Drow Destruction

[Rattrap]

It was...long ago, the incident. The catastrophe. Something that the damnable species did all the time, which is why I've set myself to their destruction.

It was my tenth summer. My father was working at the tavern, as he did almost every day, and my mother was out shopping in the market. I was with my uncle, practicing swordplay as we'd done every summer day when it was warm.

Nobody knew. It was a small, simple town. The people living on the outskirts always feared raiders and their like, as we weren't under any nation's banner nor did we have our own guardsfolk. It was up to us to protect ourselves, and mostly, we did okay.

Then the drow came. There were so few of them, I remember. Just five, traveling in a hooded wagon. They were leered at by the townsfolk, of course, but also feared; we've all heard about the atrocities that horrid race has committed. But they seemed respectable enough, so we reluctantly allowed ourselves to do business with them.

The worst decision made was when the owner of the tavern my father worked at decided to let them stay a night in the rooms; all their flashy coin had blinded his reason. And he died for it.

They all died for it. The drow had struck in the middle of the night, and within hours, most of the town was massacred.

I remember walking through the entrails of my neighbors, of my family the following day. I vowed my revenge, and since I have returned the destruction three fold back to the drow.

But I will not stop. Not until they are extinct. The rage that burns grows brighter and hotter as the days pass; it surpasses all other feeling.

...it has been some time since someone has called me Dante. I've donned a few more violent names since, and that is fine. Names matter not. Only death, now. Only death.


Dante pulled gaze away from the parchment, blue eyes deep in thought. He had just arrived at the Amasynian Province, from the south. The cabin he was currently occupying was in the middle of a wood, empty. Perhaps the owner used it as a retreat. Tonight, it would be Dante's shelter.

He looked to the writing, and wondered why he was documenting anything. What did it matter? Perhaps to make people understand? Dante was convinced he cared. He had only one purpose, now...and that was enough.

Dante shook his head, setting the quill down and closing the jar of ink. The candle would soon burn out, and darkness would come.

[Rattrap]

There was a creek that Dante happened upon, some miles away from the cabin that brought him to a stop. He unstrapped the battle axe from his back, a movement that he'd practiced many, many times over - something which his flexible shoulders could allow with an ease of speed that wasn't wholly amazing, but certainly dangerous.

But Dante was just dangerous, anyway.

The axe was dirty, stained in crimson all over its sharp surface. He brought it to the creek's waters, producing an equally blood-stained rag from his sack that he began scrubbing the axe with.

It took a good deal of scrubbing, but eventually the axe was cleaned. Dante reached down into the creek to pull a smooth, rounded rock from its bed and started sharpening the weapon. Bones and armor dulled the sharp edge, sometimes substantially even in a single battle.

He held the rag in the flowing waters, allowing whatever newly whetted blood to flow down stream with the creek, which wasn't much -- but some was better than none. The rag was wrung out and hung on a tree to dry. The axe was propped up against that tree to do the same.

Dante went a few meters up stream to wash his face. He would've liked to bathe himself altogether, but it wasn't nearly deep enough to accomplish that. But there would be a river ahead, soon enough; he'd be in Derry by a few days' walks, and there was a sizable river between him and that destination.

So far, he'd found nothing but wilderness. No drow. Fortunate, for them...

[Rattrap]

Dante reached the river near the border of Heath, almost into Derry. There he bathed and washed his clothing. He had encountered only two other sentient beings since he had entered the Amasynian Province, a lumberjack and his wife some miles back.

They had been initially fearful of Dante, but he had quickly shown them that he meant them no harm. This was a truthful gesture; Dante only harmed those that associated themselves with the dark elves.

He sat, naked, on a large boulder a few meters from the riverbank. His articles hung from varying branches all in close proximity to him, drying. He legs were crossed and his eyes were closed. Meditation.

Dark energy pulsed through the man. He could feel it, and while he did not like it, Dante knew he needed it to combat the greater darkness. Fire-to-fire meant nothing, yet blade-to-blade did, and while dark-to-dark was more akin to fire-to-fire than blade to blade, Dante thought of himself as a glimmer of light, simply wielding and bending his own darkness to better fight against evil.

So far, he continued to wield the darkness. He was distinctly aware that he had to keep a hold of that precious balance, as there may come a time when the darkness wields him.

He honed himself inward; flashes of those he'd slain in combat spun through his mind briefly, and his muscles notably tensed. They spun themselves into oblivion, and his body relaxed. His whole life did this, as it did every other time, until Dante reached a point where there was nothing but light. A pure, white, light.

Dante awoke sometime in the late evening, hours after he sat down. He had not shifted his position at all, and his body was without cramping. He removed himself from the sturdy rock to collect his things and continue on into Derry.

[Rattrap]

OOC note: This is a more complete recollection of what occured prior to the post in 'a strange message': http://brokendagger.com/BB/showthread.php?threadid=913

Dante didn't know the name of the small town he'd reached, but he knew he was in Derry. His entrance didn't come from any of the roads, so it was natural that he'd missed any welcoming signs of the town's nature.

The place probably wasn't that far from just being a village, but it had a tavern and a hall with its some few hundred citizens. It was the tavern Dante traveled to, noting how...empty the place seemed. Perhaps he came at a bad time, maybe most of the folk went elsewhere during the day for work...whatever it was, it didn't seem like anything was wrong. Those few people Dante encountered greeted him warily, but friendly. Battle-axes had that effect on people. In turn, he greeted them just as friendly, and they walked on with whatever misconceptions they had of a friendly, axe-wielding fellow.

Dante had yet to see any of the elven blood in the town, dark or not. It pleased him in one manner, knowing that the place was not tainted, but it was also disappointing. He knew they'd simply be somewhere else, and while if they were here, now, he could kill them and make that many less drow in the world; elsewhere, they could continue to flee and breed.

Dante shuddered at the thought.

He arrived at the tavern. The sign was faded, something about a Rising Sun. There was a poorly carved picture beneath it, equally as faded. He pushed aside the singular swinging door and stepped inside, eyes locking onto a particular trio sitting, almost alone in the building save a thin, sick-looking drunk man on the opposite side and the bartender.

Drow.

Dante gave no battle cry or any such foolishness, but continued inward while directing himself to a close proximity to the drow. He called to the bartender, saying simply: "I apologize in advance for any damages done to your building, and I will be happy to work off any debts created."

Two of the three drow were turning to look at the latest nut job, just in time to see the swinging axe sweep through the air and collide with one of the unfortunate drow's neck, cutting swiftly through flesh and tearing apart the bone, only to continue through the opposite flesh. The dark elf's head lolled off, and blood continued splurting from the neck for another three or so seconds. It did much the same from the detached head, spilling onto the table as the head rolled off onto the floor with a thud.

Suffice to say, the other two weren't happy, and the other to catch the swinging axe gave off a cry and stood sharply, drawing his weapon. The remaining companion did the same; Dante stood and grinned.

"You grin like an idiot who has just found a piece of gold, unaware of its owner standing behind you. You'll pay for our companion two-fold, fool," the drow said simply, as the both of them started rounding the table.

Dante took a few steps back himself so the table was no longer in issue in the combat to come, if one could call it that; Dante didn't fool himself on the details. It was a massacre, and that was quite fine with him. It pleased him greatly that the filth could do nothing but run to delay their death by his hands.

He stood, waiting for them, axe in one hand. Dante assumed no battle-ready stance, and the two drow smirked at their seemingly stupid opponent. Dante didn't blame them. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but chuckle when one lunged at him with a forceful stab to the torso, not meant to kill him instantly; they wanted him to bleed to death, or some other horrible fate. Dante made no move to stop him, so the drow put more force into it, shoving the blade's tip into the axe-wielder’s torso.

The drow realized very quickly that the sword had passed through his own torso at the same point he'd pressed it into the other man, passing all the way through and piercing his back. He choked out some noise in surprise and stumbled backwards, releasing the sword and falling to his knees, hand reaching blindly for the table to stabilize himself; he found purchase and looked up at Dante.

His companion, confused, had taken a step back to figure out what the hell just happened.

Dante chuckled once more and gripped the hilt of the sword. He twisted the sword around, and it still appeared to be lodged in him. But the drow could feel it twisting inside himself, mangling his minor organs and tissues. The pain was excruciating, as one could imagine stabbings were.

Dante pulled the sword out of his torso, and the other half of the sword slid free from the drow. Dante's skin had parted where the sword was plunged into him, leaving a trickle of blood to soak into his shirt, but it went no further. The dying drow saw this, no understanding, before he slumped to the ground and bled to death.

The final drow had, to his credit, smartly vacated the tavern, and this made Dante smiled. He dropped the vile creature's weapon, clutching his own, and left to track the dark elf.

He wasn't hard to find; he'd chosen a strategic trap rather than an escape, which Dante could appreciate. The moment the drow killer stepped outside, the drow spoke to him with a crossbow leveled for his head, and it wasn't a distance the drow would miss his shot in.

"I know not who you are, or where you came from, but it's time to die."

Dante brought his axe up sharply to try to cleave the drow in two, but the drow was too far away and it was too late - the crossbow released with a twang, and Dante closed his eyes.

The bolt pierced the skin on his forehead just as the sword had done, but it was the drow's skull that imploded, fragmenting itself through the brain and flesh alike, thusly exploding outwards more mass appeared inside the skin than was there previously. Blood and brains splattered outward, directed more specifically forward than any other direction.

Dante felt the warm splatter all over him, and his mind shook with disgust. The bolt's shaft had shattered on impact, and fell away from Dante. He brought his hand to swipe away a goblet of gore from his eyes, just catching the last of the drow's slump to the street.

Then the message came. Dante stood, unmoving, with his head cocked; the message had a particular quality to it that was familiar. Looking at his fallen foe, he came quickly to the conclusion that it was akin to an SOS call - to the drow.

Dante smiled, causing the dripping blood to contour around his cheeks. They would all be gathered in one pitiful place; like sheep to the slaughter.

[Rattrap]

Dante passed into Myrken Wood, which fit its name quite beautifully. The woods were marvelous, the trees magnificent. He'd left civilization once more, but this time much more briefly; a small wood interlude between towns, it would seem. No signs gave decree of his transfer from Derry to Myrken Wood. He simply knew how far it was, and how far he'd traveled.

It was another few miles before he did find a marker, written in several languages. Welcome To Myrkentown, it said. Dante passed through the woods and found himself on a large, well traveled and busy road.

Dante noted that nobody so much as gave him a strange look, and within an hour of walking, he began to see why. This was a central traveling point to somewhere, or perhaps nowhere; regardless, people from everywhere were here, many of them carrying looks of would-be warriers. Dante spotted few that actually were, even without any obvious identifying marks. There was also a presence of a domestic guard, which he thought was well enough and good.

He stopped outside a shop window and took a look at himself in the reflection. His face was being overrun by a beard clinging to the shape of his jaw in contrasting black to his brightly colored blue eyes. That same dark material grew in abudance above, twisting downward into a plush ponytail that reached halfway down Dante's back. Dante wasn't huge, but big; lean, broad shouldered. If someone measured his height, they'd probably find it around one point seven meters - having had nobody do this for him, Dante lacked this knowledge and never thought about gaining it.

The clothing he wore was strickly furs and hides, which he skinned, cleaned, and sewed together himself. This time of year, there was heavier skins on him. He was a wanderer, and didn't have the means to carry each season's attire with him as they passed, so Dante usually sold them and hunted for a different set.

Such was his way of life.

He wore a bull-hide belt, with an attached dagger sheath made from the same material. The dagger had been lost prior to his arrival in the Amasynian Province, so the container was empty. Dante would have to buy a new one in town.

The battle axe hung diagonally across his back, held by the single strap that made a complete ring around him. Dante shifted it a little and pulled away from the store front window, looking up and down the street.

There were many people here. Many races.

Dante would find drow here.

He was sure of it.

[Rattrap]

Dante left the Broken Dagger, with minor pain flaring up where he'd rolled around against the hard wood floor with the drow, Jirai.

Minor pain, compared the bleeding and fleeing drow, who once again made her escape into the forest. Dante knew not to chase the dark elves into their territory; while he feared not their vengeance, it was a vain attempt to catch them.

His fur coat lie before him on the wooden porch, sizzling under magically created acid. The caster was still inside, but wasn't pursuing Dante out, and thusly Dante wouldn't prompt matters any worse. If he saw the caster again, he'd issue the same warning he gave every previously neutral party who become involved with his cause, and the caster was no exception.

"If you interfere again, I will kill you."

Dante had said variants of it so numerously that he didn't even bother trying to figure on a number; more easily computed was the number of years he'd been using it. But, that was of no consequence.

Dante collected his axe, scarce for blood save that which dripped from the drow in miniscule quantities. Wooden splinters still clung to the gleaming metallic surface, however, and the battle-axe still needed cleaning. The dagger he'd obtained from the female drow was given back to her, in an undeniably painful way. He still had the male drow's, however.

The drow hunter left the Dagger and the area to find himself a peaceful place, which was, evidentially, the drows' forest. Here, he'd settle a spot away from the noises of the town to meditate, and immerse himself in the noises and atmosphere of those woods.

Dante rested that night in the forest.