Psimon's Past

[Guest Psimon2001]

Part 1

 

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His name was Ar’Kelur. He was a noble of the Drow clan, Ka’Lunari, unique by virtue of the fact that Drow are a matriarchal race, not partial to males being above their subservient station.

 

 

 

He was considered blessed by the Spider Goddess, Lolth, and had been granted his title by the High Council in an extraordinary session. The entire clan had been in an uproar for weeks afterwards until the Goddess herself appeared to settle the matter. Those most vocal against Ar'Kelur were slain in a manner most hideous, their features warped so badly in their death agonies that their own relatives could not positively identify them without looking at the clan-mark on their backs.

 

 

 

He was a great tactician, a superb field commander, a fine politician and diplomat. He was tall, fine featured, handsome, strong. His voice commanded respect, his sword arm enforced it. He was blessed indeed…

 

 

 

 

 

Her name was Ai’Genthani. She was one of many daughters of the Grey Elf clan, Orrian’Tanuri. Truly, a maiden of unsurpassed beauty. Many a grey elven male, young and old alike, had walked straight into tree trunks, distracted by her presence. The younger girls giggled helplessly when this happened. The older females, particularly those with mates who were the ones getting bruised so, would frown and ‘tsk, tsk’… their disapproval etched on their jealous features.

 

 

 

She was intelligent, beautiful, sharp of wit and tongue, and fearless in the bargain. Her skills in the home were widely known, as were her skills with rapier, sling and bow. She was also the best rider in the clan, though none would admit it.

 

 

 

 

 

Theirs is a tale of love and life, heartache and death. A tale of lovers blessed by the stars, cursed by their own kind; of the heights of passion and the depths of foul deeds. Their tale began on a dark, moonless night, and ended under the flare of burning homes…

 

[Guest Psimon2001]

Part 2

 

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Ar’Kelur led a small scout party through the still night air. They were some two weeks travel from the caverns they called home, in search of new conquests - riches to add to their stockpiles of jewels and gold, slaves to work the diamond mines and for sport, exotic foods to fill their bellies. Li’Krath, the Matriarch of Ka’Lunari, demanded much from her people in tribute, and the priests demanded even more in sacrifice to Lolth.

 

 

 

The bulk of their war party was a little over half a day’s travel behind them, preparing themselves for the battle ahead, hidden, sleeping, in caves during the harsh light of day; making preparations and going through the death rituals that preceded any battle during the dark nights. Drow fear the sunlight, it burns their sensitive eyes, exposes their dark souls to the day-walkers. The scouting party was finalising their approach route to the village that had been selected as their next conquest.

 

 

 

“Are the traps set?” Ar’Kelur asked his second in command, Ar’Krath, the eldest son of the Matriarch.

 

 

 

“Yes. The foolish day-walkers will not see them until they are dying in the pits” Ar’Krath laughed cruelly.

 

 

 

Ar’Krath’s hatred of the day-walkers had been bred into him, indoctrinated every day of his life by his mother, just as her mother before her had instilled her hatred in her. The source of this racial enmity was lost in the mists of time, none remembering the cause or sparing a thought for the cost wrought on both races. And so it went on, through generation upon generation, the bloodshed, the hatred, the slaughter, the tears and wailing of mothers bereft of their children. Now neither side seemed to even know how it might be halted, and most did not care.

 

 

 

Ar’Kelur knew. Ar’Kelur cared. But he did not share the knowledge he had gained from Lolth herself. In him, she hoped to finally gain the victory in a battle she had waged against the goddess of the day-walkers, Caeryx, her half-sister. They had fought for aeons, and theirs was not a petty war. Theirs was a battle for the very souls of the entire world, elven and non-. Lolth despised her sister - Caeryx pitied Lolth. And Ar’Kelur was the final link in a chain of events and personalities that Lolth had worked for centuries to bring to this one point, for Ar’Kelur was the Anointed One, the Ang'garasak, the God-Killer. He would be the instrument of Caeryx’s doom and Lolth’s victory.

 

 

 

Ar’Kelur knew his destiny, and he accepted it without anguish or remorse. The Goddess blessed him, and that is all that mattered. His life would be a small price to pay for that blessing. But knowing his destiny had chilled his heart, even beyond the normal evil of his race. He was a despicable creature, and none dared to cross him. His arm was too strong, his mind too sharp, his contacts too tightly bound by obligation, his position of blessing too fearful to ever consider moving against him. He ruled his men by fear and they died for him by the thousands, and his victories increased in number and stature.

 

 

 

He was a devout follower of Lolth and, it was said, he would drink his victims’ blood and eat their flesh in honour of Her. His reputation had spread beyond his own race throughout the entire land. His name struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it, and mothers all over the land used his name to bring their children to heel. ‘Get to bed or Ar’Kelur will surely get you’ they would say, and their young children scrambled to obey, cowering in fear beneath their blankets.

 

 

 

“And die they will, Ar’Krath, die they will…” his voice trailed off as he looked to the night sky. He dismissed his second with a wave of his hand and contemplated the stars. He sought an omen of victory from Lolth, searched the patterns for a sign of her web, woven to give assurance to her servants that the battle would be theirs.

 

 

 

There! Almost straight above where he stood, just to the north, the web he sought. Ha! The victory was his once more…

 

 

 

As he watched, a shooting star sped through the pattern, it’s light seeming to drag the web behind it, as a finger would drag across an earthly web, destroying it. What did this mean? Was their mission doomed? Was it just simple luck that the shooting star had crossed the sky at that time and in that place? Did it signify anything at all?

 

 

 

There was no time to seek the Goddesses wisdom! Their enemy were moments away from their position. The traps were set. The battle was upon them!

 

[Guest Psimon2001]

(My deepest regrets for the delay since my last substantial post...)

 

 

 

Part 3

 

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Ar’Kelur moved quickly to his position high above the path, an outcrop of rocks some 65 feet above and to the left of the forest pathway that wound below. Their enemy would come along this path, his trackers assured him, as they moved up the valley towards the position of Ar’Kelur’s encamped army. The scouting party would stir the enemy to arms, with a number of them running, appearing to flee before the defence force, drawing them further away from the village, further away from their loved ones. The runners would draw them right into the waiting ranks of Ar’Kelur’s army, who would have begun their march just hours ago. The two forces would meet in a clearing a little ways back along the trail from where Ar’Kelur and his men waited now.

 

 

 

The pits would slow the enemy down, deplete their numbers, but they would keep going… Ar’Kelur was sure of that. His hostage would assure that they would keep chasing his men. He had kidnapped The Elder of the village, the wisest leader they had. He had been so easy to take. He didn’t seem that old though, for one who was supposed to be so wise, a leader of men. But he was the one all the villagers had referred to as ‘Elder’. His scouts had been very careful of that, waiting for two days, watching the village carefully. They were not mistaken. They had the right man.

 

 

 

So he waited and watched. Long moments passed, the men were beginning to grow restless. It had been almost half the hourglass sands and still no sign of the enemy. What was taking them so long? They had been seen running along the path and now it seemed as though they would not arrive at all.

 

 

 

Then Ar’Kelur saw a flicker of movement between the trees… they were here!

 

 

 

They moved slower than he had wanted – ideally they would be running headlong into the pits – at this rate only the first few ranks would fall, but that would have to suffice. A few dead Grey Elves were better than none.

 

 

 

They ran at a light pace, moving carefully over the forest path, with no point runner as would normally be the case if this were a regular patrol. These elves were on a mission to rescue their Elder so normal patrol protocols did not apply. Ar’Kelur looked closely – ten… fifteen…twenty warriors, with two rangers and a cleric. The elite of the tribe sent to save their most highly ranked clan member. The first three runners stepped onto the trap covers and knew before they hit the bottom of the pit that they would die. The spikes jutting from the pit floor were not only sharp and long, they were coated in poison. One scratch was all it took.

 

 

 

The next three warriors almost stopped in time, but not quite. They slid into the pit, one just holding onto the rim for a moment before he too fell back onto the spikes. The bodies of the six warriors did not twitch, did not writhe in agony, the poison worked too fast for the muscles to do anything but sag in death. It was the Drow blade-dressing of choice for this very reason.

 

 

 

The Drow themselves were immune to its effects, having been through the rite of maturity which involved the slow introduction of the poison into their system, over and over again, till they were fully immune. The rite of passage took months and was painful beyond description. Some of the older warriors even claimed that the poison had certain medicinal side effects, so they continued to take the poison as an after dinner drink, a thimble shot each time, till they reached a ripe old age and were known to ooze the poison from their very pores, becoming a walking weapon coated in poison, lethal to all who were not immune. There was little affection shown between the generations, and due to the poisons effects, there was none at all between the old warriors and those around them.

 

[Psimon]

Part 4

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The rest of the group slid to a halt in time, then immediately moved into a defensive formation on the path. The remaining warriors and the two rangers created a defensive circle of swords and bows, while the cleric moved to the centre and began his prayers, calling upon their goddess to protect them, creating a divine shield around the group. The shield was strong – the cleric was very powerful – and no missile weapons would be able to penetrate it. But that wasn’t Ar’Kelur’s plan anyway.

 

He signalled the assault troops to move in. They plunged down the slopes of the forest valley, through the loosely scattered trees, screaming their harsh battle cries, swords raised for battle. The ten Drow warriors crashed into the defending Greys, the shield no defence against non-missile weapons or warriors bodies. Swords flashed in the faint light of stars and the full, bright moon. Two Grey warriors fell dead before the Greys began to get the upper hand, first holding, then pushing back the Drow, killing two of them.

 

The Drow warriors knew their part well, a few would die - to be given the release of death into Lolth’s blessed presence – the rest were to retreat fighting a rearguard action, enticing the Greys to follow at pace. This they did and the Grey Elves followed, their mission and care forgotten for a moment in their grief for their fallen comrades at the hands of the foul Drow. The Drow leapt past the pits with their deadly, spiked embrace, and ran down the path towards Ar’Kelur’s waiting men. The Greys followed, screaming their outrage with every lung full of air they took as they ran.

 

Twelve warriors, two rangers and the cleric remained of the Grey Elf party, and they pursued the remaining eight Drow warriors hard. The Drow ran on and on, racing along the path out of sight of Ar’Kelur and his small honour guard of four handpicked warriors watching from the rocks above the forest valley. The Grey elves soon disappeared from view too, and Ar’Kelur and his men began to pick their way down onto the forest path. They would follow from a safe distance, arriving to witness the last of the Greys being slaughtered.

 

Ar’Kelur set foot on the path and turned to follow the receding sounds of the running battle, only to be spun around as a crossbow bolt thudded into his sword arm. His light armour was no match for the finely crafted bolt, and Ar’Kelur knew he was in trouble as he immediately began to lose consciousness, the forest fading to blackness before his eyes.

 

In many ways it was fortunate that Ar’Kelur did not see the results of the brief but deadly battle that erupted around him as he fell to the forest floor. His honour guard were slain before any could draw their weapons. His ambush party, one hundred brave and fearsome warriors, were slaughtered by the more than nine hundred Grey elven warriors, rangers, and clerics that had surrounded his men, waiting till they entered the clearing position they had been expecting to claim as their victory ground, only to watch in horror as all around them died in a hail of Grey elven arrows, crossbow bolts, and spells of fire and lightning. The ambush party had themselves been ambushed, and were slaughtered to a man.

 

Ar’Kelur did not feel the hands of the returning Greys pick him up, tie him roughly to a pole like a hunter’s prey, and carry him back to the Grey elf village as their war trophy.

[Psimon]

Part 5

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The Grey elves had planned this ambush for months. A coalition of local and distant tribes had been formed with the aim of capturing Ar’Kelur, the most hated Drow in the known world, and destroying his elite army of raiders. Now, at last, that task was accomplished.

 

They arrived at the village to tumultuous applause and fanfare. The crowds had come from many miles away in anticipation of this victory, hidden carefully from view until the raiders had taken the bait, kidnapping the brave warrior who had volunteered for the mission of posing as the village Elder. The trap had been elaborate, but perfectly executed.

 

The ‘Elder’ had filled that role for weeks before the raiders had scouted the village. Real communication had been carried out using a simple code of everyday words and phrases, seemingly innocuous remarks that would be heard in any village, in any province, in any kingdom. The warriors of almost a dozen villages had been united under the common banner of freedom from the fear of the raiders’ attacks, the mourning and lamentations of the women having been a familiar sound to their ears for too long. Those villages that had not yet been attacked had contributed the majority of warriors to this combined force, those villages who had been hit with but a handful of surviving warriors each. But they had all fought fiercely.

 

The plan had been the brainchild of the true Elder of Orrian’Tanuri, Er’Genthani. He had known it was only a matter of time before the feared raiders attacked his village. He could not bear the thought of the foul Drow capturing his only daughter, Ai’Genthani, to be used as their plaything till they grew tired of her and slew her in an orgy of bloodletting upon the altar to their filthy, demon-goddess, Lolth. So he had sent emissaries to the other villages as quickly as he was able. The resulting inter-clan meetings had, at times, been heated affairs, the arguments raging into the night and the following morning, till at last the parties were all in agreement. The result was an inter-clan treaty, an agreement of military cooperation, of information and spell sharing. New trade arrangements had been made, even some new friendships.

 

One friendship in particular had come to the attention of several of the Elders gathered. Ar’Gorthani, the son of the Elder of a large clan, had begun to court Ai’Genthani. All concerned – parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, approved of the relationship. There was even talk of marriage, but that was years away. First would come the betrothal ceremony, then three years of engagement before the wedding preparations would even begin. The wedding preparations would take another two years…

 

But that was all in the unknown future. For now, the main focus was the prisoner.

 

He was hauled into the village centre, slung beneath the pole. Children hung back in fear, not trusting that the monster of their mothers’ bedtime stories was actually dead or unconscious, afraid that he would jump up, grab them all and rip their hearts from their chests, eating the still beating organ before their dying eyes, as some of the older boys had told them Drow behaved.

 

The young men, too young to fight, yet too old to stand with their mothers, stood boldly, hands at their hips, defiant in the face of their unconscious racial nemesis. The young women caught their collective breath behind their pale hands, their hearts racing with fear and fascination at this frightening warrior, so deadly, so strong, so… beautiful!

 

How could the enemy of their race be such a beautiful creature? It defied reason. It dazzled the senses. It angered the men to see the young maidens look upon their vanquished enemy in this way!

 

A general hubbub began to move around the crowd. Words were spoken in the ears of mothers who had also seen those looks. Mothers’ hands gripped daughters’ arms and they were led away with scolding tones ringing in their reddening ears.

[WrenWind]

*smiles and hugs her beloved* glad to see your efforts in one place