her husband to avoid public displays of affection, though there is no denying their union.

Daath stayed in bed as Gevurah left, knowing well she had more to prepare this moment than he did, it gave the dark elf time to ensure his own magical fortifications and plans were in place. It also gave the magister time to prepare himself. Alone in his chambers Daath dons his most powerful possessions as well as robes specifically made to not only allow for channeling the most powerful arcane magic, but to also house back up spell that are predetermined and set in place should these Razurath find yet another way of shutting magic down. Before he’d go to meet his wife at the chosen meeting place, Daath would first ensure his chosen lieutenants are ready. It’s taken considerable time, resources and even some rather dark rituals to ensure his obtained the right ones for this task, but he managed to do it and he looks upon each one with pride. The first is a rather gruesome abomination, an angel of decay. The embodiment of rot itself, this massive creature stands a towering nine feet tall and weighs as much as an ogre. But even with its considerable size, the true terrifying power of this creature is its very presence. Its flesh drips and oozes off its body, leaving piles of morbid goop below it. Anything it touches rots away into liquified nothing. A fitting greeting to any foolish enough to come to house D’artes with ill intent. His drow’s glance looks about for his second servant, this one a bit harder to find given its very essence is living darkness. The night haunt is a creature from the plane of shadow itself, living darkness and death, the creature’s presence gives off an aura of desecration that feeds off life itself. Any who get close feel the very essence of their beings slowly drain away. The creature, as if sensing its master’s gaze, slowly forms into being atop the gate leading into House D’Artes. It reassembles a gargoyle in many ways, though without physical form. A featureless face and glowing orbs of red filled with hatred serve as its eyes. Its hungry to feed upon its desired meal this day. Lastly, the very earth and air itself feels horribly wrong outside the D’Artes compound, as for good measure Daath delved into the darkest of magics to bring forth two necromentals. One of air, which was brought into existence by the magister collecting the dying breaths of chosen “volunteers”. The creature’s incorporable form is felt more than seen, and it awaits to corrupt the air the razurath need to survive in this already hostile environment. And finally, the ground itself carries with it a horrible feel to any who’d be privy to such, as the necromental of earth waits like a spider in its web to capture any foolish enough to cross into D’Artes domain. This creature is made from collecting the desecrated earth from the graves of newly buried children, its sole purpose to drag down any who’d act against its masters will this day. Feeling proud of his work, Daath turns and makes his way into the meeting room where Gevurah informs him of Kasyr’s folly, and Quintessa’s overeager hand. This would be handled, but for now focus is needed on the task at hand.

Odhranos emerges from the ground within the boundary of House D’Artes walls, like a revenant rising from the grave. The earth shudders and splits, groaning as it reluctantly opens its stony maw, before four stone tendrils erupt from the darkness, spearing into the ground and drawing the terramancer out of the depths. Like some strange abomination of arachnid and man, the grey robed mage dangles from the four stony limbs, which emerge from the golden cage strapped to his back. Casting furtive silver and gold glances to either side, the terramancer draws his hood tighter about his face as his stone legs ferry him grotesquely into the shadows. Approaching the nearest entrance to House D’Artes, if stopped by any guards, Odhranos draws back his hood slightly, presenting any observing with a view of a black stone faceplate, stopping just beneath the terramancer’s cheekbones, obscuring the lower half of his face, while his voice mutters, smothered by the stone; “I’m here at the Matron’s request.” When granted entrance, the stone appendages retract back into the golden cage and Odhranos makes his way into the building, cowled and anonymous. Upon reaching the banquet hall, the terramancer presents himself to the Magister and the Matron with a deep, respectful bow, drawing his hood back. The faceplate disintegrates into shards that crawl back along the mage’s cheeks, exposing his mouth, which is twisted into an unhappy scowl. “Magister Daath, Matron D’Artes.” Odhranos’ voice is flat and devoid of emotion; he is no fan of battle, preferring the quiet of his studies and the solemn rustling of pages in a library; but these are the nasty tasks that the Mages Guild must attend to on occasion. When indicated, the mage takes a flourite gem and bead from the table, examining them both in his hands as he takes up position to the side of the hall, his black mask sealing itself once more over his mouth, ready for the ugliness that was sure to come.

Karasu has no trouble making her way to the Underdark. Well, that’s a bit of a lie. Complete lie, really. Getting through Craughmoyle was easy enough with the rune-jaguar invisibility cloak. The two Razurath stationed at the entrance to the tunnel leading to Trist’oth were a challenge, but the first foray with Dyraxdiin and Elioyahazer has prepared her for this. An enchantment is whispered to her swords, and the pair are beheaded with a single swing of each blade. Such power is not without a cost, though, and she ends up having to spend nearly an hour sitting near the corpses consuming restoratives to muster up enough energy to descend the stairwell. The coming battle would be especially taxing on her, being the objectively weakest member of the team. Being of feline descent, Karasu has inherited the ability to see in low light without the aid of torches or magic. Strangely enough, the specters and the embodiments of darkness incarnate greet the woman with no hostile intent as she descends the steep cliff. Karasu warily returns their greeting, but does not stop to converse with them. Carnivorous monsters scattered throughout the tunnels meet their end at the silver-wrought katanas before they can cry out and alert the Razurath to her location. The enchantment on the cloak is still active as the spell blade slips through the city, mentally reciting the directions she was given. A patrol of the saurian abominations passes by, and the halfling crosses the final street. The guards protecting the house regard the invisible woman, which alone is enough to make her shudder. Once the creatures have determined she is not a threat, Karasu enters the House D’Artes and silently scans the area for movement of her colleagues. Last to know, she had not seen Kasyr or Quintessa since being sidetracked at the last moment for the mission, and has no idea of what has happened. All she knows is that she is needed here. The enchantment fades so she can give a polite bow of the head to Gevurah and Daath in greeting. Upon instruction, she takes the items off the table and inspects them before asking the obvious. “Why do we need these?” Deference was not her strong suit.

Quintessa hates herself right now. The sting in her cheek lingers from Gevurah's slap, the pain still echoing through her mind as a constant reminder of her shame. Why had she acted so hastily on the mission last night? How many mistakes would she make until she did better? When will she learn that her actions have consequences? Quintessa dons her runic invisibility cloak and pulls up the hood. "Anweledig." she says, her form instantly vanishing with the help of the enchanted garb. She was convinced to do better this time, even if it killed her. Especially if it killed her. Perhaps there would be honor in her sacrifice and they would speak of this day for years to come. Or perhaps the changeling's mistake would cost them the war. She shakes these thoughts away. "No. We cannot lose. Not like this." By now the hex blade knows all the secret ways into Trish'oth through the Dark Forest, and even with the Razurath on high alert her invisibility cloak hides her movement through the city as she finds a good place to post up near House D'Artes. Here Quintessa waits for some kind of signal from the Drow Matron. She knows the plan, perhaps even more intimately than the rest of the guild does considering the hours and hours of work she and Gevurah put into the Razurath killing spell. She's not going to risk ruining everything this time, not after the grilling she received from the priestess only a few hours ago. As long as the changeling has her katana and her spike-heeled boots, she's as prepared as she'll ever be. Once she begins to see others slowly filing in, she approaches the house, letting her invisibility fade as she joins the party. The changeling has nothing to say, however, and she can't even bring her mismatched eyes off the floor to look in Gevurah's direction. She is just here to follow orders.

Valrae || Achillo was no fool, he knew the tenuous quiet the Razurath had enjoyed in Trist'oth would be short lived. When word arrived that there were whispers of moment coming from House D’Artes it was expected. Like all the others, those that had little vision would rebel against them and the order they were attempting to bring to the realm. What was unexpected, however, was the vagueness of this intel. Something was happening and would be happening soon. With so little to go on, the Goldvein needed to move quickly. All able bodied men and women were mobilized now, those that could be spared to gather and protect the elderly and the very young at the nests settled in the base of the tower. Patrols of red soldiers were periodically sent to the gates of House D’Artes itself, the more stealthy of them sent in smaller numbers to prowl around the estate. These dark soldiers were charged with creating havoc were they could, commanded to attack any and all movement, slave or otherwise that had the unfortunate luck of traveling near. Figures in the dark that reached out with the gnashing of teeth. Those that remained at the tower created the bulk of the Razurathian army, at rest in preparation for the battle they are expecting to come… Tomorrow. Nearly 2,000 strong, many carrying fae in jars to boost the magical runes that allowed them to harness the precious magic that eluded them. Along with their natural weapons of dagger sharp teeth, whip like tails, and claws honed to a killing edge, they were equipped with spears, swords, and even a few clumsily used short bows. Achillo paced the ranks of his army restlessly, arrogant in thinking he had taken every precaution on the eve of glorious battle. His mistake, though unbeknownst to him now, would be focusing too little on the security of their base. By the time fresh guards came around to finding the bodies that were left by Quintessa and Kasyr, there was the gift of precious time and warning. They began to move. All the pieces of the deadly game of war and conquest falling slowly into place."

Kasyr glances down at the map he's clutching, small patches of it now stained with a combination of grease, sweat and charcoal from his forehead. He'd had the foresight to stash the guard that had been assaulted earlier, dragging them out of the middle and into a side corridor to buy a few moments, but things had remained consistently terrible. Even his discovery of the nursery, with the aid of his tour guide earlier, was complicated- as he discovered it was nestled within Clocktowers Ghroundium foundation. The interior patrols also had been a wretched thing to avoid- in part because of their frequency, but also the simple fact that they reminded him it would only be so long before their was a change in shift. The bottomline, was that the plan needed to change, drastically. Seeking out structural weaknesses and collapsing -portions- of the tower's passageways might slow things down, but it wouldn't be enough to provoke a dread panic, or properly coax their enemies into consolidating their forces here. Which is why Kasyr had redirected his attention to those peculiar patches of empathic and magical energy that he'd encountered during his explorations. Something about the potent despair that had poured out from what was within the very walls, and seeped into the very foundation of this place called to him- the rich melancholy providing Kasyr an ample source of fuel to feed his works, as he took hold of the air in front of himself, and coalesced a seemingly mundane Katana into existence. The task is almost mechanical in it's delivery, as the Kensai pours a combination of the leeched energy and his own reserves into the blade- the drow incantation he murmurs serving to kindle the intense heat that begins to exude from the weapon, if only so it can grow hot enough to be pushed into the very wall of the corridor. It's a process the Kensai has repeated a few times now- and not merely to infuriate or puzzle anyone who discovers one of the hilts buried into the walls. . . Because there's a second spell laced into each blade, meant to take all the residual energy that had not been used up by it's delivery into the wall, and promptly detonate in a localized pyroclasm. Kasyr -hoped- that the manner in which the empathic feelings seemed to snake out from their resting spots meant that whatever, or whoever, was within the walls were at the center of some arcane system or ritual- the likes of which could cataclysmically overloaded to melt, weaken, or altogether rupture the inner corridors of the clock tower. Which is also why he's running, really- since with the last of the twelve swords he'd been able to summon placed- he'd rather not be anywhere near this when it goes off. What bits of relief he starts to feel as he sprints out from the obelisk and into Trist'oths darkened streets comes entirely to an end when he spots the forces gathered around. He can already feel his footsteps faltering, before he comes to a skidding halt, hands raising up above his head in a show of surrender, "...Morning there, boys." A pause, and the cigarette in his mouth is switched sides, "Ladies. You wouldn't happen to have seen a cat?" Which is about the point all the spells he'd lain inside his summoned swords -detonate-.

Valrae || Kasyr’s appearance was not a welcome one. Red soldiers that were near bare rows of sharp, yellowed teeth as they stalk near. A series of clicks and pops wave through the gathered forces, the strangers sudden appearace being communicated through the ranks. “Who the hell are you?!” One of the soldiers asks, shaking the pixie that had been asleep in a jar on his utility belt Fairy flame ignites on the cutting edge of the dagger he points toward Kasyr. And then all hell breaks loose. The following explosion was worse nearest to where they’d collected the very young and the very old. The nature of Kasyr’s trap effectively ensured that the protecting wards and runes that were used to guard the Razurath’s most precious were used to fuel the destruction rather than provided the needed protection. The devastation was unthinkable. An attack on their very heart. Younglings that survived the blast cried out, stumbling free of rubble bloodied and war wounded. Achillo himself, several tail lengths outside of the tower, was rocked nearly off of his feet. There were screams, loud guttural things, as they instinctively ran toward the groaning tower. “No!” Achillo shouted, his claws reaching for the sword strapped at his side as he eyed the now compromised structure. Wounded poured out, some pulling the bodies of the dead or those too wounded now to carry themselves. Some were crushed under the crumbling stone of the tower. Achillo struggled to gain control of his panicking army. Those nearest to him rallied, gained formation and waited for a command. Rage blinding him to the most sound reason, the Goldvein roars his command for some to attack Kasyr. His sense finds him again though, while those nearest to him sprint toward the front of the tower, he commands more still to rush and join ranks with battalion already dispatched toward House D’Artes. With his blood hot and pounding in his ears, he leaves the nobles to his fellow commander Nychus. He would demand blood from Kasyr himself. || Leading the frontlines of the patrol outside of House D’Artes, Deino turned her head at the sound of an explosion. A second of primal fear ran through her blood as cold as ice. She started back, away from her their post and toward the nest, when she remembered herself and her mission. She knew by now, regardless of what that sound might have meant, another patrol of soldiers were arriving to stand with them. They were beginning to close ranks and begin their assault. Nychus, a Goldvein that outranked her and stood nearly two full feet taller, took his place beside her behind the lines of battle ready Raz that waited outside of House D’Artes’s gates. “Things have changed, you’re leading ten strong toward the temple,” He warned her, a yellow female stepping out behind him to nod her runed head respectfully. Without question, Denio broke rank and sprinted off, her new team following behind swiftly. Nychus waited until he could no longer see the outline of their tales before his roar echoed through Trist'oth and the attack began. They flooded toward the guarded manor like a wave of blood, the snapping of teeth and the scrape of wickedly sharp claws loud against stone. The magic of their runes pulsated with the promise of blood, would be quenched with it from both the enemy and what was spilled that would be their own. Magic was a hungry mistress. They were met with the abomination that Daath has created, their screams guttural an inhuman as the first of them to encounter it sink in with the sizzle and smoke of melting scale and flesh and bone. Those that made it beyond the first nightmare found themselves being swallowed by the very earth underneath their feet, the air assaulting their lungs. Others use their dying bodies to spring around this trap, skillfully using powerful legs to bound over the sinking death. While many of them fell, more came to claw their way over them, hungry and crying for blood. Those that had been skulking the darkness finally crossed ground lines, some snatched up quickly and given a brutal death. They flung themselves onto these monsters without regard for their own life, single minded in the desire to draw lifeblood with teeth, claws, spear or dagger. Some wielded fairy fire or enslaved mage’s power to shake the earth with their own counter blows. Others were quick and agile, using skilled kicks and clever blows with armored tail whips.

Gevurah :: House D’Artes shakes from the distant blast at Andon D’Chath. “Time to move. The black beads are attuned to the same arcane channel. Use it to communicate when needed. The fluorite is attuned to my curse. Use the fluorite to channel your magical talents and amplify my curse as wide as you can. Hold your position until I say the deed is done. It could be upwards of forty-five minutes to kill them all.” The priestess whispers a quick incantation to give herself the ability to see their auras. As is evident in his spirit, Odhranos is the most practiced mage of the three magely guests, and likely her best battery. “You.” She hasn’t bothered to learn his name. She points at a map of Trist’oth that is hung over the table where the beads and fluorite were displayed. “Get to the roof of the Black Shadow’s armory.” Then to Karasu, who she sneers at because the feline reminds Gevurah of Lanlan, “Get to Trist’oth Arena.” Then finally, leaving Quintessa for last and leveling the girl with a glare she says, “The ruins of House D’Jiv’undus.” She makes it a point not to look at Daath when she mentions his former house and his dead family, which he detested in life, but about which, in death, he perhaps still had some complicated, embarrassing feelings. Gevurah would typically threaten Quintessa’s life right about now, but the girl’s submissive state spares her Gevurah’s lashing tongue. The apprentices are in over their head, and the matron knows it. She dismisses Quintessa with a wave, but then, inspired to ensure the success of the plan, she calls after the changeling, “Quintessa. Do not fail me twice.” Once the mages have gone, Gevurah meets Daath’s gaze purposefully, but says nothing for her look says it all, ‘We can’t lose this time. I’m counting on you, too.’ She speaks into the bead, “Kasyr,” she hisses the name unkindly, “The mages are on their way to their positions.”

Odhranos nods grimly at Gevurah’s orders, turning and heading towards the doors of the hall, sparing a glance towards Karasu and Quintessa. His fierce gaze softens for a moment with concern, and the mage’s eyes seem to be saying “Whatever you do, don’t die here. Please.” With that, the mage breaks into a run, tendrils of stone sprouting out of his cage and taking up position over his shoulders as he sprints. Throwing the nearest door open, the mage charges through the corridors of House D’Artes, retracing his steps until he comes to the entrance he came in by. The courtyard outside is in chaos, Razurath fighting, screaming and dying left, right and centre. The mage’s eyes harden, and his thoughts turn inwards to the other presence inside his mind. <”I don’t want to do this, S’erok”> he murmurs mentally to the dragon sharing his body. <”It has to be done Odhranos. You know what these things have done, how many they have killed. Now is not the time for your human sentimentality.”> Odhranos growls angrily and settles his shoulders. His eyes flatten, now devoid of emotion, and he takes one step out into the courtyard. One step becomes two and suddenly the mage is sprinting through the chaos towards the boundary walls. Any Razurath that cross his path are treated with a blistering barrage of piercing strikes from the tendrils that curl and twist around the mages body, while Odhranos ducks, dives and twists through the maelstrom of death and bodies. Once he reaches the wall, the stone tendrils shoot forwards, biting deep into the stone and the mage begins travelling vertically, spider-climbing up the rocky facade, before diving over the wall, sprinting once more in the direction of the Black Shadow Armory.

Karasu poofs her tail out when the ground shakes with the force of the detonation. The meaning of the sneer goes over her head. “Understood.” She slips the crystal into a zippered pocket sewn into the underside of her cloak and begins her chant. “Xalious. Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Libera nos a malo. Celare nobis. Aramoth. Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Libera nos a malo. Celare nobis.” As she recites the incantation, the black rune markings on her cloak turn white before the feline disappears from sight. The black bead is affixed to the base of a fuzzy ear. She listens for a moment as the sounds of calamity outside are relayed to her in real time. Her eyes, however, stay fixed on the exchange between Quintessa and Gevurah. It was not her place to ask, and so she whispers for the bead to hear as soon as Quintessa holds it up to her. “Be safe.” Karasu exits through the front of the house, swords drawn, and rushes towards the arena. While she has the advantage, she cuts the straps of running soldiers’ jars. She would be a fool to take on so many at once, but perhaps she can level the playing field. Glass shatters along the floor in rapid succession, and the magical creatures are freed from their prisons. The rebellion grows in size, and Karasu smirks, entering the arena. “Ventus!” A gust of wind erupts from nowhere, sending the Razurath along the ground flying back into the wall of the battleground. Her concentration has broken though with the casting of that spell, and the invisibility enchantment fades.

Quintessa knows better than to run off again, knows better than to wing it like she always does, but the sound of an explosion deep in the city of Trist'oth grabs her attention and she knows deep down that it must be Kasyr. Her mismatched eyes look off in the distance as her heart skips a beat. He was out there killing them, perhaps in trouble. She needed to go to him! But Gevurah would not approve of this idea. "Y-yes, Mistress," she takes the black pearls and heads for the exit, only looking back when the drowess tells her not to fail again. "If I do," she says, finally meeting her eyes, "I'll have the decency not to make it out alive," and then she is gone, the runes of her cloak glowing a faint lime-green before she completely vanishes before their eyes. Did she even know where the ruins of House D’Jiv’undus were? Not really, she recalled seeing them on a map a couple of times before today but she didn't realize it would ever be relevant. "Was is south-west from here?" She asks, looking to the angel of decay to answer her as she passes it. It would not be any help with directions. She should have been paying closer attention. At least these interesting monsters made for a good distraction as she sneaks past what looks to be the brunt of the Razurath forces in the underdark. Quintessa does nothing to thin their numbers, however. After all, aimless slaughtering of Razurath was what got her into hot water as is. No, she would wait until she was in position before she sated her bloodlust. House D’Jiv’undus wasn't far, just a bit down the Reverent Path and then left at Border Row. She arrives without much trouble, slightly disappointed that there were no Razurath her guarding the demolished house. Why would they be? "I'm in position," she whispers into her beads, turning around to make sure she wasn't being followed. Secretly, she hoped she had been. Right now she would be completely justified in killing as many dinos as she was able. With her hands already reaching for her katana, the hex blade waits for something to happen, ready to get this extermination underway.

Daath sits comfortably enough as he watches the battle unfold from his magical link with a spectral eye he has concealed above the fray as he takes on the role of commander of the defending forces. Decades of planning wars between houses comes into play, and his combat experience in a few wars (The wood elf and drow war to name one) starts to show just how cunning the magister is. They have homefield advantage, and as each member leaves to go to the predetermined location that is outside the battle, the House Mage of the First House of the Underdark takes to proving why Gevurah chose to marry him. With his magical link to the summoned creatures outside, the magister of necromancy starts to weave his battle plans into motion. The duo of air and earth necromental twist about the battle in support of the nighthaunt and angel of decay. The razurath numbers are great, but Daath had anticipated the swarm like tactics beforehand. The angel of decay tanks the brunt of the first swarm, as her corrosive flesh is a natural armor against any would be physical attacks, causing the flesh to blister, boil and the slide off the bone and fall into a steaming pile of goo for any foolish enough to attack it. The nighthaunt, darkness in unliving form, swarms about the battle, clawing and tearing from the ever-present darkness that gives it its strength. The air necromental chooses to use its command over the element it born from to create a vacuum effect, literally removing breathable air from the battlefield and leaving an area where not a single breath can be taken. This leave the earth necromental to twist and churn the earth about violently, cutting off the swarm of razurath into smaller bits while the earth itself erupts forth to impale, or caves in like a sinkhole to swallow another, collapsing back in upon itself as it does so. It is here that Daath sends forth the first wave of actual D’Artes forces, nodding his head to the captain of his choosing to position his men in place upon the ramparts of the house. Here, the archers and crossbowmen take up position and under careful command of the skilled captain, the first volley of arrows is loosed upon clumps of Razurath with deadly elven precision. The crossbows are trained and sent at a closer proximity, picking off any who’d bypass the chaos of the battle in the heart of D’Artes grounds. One drow crossbowman sends a bolt right through the eye of a razurath who tries to sneak up upon Karasu, the dino’s dying breath exasperated before it falls back and offers the apprentice her window of opportunity to escape the grounds. Another volley is sent forth, as the angel of decay uses her massive limps and wicked claws to wreak havoc upon the bodies of razurath. The nighthaunt’s aura seeps into anything living in the area, slowly draining the life essence from them the longer the battle continues. Sheer numbers against undead such as the angel of decay and nighthaunt will not win the razurath the day, especially when the drow archers have the safety of the high ground.

Kasyr isn't spared from the shockwave, as he finds himself robbed of his footing when it roars through the air, slamming him into the ground, and deafening him to the panicked cries around him. A part of him wants to take a look at his handiwork, to take in the sight of the countless flaming cracks which have begun to splinter up along the exterior of the obelisk, and the thick smoke which is already in the process of pouring out from it. As Achillo takes in the grievous sights, Kasyrs in the process of blearily groping the ground- his hand briefly touching onto the shoddy packpack that had been part of his disguise, before stopping onto the dagger he'd 'Borrowed'from Quintessa. "Not the best start." He can't even be sure that came out right, the ringing in his ears continues so fiercely, but he finds it in himself to stand up once more, Calico ears cropping up defiantly as he defiantly eyes the chaos in front of himself. "Thank you, Kirien, wherever you are." So said, the Kensai begins to channel energy from the stores of mana within himself to fuel the spell, even as he counts as the environment to provide additional fuel. After all, what the spell is doing is drawing in all that ambient noise and resonance and condensing it down into the blade- and then further amplifying it with magic. Something which the encroaching Razurath rudely discover when the daggers hurled at their feet, and explodes outwards with an absolutely deafening cacophony. Kasyrs' mostly deaf in the moment, and even he feels his ears rupture from the intensity of the swelling shock of sonic force. That said, he manages to keep his footing this time- which means it's time for Plan C. Gesturing with both his hands towards what is hopefully a staggered, captured audience- the Kensai offers a bird flip x 2 combo and promptly darts off towards the residential area as best as his wobby legs can take him. It’s only as an afterthought that he remembers his second task, taking hold of the bead he’d been given earlier to curtly add, “Might want to start the curse, now.” Kasyr has the distinct feeling that if the razurath don’t murder him, Gevurah will (try to) later. It sort of makes the idea of staying deaf appealing, but he’s going to need to fix that.

Gevurah lifts the lid off her cauldron and is immediately gobsmacked by the putrid stench of her own creation. Lesser mortals would vomit, but dark priests and necromancers like Gevurah and Daath have developed strong stomachs for the unspeakably foul. Still, despite this, her eyes sting from the stench and she breathes through her mouth. On Kasyr’s cue, she spreads her arms wide and begins to pray to the dark idol behind her. Over the course of the next five minutes the brew ramps up its lethal power and begins to seep out of House D’Artes like unseen sewage. In another five minutes it’s reached Karasu, then shortly after Quintessa, and then Karasu’s and Quintessa’s boosted signals will find Odhranos. He can channel the curse using either of their signals, but if both Quintessa and Karasu fall at the same time, Odhranos will lose contact with the curse. There is only one redundancy, at least one of the apprentice spellblades must be up and running at any given time - and of course, Odhranos must be too. As Gevurah stretches the limits of her ability to extend and accelerate her curse, her body begins to sway under a meditative trance necessary to fully commune with her god. In this state, she is vulnerable to certain types of attacks and magic and certainly to being surprised. The temperature rises to a sweltering, foul degree until she, and likely Daath, too, feels feverish. Sweat beads her white brow and dampens wispy tendrils along her hairline. A putrid gust blows out the candles. The massive room is barely lit along its perimeter by a handful of faerie fire sconces. The priestess herself works in total darkness. Outside, the weakest of the Razurath (the sick, the old, the infant children, and especially sickly children calling for their mothers) will feel the first ill effects. They moan and vomit, tremble and cough as scales slough off like shale, bones snap, or melt, or shatter, and blood congeals and clogs veins, or thins and seeps out of every orifice and pore. After the children and their grandparents perish, perhaps 5 minutes into the spell, the heartier begin to feel ill. Most of the Razurath will die within 20 to 25 minutes, especially the civilians who do not wear protective runes. The final minutes of their lives will be the cruelest this world has to offer, an indignity imposed upon them by forcing their bodies to betray them. And those bodies may never be resurrected or raised as undead. The spell’s slow burn ensures the truest form of death, one that can only be guaranteed by Vakmatharas. The hardiest Razurath, those with the greatest magical resistance, will survive the first 10 minutes with minimal indignity and pain, but eventually they too will succumb to symptoms. The strongest among them will barely survive the 45th minute, and die soon after - that is, of course, if the mages succeed in holding the spell for that long. It’s a big ‘if’, a big risk, one that depends heavily on Kasyr and Daath’s ability to provide security, and on the non-magister mages’ ability to remain unseen and uninterrupted.

Odhranos bolts through the streets of Trist'oth, alternating between fast sprints from cover to cover where possible and stealthy burrowing under the ground where the Razurath patrols barrel directly across his path. Aiming to avoid detection for as long as he can, the terramancer makes his way to the Black Armory. Diving under the earth to circumnavigate a Razurath squadron blocking the path, Odhranos breaches the surface at the base of the colossal stalagmite that plays host to the Black Armory of Trist'oth. Rising nearly a hundred feet into the gloom, Odhranos' gaze sweeps up the side of the building and he feels a ball of fear settling in his stomach. "Of course. Of bloody course. They had to send the ONE person with a fear of heights to one of the highest points in all of Trist'oth. Of course they did." Odhranos curses and swears behind his mask, scurrying in close to the base of the stalagmite, crouching in the shadows away from the street. <"Suck it up, you've flown higher than this before with Kestral, now is not the time to be dealing with this."> S'erok growled in his mind. To which Odhranos quite literally exploded. <"SUCK IT UP!? SUCK IT THE F*** UP?!? I'll tell YOU who can SUCK IT UP, YOU SANDY PIECE OF SHI - Wait! The fluorite!!"> Odhranos' mental tirade is cut short by the sudden sickly pulse of the flourite gem in his hand. Waves of putrefactive energy begin blooming from the stone, undamaging to the mage, but even he can feel its grotesque aura. "Oh, for all the gods sakes. I hate killing." Odhranos growls as he pockets the flourite, turning towards the stone face of the stalagmite. With a silent crunch, the four tendrils embed themselves in the stone and Odhranos begins making his way up the side of the building. "Wait, one moment." Odhranos' mask peels back from his face rapidly and he vomits violently on the ground, his fear of heights making a mess of his insides, before he wiped his mouth and the mask reseals again, beginning his ascent once more.

Karasu engages the remaining Razurath in battle once she has entered the arena. Casting the spell was a colossal error on her part, as they now are able to see her and will surely be able to find her if she activates the cloak again now. Luckily, the three in the arena are already missing their fae and are forced to fight her by hand-to-hand combat. The aura of the spell reaches her and she recoils slightly, but presses onward. A misstep here could cost her her life, and she is not keen on losing her life today. As she stabs through the ribs of one and crushes its life force, she comes to a horrifying realization. A hastily dug tunnel lays at the far side of the arena. An emergency exit!

Quintessa holds the fluorite in her fingers for a moment, letting the memories of making the witchy brew come flooding back. Ah, how simple those times were, before she was utterly humiliated back her own foolishness. She can feel her negative emotions building up and she drops the spell keeping her invisible so she can focus every ounce of her magical energy into it. As her self-loathing and anger reach their pinnacle, as does the wicked quintessence that governs her mystic talents. As she feels the familiar, foul curse finally reach her, the changeling smiles darkly. It's finally game time. "Tywyllwch anfarwol, clywch fy ngalwad!" She begins to chant, holding her crystal out before her, "Lladd nhw i gyd, Gosod fy ngelynion i ddistryw!" Quintessa's entire being is engulfed by her own maleficent essence, the power of Gevurah's curse latching onto her and amplifying much more than she actually needed it too. Her hatred, her bloodlust, her sheer desire to oppress those weaker than her were all poured in at once, causing the fluorite to hum loudly as it glowed a bright purple. Right now she was a giant beckon of evil sat upon a mountain of debris, and if any Razurath were near border row, they would almost certainly see the light cutting through the deep darkness of Trist'oth. She doesn't care, she can kill giant lizards -and- maintain this spell. After all, she helped design it. This, in her mind, was just as much her curse-baby as it was the Drow Matron's.

Valrae|| Achillo and his men were fast to Kasyr’s trail, the older and more skilled warrior pulling ahead with swift, sure bounds that left his claws raking sparks across the stone as he followed. His scaled lips were pulled back over his teeth, rage and focus tunneling his vision on the Kensai. Kill. Kill. Kill. It was his single minded goal now. With his sword drawn, stolen magic sends black flame rolling over the runed blade. With the flick of his arm, he sends a pillar a fire toward the fleeing man. He follows it with a burst of renewed speed, using his muscled legs to propel him forward and aim a powerful swipe toward Kasyr’s neck. Four of his men have followed, they aim to race around the stranger and cut his path short. What they find instead, to their surprise, is a lone apprentice. Surely underestimating Quintessa, depite the strange light coming from her, the four of them attack swiftly, hoping to kill her before Kasyr and Achillo near. One of them hurls a ball of lightning toward her, the other darts toward her with a short dagger drawn. || Nychus stands back, his claws nearly crossing the boundary that separates him from the grounds of House D’Artes. He watches the battle with a dark stillness. His eyes were drawn to Odhranos nearly the moment he stepped out. Communicating in his native language, Nychus dispatches a group of dark razurath toward the mage with a few short clicks of his tongue. They come swiftly, the aid of borrowed shadow magic and poison dipped claws ready to strike and tear through flesh to bone. Seven of them, doggedly focused and following him swiftly. When they finally near, one of the leaps at his back with the snapping of its teeth. He doesn’t stop, even when he is met with a surprising amount of vomit. In the direction of Karasu, twinkling lights of newly freed pixies dart above the bloodshed, soldiers stripped of their magic swarming toward the young apprentice with swords and claws ready. One of them is taken down by the volley of arrows. But they were fast, deadly so, and their arms swiveled uniquely to give them the advantage of powerful run by swipes. Some of them kicked out, using the razor sharp second claw on their feet to aim blows at her chest. They came at her despite gobs of flesh falling from their bones. With a team of skilled shadow warriors around him, Nychus commands a final assault at the gate and steps onto the grounds of House D’Artes. He moves through the dance of war with grace, swiping skillfully at those he passes, the rain of arrows bouncing harmlessly around the barrier of darkness that shielded him. The final force of the Razurath army swarm behind him, fully launched at the gate as their leader charges ahead. When he enters the manor, finally, a primal thrill shakes him. He stalks quietly, the runes that protect him leaving him nearly invisible in the gloom. He nears the makeshift altar that Gevurah sways behind and is salivating now, the drip of it hitting the floor only seconds before he launches himself at the dark priestess, jaws wide. || At the tower, few of the army struggle to gather the wounded and the dying. With the first effects of Gevurah’s killing curse slowly creeping through, deadly and as delicate as a scorned woman’s touch, the weakest and youngest of them will be the first to show any signs of its effects. First with retching and vomiting. Soon enough, scales and flesh were sloughing off, the smell of decay stagnating the air already filled with the copper of blood and tang of explosives. Wails of fear and agony rose, echoed through the underdark deafeningly. Madness, followed the pain, the razurath slowly regressing to mindless animals that snapped and clawed at those around them, even turning on each other to bite and claw viciously. Skin and scale and blood flew in equal measure.

Daath is aware of the coming assault, but as ever is prepared for such. The fall of the angel of decay is followed by the fall of the nighthaunt, as the massive army sweeps in and uses a combination of magic and sheer brutality to lay low the minions that have been tanking the brunt of these attack. Nychus will find himself left alone by the elementals, in fact they seem dormant as the vacuum created by the air necromental and the savage churning of the earth necromental dies down. Nychus enters D’Artes and is greeted by absolute darkness that is brought forth by the combination of drow innate abilities. It is also at this moment that the archers and crossbowmen free the adamantine barrier that was concealed by magic, the drow breaking the chains so that the high ranking Razurath is trapped inside while his forces are left once more to fend off barrages of drow arrows and crossbow bolts. But the real threat isn’t that, oh no. Daath’s true purpose for the necromentals is now coming to bare, as the ground itself is transmuted, causing the ground below the saurian warriors to shift from solid earth into knee deep boiling tar. The air necromental shifts its composition into a more gaseous state at the very molecular level, just as the drow forces retreat behind barrier and back into the D’Artes compound, all save one. One lone drow archer ignites the tip of his arrow, takes aim and looses the projectile over the mass of (hopefully) stuck saurian army and into the thick of highly flammable tar. The trap is set, and in the blink of an eyes the tar ignites and sparks the gas cloud the air necromental shifted into, causing an eruption of flame that rises high to the roof of the underdark to purge the bulk of the razurath forces into smoldering ruin in one fell swoop. The lone drow dies in the eruption, ashes being all that remains as evidence of his sacrifice. And as this attack dies down, the archer returns to start picking off whatever is left just as the actual D’Artes army flanks from concealed positions, numbers 1000 strong. 500 on one side and 500 on the other, this pincer move is designed to cut off retreat and eliminate whatever forces remain. It is as the battle cries of the drow are heard that Daath lifts the supernatural darkness to reveal himself to Nychus. The razurath will see Gevurah in the background, surrounded by dark blue flame that would incinerate anything that would try to walk through them. So now the brave razurath faces the magister. “Welcome to House D’Artes.” Is the greeting the magus gives the unwelcomed guest. “A true honor you die within its halls.”

Kasyr 's right hand is pressed to his ear, the swords currently doing his bes to call upon his bond as Daedria's paladin to try and restore the damage he's done to his ears. "Mwop?" ...Nope. Can't hear that still. Maybe Daedria's put him on hold briefly because of the role he's playing in literal, flipping, genocide. Or maybe healing on the run is ha- Heat. It's the only warning he gets about the incoming blaze, his body already trying to careen out of the path of the burst of fire magic, even as it engulfs his right arm, tendrils of flame lapping against flesh as his shoddy disguise catches flame, the fabric twisting and smouldering beneath the onslaught. The singular silver lining to the process, is that it at least provides Kasyr a better vantage point to see Achillo coming. Unfortunately, muscle memory and his current lack of weapon sees him using his currently unarmoured palm to strike into the side of the blade- and the attached black flame, further searing his palms. That brief moment of contact, however, allows the Kensai an opportunity- one which sends a crackle of electrical energy coursing over his form to cannibalize bits of already ruined flesh along his right arm, and convert that ionized tissue into the fuel needed for what comes next. Which is pretty inelegant really, since it's a rather sharp burst of kinetic force that's meant to hurl the gold vein in one direction, and the Kensai in the other, with enough force to put on the fledgeling flames on him. It also happens to send him hurling into the back of one of the four who'd gotten ahead, colliding headfirst into it's spine with a sickening crunch that the still deafened Kensai doesn't even get to savor. No, he's just left rolling off it's probably still living body to scrabble over to it's longsword, the item drawn up in a singularily deft motion, and then driven down into the handbags spine skull. He doesn't waste any time trying to close the the distance with the next furtherest, fully intent on flicking the blood currently spattered on 'his' sword into the creatures eyes, before he dips low and goes to drive the blade up into it's guts. -After- it's cast it's spell. "Quin. Behind you!" You know, Kasyr really doesn't have much volume control right now, given the whole deafness thing. Maybe if he can just poke at his ears a little. It's not like he can damage them anymore given all the blood leaking out.

Gevurah is so lost in her trance that she fails to detect Nychus’s stealthy approach. By the time she feels his presence and he is within pouncing distance, Daath has erupted a circle of fire around the matron to protect her. Through the fire’s lapping tongues she can just see Daath encroaching on the razurath who snuck into the banquet hall. She watches them only for a moment, and once confident in her husband’s ability to handle this, she slips back into her trance. While in the meditative state, she tries to follow the curse’s magical signature with her mind to find the most powerful Razurath and focus the spell on this resistant souls. Outside, the mages should start to see bodies begin to drop around them.

Odhranos is about a man's height up the wall when notices the vibrations in the ground behind him of the dark Razurath approaching with killing intent. With an angry gesture, a cloud of sand explodes from the mage's cage, the airborne particles diving down throats, coating eyes and entering every cavity it comes across. Once there, the sand begins buzzing, as it heats up, suddenly a cloud of a thousand stinging burns, burrowing like superheated needles into eyeballs, tearing apart blood vessels and lacerating lungs, burning and scouring every vulnerable piece of flesh it can get at. While this happens, the terramancer dives backwards off the wall, towards the approaching jaws of the leaping Razurath. Odhranos' faceplate morphs with blinding speed, forming a saurian jaw of equally horrific glory as that of the approaching lizard, and he surges forwards, stony tendrils wrapping around the Razurath's wrists and maw, clamping the saurian's teeth violently shut while Odhranos' own teeth sink into its neck. With a vicious twist, the terramancer tears the lizards throat out, his tendrils tossing the body aside contemptuously as he spits out the mouthful of gore. Turning back to the stricken Razurath he had blinded, Odhranos listens to their cries of agony with an expressionless face. "May whatever gods you worship have mercy on you." He murmurs sadly, before the ground opens beneath them with a horrifying wrench, swallowing them whole, then crushing them to death. The mage turns away from the slaughter, his eyes dead and cold, before he runs and leaps up the stone side of the Black Armory, his terramantic limbs spearing into the rock and carrying him up it's side with speed, placing him at the blunt top of the spire within scarcely a few minutes. The mage takes the flourite gem out of his pocket and holds it in one hand, securing his tendrils into the stone beneath him to steady himself. Fixing the black bead into his ear with the other, he mutters to his companions in a flat emotionless tone. "In position. Beginning the task." With that, Odhranos raises both his hands and lifts the flourite gem up towards the rocky ceiling above, pouring his energy into it and causing the deathly beacon to blossom into full necrotic glory.

Karasu parries the blows as best as she can as more soldiers swarm the arena. Despite the aid of the faeries, Karasu cannot defend against them all. From the entrance to the emergency exit, she sees a light. A Razurath, with the last of its energy, has aimed a magic powered projectile at her, draining the energy of all the pixies strapped to the weapon of it. A wave of magic surges forth at the same time the tiny corpses hit the ground, and Karasu cannot move away in time; she starts an enchantment that is only partly ready by the time her swords are lifted to block the attack. Time stopped then as Karasu opened her eyes to look at empty sword hilts, and silver fragments around her feet. The swords are broken. The swords her father had entrusted her with, that his father before him had entrusted him with. A kick connects and sends the halfling flying into the walls of the arena so quickly that she cannot contort her body in time to soften the blow. She falls to the ground, and her hair falls around her bloody head to reveal the mark of Vakmatharas on the back of her neck. Normally a dull tan color, it is now a bright pink color, and a light begins to emit from the edges of the mark, quickly encompassing it in its entirety. It glows with a light bright enough to temporarily blind the dark-adjusted Razurath that try to descend on her prone figure. If any of the others were outside, they may be able to see the flash as well. When the light fades, the spell blade is on her feet. Her sclera has gone black, and the irises swirl with mauve and crimson. “What have you done.” The voice that says these words are not solely those of the spell blade, and it echoes through the communicator for all to hear. The plan has deviated again, it seems. With a feral growl, Karasu extends a hand. A black glow covers her clawed fingertips, seeming to stem from the cursed vial, and the shattered blades animate, rising above the ground and flying towards her. A chain the same strange color as her eyes extends from her hand, connecting with the shards of the broken katana. As a saurian approaches, her eyes flicker to it and her hand shifts. Before it has time to react, the chain has wrapped around its neck. Karasu jerks her hand back, and the shards of the swords rip clean through its flesh and between the joints of its vertebrae, decapitating the soldier. As the chain flies, it catches on the arms of another red soldier. Her eyes meet that of the remaining Razurath in her area, along with the few running into the arena to evacuate any remaining young. “Who’s next?”

Quintessa begins to cackle madly, the area all around her becoming heavy with the dark magic swirling around her. It is about this time that Kasyr drops in, and her mismatched eyes spy the four Razurath that had been unfortunate enough to find her here. With her horrific laughter still reverberating off the walls, the changeling stamps her left foot towards the lightning throwing Razurath while she shouts "Wal o rew!" and a wall of ice materializes just in time to absorb the blast from the spell. Chunks of ice scatter as the second foe closes in but he had brought a dagger to a sword fight. A bit of her aura assumes physical form to snatch the fluorite from her pale fingers, appearing as a black writhing mass of tentacles just behind the hex blade, shuttering and slithering and grabbing at nothing as it held the crystal safely behind her so it could continue to boost the curse. By now, the dagger-dino has closed the gap between them and entered the danger-zone of her katana. Using her favored Iaijutsu style, Quintessa draws her blade and strikes in the same fluid motion, sundering the dagger and taking half of the Razurath's hand with it. Before the he even has time to notice he'd been hit, the changeling has already flipped her blade and brought it back, decapitating him in one swift motion. His head rolls down the debris to rejoin the other three and the hex blade grins her pointed grin at them. "It's over," she informs them, "I have the high ground," To punctuate her threat she utters the incantation "Streic dân." and her sword sets aflame, the foul blood of the Razurath sizzling off of it as she brings it out next to her. "Thanks for the warning," she says to Kasyr, not knowing the extent of his deafness. With him here with her, Quintessa's morale improves ten fold. "I suggest you all strike at once next time," she says, mocking the razurath, "It's really your only real chance of beating me."

Valrae || Achillo seems momentarily stunned as Kasyr palms his burning blade. The madness of the move earned him a stalled moment of pause from the Razurathian general. Before he can regain his composure he is knocked back, spinning tail over snout and landing with a painful thud on his shoulder. The force of it sends a shock through him, strong enough to damage the more delicate bones of the raz. He is quick to his feet but clearly his arm has been damaged. By now, the curse has started to wear on the edges of his consciousness. Bile rises and foam drips from the corner of his toothy mouth. The pair of them both have neared Quintess enough that the light of her magic can be seen. Achillo’s eyes find it and, sensing that whatever is affecting him now also emanates from it, he run for him. Lunging forward takes one last swipe at Kasyr with his sword, sparing the flames, before darting abruptly for the apprentice. With the curse worming desperation into him, he gathers his strength and stolen power to summon a massive pillar of ebon flame and takes aim at Quintessa. Without pausing, he tucks into a roll that sends him spinning away from the now armed Kensai. With a low growl, he faces him. The first bit of flesh falls away from his tail, losing a horrid stench. || Nychus’s teeth clack together painfully, empty of dark priestess. His grow is guttural as he finds himself facing Daath. “The honor will be yours,” He promises, the blue flames reflecting wildly from his predator eyes. He draws his runed staff, the thieving weapon drawing its power from the very magics that the drow were using now, and slams it on the floor before him. A shock wave follows, the ground beneath them trembling as he attempted to open the ground beneath the priestess. Clearly, even with Daath standing in his way he wouldn’t give up on his mission to thwart Gevurah. He slams the staff down again, sending another shock around them. When it’s clear he cannot borrow enough power for the spell, he tosses the staff aside and roars. He charges swiftly, spinning to strike the drow with his bladed tail, the effects of the curse threatening and the movement causing vomit to leak from between his teeth. He doesn’t stop moving though, mad with desperation, Nychus kicks out with his sharpened feet, swiping at the magister with years practiced skill not yet dulled by Gevurah’s dark magic.

Daath is keen on what the staff brought to bare can do and is shown just that within moments as Nychus goes about trying to stop Gevurah. Unexpected, and it forces the mage to turn his attention to the ground beneath Gevurah and ensure his wife is safe, all the while leaving him wide open for attacks. That is, until Nychus finds his tail missing its mark as its cut into ribbons by some unseen force. The attack on House D’Artes has left the place a total mess, and because of this something broke in one of Gevurah’s oldest and most loyal servants. Izzerin, the butler of the First House and newly transformed undead emerges from the darkness with a murderous look in his eyes. “You filthy damn beast!” He proclaims, as he draws back his hand and the nearly transparent wires he controls fly back and slice anything they touch clean in half, or less. “You -DARE- enter my lady’s house? You -DARE- not bow you’re head in my lady’s presence?” His anger growing, Izzerin moves with a speed previously unknown to the aged dark elf, as he dismantles the razurath commander with a flurry of rage fueled blows that pack surprising power. But it is his ability, those razor wires that go almost unseen that the butler uses with murderous frenzy and keen accuracy. His hands move about like a spider weaving its web, before he’d pull back in one violent tug as he says. “Begone from this house!” Nychus’s eyes are left wide for a moment, as nothing seems to have happened. That is before chunks of his fall to the stone floor, blood splaying out into a massive pool as the saurian’s life is snuffed out by the loyal butler. And just like that, Izzerin’s rage is gone and he is back to his composed and professional self. “I’ll grab a mop right away ma’am.” He says to Gevurah, nodding to Daath who, in all honesty, is terrified at the power the drow he resurrected just displayed. He doesn’t stop looking at Izzering until he leaves to fetch said mop, and then he turns to Gevurah with a look of “What the F*** was that?!” Recovering quickly from the overwhelming violent display just put on by Izzerin, Daath readies himself to be prepared for anything now.

Kasyr can't hear Quinn, and there's like a weird sense that he should perhaps feel grateful for that. He's less appreciative of Achillo's parting shot, only narrowly interposing the long sword between himself and the enraged Razuraths blade, the desperate strength behind the blow knocking him off balance, and providing the opening he needed to disengage safely. There's a mounting frustration with this situation, but it's quickly replaced by something a bit more protective in the face of what that walking handbag manages to muster up. The sparks burst to life around Kasyr, a spew of blood filling his mouth as something inside gives way, a portion of something his magic deems non-vital in the moment voraciously consumed, if only to fuel that primal arcana. Achillo's clump of flesh doesn't even finish hitting the ground before the Kensai streaks across the area in a flow of lightning turned liquid, if only so he can intercept Quintessa mid defiant speech and drag her clear of that dreadful attack. It's probably not a pleasent experience, really, given that the Kensai hasn't really put this maneuver to use in -rescuing- people traditionally, and it's likely a rib or few is going to get fractured at the least, but it should do it's job. He spares a moment, tapping a knuckle to Quintessa's forehead alongside a quiet, "Don't monologue." and then a secondary spurt of blood fills his mouth. to accompany the rather abrupt manner in which he surges into Achillo's immediate vicinity and bisects him from top to bottom. He actually allows himself a moment to watch the halves slide apart, the tissue decaying even as it slides apart, before he redirects his attention towards Quintessa, one bloodied hand reaching to tap against his likewise damaged ears. "Can't hear a thing. Hold up one finger if Karasu needs help. 2 For Odhranos, Three for both. Ok, if I can catch a second. Thanks."

Gevurah ‘s violet eyes snap open at the sound of Izzerin’s voice. What the hell is going on? Her most trusted servant is not a fighter, and yet she sees him dice a Razurath with wires that she did not know he possessed. She eyes Daath to see if he knows where all this came from -- Has Daath made a new project out of Izzerin? But no, her husband is as confused as she. She shakes her head to Daath and shrugs a little before turning her attention back to the curse. She signs to him in the sign language of the drow, “It’s almost done.” She can feel through her connection to her spell that there are few active targets. The Razurath numbers have fallen to less than a tenth of what they were just forty minutes ago. Over the communication bead she says, “We’re close. Hold your positions.” And indeed the mages may begin to notice that fewer and fewer Razurath come for them. A dark razurath whose skin is more blood than scales finds Odhranos and begins to climb the armory wall, determined to take down one enemy in his final minutes on this planet, but his bloodied grip slips, and he falls before he ever poses a threat to the terramancer. He collapses in an unnatural position on the blood-soaked ground. Those with a high vantage point will see body after body littering the streets. Most of the razurath corpses are unidentifiable. Those who died early in the assault are now slowly turning to sludge. Gevurah grins to herself as she feels her imminent victory. She lifts her her gaze through her lashes at Daath, a look that shares the victory with him, that makes the genocide theirs, for them to rejoice in, together, soon.

Odhranos ' arms shake with the strain the death-curse beacon puts on him. As the curse takes its hold, the putrefying smell of decaying Razurath rises from the city below and Odhranos barely manages to contain a sob as the horror of his task comes to bear. Squeezing his eyes shut, the stone of his mask creeps up across his nose and eyes, covering his face entirely, shutting out all sight, sounds and smells, leaving only the terramancer's earth senses to pervade the stone beneath him, seeking out the vibrations of any approaching threats. Odhranos silently grieves for the innocents that had to die to pay for the crimes of the Razurath race, so many lives snuffed out in the name of retaliation and retribution. He is broken from his grief by Karasu's distorted voice echoing through the bead in his ear, and his eyes snap open with shock behind his stone mask. "Karasu?" The face mask cracks and recedes, allowing the mage to peer out into the gloom of the city from his vantage point. Far to the north east, he can just about make out movement in the darkness where the arena lies, but it's far too indistinct to be able to make out what is going on. A bead of sweat runs down the mage's back, something in her voice sparked fear in him, but more than that… it sparked familiarity. <"That didn't sound like Karasu, and you know it."> S'erok grumbled in Odhranos' mind. <"Yes. It sounded like someone else within her. Just like when you speak through me."> Concern causing his hands to tremble, Odhranos takes one hand away from the flourite gem and presses it to the black bead, trying to listen better as he calls out. "Karasu?! If you can hear me, you must fight whatever it is! We can't lose your link in the web now, not when the curse is this far gone!"

Daath has a total chub for his wife right then as they exchange looks, and thanks the gods no one is around to see it. Murder and genocide are their major turn ons, and in the light of the dark blue flames she is just looking really tempting right now. But, later, for now he'd return to his duty as D'Artes sentinel, though he does look down the way for Izzerin, who seems to have vanished into the darkness again.

Karasu , or at least, the thing that walks in Karasu's skin, makes little effort out of the slaughter of the weakened Razurath in the area. The fluorite has taken residence in her free hand as the remnant of her swords drags behinds her. At the entrance to the dug tunnel, stragglers remain, frantically digging at the stone to finish their escape. Something within her registers Odhranos' voice, as there's a falter in her step. "Praise be to our lord and savior Vakmatharas." Her arm snaps upwards and the whip encircles the necks of the two soldiers. "Go join his sweet embrace." Her arm snaps back, and the heads roll at the childrens' feet, unaffected so far from being outside the radius of the curse. The soldiers had brought these in to save their own young, seeming to have thought of an exit strategy the others had not. The young begin to scream at the death of those that had tried to protect them. "Nonsense. I've finally won the fight." The whip cracks again, leaving the spell blade alone in the cave. Karasu gives a cough, and blood sputters out from her lips. The irises shift downwards and lift her shirt to reveal ribs snapped cleanly off that seem to have punctured a lung. "What a shame that it happened... at the end..." The being's grip is released and Karasu collapses onto the ground. The red chain disappears and the shards of the swords fall around her as well. A pained wheeze echoes through the beads. Karasu opens her eyes, the irises still stained pink, and looks upon the rotting Razurath trying to make their way to her. "....Help... me..." She pleads to the air before losing consciousness.

Quintessa turns to the last two warriors standing before her, her expression one of a deranged killer. "Fine. Allow me!" She slides down the boulders and takes a swing at both of them, yelling "Tân! Tân!" As violent arcs of of fire came crashing down on each one of them, the hex blade is completely absorbed by their painful screams and totally unaware that the new Razurath that approaches is actually tough. A general or something. Mismatched eyes flicker over just in time to see him zero in on her and she grins at him just until the moment a large pillar of ebon flame descends down upon her. "Oh shi-" She only has a split second to consider what to do here before Kasyr makes up her mind for her, snatching the fluorite crystal as her body is yonked away by the Kensai's actions. She cradles the crystal like a baby, trying her best not to focus on the immense pain she felt in her side. Was it a broken bone? She doesn't know, but it was better than being roasted alive, she wagered. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call that a monologue," she manages to get out, the pain in her chest getting close to being unbearable. Quintessa's mismatched eyes narrow at him and she shakes her head. "I don't know," she mouths, grabbing her beads to check up on everybody. "Hey," she says into the beads, "What's going on over there? Do you need assistance? I can have Kasyr help you if you need it," She does her best to hide the pain in her voice but it's pretty obvious. "Everything is fine on my end." And it was. She only had a minor injury and she was maintaining the curse with the remainder of her mystic energy. Had it been 45 minuets yet? Surely they should all be dead by now, she was getting exhausted. With her ear pressed up against the beads she can swear she can hear Karasu's strained voice pleading for help. Abject horror consumes Quintessa. Not Karasu. Anyone but her. Mismatched eyes widen as she holds up a single finger to Kasyr. "Go to her, or I will." This whole mission meant nothing to her compared to her fellow apprentice.

Valrae || Razurath had died by the hundreds, more still were screaming in the flaming pit of tar that had opened up like the yawning mouth of death beneath them. Those few that managed to get away would soon succumb to the curse, vomiting and retching as the scales peeled off of them in sheets. They fled, cried out, wept and even still died horribly, rendered into a pool of sizzling, smoking goo that would leave a stench from hell itself.

Daath can almost feel it, the sense and presence of death itself washing over the underdark. He doesn't see it, but one cannot deny the power of the curse his wife currently lets loose upon the invaders. Even what chunks of Nychus are left simply melt into steaming goo and then into a puddle of nothing. It's beyond most spells even the magister has seen, and evidence of the power his wife wields. It is also here that Izzerin returns, his entire demeanor calm and collected as if nothing has happened as he goes about cleaning up whats left of the saurian remains. Eying him for a moment, Daath determines he hasn't anything to worry about, and thus he focuses on Gevurah, dispelling the magical flames and preparing to aid her after she is fully finished culling the Razurath from Trist’oth.

Kasyr can't hear Quintessa's refutal to his statement, but he can at least recognize the expression on her face, dismissively waving a hand to the statement. In that moment, he's altogether quite cat-like, perched adjacent to the rapidly mouldering form of what had been his adversary, all but unblinking in the manner in which he appraises his pupil. Ears perked up, he's waiting for the moment she gives him an ok sign, and he can finally relax- and yet what he gets instead is a single finger held up, eliciting a brief look of distress, and then a sharp hiss of breath as he rises to his feet, despite his churning innards. "Can't. Hear. Going." And he really is, forcing himself to move with as much reckless abandon as he can muster, trusting his recollection of the city, the maps he'd been studying on the walls of his office, and the faint pull of Karasu's empathic thread to find the quickest path there. There's a part of the former revenants mind chiding him for this moment- the simple whisper that things could have been so much easier if he hadn't allowed what was his to be stolen away, and yet it's forced down beneath the surface as he navigates over the oozing carcasses that marked where the interloping forces had perished. The Kensai actually manages to make it to the arena in good time, despite the pounding his temples, and the way his vision swims, but for the life of him, he can't see Karasu. Not at first. Not until he follows that layered sense of familiarity, staggering his way towards her body, if only to settle onto his knees and place his hands on her. Whether or not it had been Daedria disapproving of his hand in a slaughter on this scale, or simply his own inability while pressed as he was- Kasyr's focus is not on restoring himself in this moment. And certainly, given the stakes he was not apt to feel overly contrite about the manner- yet all the same, he still tries to tap into that divine link, though not for his own benefit. Now the question was, whether he'd get an adequate answer back before internal bloodloss caught up with him.

Valrae || Word of the explosion and rolling wave of rotting death that took the tower reached Deino and her small patrol at The Temple of Endless Death on the heels of the news that most of their army had also been taken by the horrors that awaited them on the grounds of House D’Artes. From the screams that reached even here, she could imagine the suffering as those that remained now burned slowly in the fiery pit of tar. Deino’s heart bled, the pain of knowing the fate of her people more painful than the rot that was threatening her body. It couldn’t matter though, if she was going to die she would be clawing at the very heart of the drow as she went. The spell was almost ready. Before her were chained fully grown mages, fairy folk and even a druid. Around them, yellow and black Razurath worked their runed magic. They had been working the complex spell for hours, the plan set in motion the moment Achillo learned of the death of those that had guarded the tower. Finally, sweetly, the magic reached its crescendo. As the dark magic coalesced, the life force of those magical creatures was drained, their bodies sucking into themselves with the sounds of jellifying flesh. And the underdark shook. As the first flaming comet fell, Deino closed her eyes and welcomed the release of death. She and all the remaining Razurath were pummeled and crushed under the rain of fire engulfed comments that magic called down. They pounded into the Temple of Endless Death unit nothing of the sacred space was standing. Only when the last piece of the structure fell did the comet fall end.

Gevurah :: House D’Artes rocks for the second time today. A stalactite falls on the stables and a guest apartment (unfortunately not Kasyr’s) at the rear of the estate. The matron can hear her people screaming out in terror, but her primary concern is not for them. The series of crashes and explosions sound close, real close, as in next-door-close. The smug grin she wore a moment ago slackens into a look of horror. “The temple,” she gasps to Daath. With only a handful of Razurath left, Gevurah abandons the cauldron and sprints out the door. “Kas, was that you?” she calls over the bead. As soon as she steps out into D’Artes inner courtyard she sees the smoke rising from The Temple of Endless Death next door. “No,” she gasps. Her body rapidly levitates to the highest D’Artes roof. She calls upon her God to give her the strength and speed to get to His Temple quickly. She darts across the the estate’s multi-layered, gothic roofs, weaving between gargoyles and spires, and leaps into the temple which is still under siege from summoned meteors. Her arms parry the air left and right to summon translucent gray semi-spheres that deflect and repel debris. She drops through a gaping hole in the ceiling towards a fiery crater, narrowly avoiding it as she drops down in controlled levitation. Half the main hall has collapsed right on the ancient statue of Vakmatharas, a gargantuan primal statue made by an ancient civilization from fossilized, blackened wood. Her father had stolen that statue as a spoil of war, installed it here, and built a temple around it when he re-established Trist’oth under patriarchal rule and the Vakmatharian theology. It is not only historically, personally, and culturally significant, but it is also supremely powerful. It is the touchstone that made Gevurah powerful enough to make a death curse in the first place. Her connection to it empowers her to perform spells of a magnitude beyond what typical High Priests of Vakmatharas in Vailkrin could do. “No, no, no, no,” she says as she collapses onto her knees and begins to tear at the rubble to try and salvage as much of the statue as possible. The ceiling above her will collapse at any moment, and she’s too distraught to notice or care.

Daath has of course followed his wife's lead after hearing what could have been another attack. The scene set, the drow knows the significance of what just happened. He'd magically ensure the roof doesn't fall on her, but right now she needs to grieve the loss in her own way. He isn't gonna tell her to leave right now, but he'd ensure she is safe and protected until she does.

Gevurah can barely lift a stone. She’s too exhausted from the death curse, and even more exhausted from this loss to blast through stone and carefully extract what may already be lost. But grief has never found a home in the drowess who, raised with so much, never learned what to do when she suddenly found herself without. The witch transmutes the grief into rage, and she suddenly rises and storms out of the temple to where a small group of priestesses have gathered to watch the destruction of their temple. The High Priestess screams at them, her rage twisting her words into something incomprehensible. One of the priestesses meekly replies, “Matron, we will rebuild.” “You fool!” Gevurah shouts, and she turns her palm on the priestess and blasts her with a cone of white-hot fire, her entire arm trembling from her rage until the priestess is burnt to a crisp. The older priestess know better, and they share in Gevurah’s grief. They understand the loss, and their commiseration earns them Gevurah’s mercy. She storms away from the temple, her robes billowing from the force of her anger. The priestess doesn’t stop until she reaches her private shrine to Vakmatharas, and there she slams the door shut. The only person who would be allowed inside would be Daath, but Izzerin advises him to “Give her a few minutes.” Eventually the air outside the shrine will feel less oppressive and fatal, and Daath will know it is a good time to approach, if he wants to.