Enter Underground

[Biske]

... Biske was drowning. His mouth had been open wide, to send Korlin away; his legs had been sucked upon, the grip he had upon the land melted between his desperate fingers. Water plied into his mouth, his lungs; arms and legs battered by debris, his long fingers and short nails dragging across rock. And when it seemed that his lungs would burst, that final darkness would take his eye - there was nothing but air. Far too much.

He plummeted, showered by water that broke to a million shards across a black expanse; his clothing whipped about his lanky frame, cape snapping like a broken wing as he stared upwards, unseeing, mouth gaped for air. He had been drowning; he was falling.

It is told, during this time, that last thoughts were filled with flashes of loved-ones, a moment of contemplation - but all that was in his drink-hazed mind was bewilderment, *terror* - a wild thought that he had actually *found* what he had been searching for, a way opened to the Drow for assault.

Ridiculous. A mere nine feet, at the edge of the Dagger's clearing?

There was not the sudden shock of his body hitting the ground, no snap of bones against the floor - instead, only the shock of *water*, slapping against his back; of dark waves made by his impact washing over him, trailes of bubbles tickling past his limbs. He *kicked* - cape and cloak threatened to drag him down, but these gifts he would not abandon. Flailing hands found rock; arms encircled, dragged him up into the air, onto solid ground.

It tasted stale, the water and air - nausea brought up vomit, alcohol and water, meal taken that morning before he began his work; lank strands of curls plastered to his skull, his face. It was dark, but his eye was not closed - for there were no images of blood, spilled viscera, unspeakable acts done years before as a Beast. There is the spattering sound of a waterfall; the subtle howling of air currents in cavernous space; the gentelling laps of waves as they beat against this veritable island.

He had not even known he had called it - it was suprising, as his knees came under him, that the axe lay clutched within his grip. Welcoming; *relieving*, for it's garnet eyes set in grinning skull bathed him in crimson light.

Water dripped from the ends of his hair, traversed down the tortured lines of his crooked nose - scattered from beard as he turned his gaze - mouth open, to draw shuddering breath into aching lungs, eye engaged in a vain and fruitless attempt to seek the light above.

He was underground.

[Biske]

Take me out.

No. We need to talk.

Bollocks to that. I'm going to die down here, and you want to *talk*?

Justice. Why have you not sought it?

What does... you're worried about *that*? I'm bloody cold, I'm bloody *wet*, I'm hungry and I need a *drink*, and... I need to get back to Daisy. I need to find...

That's precisely what I wanted to talk about, actually. The woman.

Fine, what about her?

Don't pout, don't talk - just listen. She's hindering you. I've felt it. You're moving away.

... she cares about me.

She's pulling you back. You were so *magnificent*, Biske. Did you see how you fought the drowess, Jirai, that night? Do you see how clever you were? ... finally, *you* were the one in charge, *you* were the one who was feared. ... You were the one to stand over her. You became the *user*, instead of the used.

She hadn't even drawn her weapon. And *you* know how that turned out.

There is Kerrak. There is Roschen, Vet. There is Giscard. There is Helstone... no. *Audmathus*. There is Maxwell Bishop. There are the countless others who willingly, *knowingly*, aid the drow. You have only put a small a dent in the list. You *must* aid Myrken.

Why me?

You've got nothing else to live for.

I *do*. I'm cured, I have people who care for me.

Care for you? Did you hear the Black King? Everyone wants you dead.

Not everyone.

Funny, isn't it? She knows what you are and what you've done, and yet she came to you so... willingly. She's desperate, Biske. You're a replacement, second-best. She wants you because you're safe; because no one else wants you. With her silver tongue and tits she's holding you back. Because she's selfish.

Take me anywhere but here. Now.

I'm not done yet. What do you think she'll do when she finds out about our work? Do you think she would be so understanding, then? Will she preach to you about vengance and *proof*, when the merest whisper of your murders reaches her ears? She'll kill you on rumor alone.

It's not murder...

No. And she'll enjoy every second. I think I'd like to just sit by and watch as she chews your guts away. I won't lift a finger to help you, because you wouldn't be willing to strike her down. ... You'll think it's *justified*, if you stay your hand now.

You could be greater than that. You could rule. You could stand over the Priestess-bitch like you did with Jirai that night, and take her life. And they'll *cheer* you for it. They will lift you on their shoulders, they will shower you with gifts. You will get everything you've ever desired and *deserved*. If you will not take oblivion, than take that.

I'm cold.

Don't worry, Biske. I can warm us. Hold me to you, and I will warm you as she cannot. Use me to destroy the drow. We can stay here... until you decide. Me or the Woman. Hero or Coward. Ruler or Puppet.

You don't want to see Myrken destroyed, ground under dark feet - do you?

Then you would truely be a murderer.

[Biske]

Have you decided yet?

I'm going to die down here.

That's not one of the choices. Well, there's only one I prefer, actually. Really. There's plenty of water. That's a week. Two, at the most. That's plenty of time.

I won't drink. I'll sit here, and we can rot. You won't get your bloody precious revenge.

It's *your* revenge, Biske, not mine. Why would I want to turn against my creators?

Lots of reasons.

You have me there. So, a little bit is mine, I'll admit it. I could go into the whole story, but then we really *would* rot down here. I'm more interested in yours, and how you plan to finish it.

... I just want to be a farmer, like I was. Maybe a husband again. Or a father.

Ah, so we've established that you aren't willing to die in this deep, dank little hole we've found ourselves in. That's a nice little wish. Your family has been killed before, Biske, by something you could have controlled.

It wasn't my fault, I *couldn't*...

Bullocks, as you've said. Every other werewolf that you've met can control it, even the little boy.

They're *different*, they...

All that they have that's different is a silly little religion to convince themselves that they aren't horrible, smelly freaks of nature. There's where I can admire you, Biske. Because you *admit* that you're a beast. You don't wrap it up in silly gestures and fake prayers. You understand that you're a murderer.

...

We are alike in so many ways, Biske. We're both tools. We've never served our own interests. We are slaves - I to my owners, and you to your emotions, to your *friends*. Yet here we are.

Don't see your family be destroyed *again*, Biske, because you hung back. Because of caution - and your sad, tragic love with a broken woman who can find nothing better. If you control the situation, if you *strike* before they know... I can help you, Biske. I can help you so much, if only you would give yourself to it *completely*.

Why are you even bothering with this? You control me when I'm fighting. *I* wanted to duck, but you made me...

I can only do what you want, Biske. I can't force you. I am no Avel; your whims are my command. I can choose to withold it, if I wish - but I won't, unless you don't agree. You must make the decision - but once you do, we could be unstoppable.

I could give you everything, and hold nothing back. Even as a werewolf, you didn't recieve such an offer.

[Biske]

I must confess, I was rather worried when she managed to find you. I thought she'd turn you again. You're not as stupid as you look.

Shut up.

I'm happy with your choice, though. It's why we're up on God's Green Earth again. I could have left her down there, too...

I'm giving you what you want. Will you give me what I want?

I'm quite afraid, Biske, that I simply do not have the biological functions to do so. However, I'll give you the *second* best thing. You have everything in my power. I won't hold back. A little extra, too - I'll do my best to keep the girl and the pup safe. Just so you won't worry.

You're a bleedin' heart. ... thank you. You know my name, but I don't know yours. What do I call you?

Just call me Beldro.

_______________________________

Booted feet enjoyed the grass; they were new, these, along with the long-coat of blue, the other articles of clothing that wrapped about his frame. His cape had been left around scarred shoulders, a parting gift, a silent promise; his coat that she had made with her own hands, his farmer's boots, left deep underground. The gentle rain slid along his frame; the sun was a glorious thing, peeking through the haze of clouds - bathing a face tortured by scars and angular lines, of a sunken eye that was dark underneath a shaggy brow, as it was lifted towards the sky.

Across his shoulder, gripped by a palm wrapped in leather, the drow axe who's name was Cowardice faintly glowed; the garnets it held for eyes sparking, even in the light.

Biske's face would tilt down, rainwater dripping from his crooked, broken nose; the sky's tears welling from scraggled beard, trimmed so close to that resolute jaw. A flash in the shadow, a reflected glow of crimson that sparked in his eye - and he was striding into the fading day, and into the coming night.