Shadows of the Dark Avenger

[deserk]

Many deep miles below the land of sky, in the subterraenean hell of the Underdark, drips from the dark ceiling splash the ground as two ebony-skinned dark elves venture into the wilderness of the Underdark, attracting the eyes and ears of many the monsters of the wild. Strange small critters crawl around the area, through the black grit and odd-glowing plants and mushrooms as the two Drows walk and prattle. A pack of strange blue felid beasts seem to notice them, growling in hunger and drooling as the creatures imagine the feast the Drows would give. The dark elves quickly notice the felid monsters, and laugh as they put a bolt in their crossbow, ready to shoot the creatures.

"Stupid blue mongrels think they can kill us." utters one of the Drow and fires at the one of the felid beasts. One beast is slain from bolts fired, and the others begin to flee away.
"Hah, that will teach them." declares the dark elf, with the two laughing in their victory.

But behind them, covered by plants and a large stalagmites waits another predator in the darkness, one figure covered by a dark cloak. It pulls back the bowstring of a black coloured bow, preparing to fire an arrow towards the unsuspecting Drow. The hunter unleashes the arrow, with it landing directly in the throat of one of the unwitting dark elves. Quickly the cloaked figure sheathes away the bow, and reveals a glittering curved sword as it hastenly runs towards the remaining Drow, brandishing it in the short sudden moment. The dark elf reacts by cursing and tries to sprint away quickly. The cloaked hunter then pulls his sword behind his shoulder then quickly tosses it, giving it a powerful throw as the sword pierces the fleeing Drow's back leg. A cry and groan is heard, as the dark elf falls to the black grit ground. His body shakes as blood pours out of the wounded leg.

The cloaked hunter walks over to the badly wounded Drow, pulling out the sword from the leg, making the dark elf shout in agony. The hooded figure then shows some bandages infront of the Drow's face, as if making an offer to him.
"Which way is Sshamath?" asks the cloaked figure. The Drow grumbles but looks warily to the fragile state of his wounded leg as it bleeds all over the ground. He makes a quick decision and responds.
"Its... its straight away in the southern tunnels!" replies the dark elf. The cloak figured nods and tosses a package of bandages to the Drow, then walks away into the shadows again.
The Drow hastenly tries to wrap around bandage on his foot, with his hands shakening from the agonising pain. But behind him is heard the same hungry growls as earlier, with drool heard dripping on the ground nearby. The Drow quickly hears this, and curses, trying to reach for his dagger.
"Ooh hells!! Damn it all! No!!" he cries as the blue felid beasts runs over to the laying Drow, surrounding him quickly. They lunge at him with their fangs piercing his body instantly, and rip him apart as he cries out. Blood splatters over the floor and faces of the beasts as they consume their prey.

The cloaked stalker from a distant in the darkness looks over the beasts as they consume the Drow. A slight smile emerges beneath his cloth-covered face. He then utters the words
"The first of many offerings to you, Night Father..."

[Tahlisar]

The side passage is narrow, too narrow for more than two to proceed abreast without rubbing shoulders with the walls and scuffing themselves upon the sharply porous stone. A dull red smear adorns those walls, leading steadily downwards into a disused Duregar mine long since abandoned by all save a scattered group of Ilithids and their thralls. The smear is wet and in places shows the signs of having run in rivulets forming a jagged edge. If one followed this trail for perhaps twenty yards into the darkness beyond the side passage entrance one would find a body, slumped in a seated position against the base of the passage wall, a hand pressed tightly over a shoulder from which protrudes a long, thick black arrow shaft. His breathing is shallow, his face pale even considering his lighter than usually colouring for his race. The hand pressed tight over the wound is shivering and a small trickle of blood runs between his fingers, steaming gently in the frigid air of the passageway. His face is set, his jaw line hard, a look of loss so profound on his face that a casual observer would think him perhaps already stood before Myrkul within the Bone Castle of Judgement. But it is not so, the steady rise and fall of his chest denoting life still within the desolate figure. He shivers, the heavy plate armour grating against the rock of the passage wall, a single tear runs down a slate grey cheek to hang from his slender chin. He blinks and the expression shifts... his mouth cracks in a grin and he laughs, a high cold hysterical laugh fit to chill the blood of any sane creature within earshot, hot tears stream down his face as his psychotic sounds of mirth echo into infinity down the narrow passage and beyond. Still rocking with furious laughter and crying rivers of tears he looks down at his right hand hanging limp at his side, a small black ring visible over the armoured gauntlet. His laughter intensifies and he beats his weakened fist impotently against the opposite wall smashing cold rolled steel knuckles into hard stone, the adrenaline flooding his system stifling the insanity of his laughter and stemming the flow of his grief, he bares his teeth in a snarl his breath ragged and chaotic.

In that instant some measure of sanity returns to his face and he forcefully brushes an errant strand of hair out of his face with a blood stained hand, streaking his face and fine silver hair with gore. He sighs, his gaze dropping to the hideous wound in his shoulder.

With a grimace, his lips curling back over teeth stained with blood he slowly applies pressure to the arrow shaft, it creaks and his grimace becomes a feral snarl, eyes snapping shut against the white hot pain. After what seems an eternity it gives way, snapping cleanly and he exhales a long held breath before pausing to examine the object of his efforts. A full cloth-yard long and mahogany black, it’s fletching a perfect match to the colour of the wood.

He slips the arrow into his belt and braces his good arm against the passage floor, rolling first onto a knee and then slowly placing his other leg under him and levering himself to a standing position. He shivers violently from the simple effort of standing and staggers, a hiss escaping his lips.

Eyes burning like suns with pent up rage he stalks weakly down the passage, his good hand moving to touch a ring upon the finger of the other, instantly he vanishes from sight, leaving only the lingering sound of faint laughter echoing in the distant blackness and the whisper of a name.

"Shevril!"

[ragnarok1983]

((Just wanted to say I thought this was excellently written and crazy-enjoyable. Also wanted to give this a bump. Loved it.))

[adzling]

The little group of drow moved at a leisurely pace out into the underdark, their backs to the gates of Sshamath. The softly glowing chest sigils of the Charnag Maelthra casting a lavendar light onto the stone around them. An all male group they exhibited the practiced ease of one at home in their environment.

The tallest of the group stooped to the tunnel floor and examined a mossy rock whose outline did not fit the pattern of damp collected under it. His darkvision revealed the contrasting heat pattern, an obvious sign to a tracker as skilled as him.
"S'utrinos Morcane, a group of Kivvil, a Darthiir, a gnome or hin and some rather drunk rivvil. They came this way recently then backtracked into the deeper darks"

"Drunk Rivvil? Dear Zesryn although I place great stock in your impressive tracking skills I am at a lost as to how even you could discern the mental state of your targets" the commander of the Charnag Maelthra replied.

"They drag their feet, stagger about and generally move in a drunken manner S'utrinos" the ranger replied a sly grin fixed upon his face.

"What of the Darthiir and gnome, are they intoxicated as well? A drunken outing of schoolboys looking for a date?" Cel'lith replied, happy to be engaging in wordplay with an Illythiri worthy of the jibes.

"No, they move with the grace of their race untroubled by the fog of liquor."

"Hmm, perhaps they are taking humans on tours of the Underdark then abbil?" Cel'lith said stifling a chuckle at the idiocy of his scenario.

Seeing his commander's mirth Zesryn could not resist the grin that spread a lopsided fault crack his face. "Perhaps S'utrinos, perhaps".

"Well let us not disappoint them! They have come to see the dark and we will show them the hospitality of the Illythiri of Sshamath!" he shot back with glee, sticking the air with his rapier for emphasis.

On the group moved, quiet as cats, out through the displacer warrens and towards the crypt of the drow lich. The lich that had plagued Cel'lith so long ago and so persistently and then had just disappeared. There really was no accounting for liches.

"They definitely went into the crypt S'utrinos"

"Bwael, prepare yourselves for battle. Those of you who can use stealth do so." Cel'lith ordered. He waved the three new potential Charnag operatives to the front, this would be their test. If all went well at least one would die, it never looked good to admit all-comers without loss, it was bad for the esprit de corps he was working hard to foster. All about him spells were weaved, enchantments spun and weapons checked. Within a few moments their fluid movements ceased and a few of the group had simply vanished, Cel'lith included. He kicked the nearest recruit in the ankle and he wisely took it as his sign to step through the door.

Once in the crypt the stench of undead was unmistakable, not surprising considering it was a crypt but distasteful nonetheless.

"They went deeper into the crypt" Zesryn said to no one in particular.

"Figures" the Charnag Maelthra's weaponmaster replied. "Let's get moving if we are going to skin these ibblith before we die of boredom".

"Oh abbil, you are such a jokester" Cel'lith answered back.

"I'm not joking, If we don't find these kivvil soon I will relieve my boredom by testing these recruits myself. I can assure that not all will survive" Izz deadpanned.

Cel'lith only answered with a wink and a twitch of his fingers that indicated they should move on.

As they moved further into the crypt they were assaulted by a few waves of staggering ghouls and shuffling zombies, great scabrous chunks of flesh falling off their bodies.

"Are these your drunken rivvil Zesryn?" Moksha inquired, happy to be implying the tracker's ineptitude.

Zesryn just glared back, denying him a verbal affirmation.

Eventually they came to the altar room of the crypt, standing there looking lost and disoriented was a male drow, possibly a city guard.

"They have taken the altar!" he screamed in panic.
"They have taken it!" he repeated.

The group replied with a torrent of questions:
"Who?"
What altar?"
Who are you jaluk?"
"What are you doing here?"

Cel'lith was about to step forward to quell the din when he noticed a mummy shuffling in from an adjoining room. Never one to miss an opportunity to demonstrate his own brand of dark humor he watched a few moments as it shuffled unnoticed towards the flank of his group.

"Hey! Isn't that your cousin Mum-ra Izzorgoll?" Cel'lith falsoetted.

The weaponmaster spun towards the door and seeing the shuffling mummy took a step towards it intent on separating it's head from it's torso.

Moksha was quicker. A blast of dark energy shot from his hands, engulfing the mummy in vivid hues of crackling light, lifting it from the ground and dumping it in a steaming heap on the floor. Unfortunately the babbling Jaluk was a little to close for safety and was hit with the ricocheting blast, crisping his skin and standing his hair on end. He also dropped to the floor, as lifeless as the now inaminate mummy.

Cel'lith was livid. "GAH!" You killed him! You will pay for your carelessness! Now you get to raise him so we can question him further."

"As you wish" Moksha replied, pulling a scroll from his pack and moving towards the gently smoking corpse.
Unspooling the scroll to read the enchantment Moksha was taken aback as the corpse exploded covering him in gobbets of flesh. More concerning spiders were pouring out of the broken rib-cage, expanding rapidly into huge beasts the size of cave-ogres!

----will finish the write up later today----

[adzling]

The huge ethereal spiders lurched into existence in front of the group, rapidly emerging from the husks of their tiny selves like corn popping in a skittle. One minute they were a hoard of small fist-size spiders bursting from the broken rib-cage of the dead jaluk and the next they were huge eight-limbed horrors the size of cave-ogres intent on devouring everything in their sight.

At least thats how it would have appeared to any normal being from the surface of Faeraun.

To the group of Drow that were present they were just another manifestation of the challenges of existence in the underdark, challenges they faced on a daily if not hourly basis.

The seven drow moved around and between them, dodging under their bloated bellies and rolling over their bulbous backs in fluid balletic movements. Each pirouette and turn offering an opportunity to connect with their devilishly sharp weapons and release another gout of green-black ichor from their carapaces.

The spider queen may have been angered by the destruction of her progeny but if she had been watching even she would not be able to deny the grace of their murderers.

Within moments it was over. Bulbous abdomens separated from twitching legs, green-ichor slicking the floor and splattered over the combatants.

"Pathetic" the weaponmaster said to the dismembered body parts strewn about.

Cel'lith eyed the recruits for a reaction. A Lolthite would have twitched or offered some sign of remorse for the wanton slaughter of the revered of Lolth. None was shown. Cel'lith was naut convinced.

"Odd though don't you think? Now we won't know what that jaluk meant by his comments regarding a stolen altar." Cel'lith offered to no one in particular.

Moksha and Nymas picked through the body parts and organs, looking for some indication of what had caused the strange transformation of the jaluk's corpse.

"The sign of Shevarrash!" Moksha cried out in surprise.
"Shevarrash?" Izz replied.
"The dark archer, the black archer, the tireless hunter, a fallen godling of Corellion's court" Cel'lith added.
"Overlaid with Lolth's" Nymas added.

"I would naut put it above either of those two to use the other's tools to achieve their ends" Cel'lith interjected. "Given the Conclave's treatment of her priestesses and Shevarrash's singleminded hatred of everything Illythiri neither wishes Sshamath well."

"There are tracks leading further into the crypt" Zesryn signed from the doorway.

"Of course there are" Cel'lith replied with a waggle of his left hand. Twirling his right thumb he signaled the group to follow Zesryn further into the crypt.

As they approached the final dead-end passage of the tomb Cel'lith recalled the time years prior wen he had battled the worshippers of a now dead drow godling attempting to bring him back to life in this very spot. That attempt had not ended well for them, he had left their priests bleeding out on the ground then had jumped through the very portal to the hells that they had intended to use to summon his avatar. Once there his little group had encountered a true daemon of exceeding power and after no little effort they had prevailed.

----more later---

[adzling]

"Something is in that room" the stealthy Nimenaar informed the group.

"I don't doubt it" Cel'lith replied via a twitching of his right hand. That room was the one where he had confronted the worshippers of the drow godling so many years past. He was interested to see what this day would hold for him in that same spot. Perhaps life was just a wheel as some thought, always turning in circles and if you lived long enough you would eventually arrive back at the spot you got on at. If he lived long enough perhaps he would find out, Drow could live very long but rarely did. He pushed his internal thoughts to the back of his mind and signaled for the group to advance into the room.

As the group entered the altar room the Nimenaar, Izz, Moksha and Cel'lith broke left and right leaving Zesryn, Nymas and Jysril to hold the center. Advancing in this crescent pattern they were positioned to surround whatever they might face. They did this without being ordered or coordination of any kind. They were Drow.

The sight that met them was not all that different from the one Cel'lith had witnessed on this very spot those years ago. A group of deathly-pale ethereal creatures milled about an altar positioned on the far wall. Amongst them was the figure of a Darthiir and what looked like a Hin enshrouded by a ghostly nimbus of light.

The group of Drow waited for the order to attack, tensed and ready to spring. As Cel'lith mused over whether to just slaughter them all or allow the priest an opportunity for some inevitably tiresome rant a large cat popped into existence and charged the center of the Drow line.

"Bwael" Cel'lith thought to himself "their rants are always so predictable anyhow".

The group of Drow engaged without hesitation and with a fierce gusto that would have brought pause to a whole company of surfacers. Cel'lith launched a Bigby's fist at the leader, Moksha shot bolts of iridescent energy crackling amongst the throng, blades and axes swung with the fury and savagery that only a drow in bloodlust could muster. This went on for a handful of seconds, each drow intent on killing whomever they could reach.

Something was wrong however.

Where there should have been streams of blood, discorporeal limbs flopping on the ground and ecstatic drow dancing amongst the carnage there was....nothing. The ghostly figures were unharmed, both by their opponents magically ensorcelled blades and the enchantments of Cel'lith and Moksha. They simply continued attacking the drow unharmed and impervious to the onslaught.

Moksha was the first to realize the direness of the situation and began to call for a general retreat. Nimenaar was quick to follow while Izz, Nymas and Jysril remained locked in their bloodlust. Cel'lith retreated to the shadows to survey the situation and consider how they might destroy their foes. All blades slid off them, all magic was turned. The only saving grace was the fact that the ghostly figures' attacks were mostly inneffective on the Drow. However this was not due to any supernatural defense, rather it was simply their perfected fighting techniques and wondrous grace the protected them. Unfortunately every mortal being eventually tires, and then they would be dead. Cel'lith briefly considered the possibility of seizing this opportunity to purge the troublesome and headstrong from the Charnag Maelthra, a fitting death for servants of the Conclave and who would place the blame at his feet? In the end however his pragmatism overcame his inherent nature and he signalled the general retreat. It took further coaching to get Nymas and Jysril to disengage. Nymas seemed to take the presence of the ghostly shevarrans personally while Jysril was obviously locked in the kind of battlelust only possible for the worshippers of The Spider Who Waits. They did disengage eventually however.

Fleeing back through the corridors they had entered through Nymas lagged behind and Cel'lith trailed him sticking to the shadows unseen. Nymas obviously knew these insane drow-hunters and Cel'lith wasn't at all confident it was in an appropriate manner. Once the gap between Nymas and the others had increased sufficiently he stopped dead in his track, turned to face the pursuing Shevarrans and screamed for their leader (Cel'lith presumed) to come out and face him. Someone called Shevril. Shevril duly appeared and running to engage Nymas called him "traitor". A wide grin split Cel'lith's face, "there is always one" he thought to himself.

Despite his rage Nymas could not harm the ghostly Shevril. Cel'lith let the battle play out for a few moments before he stepped from the shadows and ordered Nymas to retreat, which he did grudgingly.

Turning their backs on their pursuers Cel'lith and Nymas races for the exit...

-----more later-----

[deserk]

((Bravo...! Awesome story there ... can't wait to get some proper time to make my own))

[adzling]

The all-male group of Illythiri gathered around the entrance to the crypt tensely waiting for their leader.

"What's taking him so long?" Nimenaar asked.

"Did those sussun Shevarrans get him?" Jysril added.

"I would very much doubt that a few ghosts could kill S'utrinos Morcane" Izzorgoll replied. "Although the possibility is interesting..."

"Indeed it is abbil...." Nimenaar said, a brow raising in question to the Charnag Maelthra's weaponmaster.

Which of course was a perfect moement for Cel'lith, whose sense of timing was almost preternatural to step out of the shadows and inteject "I am happy to alleviate your concern jaluks with my presence" the ever-present grin fixed on his face.

The group turned to him in unison.

"Where is Nymas?" Izzorgoll asked.

"I think those heavy footsteps and metal clanging on stone would be him" Cel'lith replied.

Sure enough the heavily armored warrior came around the last bend in the corridor and pulled himself to a stop at the edge of the group.

"Ah Nymas I am glad you could make it. Those Shevarrans seemed to very much fancy you. I would have sworn that you had met them before." Cel'lith inquired.

Nymas shrugged in reply.

"Odd that they called you traitor don't you think?" Cel'lith pressed.

"They called us ALL traitor..." Nymas replied anger beginning to show in his eyes.

"No, no that one..what was his name...Shevril? He actually addressed you in particular as a traitor. I am quite sure." Cel'lith continued.

Izzorgoll gripped his blade and stepped close to Nymas' back, sensing an opportunity to quench his unfulfilled bloodlust.

"They were trying to set us against one another, they know our kind better than most Darthiir. It was a ruse." Nymas insisted with a little edge creeping into his voice.

The Sutrinos of the Charnag Maelthra would have continued this line of questioning for a while longer if he could have. He quite enjoyed making Nymas squirm and he still wanted to winnow one of the three applicants from the pool. It wouldn't do to accept ALL of them into the Deep Dragons.

Unfortunately his fun was interrupted by the arrival of the ghostly figure of the Shevarran Darthiir amidst the group of Drow. He just popped into existence, holding an odd looking black bow and surrounded by that nimbus of light again a look of hatred fixed on his face. The group was momentarily stunned to silence by his sudden presence. Quite an accomplishment in itself given Cel'lith's predilection for witty banter.

The ghostly Shevarran turned to them in turn hand outstretched and pointing in an accusatory manner exclaiming "Traitor!, Traitor!, Traitor! Traitor!"

Izzorgoll sliced at it with his magical weapon, which swept right through it as though it wasn't there. Zesryn spat at it, or rather through it and onto the floor beyond. Moksha shrugged. Jysril stood stock still his anger barely contained.

By the time the ghost got to Cel'lith he was beyond incensed. Who was this idiotic ghost of a Darthiir to tell HIM that he was a traitor? Not that being a traitor was even an insult to a Drow as most traitors were simply exhibiting good common sense but nonetheless what did he know of The Descent? Of how Corellon's power-mad brood had attacked the Dhaerrow of old and forced them underground to live in the clutches of the spider-bitch? Untold eons of suffering endured at the hands of the perverse Yathrin of Lolth all because Corellon would naut share the surface with the Dhaerrow. Cel'lith would naut stand to be called a traitor by this pathetically misguided whelp of a ghost. So when the ghostly Darthiir turned to him he simply scoffed.

"Oh shut up you pathetic ghost of a Darthiir. Go back to whatever godling spawned your immaterial form before I banish you myself" Cel'lith growled with burning hatred in his eyes.

At this insult the Shevarran stopped and focussed on Cel'lith. "Traitor!" it exclaimed then plunged it's hand right INTO his chest. Cel'lith could FEEL the hand grasp his heart and squeeze. He remembered thinking to himself "I didn't expect that" then he staggered back against the wall of the tunnel gasping for air and clutching his chest.

Izzorgoll swung again to no effect.

The Shevarran picked up his chant again, turning to the next Drow in the group, "Traitor!".

Cel'lith was crumpled against the stone, barely able to stand and feeling as though he might just pass out, or die. His anger sustained him. He was Illythiri. "Vhaeraun protect me" he whispered as he traced the sign of the Masked Lord in the air with his finger. And, much to his surprise, something happened! He had spent his life secretly in worship of the Masked Lord, working to further his goals on the surface and thwart his enemies below. In all of that time he had now feeling of his presence or even his existence. He had ascribed that to the fact that he was faern, not a priest and accepted it even though his lack of attention had stung the prideful Drow. But now he could feel his presence! It was HIM. HE moved inside him!

Cel'lith's right hand burst into light, shrouded in a green glow. A great rising tide of anger and retribution washed over him. His god's feelings echoing his own, it was those emotions and thoughts regarding Corellon and The Descent that had summoned his god's attention. Vhaeraun AGREED with Cel'lith and no champion of a pathetic Darthiir godling could stand against HIM.

His arm shot forward and quick as a snake the ghost's immaterial neck was held fast in Cel'lith's hand. He squeezed.

----final installment tomorrow-------

[adzling]

As his hand tightened down on the ghostly Shevarran, crushing his incorporeal larynx so it squeeked inanely and closing it's windpipe Cel'lith revelled in the power his god had granted him.

"XAS!!! DIEEE!" he screamed in a very uncharacteristically straightforward manner. His eyes bulged and spittle flecked his mouth as he let his rage wash over and engulf him.

The rest of the Charnag Maelthra stood around dumbfounded. None of them had ever witnessed Cel'lith act in such an uncontrolled manner raging in bloodlust however more importantly they had never seen what was obviously a god working through one of it's adherents. There was no denying it, Vhaeraun had heard Cel'liths pleas and was using him as a vessel for HIS anger.

As it dawned on them that the Masked Lord was working through Cel'lith Izzorgoll and Nimenaar both erupted simultaneously in shouts of triumph, urging Cel'lith on to destroy the ghostly Shevril.

Rather quicker than expected his fingers closed together having thoroughly punctured the apparition's throat at which point it completely popped out of existence, leaving nothing but it's black bow behind.

Cel'lith at once fell to the ground, eyes closed and breathing shallowly. It was as though someone had just hit a switch and turned him off. As he lay there not at all apparent if he would live or die a single red tear of blood dripped from his left eye and settled on his face tattooing itself into his cheek.

As the group stared in disbelief at what had transpired Cel'lith's consciousness drifted out of his body to merge with Shevril's. He could feel the hatred and loathing reflected between the Darthiir and himself. They were two sides of the same coin, set on a course by their gods to determine whom would prevail in this battle in this tiny part of the world on this particular plane. Cel'lith smiled inwardly and spoke directly into Shevril's mind.

"The hunted has become the hunter. Prepare to meet your maker."

Shevril began to respond, screaming in rage about the imminent downfall of Sshaamath. However Cel'lith had already turned his mind inward and begun to plot the fall of the Shevarrans.