RP:Trist'oth Is Burning

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Laezila and Emrith incite a populist rebellion in Trist'oth to over throw D'Artes. Emrith free slaves and arm commoners and Laezila addresses the crowd and inspires them to battle. Gevurah arrives late, having been away trying to murder a dragon, and returns to a city in chaos. She burns Laezila with the pyromancy she stole from the former matron, but an explosion set off by one of Emrith's tricky devices sends combatants sprawling. Larewen helps Emrith and Laezila escape a city that will riot for three full days to come.

Andon D'Chath

Laezila stood just behind the massive pillar of carved stone that marked the symbolic obelisk that was lit at the stroke of midnight each night to tell the passing of hours. Tonight, it would not be lit at midnight, but rather mark the intended passing of regime from D'Artes to a new leader. The obelisk, as large and wide as it was, easily obscurred from the vision of passing drow the ex-matron and her three elven companions. The drow female was dressed in that tight, form-fitting black sheathe of a dress, that was cut to fit from the asymmetrical hem up to the small straps over mostly-exposed and lithe ebony shoulders. Her shoulder-length and glittering white hair was curtained around an ominous and ivory faceless mask that veiled all features but those intense, crystalline-blue eyes. Her chest lifted and fell with a deep breath, before, in her knee-high boots, the woman knelt before the other three, and shoved a finger into the dirt. "Alright," she spoke in common, "I will address the slaves, and begin the riot only after we've dispersed the weapons," she indicated the giant bag that was brought with them, "My contacts have assured me that it'd be safe to disperse two weapons to each of our drow allies beforehand. They can be identified by a dark red ribbon tied around their left wrist. Needless to say, this means no slaves. Once the riots break out, these allies of ours will give one weapon to a slave after working to free them, upon which they'll start swarming the city. They outnumber the noble, after all, and the soldiers." She looked to each of them in turn, her voice both augmented and muffled by the mask in a distortion of the sound that made it both ominous and otherworldly. "One of you will be with me. The other two have to open the gates to the city's slave pens," the communal slave pits filled with hundreds if not thousands of drow slaves, used for construction and truly manual labor rather than housework, "which means, getting by a lot of guards, and pulling two levers; one located on one side of the gate-" The gate was a massive, iron-wrought set of criss-crossing bars that descended from above, flanked immediately by two small watchtowers atop the narrow walls that extended from the gate into the natural barrier of the rockside at either end. The matron indicated in the dirt with a small mark from her finger, "And one on the other. These are some of the toughest, most well-trained guards, so if you have to engage them, be -silent- and be careful. The other one of you will be with me, because they will rush this pillar when I begin to speak. I will do my best to stay alive, but I've better chance with a partner than alone, especially while having to address the people." Her gaze lifted to Emrith, "You have your rock-bomb things?"

Emrith grins in Laezila's direction at the mention of his explosive rocks, then indicates his cloak, which appears to be bulging in many places. "Smaller stones, but quite as explosive as they need to be," he confirms. "Shall I stay with you then, Laezila, or do you expect I would do better at the gates? I am thinking the former." His voice is hushed, in deference to the delicacy of the mission. The sylvan man is garbed as is typical for him, but with one addition; a hood now adorns his cloak, helping to cast his face into shadow. "Wherever I am best suited, there is something I ought to give you first." He passes the ex-matron an emerald. "Shove it in a pocket somewhere, if you have one. It is not large. I have carved upon it...on its smallest face, a rune of contact. I have its twin on my person. So long as these jewels remain whole, we will always know where the other is, and can come to them quite unerringly even through dark or cacophonous sound. It will aid me in finding you, or you in finding me, if we do get separated."

Laezila kept her gaze on Emrith and gave the distinct movement of her head in a nod, likely of approval in his confirmation, but before she could speak, the hushed voice of the sylvan man continued. The ex-matron waited and listened to his words, and only outstretched her hand to take hold of the emerald between her fingertips and bring it back toward her; she knew it was a moot gesture. If she was captured, there was no chance of getting her back -not by magic, not by Emrith. A part of her wanted to send him away just on the off-chance that if she does, he would not have to bear that guilt -it was that part that she decided on. "No, I need you to plant those throughout the city on your way to the gate, Emrith, I'm sorry." Her hand brought the gemstone in against her thigh, while she swept her gaze over the gathered, "Now, and this is important, there will be a sign that must be heeded after the gate is opened, so that we can all move to meet up at the entrance of a secret passage to the surface in the south end of the city, and Emrith you should save one to collapse it on the way out. When the pillar heats on the second hour, we move toward there. So this all has to happen fast, okay?" Her hand slightly trembled.

Emrith nods his head in quiet acquiescence; Laezila knows far more about how the Underdark is structured, and thus Emrith and his elves are in large part apt to do as bidden. Emrith's boots and cloak are in good working order, so speed and stealth will be available to him if he requires them...as he almost certainly will. There is one other thing available to him, however: a peculiar flat stone, approximately twice the size of the average gold coin, engraved with seven tiny runes, each of them different and all of them touching at some point in their carving. It is a mana font, a fairly small one, and it is currently empty. Rather than storing magic that is willingly fed into it, however, this particular device has a darker aspect: as soon as magic touches it, the dastardly little rock will instantly form a binding link between it and the source of the magic which struck it, thereafter to begin siphoning energy out of the host and into the rock until, unable to bear any more, it explodes. Emrith is ready to use this in case any particularly noteworthy drow mages or priests should interfere with his business. "There are more than enough stones on my person, and in the hands of my elves, to raise hell down here," he says, and there is, surprisingly, a little sadness in his voice. "One stone could not collapse a tunnel on its own, but I will see what can be done. We have two rangers and a druid. The druid--" Emrith indicates a rather short, plump-looking elf with pale hair. "--is particularly good with stones and earth magic. She might do particularly well in helping collapse the tunnel." He nods, then straightens. "We go, then," he says in elvish, and makes ready to move.

Laezila nodded, though no expression made it from beyond her ivory and faceless mask; there was no time to show her fear, no gain in it, and therefore it was far better to, even in the company of that boogeyman of an elf that she found comfort with, appear confident and prepared. Inwardly, though, the young drow was downright terrified. "Okay, let's move," she said, as she pushed herself to a stand, back toward the obelisk, "First stage of the plan, disperse weapons. Remember, dark red ribbon, left wrist, two a piece. The druid will be with you, Emrith; she's important. You have twenty minutes, give out as many as you can, and when this obelisk is lit, then ditch any left over and move to the gate to the slave pens to get them open. Go."

Emrith is off at once, taking Faedra the druid with him. Both are swift and silent, and neither is impeded at all by the enormous bag of weapons, since Emrith and the druid have conspired to cast a minor air enchantment upon it. It rests between them, less than a tenth of the weight it ought to be, clanking softly as they run. As the two elves ply the city streets looking for targets, they can both hear and see the signs of tension in Trist'Oth. This war has not been kind to the drow of late, and it shows. Those few who are out at this hour do not generally linger, and there is no sign of merriment; indeed, most figures seem to scuttle like the spiders so many of them revere. This makes the few co-conspirators easier to spot and arm, however, since the majority of this group is a little less jumpy and a lot less apt to bolt at the sign of footsteps. Weapons are passed out to every drow the pair can find who happens to be wearing the requisite ribbon. Whenever he gets a chance, Emrith takes out an enchanted rock, each about the size of a hen's egg, and tosses it casually to one side or the other. There are, in many places, other small stones among which these rocks can blend, but even where the passageways are clear, a single innocuous little rock will probably escape notice until it is kicked ot stepped on, whereafter it will detonate and very likely tear any drow near it to pieces with both concussive force and shrapnel. These are deceitfully ordinary-looking rocks, and truly wicked, and with each clack of rock on rock, Emrith winces a little. When he has a free moment, he flashes a few hand signs to Faedra; elven hand-talk is not quite the same as that employed by the drow, but it is similar enough that an onlooker would have to be watching for differences in order to be certain that it wasn't just two cloaked drow speaking to one another. "We have all but a few," he signs to her. "Be ready."

A few of the noble houses' spies and scouts notice this strange business with the weapons and red ribbons. The weasels crawl back to their handlers to report their findings. A whisper spreads through the city like weak fog.

The signal for Emrith came just before he finished his sign for 'ready', indicative that he was just on time -which was perfect; too early risked the rebellion being stopped before it ignited, and too late risked the rebellion too easily stomped out. The sylvan man had made it within that narrow and improbably window, and the signal gave way in the form of a sudden burst of fire. It was the ignition of the obelisk's bottom tier, which cast like a anarchist back light to silhouette and cast the shadow of Laezila over Trist'Oth as she stepped out in front of it. "My brothers and sisters! Some of you know who I am, and think you know what I have done -but I am here now, as your salvation!" Like those enchantments on the bag, and on the rocks, the ex-matron had some placed on her ivory mask. The result was her voice able to be heard echoed and triumphant throughout the entire city, "I am the salvation for every outcast, every exile, every slave and punished! I am the voice of a new reign -the reign where birth and blood are equal, where status is what you make it not what has been told to you!"

Laezila's voice begins to ring out through the tunnels and caverns of the subterranean city just as Emrith is finishing his hand signals. Now more than ever, speed is of the essence. The two elves make a beeline for the slave pens, Emrith quickly fastening his cloak and disappearing instantly from view. With no further need of the bag of weapons - which is nearly empty in any case - he lets go of it, then draws Heleg and Nahr as quickly as he can. A muttered spell, and the blades quickly fade from view; this enchantment will not last long, but an invisible man with invisible blades may cause enough havoc to turn the tide of this seemingly insurmountable task. Fadera begins to hum low in her throat, and Emrith ducks aside just as a billowing cloud of dust boils into the passageway ahead. Guards yell and the rasp of weapons can be heard as those worthy drow draw steel and attempt to charge. Faedra claps her hands, however, and suddenly the dust is full of sharp shards of rock, slivers and pinpricks and needles of stone which scour the onrushing guards, gouging eyes, furrowing cheeks, even opening a throat or two with their chaotic flurry. Faedra spreads her hands, then brings them together, and a brief but vicious gust of wind seems to spring up from nowhere, funnelling in the choke-point before the gate and raking the surviving guards with even more stony shrapnel. Sweat beads on the druid's broad forehead and she seems to waver, but at a single word from Emrith - "Go!" shouted in elvish - she seems to martial her strength and charge. Emrith, invisible, does the same, hunching his shoulders as he sprints forward. Emrith breaks right, Faedra arrows left, both aiming for the huge levers that will open the gates. From within comes the piteous wails of frightened slaves, some of whom might well have been hurt by all the detritus of Faedra's onslaught. Most of this has now been spent, and those guards who have not been killed or blinded are now in a towering rage. They can see only one elf in their midst, and they close in on her. Faedra yanks the lever just as an adamantine sword severs her right arm. She rips forth a drilling shriek, a sound which momentarily eclipses Laezila's own magically-augmented voice, then collapses to the tunnel floor in a spreading pool of scarlet. Emrith erupts into fire stance as two guards end up between himself and his target, neatly severing one's arm while nearly decapitating the second. The latter does live, however, by fading backward as he feels the whoosh of parting air near his face. Emrith steps forward, hammers an elbow into the first guard so that he stumbles toward the sword-wielding second, then grins as the two momentarily meet in a clash of blades. Neither can see the fiend who is attempting to cut them down. Emrith spares them no further thought, simply sprinting for the lever. It is not high off the ground, and rather than simply sheathe one sword or otherwise disarm himself, the agile spell-blade taps the runes in his boots, leaps forward and slams onto the lever with both feet. The gate rumbles open, and all hell truly breaks loose.

A horn blows from Trist’oth’s fort to the north east of the city. Guards pour from it in a fluid stream. Sentries throughout the city animate. Mages fire off spells that cast rainbow plays of light on the immense cavern wall that houses the foul city. Priestess’s voices chant in unison, low at first but gathering strength as more and more drow join in to beseech patron gods for aid against this new foe. The noble houses are divided in their response. Some join House D’Artes in squashing the rebellion for reasons inspired by greed and an insatiable thirst for power. Others stay out of the fray, already scheming how to schmooze with whoever emerges victorious from the rubble. A third group of noble houses, notably the smallest group for Laezila’s honor and activism is in minority company among the noble class, take arms to aide the masked matron. On every street, in every alley, pub, shop, cellar, dark corner, lit corner, gutter, and otherwise drow quarrel with drow with whatever weapon is available to them from swords to spells to fists and candlesticks. Flame catches here and there. The dirty streets are mottled with blood. Though the malnourished slaves are by far the weakest of the combatants in this hellish tableau, their sheer number makes them a force not easily dispensed with. A small troop of mages, soldiers, and a beast handler with his cave troll are sent to the slave pens to deal with the culprit behind this breech. Laezila earns the rest of the D’Artes’ loyalists wrath. Mages, priests, assassins, trolls, undead wolves, giant vipers. Dream of the nightmare, Trist’oth will supply it.

Laezila could see the chaos that erupted around the city, and expected (hoped) Emrith's various rock-mines strewn throughout the city would serve to continue to fuel the revolution and stunt the approach of the forces of the guards and D'Artes loyalists. The Ranger behind her, Authion, was on the move; his body was swift with sylvan-style cape fluttering behind him in the wake of each graceful action as 'twang' after 'twang' signaled every arrow fired. The firing was swift, too, as drow after drow armed with the intention and stride toward the platform that Laezila stood on fell back after taking an elven-made arrow to the chest, neck, or head. The ex-matron, at first, continued speaking, "It is time that House D'Artes are shown the error of their ways, and are brought down! It is Vakmathras that commands it; for all the deaths of your kind, your brothers, your sisters in his name, but with my own two eyes I have seen Gevurah D'Artes worship the Spider Goddess!" Both arms are flung up into the air in emphasis of this grand accusation; it didn't have the weight or evidence to turn any significant amount of people against the First House, but it certainly was heard -something most embarrassing and scandalous for the ruling sect. "I am your savior, fight for your freedom! Death is better than the shackles of your slavery, it is time to become equal! To throw down your bonds and show you deserve your life by continuing to fight!" The second ring on the obelisk burst into flame at the same moment that one of the D'Artes soldiers managed to cleave into Authion, bifercating the Ranger at the waist horizontally. Laezila immediately twisted, and thrust out her hand for the deafening clap of thunder to be heard ripping across the city as lightning bolt arched from her palm in jagged path to the armored foe, frying him inside out. It was time to move, to get out.

Any revolution takes time, as does any counterattack. Even with this narrow window before the arrival of the small party to his locale, Emrith does not intend to simply stand by, or to fight in close quarters. As slaves pour out through the gates and guards begin to hack with seeming abandon at any and all they can reach, Emrith hops upward, sprawls silently onto a low catwalk, comes up into a defensive crouch and then begins to run. His steps take him away from the gate and the narrow tunnel, back toward a larger cavern from which that narrower corridor happens to branch. It is in this larger room that he meets the party intended to trap him near the slave pens. Still shrouded by his cloak, Emrith stops on the catwalk, sheathes one of his swords and unlimbers the chain belt around his waist. He throws it toward the far side of the cavern in a high arc, then dips his now-unencumbered hand into a cloak pocket for a large glass vial. He throws it just as the lightning-ensorcelled chain whip strikes stone and begins sending up sparks. The glass globe shatters on the ground nearby and begins to spread its contents which, upon touching the sparking whip, immediately begin to ignite, with an extraordinary amount of smoke. Now beginning to run again, Emrith shouts in drow: "Kill each other!" over his shoulder, hoping that the long-saved command-and-compel oil is just as effective when inhaled as it is when touched. Huge billows of greasy smoke erupt behind him, and from within it comes a fuselade of angry bellows; somewhere in that rapidly-spreading inferno is a cave troll who, despite his beast-handler, is both enraged and terrified at all the fire. Even if the oil does not have its intended effect, the troll might unleash a fair amount of trouble before being put out of its misery by one of those in its party. Doing his best not to inhale too much smoke, and to stay away from madly-rushing drow on every side, Emrith quickly attempts to make his way toward Laezila, focusing unerringly on the emerald she has presumably not gotten rid of. Judging by the sheer amount of chaos on all sides, neither of them is apt to get out alive; however, as Emrith sprints full-out within his protective shroud of invisibility, he thinks it may all be worth it. Trist'Oth, whatever tonight's outcome, will never forget this.

Larewen had been in Trist'oth when it started, and as was her wont, tended to spend more time observing than participating. Her reasons for being so far below ground were, undoubtedly, in search of her guildmaster. Other than that, she had little reason to leave Vailkrin at all. Her steps were careful as she slipped between quarrelling drow and slaves, for once grateful that the laziness that had plagued her as of late had kept her dressed lightly: in fact, the necromancer was wearing pants! Imagine that. Closer and closer, she sought to draw toward the center of the commotion while oh-so-carefully keeping to the sideskirts of the rebellion. The necromancer had no desire to be noticed, and the lightness of her skin, coupled with the point of her ears, could easily enough do just that. It was an uncharacteristic method of moving around for the elf, sneaking around through shadows. Eventually, she would see the pillars, watch Laezila's accusation from a far, and her lips would press into a thin line. Patiently, and still doing her best to go unnoticed - for as long as it could be managed.

Gevurah is cursing both Hildegarde and Laezila as she barrels through the Underdark astride Halbyrn, her giant spider mount. The steward’s ruse became clear to her shortly after D’Artes soldiers reached the First Daughter and broke the news. In the tunnels, she breaks from the main thruway and dips into a magically camouflaged shaft that connects directly to House D’Artes’ dungeon. All the noble houses boast such hidden entrances, and in times like these they prove their usefulness. Without entering the fray she enters her home from which she can command a more focused response. Having already exhausted much of her energy today fighting a dragon and a bloodmage, the high priestess must strategically make a few decisive moves against Laezila, or risk over-exerting her mystical gifts. She needs something of Laezila’s, some item left behind by the former matron during her convalescence in House D’Artes. Izzerin, the House D’artes chamberlain, informs Gevurah that no such item was left behind. Laezila was too careful; knew how drow relationships inevitably dissolve. Within a private temple to Vakmatharas the high priestess paces until — aha! An idea ignites. Gevurah does have something of Laezila’s: her pyromancy. As the city burns, the priestess focuses on a single ritual. She fills a clay bowl with magical fire from her palm then drops her black-sapphire ring in the flames. Decades of meditation let her find the peace within the chaos and chant slow and deliberately until she succeeds in enchanting the ring to hone in on Laezila. It glows brighter the closer Gevurah approaches the former matron, like a light sensitive game of hot and cold. Having lost her piwafwi in the battle with Hildegarde, Gevurah steals a less-heavily enchanted piwafwi from an underling. It provides some protection and some reduced visibility, but all the same she feels exposed as she leaves the compound through a side door. She takes an illusionist with her. The heavy-hitting mages are already out in the city. This novice can only manage to make them look like moving shadows — not quite invisible, but hopefully as good as in a city that writhes with fire and smoke, casting abnormal shadows in infinite directions. Gevurah follows the glow of her ring towards Andon D’Chath where she finds Laezila engaged in battle. Gevurah charges behind the backs of those fighting for their very survival and thrusts a hand towards the back Laezila’s neck when she is no more than six feet away. Her other hand fingers the leather strap of her stachel, using it as a component of her spell. Her extended hand balls into a fist and twists towards her chest as she intones a quick prayer to the God of Death. Black reins, as simple in design as those used on lizard mounts, conjure from nothing. A ghostly bridle seeks to latch onto Laezila’s mouth and jaw. They connect to the reins that extend to Gevurah’s hand. If the bridle successfully captures the traitorous matron, Gevurah would yank back on the reins hard to bring Laezila sprawling backwards onto the ground. D’Artes guards slowly begin to form an ad hoc phalanx near the First Daughter to shield her from the advance of the rebels as best they can, though they are struggling in the face of the on slaught.

Laezila peered down with narrowed eyes at the corpse of the fried soldier who had killed Authion for a moment, as if to relish in this feeling of a return to power; the moment becomes a second before the petite ex-matron twists and throws up her hands to address the chaotic city again, "Go forth, fight, for freedom and your lives! Never be a slave again!" A group of soldiers break the rebel lines and rush toward the pedestal, but the female drow thrusts her arm outward again, palm exposed toward the bunch. Another deafening clap, like thunder, dominates the air and breaks through the cacophony of anarchy around Trist'Oth, before the subsequent boom of explosion causes a macabre rain around the obelisk. Soldier limbs, blood, organs and guts fall heavily to the ground from the air where they were pitched, by the strike of lightening with severe magic energy. What she did not expect was the reins suddenly manifested through her mask, her voice cut off, and in the next second, Gevurah's magic and subsequent pull had the woman on her back. Both hands came up to grip and struggle against the offending thing that tethered her to the First Daughter, and Laezila writhed on the floor of the dais that housed the obelisk.

In his mad dash for the masked ex-matron, Emrith has managed to make rather amazing progress. Only twice has he been forced to remove living obstacles from his path, but owing to the enchantment on Nahr which renders it invisible - though not for much longer, he knows - the panicking drow stood no chance. The invisible elf bobs, darts and weaves through the crowd, now using the enchantment in his boots to skate two inches or so above the ground. This has the added benefit that his footspeed is no longer relevant, and he can push himself in whichever direction he wishes with far more power than usual. Moving at roughly twice his natural speed, Emrith breaks onto the scene at the obelisk, and is just in time to see Gevurah coming up behind Laezila. She throws out her hands, and in desperation Emrith snatches his precious mana font from its pocket. He throws it just as a nearby soldier steps on his cloak and tears it from his shoulders...quite by accident, it would seem, but now Emrith has appeared seemingly from nowhere for the world to see. His mana font glitters as it spins through the air, and just as Laezila hits the ground, the little rune-carved stone hits the arcane reins tying her to the first daughter of D'Artes. Instantly the enchantment goes into effect; the reins snap, the stone clatters to the ground and a rippling skein of energy begins to pour into the stone. It grows noticeably brighter with each second that passes as it steadily battens on Gevurah's arcane reservoir, meaning to drain it dry and then detonate with all of that stored force. "Laezila!" Emrith shouts, and his voice is desperate as he blurs into motion. Now he is armed with both shortswords, and fighting for his life. "Get away! Run!" Whether or not Laezila will find a way to be rid of the arcane little leech Emrith has set upon her, the elf does not care; for now, all he knows is that he has bought Laezila a narrow window of opportunity. As for the elf himself, there seems little hope. He screams a battlecry as he first ducks and then rips open a soldier's lightly armoured belly. He narrowly avoids the thrust of a spear, lashes out with his right foot, connects with bone, and uses his momentum to pivot past and behind the now-limping spearman. The fight is on, and it is only a matter of time before the spell-blade is set upon from all sides, surrounded, taken down. "I tried," he whispers, as a drow head sails high. "I tried. And may Gevurah of House D'Artes choke on all her own fury for it."

Larewen was content to watch, to observe, to see how things played out with only the smallest bits of concern - and they weren't for Laezila at all. Her reason for lingering was, yes, but it wasn't for the drow's sake. Amusement glinted in those dark, brown eyes when Gevurah charged onto the dais; when Laezila was bridled. All traces of it vanished only moments later when the mana font was thrown into the air and then Emrith's form was revealed by accident. The necromancer's breath, unnecessary, caught in her throat in that moment. Her mind barely processed the sight of the soldiers bearing down upon the elf before she sprung into action. A sort of agony nested itself within her bosom and, for once, an irrational fear and concern for the well-being of another: for someone that was living. It was not about the rebellion or the war for the necromancer. She wasn't even sure entirely what drove her forward, but it was not her mind. Archaic words formed upon pale lips as she pushed her way through the quarrelling bodies between her and Emrith. Smaller, lesser spells aided her in the approach, most of which were basic mage abilities: a fireball here, a patch of ice there - no intent to kill: only to clear the way. "You fool," she hissed between clenched teeth, the words inaudible among the din and smoke. When she was finally close enough to the soldiers that were focused upon Emrith, she again drew upon her magic: this time, it was necromantic. The words that fell from her lips were hollow, empty, eerie. They were wrong, they were unholy. Darkness gathered at her finger tips and slid over the pale skin, obscuring the flesh as she reached out to touch Emrith's assailants, two at a time when possible. Contact with their skin would leech their lives away, drawing their very essence into the necromancer. It was not an easy spell to channel, but it was, for Larewen, the most effective at trying to reach Emrith's side.

Gevurah can immediately feel the speed with which the magic font saps her arcane energy. The reins snap and her eyes widen and lips snarl wide in frustration. D'Artes soldiers deal with Emrith, but leave Laezila as the First Daughter's prize. The ferocity with which she wants the former matron dead is practically its own entity, a thing visible to any who witness the electric hatred between the drow women. The High Priestess of Death glares at Laezila through tunneled vision and lifts her palm to face the masked teenage rebel. Using the pyromancy she stole from Laezila, Gevurah sends a wide cone of fire barreling at her foe's petite frame. Her face purples, veins bulge as she focuses her energy at an intensity and speed that she's never wielded before. It's a race against the magic font, to expel the bulk of her energy through fire at a faster clip than the magic font can absorb the black reins lit leeches from her other hand. The flame sets her face aglow. In its light her eyes are bloodshot and possessed. She yells at her soldiers in a tortured voice, "Bomb! Fools!" But she can't manage any more precise instruction as her words gnarl into a long, low, and tortured howl. Her hand blisters from the heat of her own flame that unrelentingly assaults Laezila like an endless flamethrower. Gevurah of House D'Artes will gladly choke on her own fury if it means the end of Laezila. The soldiers, with no hope of diffusing the bomb, start throwing corpses and half-dead drow of all ranks onto the magic font on the floor. They've managed to throw ten bodies atop it just as the firey cone peters and Gevurah's well of energy dries up. She swoons unsteadily, stumbling back, arms and face slack. For the briefest moment everything around the obelisk is still save for the sway of Gevurah's body as she fights to stay conscious. Then the magic font explodes. Ten corpses fly in grisly, chunky pieces in every direction. The stone floor craters as if hit by a meteorite (ooc note: will try to see if I can get approval to say the obelisk sags on its side towards the crater, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa). Those standing in the vicinity are thrown, including Gevurah herself who smacks against the foundation of a lesser house with an audible crack. Had Gevurah not drained her own energy as quickly as she did, the bomb could have leveled a good quarter of the city. Ears ring at a shrill frequency. Smoke obscures vision further than a foot before one's nose. In the scramble, Gevurah's body disappears. Murdered? Kidnapped? Rescued? Too soon to tell.

The former matron knew she had to move, to get up and get out, even without Emrith's shout; it was his shout that grounded her. As the reins snapped, the young drow used both hands to grasp hold of that ivory mask, in which the item was attached, and yanked it off with a fluid motion that sent it flung to the side, thereby releasing her mouth and figure from the tethering item. A sharp inhale, before, as all this happened in a mere matter of breaths, Laezila cried out, "Emrith!" A call for aid, a call for the elf to escape? In truth, it was neither, but rather the adrenaline shock expelled in the form of the first name that popped into her head, the sylvan man's due to his shout and call, and perhaps in the subtle and slight comfort of knowing he was near -all of that was shoved aside in her thoughts as the elf's name turned into a horrible, wretched scream of agony. Laezila was once cruel and cunning, and even when not, the woman could still hold her own in a battle -it was just as surprising to her as it might've been to anyone else that terrible sound that loosed from her lips. There, on her back on the ground, she writhed and violently spasmed as the air became filled with the smell of burning flesh, all thanks to this incredible bout of her own pyromancy. And Gevurah just kept going! Her skin sizzled and bubbled before charring into flakes as her hair became incinerated, and her clothing mostly burned away; what couldn't burn into cinder and ash melted against the crackling skin. Her arms body began to curl in on itself from heated tendons, and the scream died away. More accurately, it was cut off by the explosion, and didn't return after that aftermath finished. The girl, unlike Gevurah, did not disappear; her body was flung across the plaza, and landed with a few bounces on the opposite of Larewen than Emrith. But, despite her stillness and the smoke rising from her form, perhaps even missable by the extent of chaos and distraction around the area, the movement of breath was slight and subtle. Her wheezing was almost imperceptible beneath the din of the anarchy.

The haze of battle has taken Emrith into its shrouded heart. He fights furiously, frantically and with all of his considerable skill. From far away he hears a somehow familiar voice issue a worried snarl including the word "fool", but does not look in that direction. Through the melee, he catches glimpses of Laezila and Gevurah, but he can hardly spare them more than a glance as he dodges and slashes. He must trust that his mana font has disabled Gevurah sufficiently to dissuade her from further plaguing the already-beleaguered Laezila. Emrith's strength is beginning to flag, and he takes a spear through the meat of his left bicep just as the font explodes, hurling him bodily through the air and tearing him free of his foe's weapon with a gristly rip. He lands sprawled atop the mutilated body of what once might have been a wolf, and rolls awkwardly away, having somehow managed to keep hold of both of his swords. Blood spurts from the rend in his arm, and from his new point of vantage he can see the nearby body of Laezila, hardly recognizable but for its size and charred aspect. "No! She must not die!" Emrith is up, sheathing his swords with a growl of pain and stumbling toward the fallen ex-matron. He bends to lift her, grimacing with agony as the wound in his arm tears open a little further. "Someone help me with her! She cannot die! She cannot die!" There is desperation in both Emrith's face and voice, and he begins to stagger away with his burnt burden, smelling the stench of charred meat and singed hair. His gorge rises, and his head begins to swim. He must. Not. Fall.

Larewen was just as close to the explosion as the others were, though perhaps a bit more fortunate given her state of undeath. She was cast backwards, landing awkwardly at the base of the steps. A crunch of bone was nearly inaudible amongst the din, and pearly fangs dug into pale lips as she pushed herself back to her feet. Jagged stone, rent by the blast, had pelted her, cut into the alabaster flesh of her skin. Blood contrasted starkly with the whiteness of her flesh. Her ears rang with the sound, her eyes stung with the brightness, and when she was once again able to see, her eyes fell upon the pair. Upon Emrith, bleeding and struggling to try and carry Laezila's charred body. Again, she felt a stuttering pain in her chest, only to push it aside. It was her turn to pour every bit of her energy into her magic. As she limped nearer to the pair, her eyes glazed over and those dark, unholy words again began to pour from her ashen lips. It was a song of death; a song calling to the bodies strewn across the present battlefield. An eldritch light emanated from her elven form, crawling outward as it sought to meld with the corpses around her. Her eyes rolled back, revealing only the whites of them as she further expelled every essence of her own mana into the spell. After a few moments, bodies would begin to twitch, spasming as they had in their dying moments, only this time it was a welcome to the world of undeath. Those still capable, began to rise to their feet, mindlessly taking up the arms they'd dropped upon falling only to continue the battle. The reanimated horde was meant to distract, to offer the duo a chance to escape. Larewen's steps faltered short of reaching them, for there was one more spell upon the necromancer's tongue. These words were not of the same deathly nature as those before, and for a moment she fumbled with the incantation - once, twice, even a third time before successfully managing to put the words together. A soft blue light would form around the pair, offering a ward of protection - weak, but it was all the necromancer could manage. "Run, you fool," she whispered softly, the words wavering upon her breath.

As Emrith flees with Laezila in tow he passes an unlikely all. A badly wounded priestess, unlikely to survive the evening, expends the last of her energy casting a spell on Emrith and Laezila both to give them what shred of vitality she has left. It isn’t enough to heal them, but perhaps enough to keep Emrith awake and just strong enough to drag himself and his charge out of the city. Too weak to send the spell at a distance, the priestess extends her hand to touch Emrith’s hip, and in the process slips a ring, a gift, in his pocket. “May whatever god you worship keep you,” she says with her last breath. Soon she joins Larewen’s army of the undead.

Laezila was light, like some rag doll, because of her petite stature and aided by the lack of adornments; most had been burned away or melted to her tiny frame. Her mind had lost hold of the conscious world in that she no longer knew what was happening around her, neither moving her limp frame willingly nor with eyes open. Hell, in all likelihood the degrees of burns that she had sustained could very well have blinded her anyway. But in Emrith's grasp, the proximity to him coupled with the small shred of vitality kept her from slipping into death's awaiting, outstretched clutches; the sylvan man could probably now hear the more pronounced wheezes of her faint breathing in that she was, indeed, alive. But she was not going to be any help getting out -quite the opposite, in fact, as she had to be carried or left behind. With Larewen's protective bubble, the odds subtly shifted to less of a chance of them both being slaughtered, but Emrith still had to make it out of the Underdark via the route she had explained before this entire coup.

Emrith hardly feels the touch of the dying priestess's hand upon his hip, but does feel a sudden slight surge in his strength. This is enough for Emrith to channel mana into his boots, rising both himself and Laezila off the ground a little; now, at least, the elf will not have to run, and can save the effort normally demanded of his legs to other things. He looks around, sees dozens of undead shambling in every direction, and blinks. When one of them moves close by, sporting a missing hand and missing more than half of its face, Emrith bursts into motion, skating above the blood-splattered floor in the direction he knows the escape tunnel lies. As he moves, he looks back over his shoulder...and stops dead. Larewen Dregana is there, and suddenly the undead make a lot more sense. "Come! Follow!" he shouts, screaming so loud that something in his throat gives a warning twinge. "Dismiss those undead and run! You will need all of your strength. Laezila is dying, I am wounded, and you will be torn to pieces! Run!" This is all he has time for; he knows that going back for Larewen now might be a fool's errand, and so he can do naught but once more set his sights on the corridor which, in its time, will lead to the tunnel he seeks. Laezila is a limp, light weight in his arms, but Emrith does notice that the drow's breathing seems to be a little steadier; if she is dying still, it is perhaps not quite so quickly as before. Believing the surge in his energy to somehow have been Larewen's doing, Emrith keeps moving, but in an effort to not entirely outpace the hopefully-following vampiric elf, he does not move at top speed. He sets a pace just short of a jog.

Larewen's balance teetered on the brink of falling over. She felt so... drained. So... weak. She felt each new connection as more and more were raised by her spell, as more and more fell under her command: she felt the small burst of strength as the high priestess joined the ranks of her undead, and to this she might have frowned - were it that she had the strength. She did not. The spell could only be maintained for so much longer. Soon, she would collapse, and at that moment control over the dead would be lost. They would just as likely tear her from limb to limb as they would the living. Larewen was aware of this, and vaguely aware of Emrith's voice calling out to her. The concentration required by her magic was immense, and when the dark of her eyes was visible once more, she appeared disoriented. The elf most definitely was. Nonetheless, she began to finally shamble after the pair. Her movement was hampered by a shattered leg, but the elf was numb to the pain. She drew ragged, unnecessary breaths, and her movement was nearly erratic. It was as if she were one of her own ghouls, almost. The further she moved away, the less control she was able to exercise over the undead horde that was left behind. Eventually, the undead horde would be left with no master, and the drow that remained would have to deal with them.

The city riots for a full three days, and when the dust clears there is no victor apparent. The drow are in no position to turn their gaze towards the surface. The chaos sucks all drow attention towards internal politics in this cavernous void.