RP:Yoink!

Synopsis: Kuzial and Gevurah meet on the road which connects Trist'oth to the rest of the Underdark. They exchange some scathing insults, and just before it leads to an altercation, Sacrilus (Xersom) makes an explosive appearance. The common foe forces Kuzial and Gevurah to bury the proverbial hatchet in favor of literal hatchet-like weapons for the sake of felling a professed enemy of Trist'oth and the drow. Kuzial, Gevurah, and her entourage of assassins attack the former general of Arrecation, and three drow perish in the process. Kuzial and his trusty, fabled E'et-Nilah blade stabs Sacrilus with such force that the wound explodes, sending Kuzial crashing against stone, reeling from severe afflictions both physical and mental, and struggling to survive. Sacrilus teleports out of the City immediately thereafter. The explosion shatters E'et-Nilah into three pieces, and Kuzial summons the blade's power to his soulstone/House insignia to fortify his own power and survive with his sanity intact (sort of, Kuzial-brand sanity.) Gevurah regains her senses as Kuzial fights for survival, and, now no longer allied to him once the common foe has fled, leaves him to his fate. She and the E'et-Nilah blade(formerly belonging to her father) also disappear unseen by any.

Trist'oth City Limits

Here the city seems to exit out into a tunnel to the West. As you look to the South, a road continues onward lined with several small buildings that appear to be houses. To the North is another larger building that may be a home of some kind. Judging by the decorations on the walls, it seems most definitely to be a place of importance. Looking off to the East you notice a road that leads on, seemingly not traveled much. Your curiosity can't help but be piqued as to where it might lead.

Gevurah returns to Trist’oth in the company of assassins. The entourage flanks Gevurah on three sides, marching in two lines in the shape of a ‘v’ that opens towards the path like a mouth devouring all before it. Commoners and slaves avoid the maws of the noble and her party. The formation is like an inverse wedge, separating people not through the sharpness of an angle, but through the blunt threat of cruelty. As they pass gargoyles who stand sentry near Trist’oth entrance, the width of the formation forces any behind them to assume the company’s speed, and any before them to shove off to the side, lest they dare risk passing into the heart of the ‘v’ where Gevurah walks.

Unlike most dark elves in Trist'oth, Kuzial Stavret, Patron of House Stavret, has no fear of any nobles, even those highly ranked in the first house, D'artes. So as Gevurah makes her way through the street, happening perhaps by chance alone to be upon the same as the patron, Kuzial merely pauses, right in the middle of the lane, ensuring that she will either have to move, or soon be face to face with the psychotic drow. One hand rests casually upon the hilt of the E' et-Nilah blade, a sentient ebon sword once owned by Keter himself. The other hand is casually hooked into his belt, though where it sits very close to the hilts of more than one dagger. If the patron has any of his house guards with him, it's not obvious, even for the keen senses of the drow. He merely stands there, waiting, watching with a hint of grim amusement as other nobles and lesser dark elves make themselves scarce, having no wish at all to be anywhere near what could be a confrontation between a male patron of a high ranked house, and the head priestess of the highest house in Trist'oth.

Gevurah slows her gait and puts on airs of befuddlement. Her face pinches as she simply can’t place the dimly lit face before her, don’t you know. A hand lifts near her temple and gently sifts through an imagined rolodex of memorized names, but, oh darn, she simply can’t remember. She inhales in mock apprehension, as though she would hate to offend a noble of import, but oh dear, here we are. Her hands open on either side, palms up, a position often preluding both divine, dark sorcery and admission of slight, but she speaks without regret or apology. “I can’t place you -- other than the fact you are in my way.” There is ample room for both bodies to pass without relinquishing the road, but the path is far too narrow for outsized egos.

Xersom had just concluded his forcible audience with Tiphareth D'Artes, proving only that he managed to stay alive during the conversation and nothing else, but his form was never caught in exit from the structure of the Drow building. Sacrilus was a man of powerful magics, so he teleported away with a simple 'blink' spell that made his figure disappear and reappear elsewhere within reasonable distance from his previous point and augmented by his extensive supply of mana. He was -still- seething, however, from the slight against him that originally brought his presence into the homeland of the Drow and it was apparent that whatever conversation that he held with the Patron of House D'Artes did not fix that; he was devoid of his mask. His true face was shown, the manifestation remaining aside from his amount of power from his previous life, which bore two holes in place of eyes that had an impenetrable, abyssal darkness as their hue even insofar as pulling in the light immediately around them as if truly, completely evil. The scars didn't help either; anyone who knew 'X' more than a passerby would have noticed the way his body was covered in the scars of carvings of words in some forgotten and ancient language that simply resonated with wickedness, but that face held those scars in perpetual bleeding, as if each one was a fresh wound. His mouth held serrated teeth, the kind of demons or nightmares, and it was said that any mortal without formidable strength of will could very well fall prey to insanity from merely looking upon his face. The former general of Arrecation appeared between the two with a burst of some unseen force in every direction; enough to actually crack and dent the walls of buildings around them.

Kuzial offers Gevurah a smile which mocks everything which should give birth to such expressions; there is no joy or laughter in it, just a twisted hatred of females mixed with the simmering of his rather infamous temper. “Perhaps you don't recognize me. I was visiting the cheapest w***ehouse in Trist'oth when I saw you last, and unfortunately your face was pushed into the pillow. Best three coppers I ever spent, despite the diseases I had to get one of my priestesses to remove after.” The dark elf lord would have continued upon this vein, undoubtedly, were it not for the sudden entrance of Xersom into the area. Were Kuzial not preparing for an attack by the priestess – patron or not, his words, he's sure, would inspire violence in any priestess of Trist'oth – he would have been sent flying backwards by the sudden onslaught of nefarious might given birth by the forsaken former general of the damned Arrecation. As it is, his feet slide across the smooth stone while his hands instinctively draw forth the E' et-Nilah blade. The weapon is very powerful upon the surface, but down here in the Underdark it feeds upon the fey magics of the stone, ensuring Kuzial has the strength to remain standing, even as his attention shifts to Sacrilus with a snarl upon his lips, “Cease.” The drow is more prepared for the horrible visage of the man this time, he does not look away nor falter at the sight.

“Oh! That’s riiight! Patron Kuzial, of the fifth house.” She bookends the rank with mocking pauses and draws out the monosyllabic ‘fifth’ into a patronizing diphthong. Her retort interrupts Kuzial as soon as he mentions a w***ehouse so quickly it’s as if she had laid a scathing trap for the notoriously misogynist Patron, one which he played right into. “The Patron who has to pay for the company of drow, and on a budget too! Of cour-” But Xersom’s sudden and unwelcome apparition robs her of both her silver-tongue and balance. Her feet lift from the ground as she is propelled backwards, righting herself with the force of levitation set counter to her aerial trajectory. The force of Sacrilus’s assault winds her, and would have broken her ribs were it not for the magical enchantments of her piwafwi, enchanted as one would expect for one of her station. She heaves to replenish her vacated lungs and lands softly just as Kuzial commands Sacrilus to cease. None in her entourage dare touch her, for they are not allowed to do so even to aid her balance. The assassins turn their weapons offensively towards Sacrilus. Two weaker drow among them begin to lose their heads, the others struggles to keep their sanity and their aim, but ultimately stay put. Gevurah’s sharp teeth pinch her lip as she tries hard to cleave her focus in two. Her attention splits on Sacrilus, whom Kuzial seems familiar with given the fact he has not yet stabbed the intruder, and on maintaining her own sanity through her connection with her god.

Xersom 's head swiveled to put his attention upon Kuzial by the single word offered to him in the command in the midst of a snarl. This would give a few of the drow, guards most likely, but Gevurah as well, a respite from the nightmarish features of the former wraithen demon's visage; he had in his previous life been an exact eighth of the Nameless King in that the infinitely powerful creature had sent eight of the creatures that were Sacrilus and his kindred out into Lithrydel in service to Arrecation. A power to stand his own against gods themselves. He no longer had that power even as he was the original soul of the foul creature, because he was reborn and likely as a punishment from the council of the divine with not only knowledge of his previous incarnation but also the morality that it once lacked. But that morality was easily shoved aside for his ire. "Think yourself powerful, Kuzial Stavret?" He mocked -even taunted, as a dark boot crunched on the path of Trist'Oth. In his hand was a weapon that was not there before; the Accursed Blade. A weapon of unknown origin, but certainly akin to the eyes of his true face; the hilt was a carving of a demon's mouth from which the blade extended, but the blade was of that same impenetrable and abyssal darkness that seemed to suck the light around it into its depths. "I will be withdrawing every string I hold in the Underdark. But before I do, I will punish. There is a human woman that belongs to me. She was hurt here days earlier. I expect reparations. You may all live because Tiphareth allows it, but I will be repaid because I -demand- it." One of Gevurah's drow, a younger, weaker, and far more inexperienced member of the guard than his allies, rushed forward to attempt to sever X's head from his shoulders. It proved futile; without looking toward him or even acknowledging the unknown male, the drow suddenly halted. And screamed. He screamed because his hands and arms seemed to act against his own volition, and used the blade against their owner. The drow was forced to impale himself on his own sword.

Kuzial would usually find the spectacle of a drow being forced to stab himself with his own sword more than a little amusing, but the mixture of Xersom appearing added to the silver-tongued Gevurah's insults threatens to have the oceans of rage within his mind drown out all reason... ah, who are we kidding.. with the added insidious touch of his sword's sentient desire to feast upon both the female drow and the formidable former general, Kuzial cannot control the rage within. He's psychotic enough on a good day, and since his first encounter with Sacrilus, there have been no good days at all. And so he snaps, letting out a wordless scream which echoes through the perpetually quiet streets of Trist'oth with a maniacal intensity usually reserved for madhouses and the bedrooms of ogres. He raises the E' et-Nilah blade, the ebon weapon emitting a moan as it anticipates a feast, and points it directly at Sacrilus, “What you demand means nothing. The fact one of your flimsies was injured down here means -nothing-. The fact you wish vengeance means NOTHING!” He snarls again, twisting that last word. “You are in Trist'oth, foolish general of the fallen king. Those tunnels I did grant you, for you are strong. But these streets are -mine-. You have no power here.” He restrains himself from leaping to the attack, though his knees are bent with the anticipation of a snake ready to strike. But despite his anger and words, he has no wish to truly test himself against this ancient and powerful creature... and so he waits, hoping his words distract the general enough for the priestess to attack... though, he's not too confident. She is a female drow, he half expects her to run.

As Xersom addresses Kuzial, and in turn frees Gevurah from the stress of gazing upon his visage, the priestess immediately and silently prays for a dark power to steel the minds of her entourage and even Kuzial, whether he needs it or not. But her dark God empowers only those deserve their favor, and even the prayer of a high priestess will not guarantee his intervention on the behalf of all. Those drow who are unafraid will be relieved to find that resisting the madness comes easier now. As for the assassin who stepped forward, he was afraid and weak, and therefore forsaken by Gevurah’s god. His consequence was just; even Gevurah must agree for her faith is unwavering and she’ll not second guess the decision of her god. Still, just death or not, Sacrilus struck a drow, in Trist’oth, and is not ceasing as commanded. As Kuzial rebukes the general, Gevurah communicates the order to attack to the leader of her entourage through the hand language of the drow. All the drow assassins instinctively try to line the target is faerie fire, but alas Sacrilus consumes even fey light, even the weakly magical. No matter, for that supernatural darkness is a target in and of itself. Enchanted projectiles - arrows, bolts, and knives, oh my - fly swiftly towards the general’s head and torso. Sacrilus has already made his power of teleportation known, and thus Gevurah is not foolish enough to stand still. She rushes towards him half-way, not wanting to be impaled herself. Where he stands is the last place she expects him to be if he means to avoid the projectiles. She removes a large, heavily enchanted dagger from her belt to stab him should he come near her, her lips already muttering the next incantation.

Xersom , a creature of manipulation and coercion above most anything else, could see that in spite of Kuzial's words the patron with the reputation of attacking with or without words made no indication of true intents to attack the former general; his body might have tensed and he might have postured with that formidable blade, but he was alone and if Gevurah had left him to the ire of the ancient creature, he could have, arguably, been slain. But Gevurah, in contrast to the anticipation of Sacrilus, seemed to value the race of the Drow as a whole over the chance to have one of the Council's house patrons eliminated. Yet, because of the Stavret's indication and words, the monstrosity wasn't -entirely- unprepared for an attack at his back and it was proven with that first drow's failure and subsequent demise. Vakmathras might've had his own reasons, but Sven and the divine's council in regards to the Nameless King's fragment could've played in the part that not all of those drow were gifted with the God of Death's blessing; still it would be unreasonable to believe the deity didn't at least defend his priestess and the psychotic patron's minds against the features of the mostly-unnatural creature. Faerie fire did nothing; the spells were easily and swiftly, as if in a moment's time, consumed by the blade and ultimately evil gaze as the being as he whirled to face the throng of foes. Then it was projectiles; these were not things naturally magical in nature or considered holy by any means, as anti-theist as X's mere presence indicated. They struck him, impaled him, dug into his skin and caused his body to lurch in violent spasms as they hit. But to the folly of the Drow attackers, they were enchanted; those abysmal and entirely horrific eyes of the creature both visibly and terrifyingly sucked forth the enchantments from the weapons to regenerate himself. His body seemed to mend itself immediately, and it's 'healing' (if such a horrible and forsaken thing could be called such) was powerful enough to force the weapons from his body and fall to the ground around him. This meant he didn't move and, in the end, stood right where the woman expected the last place he'd be. But there was something that kept him from directly attacking her and it was made evident quickly; a dark spell of slowness was cast toward her without a single word from the former general. Unseen and unfelt until it would strike (if it did), the spell would cause her limbs to grow incredibly sluggish to the point of comical sight, the way a tortoise was reputed to move; inching, as if trapped in tar and syrup. Sacrilus didn't yet attack the many other drow present.

Kuzial remains entirely motionless as the projectiles of the priestess pierce the pernicious Sacrilus's pain-inked flesh. He watches with dark expression as they are soon expelled, and the wounds quickly healed. And though he hates magic - be it divine, demonic or arcane - he can sense both the touch of Gevurah's favor upon his mind, and the monstrously evil Xersom's spells which seek to slow the priestess. Admittedly, there is a moment where Kuzial contemplates leaving the woman to her fate, but this anachronistic creature had insulted him more than once, had bested him in their first encounter, and has, this day, stopped the patron drow from killing the priestess, a favourite past-time of his. Well, at least Kuzial is sure he would have killed her, though her divine strength is worryingly formidable. Nevertheless, the Patron of House Stavret does not leave his forced-ally on the field to suffer her fate, instead he enacts a hint of his innate levitation to ensure his movements upon the ground are silent, before he leaps forward, twisting the E' et-Nilah blade over his shoulder in the same motion, before slamming it down with all his strength at the demonic creature. He saw the man consume the earlier enchantments... he was morbidly curious to see if he could consume the corrupted sentience of his sword, or whether the blade would taste the blackened, shriveled up soul of a creature far stronger than any it has tasted before. And though he would never admit it, the dark elf hopes too that this will free Gevurah from the spell of Xersom enough that she can further aid the pair against Arrecation's former General.

If Gevurah belonged to a house ranked below fifth, Sacrilus’s assumption that she would prefer Sacrilus kill Kuzial may have been correct, for it would have benefited her house’s potential ascension at a later date. And if they were in a tunnel in the Underdark, away from the prying eyes of all of Trist’oth, indeed she would have been tempted to walk away and let the Fifth Patron try his best to overtake the general. But here in Trist’oth, the pretense of racial cohesion is what keeps the relatively weak species, by Underdark standards, alive. The First House and Drow Council set the tone for that cohesion in the public eye when necessary - and this is clearly one of those necessary, public spectacles which begs cooperation in spite of personal ambitions and desires. Soon the D’Artes guards will arrive and emphasize that pretense of cohesion, however tenuous it may be, for the sake of drow survival. Gevurah would mutter an expletive as she observes the magic rejuvenate Sacrilus, but priestesses are trained not to speak anything other than prayer spells during combat. In that vain, she interrupts her originally anticipated spell and switches to one which would free her from this sluggish hold. It’s a battle of the gods, hers versus his, though hers is not Vakmatharas in truth, only in pantomime. She prays as if to Vakmatharas, yet her spells have been subtly altered and the power is not sourced from him. Her masked god battles Sacrilus’s, and the victor determines Gevurah’s freedom. Or maybe Kuzial frees her. She won’t be admitting that any time soon, even if it were true. The battle of wills, divine and drow alike, free her enough to regain some, but not all, of her speed. Her paltry subset of soldiers which have survived the madness (barely) -and- carry non-enchanted weapons (a disappointing few for the dark elves do love their magic) close in on Sacrilus to stab from below as Kuzial strikes from above. Gevurah robs one of her henchman of a plain dagger so that she may drive the blade under Sacrilus’s ribs herself. The thrill of close combat is an unusual (and perhaps foolish) trait for a priestess, but one Gevurah has never been able to deny. Her strike starts slow but speeds up as her counter-spell gathers momentum. Her strike joins a small trio of blades, the other two other blades wielded by assassins of feebler minds thanks to Sacrilus himself.

Xersom was relatively ignorant of the precedent set by the council of the drow that would promote a racial cohesion and, with his expectation of perpetual treachery by Kuzial, did not expect the patron of the fifth house to move to D'Artes aid. It was for that reason that the ancient creature stood facing Gevurah and what would come to be a trio of attacks from her and two feebler minds of assassins. He had no idea who her god was, but the Nameless King along with Tiaren were two beings that ascended far above the station of any god, elder god, or Immortal, and forever trapped in their own prisons to ensure that Lithrydel and all of reality wasn't destroyed by their eternal fighting. Needless to say, despite Sacrilus being a fragment of the Nameless King himself, the latter did not care about giving gifts or blessings to the former, or simply could not perceive anything beyond its cage, so it wasn't a factor in this battle like the hidden deity of Gevurah's, who may very well have blessed her for the duration of this battle. Regardless of this, those strikes were watched by those abysmal eyes beginning with that of the daughter of Keter; her speed was slowed. X brought his own weapon forward in a moment, a mere fraction of an instant of time, with a single flourish that sliced through both of their skulls. Drow heads, severed horizontally along their noses to make the tops pop off in a bloody massacre like the juice boxes of children. The point of the dagger wielded by the dark elf female touched against his skin now as simultaneously that blade vanished into thin air as if it were nothing and his hands moved toward her. No pain or even exhale escaped the reincarnation of Sacrilus as about an inch and a half of that ordinary steel was buried beneath his ribs. But then her hand was caught at the wrist by his own to yank it from his body and cause the weapon to fall to the ground as its brother took hold of her throat. It never squeezed or strangled, but still would lift her from her feet and off the ground in apparent desire to bring her face toward the damned visage of the creature. But that would never come to fruition; he'd release her when the point of the E'et-Nilah blade appeared through his shoulder, narrowly missing his heart in that Kuzial impaled him. The ex-demon released a wail that was shrieking and certainly otherworldly as the blade attempted to consume the soul that was a fragment of the Nameless King; but it already had a piece of Orvaac's own, who was a Light Immortal. Moments passed that seemed like eternity, before a sudden explosion and blinding light would erupt from the point where the weapon impaled Sacrilus, extended outward in all directions with enough force to send even Kuzial against a wall, cracking it or otherwise. The blinding light remained for a moment while the drow would likely fight to react, before it faded, Sacrilus stood grasping his shoulder in utter pain; an agony that was worse than anything that a mere mortal could face. The E'et-Nilah Blade? Shattered at into three pieces! A hilt, a midsection, and a point. X did not enjoy his odds in this wounded state; mercurial darkness wrapped around his form like some sort of horrifically dark gel that thereafter faded into smoke-like plumes, to disappate and show that the ancient being was gone.

Kuzial feels a sensation much like Keter must have felt when wielding the Soulstone and sword together; insanity undiluted, the massacre of a mind, shredded like the drow heads so easily carved in half by the formidable, deadly and demonic Sacrilus. His body is smashed into a building, he doesn't feel it. Bones break with sickening ease, undead blood pours like a waterfall, pooling in a sanguine pile beneath his ruptured body. He cares nothing for that either. He struggles with the unleashed power of his sword, shattered in the moment it tried to consume the blackened soul of the General. The physical blade is no more, three pieces laying cold on the ground, empty of their strength, coated with the blood of Xersom. Were it not for the touch of Gevurah's God upon his mind, Kuzial would drown in this sea of insanity, becoming nothing more than a beast of death and destruction, were his undead body capable of surviving the horrific injuries. But with the strength imbued by such a blessing, the Patron drow gathers what remains of his sanity and uses it, along with the strength given to him by the powerful necromancer Tenebrae, to force the essence of the E' et-Nilah Blade into his house insignia, the ruby pendant he always wears around his neck. It is one of the very last Soulstones left in Hollow; forged by the necromancer, housing the essence of his father... a soul which is easily consumed by the malicious energies of his sword. But it is enough, it holds; the ruby stone shifts to an ebon hue as the power is momentarily trapped within. Only then does Kuzial let out a moan, the sound filled with more pain than any one being should have to endure; a mirroring of Sacrilus's own agony... he can manage but a single word, a single plea for help from a source he swore long ago he would never bow to, “Vakmatharas...”

The explosion propels Gevurah (and two fresh corpses) away from Sacrilus as well, albeit with less force than it propelled the unlucky patron perched above the blast zone. For the second time in minutes Gevurah is winded by Sacrilus, and blinded by the flash for longer than she is comfortable with. She hisses in irritation and is about to summon yet more divine aid when she feels Sacrilus’s power vanish and the natural energies of Trist’oth restore. She regains her vision and balance just as Kuzial draws E’et-Nilah’s power to his soulstone. Is it a hallucination, or can she see the energy float through the air? Undoubtedly she can feel it thrum in her chest, deep and invasive. The sudden silence of the dead weapon ensnares all her attention. The footsteps of the city guards approach from a distance as Kuzial struggles to maintain his sanity, his life. The common foe has been run from the city, and Kuzial’s fate is no longer of her concern - though she quickly assesses he will survive much to her displeasure. Freed from the constraints of drow society’s expectations, Gevurah sweeps the three blades pieces into her piwafwi, chills her body temperature to camouflage her body heat with stone, and disappears into shadows on soundless, enchanted boots before she can be seen, even be her own entourage. They will be displeased by her disappearance, but their satisfaction is well beneath the realm of her concern. Her father’s blade, however, does concern her for various reasons: its potential to be restored in some capacity, of course, but also its sentimental value, a reason she hates to admit even in the privacy of her own mind.

Xersom isn't here any longer, the remnants of his power still felt but slowly fading as Drow would look on at the destruction that was caused.

Kuzial is oblivious to his sword being stolen by the woman, a fact which will more than likely save her from being repeatedly stabbed at some future point. All the patron can manage now is to babble and rave about the God of death, the damned Sacrilus and the forsaken sword. Thankfully, some of the city's guards are members of House Stavret, ranked low enough that there would be no gain but instability were they to kill the Patron in his wounded state. So they grab his almost lifeless body and begin to drag it back to the relative safety of House Stavret itself, leaving in their wake a river of blood... meeting any curious gazes sent their ways with glares promising death. It is enough to ensure they are unmolested as they return Kuzial home, where hopefully (depending on who you are) he can heal, in both mind and body…