In the shadows of shadows

[Rance]

She never saw it coming. She did not see the flash of the knife’s blade until it was too late, and all she could do was ride the length of the knife right into death.

Her name was Avel. Her name had always been Avel. For aeons, they had spoken her name in whispers. She had been written of in prophetic tomes and her name scrawled on the walls of spiderwebbed temples, to some a saint of the dark goddess Lolth, to others her greatest betrayer, but regardless of what she was, she was an object of chaos. She was a servant. She always did as she was bade. In ages past, she had been alive and well, praising every night and day to the presence of her spider goddess, whipping down masses of men and priestesses alike, forcing them to show fealty in ways they never imagined. She had been the high priestess of Shadowdale, a valley of dark-fleshed elves whose histories had long been forgotten in the pages of moldering tomes. For centuries, Lolth’s kind – the dark elves, the drow – had been a race of the surface, immune to the effects of the sun and living in tandem with the filthy dwarves, with the misled fae, with the fragile humans.

Even back then, the surface races held some vendetta against the dark elves. The surface races did not approve of the murderous and vindictive manners of the drow and so, in the greatest hypocrisy, they drove to slay them. Long before books had ever been written, long before histories had ever been created, the light-skinned races worked as one to march against Shadowdale and its black-skinned inhabitants. The battles raged on for days and weeks, and endless swarms of dwarves and humans and elves died at the blades of the drow. Avel and her three sisters Uluria, Aedisia, and Oleth, the matriarchs of the dark elven society, stood within the center of their grand temple, begging praises of their great Mother, bringing strength to their warriors, devastating hundreds and thousands of surface beings with single spells. They were an extension of their goddess. They stood on the ramparts of Shadowdale, defying the sun itself, chanting together as one and staining the fields with lakes of surface blood. They summoned demons and called rains of stones as if mountains had been broken apart for their bidding, but still the surface creatures came. The priestesses contorted the souls of the dead to their wills, turning scores of recent dead against the armies for which they had once fought, creating absolute chaos, enjoying every sickening, dark moment of it.

But not even that could keep the surface armies away. They had numbers where the dark elves had pure skill and prowess. Numbers were always more powerful.

In the final day of a battle that had taken endless weeks, the seas of dwarves and frail humans and white-skinned elves managed to rip their way into Shadowdale, enlisting the aid of ages-old mages and priests to employ their powers against the four priestesses. The bloodshed spread into the streets and halls of the twisted, dark elven city, and soon into the tower of the four priestesses themselves. The streets were soon littered with drow bodies, and Avel began to realize, however arrogant she was, that the last hour of her life was upon her. In the tower below her feet, she could hear the battle echoing and coming nearer, circling up the stairs. There were thousands of the humans, raining arrows into the tower battlements, tossing devastating surface-spells at its stone and structure. No matter how much of a blessing she and her sisters had, Avel knew that the four of them could not stand against an entire world. They wanted the drow gone. They wanted them banished, murdered, destroyed. With the muscles of endless cities against her, and they at Shadowdale’s heart, Avel, her sisters, and even their wondrous goddess could not hope to survive.

Night drew near. Avel resolved that, beneath that wretched moon, she would not die by the blade of a human. Nor would her sisters. Even as Uluria, Aedisia, and Oleth began to spiritually sanction themselves against the coming hordes, Avel began another ritual. She communed with the goddess Herself.

Kill them, Lolth told her. I want you to kill them all. Tonight, you die. You need every ounce of their strength. Our kind will be banished, but you, my daughter, will lead them free.

Only Avel knew that Lolth did not speak of humanity or its armies. She spoke instead of three others. Three others who had power enough in their veins and spirits to sanctify her own existence and let her live on, even if it be just as some displaced presence, some dormant ghost that would one day wreak revenge for this horror against her race.

Uluria was the first to die. Avel stabbed her through the heart.

The eldest sister leered heartlessly at the youngest, who seemed surprised to find one of Avel’s four swords – for the oldest priestess was a master of the blade – driven through her chest. Without a word, she crumpled, her red eyes winking out of life, her hands trying to dislodge the blade. Avel yanked it free, and Uluria fell, unable to give a final whisper to her goddess. She drove the blade into the stone.

You shall name it Darksbane, whispered Lolth of the used sword.

“Avel!â€

[Rance]

Aedisia kept dancing and spinning, her whip reaping death, handfuls of the humans tossed out and over the battlements from mere blasts of her weapon, falling screaming and flailing to the cobbled streets of Shadowdale far below. Aedisia laughed, ready to die in battle, her flowing white hair like a gossamer sheet in the starlight, flecks of blood winking like strewn rubies. She savored every kill, every satisfying strip of skin her whips ripped away.

“Stupid fool,â€

[Rance]

She was unnatural. The growth process had been reworked in the resurrection, and Altias had tamed her from babe to a girl in less than a year, and over the course of months, she had endured further development. In but two short human years, she had been walking and talking and breathing and defying, but somewhere along the way something went wrong. Young Avel’s arrogance had kept her from following the exact orders of her goddess, of her Mother, and she had grown rebellious and unstable. This creature meant to be Shadowdancer embodied, Avel reborn, had become nothing more than a lustful teenaged whore with black flesh selling her body in the filthy backstreets, shivving men who did not pay her due, thriving in the filth of humanity. Only then did Lolth realize her mistake.

The growth had happened too fast. She was enveloped in a world of surface-skinned morale and crude, primitive heart. Had she been reborn in the Underdark, she would have quickly risen to priesthood and then beyond, a promising shadow of the Avel that had once murdered her own siblings for the sake of ritual. But now, she was a disgusting and dirty wretch with no sense of propriety or direction, a resurrection gone entirely flawed, a chaotic experiment that did not suit Lolth’s tastes or desires one bit.

For months Avel had lived from hovel to hovel, communing with the rats and the feces and the roaches, being spit upon and raped and misguided, confounded with opiates and alcohol. She was the complete imperfection of a dark elf, a shame in the name of Lady Chaos herself. Avel had forgotten her past and her purpose. In the shimmering hell of the Demonweb Pits, Lolth had finally decided to withdraw her own plans and rip Avel out of the world in which she had been recreated. The girl had indulged far too much in the physical desires of lust and violence and being, and though Lolth oft encouraged her loyals to engage in such pleasures, Avel had never been meant for this. Avel had been meant to live and grow and lead her dark elves to the surface, first through Audmathus, and then as herself once more. She had failed both times.

Avel served her far better as the spirit of Shadowdancer than she ever had as a living, breathing creature. Thus, it would take a knife to make Avel remember herself.

Under the bleeding moon of a winter night, Avel awakened in the bed of a desperate human as she had so many times before. Though her skin was dark and her origin damned, she had been greedily purchased time and time again by the crude men who yearned for younger lust. They paid more for their shame. How better to hide their adultery than by blaming it, in their minds and in their excuses, on the charms of a child-sized dark elf? This particular night, however, she ached strangely. The young drow sat up in the tangled bedclothes and draped a delicate hand along her brow. She could still smell the wine in the air alongside the tangy must of burned opium. On her lips, she could still taste the rancid texture of her lover’s tongue. He was the fourth she had had in two nights. Her stomach felt heavy, her flesh man-handled. Avel’s hair reeked like sweat. She hated nights such as these. She leaned back into the pillows, but just as she did so, her hand touched something warm and wet. She glanced down at the white linens of the stained bed.

No dark elf could mistake the image of blood. Her lover – she had never known his name – was dead. His throat smiled at her with a vicious, crimson grin, his blank eyes still open in the realization of final death. In most cases, she often left the bodies in such a way, but not tonight. Tonight, she had fallen asleep too, far too drunk and mind too mangled to care of murder.

Had the alcohol made her forget? She looked around for the knife she had used to murder him. She never found it. A voice exploded in her brain and she threw her head back suddenly, skull flaring with agony.

Avel, someone whispered. She knew who it was. Avel, my dear, you’re such a failure.

“Mistress,â€

[BrokenDreamer]

It was surprising, how easy the knife slide through the flesh of Lloth's chosen champion. Her weapon made flesh. She had honestly expected a challenge, something more than what a drunken whore provide. It was all Avel had become in the end. A pity.

Oh well.

Black fleshed form was in crouch over what was soon to become a hollow shell, watching that last breath bubble crimson from the new smile she had laid upon the tender flesh of throat. Hovered to savor that last fading light from the female's eyes, pleasure in the thought that the last thing the weapon of Lloth would see in this life was her own face with it's gleaming wicked smile.

Curved blade was examined afterwards, watching the heat fade from the liquid that did wet it now. Snake of tongue, tiny taste -- one that was spat out to one side with utter disgust. Sacred weapon? The whole of her tasted like rot. Sickly and contaminated by the pathetic life the 'mighty' Avel had allowed herself to wallow in.

There was her reward. Rubied eyes saw it now, the deterioration of the dead girl she sat upon but it was not the sight that excited her so. It was not what pulled that most thrilled smile upon red painted mouth. No, it was the feeling of the weapon, of Avel's essence pulling within her. Her, most favored by the lady of chaos!

Come morning, all that would be found in the room would be the corpse of a dead man and a pile of ash next to him.

Laughter, light and fierce! Fire and ice. Lolth's will be done and chaos caused by this chosen servant's hand.

"New toy found," purred into the dark, spoken to none but a corpse. "Time to find someone to play with."

[BrokenDreamer]

It is upon the shore of Silver Lake that the next chapter of this nightmarish tale begins to unfold: a gathering of six different individuals, each standing as silent as the grave as watchful eyes were kept upon the dark water. Of such creatures Myrken was not unfamiliar with save the fact that they gathered in a small number now. These were Drow working together and not as single individuals who refused their heritage. No, they embraced it and for that reason collected to strive towards a single purpose, held together in their fear of the only female among their numbers.

This one stood as a queen with head held high -- flesh of black velvet and hair as perfectly white as the newly fallen snow that blanketed the land. Faeryl was the name that the others knew her by, though few dared to speak it in any bold manner. Fourth and youngest daughter of her high standing household, priestess of Lolth and most favored among those of her family. That was why she was selected, was it not? Chosen for the Lady of Chaos did love her so, found much promise within those ruby eyes that seemed to show no end of their lust for power.

She had the weapon. It would have been easy for her to leave now, return to the Under Dark to seize control of her mother's household and lay siege upon the others of the city. This one had goals, ambitions by the handful but there was something else that she wanted more than those dreams right now. Something that would leave those innocents of Myrken weeping for fear and huddled knowing that all they could do was wait until the shadows claimed them.

Around this priestess stood a triad of guards, males all, armed and armored. Dispassionate faces that all refused to look upon the lovely creature that stood in their mists. The last that had dared to cast a lecherous gaze in her direction was still suffering from pain laced arm that had found itself assaulted by the five-headed whip the female had so 'lovingly' used. Even now, beneath the cover of her cloak with it’s elaborate spider webbing design, the snake-headed weapon did coil and whither in loving way against hidden thigh. Hesitate to use this precious gift that showed her rank and station? That which was proof of her favor? Never.

That was four accounted for. What of the other two?

They stood upon that icy lakeshore murmuring incantations. Water churned, bubbled from the depths of that sandy bed -- crust of ice cracking… It was a sight that one would imagine within the witch’s cauldron. The two worked to complete a single task and below the water’s frigid surface, something was stirring within the muck. Rising, slowly so very slowly for this was to be delicate work. Deteriorated, little more than bones and scraps of flesh, flaps of skin preserved by the lake – that which had not already been stripped away by carrions of the watery sort.

It was this nightmarish thing that would break the surface, free of it’s moist grave though chains did try to hold it there. Chains of iron that were, in the end, no match for the magical workings of these two dark skinned Elves. Within the cavity of what once was a chest, one fish not quick enough to escape did take its last frantic breaths as water oozed between ribbings.

The two wizards were stepping back and as they did so, this floating horror did come with them, drawn till across the lake till it could find new safety upon blanket spread open across the snow.

“Pick him up,â€

[BrokenDreamer]

The Troll that had assaulted the Broken Dagger days ago had been a test with no true goal beyond measuring what troubles certain individuals might present in future endeavors. That one male had been lost was of little consequence, he was foolish and Faeryl had no time for such incompetence. Besides, his gender marked him as expendable. Easily replaced and she was not without her resources. Not when she lingered upon the surface no longer than need be, having the ability to withdraw to the world beneath near upon will with a wizard at her beck and call. Why take the chance of having her innate skills deteriorate by prolonged exposure or place personal items at risk? Why linger away from a source of fresh recruits? No, she was much too clever for that. Such foolish actions were beyond her. Each venture to the surface was followed by a retreat to the Under Dark. At least, for now until plans were too delicate to stray far from.

It was on that night that the mighty troll met its destruction that the next orders were given. “Keep the tavern under surveillance. The others that made themselves known proved to be of little worry. It is the large human of fire. I want to know his weakness. I want him as helpless as a new born babe before we destroy that which he and the others fight to protect and claim it as our own.â€

[BrokenDreamer]

It was when passions peaked, as limbs were entangled in physical bliss that Ristel took his last gasp of air. For the black velvet face of an angel, he had allowed his guard to drop and eyes could merely stare in wide wonder at the flash of crimson washed steel. Unfortunate for him, it seemed this angel Harold nothing but death. He had allowed himself to fall too far into the lust of that moment, barely felt the blade as it made its pass through his throat in one nice and neat stroke. It was a bath of blood for that small and deadly Faeryl, something enjoyed more than the company of the male newly slaughtered but moments before.

She was left gasping in glee of that murderous moment as the gore did continue to leak from the gapping wound inflicted upon the male’s throat, bubbled and frothed with the last attempt at breath. Being able to watch the light fade from Ristel’s own red eyes? That was merely icing upon the cake.

All good things must come to an end though, the heat of the body was leaving and soon the wash of vital she enjoyed would become annoyingly sticky. Hands would shove the empty shell aside, allowing her to wiggle free of bed and sheets. Just time enough to hastily wash, don a robe before whisking herself out of private chambers. To the first guard found, “Fetch Ristel from my room and bring him to where the preparations are being made for the ritual. Tell Veldrin to use him for spare parts. What ever the corpse from the lake is missing, replace. All of it.â€