RP:Technicolor Slave House

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: After consulting with the oracle bones, Gevurah finds herself compelled to pay a visit to the slave market on auction day, and she enlists the aid of Rauva in finding the slave that will fulfill the prophecy. At the slave market, she encounters Nymh, a beautiful half drow bard who enchants the market with the darker, sinister tones of his ocarina. But Gevurah isn't the only person present that is interested in Nymh. Tylania, Neveah, and Zendor infiltrate the market in order to rescue the bard whom they met earlier. Zendor pretends Tylania is his slave in order to get close to her and stage a rescue and escape, but it all goes to hell when Tylania's colorful fire arrow display ignites the already tense market into a brawl that quickly sweeps across most of the city. Gevurah buys Nymh at a steep fear-enforced discount, imprisons Zendor, and leaves with her entourage before getting caught up in the chaos.

House D'Artes

D’Artes never show the stress of war in public, but in private moments even the most powerful nobles in Trist’oth must find a way to unwind. For Gevurah, consulting her god through any of His mystical means pacifies her. It grants her a twisted inner peace, and confidence that her dark path is the correct one. In the D’Artes estate’s prayer room she meditates for half an hour. She stirs from that waking trance with a compulsion to consult the oracle bones. By the light of faerie fire she concocts concoct a prophecy, mixing blood, mirror shards, iron and dark mithril dust, and of course, the oracle bones. The bones speak to her in a language reserved for only the high priests in Vakmatharas’s church. But their message rarely reinforces what His subjects want to hear. Often He surprises, and this is one of those times. It can’t be, she thinks to herself. She performs the ritual anew, and again the message is the same. An unlikely soldier will rise from lowest of the low to serve a key function in her just war against the elves. A slave? She meditates on the message as she cleans and stores the agents of prophecy. When she is finished, she sends for Rauva. She needs a loyal warrior with specialized knowledge of the surface to help her turn over every slave — those owned, not owned, and yet to be sold — until they find the one Vakmatharas needs.

Slave Auction House

Gevurah D’Artes has no obvious reason to ever be present at a slave auction. The high houses’ underlings have underlings whose underlings handle slave bartering. Thus, the presence of a noble causes a big stir. Most avoid Gevurah and her expensively outfitted squad of bodyguards. Rauva travels with the First Daughter and her proximity to a noble confers upon her prestige as well. The low class give the entourage a wide berth, though the slave traders make it a point to bow low as Gevurah passes and signal in the drow sign language their best wares in hopes to tantalize a sale. Everyone is either signing or whispering in sinister pairs. The whispers compound into an ear-deafening roar, and thus announcers addressing the public at large must signal, their hot-blooded hands glowing red and swimming fluidly before the infrared vision of the drow. Gevurah presses a perfumed, black handkerchief to her nose. The stench of rotted, infected bodies, garbage, putrid fruit, and unwashed bodies assaults every pair of nostrils. She hands a small bottle of perfume to Rauva in a rare act of mercy. Her full skirt sweeps over trash. Her bustle gives her the faint silhouette of a drider. She begins to second-guess the prophecy. Surely nothing worth even her sneer can be found here.

Rauva is not a noble nor is she a particularly well-to-do sort of Drow. She is, by all means, a blade for the House D’Artes and she likes to keep it that way. Rather than bother with the intricate and complex politics of the Houses and all that they do, she would rather busy herself with the nasty and dirty work that ought to be done; the killing; the torturing; the maiming. Those pleasant aspects of her life. As Gevurah offers her a bottle of perfume in what is considered an act of mercy, the archer declines. The putrid rot is her favourite perfume of all. That stench of death and the reek of death to come brings nothing but fond memories to Rauva’s pernicious and ever cruel mind. While Gevurah is dressed fancily and produces the silhouette of a drider, Rauva is but a stalking predator: piwafwi raised over her head with only a whisper of white locks visible, red eyes glaring out and only matched in colour by the red of her war paint that streaked her dark face. Her leather clothes did not even creak as she moved, so supple it was. The drow was eager to see what would be on auction today.

Nymh knew what was expected here today, when all eyes were upon him. The auctioneer had been given instructions to make sure he was heard, and he was quick to point out the liberties given this slave, to catch attention before the music began. He was dressed better than any other slave, and looked almost pure... there was his eye color, the texture of his air, the bend of his ears, to give away his wood elf heritage... but his skin was the right color, and he was beautiful besides, with a complexion and bone structure that made him a very pretty songbird, and highly desired as a decorative piece. Drow did not practice the musical arts (his half elf heritage had allowed him his skills), and the minor house that had raised him was now prepared to cash in on their investment. They'd even sent him to the surface in recent times, that he may see the forest and sky he had desired to witness, that it may better his music. And it had. He made sure they all saw the spider silks he wore, the red glass blade he was allowed to carry in his sash, even here. The ebony ocarina, he drew forth, and placed at his lips. Delicate fingers tapped at the holes, as he began to gently breathe life into the instrument. When his music began, the other sounds of the market died, as the tingle of magic filled the air, and the sweet sounds of his music. The melody he birthed was one tailored for his audience, full of drow. Sadism and pride, secrets and a love of shadows, poisons and blades hidden wherever they may fit, all of these things came from the harshly melodic notes of the ocarina. It was majestic... he knew he must succeed in attracting a very wealthy buyer, here. The music was the drip of blood from stalagmites, the gentle sigh of ones final breath, the romanticized ideals of power through intimidation, murder and coercion. Coercive, that was the best way to describe this magical song. It reached out and gripped the audience, convincing them to love it, wooing them as they might any one of their own superiors, and evoking exactly that imagery in most. The song promised the release of their shackles through the experience of their desires, through power and prestige they would be set free, and this song gave them that, let them taste of it. The magic in his work was as much an art as the music its self, and it was clear, as the audience found its majority mesmerized by the singular work what his true value was. He could move hearts, and minds... even as such are those of drow. His head would bow, when the performance came to an end, another important part of the act. Lost in his own music, demure, subdued. It made him a gem to matrons who loved to abuse the weak, and beautiful. Wisps of hair covered his gaze, and his chest rose and fell in a quiet serenity, sticky with sweat under his dark tunic.

Tylania sat quietly on the roof, observing the ebb and flow of the drows enter and exit the auction house. Her interest was piqued when suddenly everything stopped. Everyone stopped moving as a large group of rich looking drows moved swiftly among the crowd. She shifted her stance on the roof as to get a better view, the woman she saw frightened her honestly. She could smell the blood from the one next to her. Blood that couldn't be washed off. Soon they disappeared behind the doors, and slowly people began to move again. She suddenly froze as everyone in the auction house below her was silenced, and a familiar type of music flooded her senses. She wanted to save him, wanted to help him. She jangled the pitiful amount of gold in her pocket, she was weak and poor..... what could she do?

Zendor was lucky to have made it this far without incident, but it was likely due to the timing. The number of drow in the streets being whittled down to a fraction compared to the ones at strategic locations. This, and that he was alone, with a hood pulled down over his eyes and shading his face, and over his armor was a loose flowing black robe. Unfortunately, he had to bring a lamp down with him, otherwise he'd never be able to see. It must've drawn attention to him at some point, there are implicit signs of struggle illustrated in various slashes in the robe, and for those with delicate olfaction, a coppery smell. Upon reaching this place, he stashed the lantern's light and took his place relatively close to the back of the crowd, not engaging in the whispers, and trying to seek out the man he met early this morning. From this far, he could just make out the silhouette of Gevurah, and the behavior of many that implied she had no business being here, her vast dignity taking up more space than the amount of people. But she wasn't afraid, rather, it was everyone else who wanted to be out of her way, and still close enough to be counted among her. From this far, he could see the silent lurking danger that Rauva represented, seeing the cold confidence in the way she carried herself. A predator even among predators. He shuddered and breathed deep, that's when the music started. He knew what it was, he heard the sound of the instrument already. Zendor, while listening, was reminded of his shame, and guilt, and embarrassment. But then also his purpose. He thought he saw the drow become calmed by the song, but it wasn't nearly that. They were each enthralled both with the music, and their own sick feelings. Silently he interrogated himself on his motives. Clearly with that noblewoman here, there was nothing clever he could do, other than escape. Still, he stayed, and waited.

Out of the shadows a feline slinks out dressed in white. She had heard familiar music and was following the tune. For it was just as beautiful as it was last time she heard him play. Though he would only recognize her from what she wore. Her face was now covered by a white faceless mask, her white silky hair still up in a ponytail held in place by a white ribbon. Her white cloak only open up just enough to see what she was wearing barely. A white designed dress that came to just above her knees, white heeled boots that came up to almost touching her knees, and in between white lace up stockings. She moved carefully through the market place trying to not have to stain her clothing again with blood and filth. She was curious about the slave auction who will buy him, but also about what had been going on down here. It has been a long time she explored the underdark. Though noticeably able to be seen she stays off to the side only to watch for now taking in everything.

Nymh’s music moves Gevurah’s sadistic sensibilities in spite of herself. Maybe it’s just acid reflux. Maybe it’s… patriotism? Surely not that. Surely she is immune from such disgusting sentimentality. And yet she suspects the music affects her. How elf-like. How embarrassing. She makes it a point to scowl outwardly, lest any fool believe she’s moved by the twittering melody of a half cast slave. As if. And yet, despite her scowl, she stalks towards Nymh, shooing away the crowd that gathers by a meter. Yet within seconds she notices how the crowd, despite her terrible presence, slowly leans in again, unable to resist getting closer to Nymh. They are united in their appreciation of the ocarina’s darker tones. Is this what her own army needs? A rallying song? She whispers to Rauva, “What do you make of this one?” And to Nymh’s vendor she signals, “Asking price?” And so the bidding begins, off schedule and with the official line-up disrupted, but it’s better to part with plans than with your life. Zendor, Tylania, and Neveah may notice that the only other non-drow here are all slaves. Although Gevurah does not notice the free-walking surface dwellers, one of her rogues does notice Neveah and Zendor. Two of her entourage dispatch to apprehend the intruders, or at the very least chase them away. They don’t draw weapons just yet. Each barks to either Zendor or Neveah in drow, “Your business here?” They sign the same in case they are not heard.

Rauva almost swaggered upon hearing the melody of the ocarina, the murderous intent and darker tones appealing to her quite mad personality and love for death. With Gevurah doing the shooing, Rauva need not worry too much about producing space yet her menacing smirk that seemed to say ‘let’s play and not in a good way’ was flashed to any who dared to get a little too close. “Half-breed,” she whispered in reply to Gevurah, her voice forever business-like in all matters of gore and death for that was her business; that was her art and her passion. “Pretty,” but prettier still if he were battered she would bet, “ideal poster boy for those who are not yet convinced to join us and quash the elves.” Rauva fidgeted for a moment before whispering once again to Gevurah, “I would rather see him up close, inspect him properly than listen to just a tune,” as she wanted her employer to get the best slave she possibly could. All part of the Rauva service.

Nymh chances a glance as things start moving... more quickly than they should. The source of the upset is immediately clear, once he takes his eyes off his toes... Gevurah, of House D'Artes. Doubtless the minor house that owned him was gloating by now. He didn't expect anyone of such status to be here. Some minor house representative, looking for something to spur the appreciation of a matron, that was what he'd been aiming at. But this... he found he was quite scared. The female at her side looked vicious, even by drow standards. He found his thoughts turning to those he'd met on the surface, wondering where they were now. Hopefully, some place much safer than here. If they'd actually managed to concoct a scheme to bid or steal him away, it had been dashed the moment Gevurah had decided to appear here in person. He'd place his Ocarina on his sash, as he waited for the inevitable inspection. He'd caught their attention, and there was unlikely to be much competition. The auctioneer quoted some price that meant little and less to Nymh, and he prepared himself mentally.

Tylania watched as the people whom had helped her entered the building. She waited until the bidding had begun, and floated down to the deserted ground. She pulled out a strange looking strap and began to strap her wings uncomfortably to her back. Satisfied that they were as flat as they could get, she threw a large cloak over her shoulder, and pulled the hood up to cover her hair and eyes. She walked around to the doorway, gaining strange looks and glares. She froze as a couple of guardsmen approached the people from the other night. A strange feeling of protectiveness washed over her, and her hands twitched towards her bow. She stifled the urge and simply continued to watch from outside, while everyone else filed in to see what was for auction. "I-i have to stop this...." she whispered to herself. She thought back to the fire - arrows, they could be a distraction, but it was not enough, she needed a well thought plan. Planning however, had never been her strong suit. She pondered this thought as the auction continued

Zendor can't see what the drow see, and apparently wasn't as hidden as he thought. It's already too late for him to escape now, so he doesn't even try. Instead, he turns to meet the man coming for him, ready to make his acquaintance apparently. The drow asks his question, and Zendor easily answers, "Looking to buy a sturdy slave, of course." He pointed to Nymh's holder, "that man said my money was as good as anyone's. So if you please..." Thus he returned to face the auctioneer, listening eagerly for the prices to be named. What a backwards society this was, that the women were looking at that little man like a piece of meat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone acting suspicious. The expectation that she would arrive eventually, and him previously sizing her up assured him it must be so. But there were already agents on her. So quickly he strolled over to her, stifling a limp. "Now, now!" He says to her, clearly loud enough to not be hiding anything from the people questioning him and her, "It's not time for that yet!" Zendor grabbed her unsympathetically by the arm and tried to yank her over to him. "She would simply love for some much gentler slave master to own her, but I tell her," and he looked into her eyes with intent, "It's not time yet!"

Neveah stands up straight and looks at the oncoming drow. In answer to their questions she repeats what zendor said. that is about the slaves and coin being as good as everyone else's. then she waits to see what happens next.

Gevurah invites Rauva to inspect Nymh up close with a wave of her hand. She does not ask permission from Nymh’s owner, who wisely signals rapidly, “Yes, yes, of course! Have a closer look. 200 gold is the starting price for the auction. Steep, but he is a—” Gevurah silences him with a glare. The D’Artes rogue engaged with Zendor understands enough common to snort and linger near Zendor, but not attack. Indeed, his gold is good here, but little else of him is welcome. Zendor should consider this rogue his new shadow. Congratulations! The rogue follows Zendor as he seizes yet another surface dweller, some cloaked, tall, feminine looking thing. It seems Zendor has picked up some of Alfred “Red” Gingerson’s antics. The commotion draws Gevurah’s attention. Entrusting Rauva to handle the question of Nymh, Gevurah crosses towards Zendor and asks in common, “What can your slave do?” It seems Tylania may be bought today if the rescue trio isn’t careful.

Rauva wastes no time in approaching Nymh, shooting a glare to his owner along with that menacing smile of hers. She wanted him to talk more, if only for her to pierce his tongue to a post in warning to all other vendors who would speak out of turn. She looks Nymh up and down, not deigning to ask a mere slave before she ruffles his hair to test its lustre; hands patting his shoulders and gripping his arms to feel for the muscle of his flesh. The archer unkindly grips his chin now, lifting his head and tilting to the side so she might peer at him a little better. His ears truly do give away his heritage. Her thumb snakes up to his lips, pushing insistently until he opened his mouth so she might inspect his teeth, gums, all of it to get a glimpse of his health. With a grunt, she turns from Nymh and returns to Gevurah’s side with only the slightest nod; near imperceptible nod to the noble drow to claim him as good enough.

Nymh was used to the inspection, and submitted easily enough. He knew he would pass muster, as far as his health and grooming was concerned... they'd taken great care to see to it that he was an attractive buy. Still, he couldn't completely suppress a shiver at the touch of the drowess... hers was the touch that promised pain, mutilation, and eventual, by that point blessed, death. She'd blood on her hands that could never wash away, and it tainted every fiber of her being. His dagger almost glowed in her presence. He'd find himself looking askance as she turned this way and that, and his eye would widen considerably, as he witnessed Gevurah questioning the man he'd met before, and Ty, and even the white lioness. They'd come. He could only hope they'd make it out alive... he didn't know if he'd have the chance to aid them again if the drow turned on them.

Tylania tries to pry herself from his grasp, yet is frozen in horror as that woman began to walk towards her. She thought of her mother for a second, and had to hold down the bile that rose in her throat. She could feel herself paling. "What can your slave do" the words rung in her ears, and again she could almost see the resemblance. She looked steadfast at the ground now. She had no talents, unless you counted those with a bow. She could sing...but not well. She could hit any target if it was in sight though, and she had very good eyes. She turned to zendor to see if he was going to answer, or rather what he was going to answer with. Her head was swimming, and Sh begun to feel claustrophobic. She needed to stretched her wings, but they were held tightly against her back, it felt as if the bones were going to break. She just looked back to the ground, trying to ignore the pain, and the memories that were surfacing.

Zendor begins walking back to his place among the crowd, only to find that this drow is following him like a stench. So he walks a little bit further, just to make sure that this man really is following him, and certainly the drow keeps up with him. "Fella, give me some space or I'll--" Then Gevurah became adjacent to them, and her demeanor instantly reminded him of his military discipline; he clapped his boots together, stood up straight, and looked not in her eyes. After a moment he remembered himself again. "My slave is so talented. An actress, for one. She can cry on command! Acting is so0o much better than singing." He slyly tries to remind her of her inspiration, "She's much more valuable than that fellow over there for instance," referring to Nymh. He let go of Tylania's arm and nudged her a little, so she would demonstrate. "Of course that's not even the best part. The best part," being always courteous, "May I?" And he knelt slowly down to his boot and made no effort to hide he was retrieving a knife. "This is the most amazing thing she can do." And he stood behind Tylania, and whispered, "I guess now's a good time, eh?" He knicked her a little with the knife, "Whoops! Sorry Slavey. I'm not used to the dark. It's hard for me to see...but drow are not used to the light. House rules I suppose. Anyways." Then he deftly sliced the ties holding down Tylania's wings (if she allowed), allowing her to fly as well as she wanted. "A little demonstration please?"

Neveah merely watches though moves cost to nymh tho inspect him a bit. wondering if during the commotion she could whisk nymh to the docks and away from here.

Gevurah appreciates Zendor’s reverence and nods disinterestedly at his sales pitch. An actress? She rolls her eyes, but when they roll back onto Zendor she sees him fumbling for a knife. Reflexively her hand tenses into a claw, dark energy crackling between her fingertips. Her rogues train their crossbows on him and his slave, but his goofy demeanor saves him from becoming an actor himself, in his debut and final role as The Human Pincushion. Gevurah holds up a hand to stall Zendor’s plan and attend to Rauva. “Tell his vendor I meet his ‘asking’ price of 200 gold with a ‘telling’ price of 300. And no auction.” Sucks to be Nymh’s vendor; he would have made triple that through an auction, but alas, nobles. He should count his blessings that she paid anything at all. With that matter taken care of and Rauva sent to secure Nymh as the new D’Artes slave, Gevurah nods for Zendor to continue. The bolts stay trained on Zendor’s head as Tylania demonstrates whatever her talent may be.

Latulepi is standing amongst the gathered with her usual absence of expression and distant stares which float about from one body to the other until Gevurah made her appearance. It is then that she becomes the subject of those long, perhaps purposeless gazes through such dead brown eyes, not unlike the previous encounter (though the girl is no longer in pieces). Time flies much faster for the risen, reassembled corpse after this. Anyone around her is nonexistent to her attention, until Zendor boasts of his winged servant. Striding forward at a moderate and ungraceful pace, Latulepi's sights slip from the High Priestess upon Tylania and her wings. Closer and closer the preteen moves until she could reach out and stroke the avian's feathers. And she does try.. before passing right by said servant and hobbling right for Nymh. Once she comes as close as she could get, the undead stops and opens her mouth. Her hazey decayed sights now focused on the bard for purchase. A pale, bony finger is then lifted, pointing right to him. "Aaww..k..shhuunnn." Latulepi hoarses in a dry voice, just as Gevurah finishes her sentence.

Rauva ’s red eyes had affixed themselves to Zendor, her menacing smile now more like a deranged grin as if she were just waiting, just absolutely waiting for him to cause a little trouble so she could put him down. A human slave would certainly be interesting, fragile things that they were. Yet it seems that all is in hand and Rauva must attend to the business of House D’Artes first, rather than the business of opening up that pinkskin and seeing what makes him tick. Without further ado, the murderous drow turns to the vendor and signs the price Gevurah has set, adding that he is fortunate that Gevurah is so generous. Her eyes settle again on Nymh, her certain and confident footsteps carrying her back to his side where her hand now settled upon the back of his neck so she might manoeuvre him as she saw fit. Oddly enough, her grip was not crushing or overtly cruel: it was a tender grip. A grip that simply said ‘I would love for you to run so I could shoot you down’.

Nymh was stunned, watching Gevurah interact with the others. His breath was caught in his chest, his voice caught in his throat, silent yet pleading from afar all the same. Run. Flee, damn you, this is no place for your kind. Then, there was a corpse of a drow pointing at him, trying to pronounce 'auction'. He blinked. He couldn't do anything, couldn't even safely respond to her, and just averted his gaze, until Rauva came to collect. Her hand on the back of his neck didn't displace any vertebrae, a pleasant surprise. He was sure it was less becuase of a mercy or liking on his part than some other form of cruelty. She likely wanted him to try to run. He had to be good at reading others, to survive. His magic worked best when he understood those he played for... the more he could guess at their motivations, the more he could work towards ensuring his own survival. And drow were of a sickeningly common mind.

Tylania nods understandingly, she flinches slightly as the knife touches her skin, but feels no honest pain when it cuts her slightly. She felt sheer relief flood through her as her wings were freed from their compressed state. Not wanting to waste a second she looks to the ground and mumbles "y-you may want t-to step back a l-little" without waiting for a response she slowly stretched out her pearl colored wings to their full 10 foot span. She bent her knees, and with a powerful stroke of her wings, sent her body gracefully into the air. Taking off was always the same, a punch in the gut, but it was amazing, always amazing. She tucked her wings close as she spiraled upwards. Once reaching an appropriate height she unfurls her wings, and uses them only to maintain her altitude. Slowly, while watching the people below she grabs her bow and three rune marked arrows from the quiver. She pulled them back slowly, pointing them straight up. They exploded into arrays of dull colors, as she didn't want to seem threatening with bright hues that assault their eyes. She turns her body slightly as she throws her bow on her back, and flew through the colored explosion. She came out the other side with a trail of rainbow colors tailing her, she twisted and turned through the air, a trail of light ever following her. Soon the light ran out, and slowly she approached the ground, landing carefully, and slowly tucking her wings behind her.

Zendor suddenly regrets leaving his life in Tylania's hands, even if she is a nice lady. "Hahaha..." Nervously, he tries to play off the fear of being perforated and poisoned by being nonchalant. The hushed discourse between Gevurah and that little sneaky devil-girl was enough to assure him of what he already suspected, he was in the wrong spot! No auction! Then he spots Latulepi from afar, having never seen her before, or any other undead, he's quite irked. The shumbly way she walks vexes him, and her scraping voice physically offends him. He wraps one hand behind his head as he points at her, diluting the attention that was on him. "Uh, your new singer?" He steps a portion of an inch back, but Rauva wasn't fooled, and was trying to scare him with a shocking grimace. Well, when no one was looking, he pulled down his eye lid and stuck out his tongue. He was already scared. Finally it was time for Tylania to do her thing, and either get him killed or...not. He held his hands up as he watched, awestruck, proud, and a little jealous of the avian. "Ahem. So. What a ya think? 300 no auction? Then I'll just be on my way..."

Gevurah spies Latulepi in the crowd and immediately recognizes the re-stitched horror. Larewen really needs to leash her pets. But Tylania quickly commands the attention of every drow present, especially the paranoid and ill-tempered D’Artes. Pro-tip: The fabric of Trist’oth society is covered in flammable tar, figuratively speaking. And thus, an avian firing indiscriminately at will, no matter her intentions, is just the incendiary device needed to set the city aflame. The fire starts right here in the auction house, with guards and commoners alike counter attacking with arrows and offensive spells, swords turn on the avian first, then seize the excuse of chaos to turn on their neighbors. The (still figurative) flame spreads, igniting discord outside the auction house. It races down the streets and provokes Trist’oth city guard to action, and they race through the chaos to apprehend the avian invader. Dealing with this street brawl is below Gevurah’s pay grade, so she signals for her guards to arrest Zendor. Rauva she trusts to follow suit with Nymh. She leads her entourage, new slave, and new prisoner back to D’Artes estate, where wealth and power keep out the rabble and rainbow avians. Along the way Gevurah flails at slaves and commoners with her live snake-headed whip, or shoots off balls of black pain at any who dare invade her massive sense of personal space. With each step she grows increasingly agitated, and cannot wait to work out her frustrations on Nymh and Zendor, but especially the latter because not only is he at fault for the brawl, but he’s ugly to boot.

Tylania took note of the confusion.nothinng she could help nyhm, but knowing she could do nothing more, she fires a few of the brightest arrows she has into the sky, and flies away quickly, tears streaming down her face. She had now lost two friends.

Zendor shrugs and gets taken down by some merciless Drow cops. At least they capture him alive.

---

Back at the D'Artes estate, in its slave stables, Gevurah explains to Rauva her task. Look through the D'Artes slaves, and other slaves that belong to the surface army, and look for any other promising 'pupils.' Along with Nymh, train them, test them, beat them, scare them, do whatever you must to bring out their full potential. Last slave standing is the chosen one.