Post by Deilakrion on Jun 1, 2008 4:41:10 GMT -5
An ooc note: This rp happened over a few days. We were all kind of uninspired. I don't know what transgressed in between these bits, and what progressed after. If you have something to add in after this, please do so.
Just what had happened to him last night, when he slipped into the ship's darkness, he didn't know. He remembered dragging his way in, but beyond that, he must have lost conciousness. It was with a groan that he awoke, somewhere else, seemingly, towering walls surrounding him, made of stone and smoothed as by a mason's hand, and the floor...truly, whoever crafted this hall had a good measure of patience, for each stone fitted with the next exactly, no mortar holding the stones in place. "How did I wind up here?" he grumbled to himself, running a hand over his face...a smooth face, no scars, no marring runes...but...didn't he have scars just last night? Whatever tumble he took, it had messed with his head. Which was truth and which was not was uncertain to the drow, but from the smoothness of his face, he assumed that he had always been unscarred. Scars cannot just be removed, after all. They do not heal so quickly as to vanish overnight. To his feet, all eight of them he climbed, 'tick-tick-tick-tick-tick' resounding with each arachnid step. Down the path seemed to slope, down into darkness that just barely concealed the whiteness of the walls of this place. Down to glowing red eyes. Fear and hatred both exploded into Vael the Drider's mind, fear of what those eyes were, and hatred for what they had done to him. A hand was held out before him, and he willed...something...to come from it. But nothing ever came. Nothing ever did. His magic had been stripped of him so, so long ago, and yet he still couldn't get used to that fact. Damn it all.
"I'm not a creature, silly man. I'm Vilaelia." The creature-turned-woman smiled guilelessly at the Monster, whose entire body fuzzed in and out as he tried to reach Deilakrion. "What happened to creature?" He thundered, glaring at her with slanted, dark eyes. The woman flipped her head and made an ugly scowl. The illusion dropped, and the creature's gaunt form was revealed. "I am so tired of hearing that damn word! Creature this, creature that! It's so stupid, and yet all these dolts blindly accept it with nary a blink! Well back off. That woman is nothing more than a flit of the imagination. I am real." The Monster stared at her in shock, and then let out a particularly nasty curse. It disappeared, leaving her to stand and look around herself. Ivory walls surrounded the small, circular area. She saw an exit, and headed for it.
His sword...he still had his sword, he remembered, broken though it was. Some demented mercy from his kin, he assumed long ago, that they let him keep its shards. But still, something felt amiss in all this. Wasn't he Vaelustil D'eathe, a necromancer of some power, not this drider with a broken sword as his only means of defense? But...that couldn't be, could it? It had been centuries since he was a drow, punished for his plots to escape the matriarchy, to slay his own house. He could have sworn he had recent memories of...but, the gods alone knew what delusions his warped mind could summon. Bone dragons. Bah! Indeed, as though he could ever summon a bone dragon in his current state. But those eyes...they were still there, staring at him, mocking him. The drider lowered himself onto his belly, quacking with fear. He always quacked with fear at the sight of those whole drow. Even the others of his own mutated kind sent him sulking away to hide. They ridiculed him, the 'all-mightly Vaelustil' having been reduced to one of their ranks. "Come, spider-boy." The call, both mocking and comforting, found its way to his ears. He didn't want to. He didn't want to come, or even to look up. But he did look up, and, in the end, rose and heeded the call. Female, whoever it was. It sounded familiar. He should have known this person's voice, but he just couldn't place it. "Come, Spider. Come traverse my web." Web, indeed. Follow the black-stoned, white-walled tunnels as he might, he could not find the source of the voice. Ever did it call him. Ever did it sound closer. Ever did he search.
Her lips held a queer smile, odd for the face of the creature. "Clothes. . .I need clothes." She sang to herself, and stretched her arms wide even as she twirled on calloused feet. It had been long for she-who-had-been-known-as-Vilaelia. Some eighty odd years had passed, while she lay dormant and helpless within the throes of a torment long removed. This had once been her body. This had once been her mind. It was now hers again. The smile deepened as she skipped along the white walls, trailing fingers by its length. She liked to explore, and this was an odd place, odd indeed. She did not question how her weak will had come to dominate the creature, nor why this place. This was merely another adventure, another chance at love lost and a ruined life that could be once more. It did not cross her mind that those she had loved and who had known her would be dead now. She lived, and so would they, and that was all that mattered. Her lips crooked wide as she came to a bend, and she followed it, digging deeper into this mind and the wonderful powers it held. Yes, she would find her horse and take up the reins of the Riders, and then she would traverse the beloved hills of her homeland once more.
Vael only gradually noticed that, as he moved, his eight legs had begun to lessen, and that he now strode upon two. What was this place, that could turn a drider back into a drow? Or was it the woman that called to him? He didn't know. But he could feel cloth against his skin. His eyes swept downward as he paused, and his eyes bulged at the black robes that adorned his body. Robes? But...yes, that was right. He could perform magic, after all. But these robes, they were not those of a mage. Then what was he? He remembered seeing others wear such robes. His mother had worn such, High Priest of the Spider Goddess as she was. But then...he was a priest? Males were never allowed to be priests. But the eyes of those that passed him by, they all lowered in respect reserved only for such a being. One even mumbled some greeting involving the words "High Priest Vaelustil." Did that mean...did that mean his life as a drider had been a dream, and his waking life had passed him by as though dreamless sleep? Something was all too wrong here. "Come, Spider," came the woman's call again. This web was far too large for Vael's liking. He let his mind wander as he travelled the tunnels' seemingly endless stretches. He tried to remember his life. Death. There had been lots of death. His family had died, long ago. Murdered. By who, though? He couldn't remember that. Many had accused him of it, and claimed his rise to priest as proof. What male could take such a role in a House unless he had forced his way to the only remaining being to sit at its head? He could almost see the memories in his head, his own dark magics and that elegant sword of his stealing both souls and life from the members of his House, laying waste to that little bit of the Matriarchy. He could remember fleeing the city, making his way to...but no, he was still here, travelling the Underdark as High Priest. He couldn't have fled. No, he could not have killed his family. That was...someone else. It had to be.
The tunnels stretched long ahead of her, and she vaguely remembered that she was not overly fond of caves. "Light, I need light." Her feet continued on their journey, and the darkness sang around her. She would not get her light, not like this. So she would move until she found what she was seeking. She giggled. That was why she had come in here. She sought the life it had to offer, and the treasure trove he'd told her about. Of course! It was a dare, if a silly one. She could find that piece to the puzzle, and when she offered him it back his eyes would bulge with wonder, and his affection for her would grow. . .deeper. . .she paused, and stared at the sight before her. Twin statues rose high into the darkness, and the chill of the place assaulted her with renewed vigor. In the distance, a horrid moan rose, and she could feel the very air tremble. She stooped, and picked up a pebble. There was only one upon the ground, and now it was hers.
"Come..." I'm coming, damnit... "Come, Spider..." I'm coming, I said, and stop calling me Spider! Oh yes, Vaelustil was getting furious with whoever this woman was. So nagging, so demanding. He had the mind to call upon his goddess to smite her from where ever she perched. "Co-" "Enough, and show yourself!" A chuckle was his only response. Oh, how he hated the women of his race. How they saw themselves above him. How easily they truly were to kill. Yes, after all this walking, he had admitted to himself that it was, indeed, he who had slain his House. They had never seen it coming. They had never expected the necromancer to actually rise up and follow his ambitions. They never thought he could best their precious House Mage. But Chaos had its own mechanations, and Vaelustil, it seemed, was one of them. Rage had fuelled him, and he had perservered. "Poor, poor little Spider." Finally the woman showed herself, walking towards him in the haughty way those of his kind do. But...it wasn't a drow, after all. No, it was an elf, dark of hair and fair skinned. "You follow my web so obediantly." Rage burned behind Vael's garnet eyes. She only chuckled. "Oh, you won't harm me, dear Vaelustil. I remember the way you held me. I remember the way y-" A roar interrupted her, Vaelustil's primal nature bursting forth to cut her off. "I will not have you slander my name as such," he bellowed, though he made no attempt to actually harm the woman. He always did have a soft spot for the light skinned cousins of his kind.
The pebble, if she concentrated hard enough on it, would make do as clothes. Soft, silky garments that would clasp obediently around her form. Practical garments, the sort Riders would wear under their armor. It was so. She smiled down at the image, even if her form was ugly. She had been considered a beauty, once, if only by him. She chuckled. He would find her any time now, and together they would find the hole to the end of the world, and there. . .it could be ended. Her eyes brightened at the thought, and she tottered onwards, singing snippets of nursing lullabies to herself. She came upon a sunlit cavern that spilled light onto her delightful form, and she danced about it until she found a still pool of water. It winked at her with sanguine fervor, and so she leaned over it, and looked upon her reflection. The whip-thin body of another scratched up at the surface at her, eyes and mouth wide with unheard, sustained screams. "I hate you, you know," she told her reflection, holding fingers over the surface. "You ruined everything." She cast her hand into the water, and everything tipped sideways.
She chuckled again, coming up to press her body sensually against his. "But, come now, Vaelustil. Don't you remember those nights, on the surface, when you would sneak up to see me?" Yes, he remembered them. But he remembered so much more, as well. He remembered seeing her dead. He remembered her blood on his hands. He remembered having to save face, because a scouting party had followed him. He remembered the loathing when they slaughtered her village. But here she stood. Could it be that his memories were flawed so greatly? Could it be that he had imagined a whole other life? But no, there, behind her, strode...himself? How in the world? It couldn't be. But it was. The scarred man that he remembered. Vaelustil looked upon the scarred half of his face, upon the scars that littered most of his chest, and marred his abdomen. He looked upon the contrast of the smoothness of the untouched flesh, and oh, the shiver it sent down his spine. "What game is this that you play, elf?" She, now, looked at Vaelustil's double, and lofted a brow. "Don't you know, by now? Don't you see how easily you are to be controlled?" Controlled. That single word snapped something within the dark elf. That one word sent him into a rage beyond anything he thought he could ever enter. It wasn't long before the elf was nothing but shredded meat before him, cleaved by sword, by hands, by teeth. And still her chuckle haunted him. His double now receieved his look of ire, and he sneered. "You are not me." The double simply smirked.
Red floated everywhere, and with her sword in hand she tore through the fibrous strands of fresh-dyed gauze. Up ahead was her quarry, and she could not let such a knave escape unscathed by such heinous actions. She was a Rider. It was her job. She was as fleet of foot, and somewhere beyond the red she knew she was catching up. It crowded close to her, tinting her fresh-bought leather jerkin. She suppressed a snarl of anger, knowing well that her profession was one that did not let her keep nice clothing. Not while she was on duty, anyways. She grinned with fierce exhilaration, and cut through the final sheath of red. She had come upon a little cavern, and saw the dim form in the distance. "Got ya, beastie!" She crowed with delight, and charged forward with sword poised. It wasn't until too late that she realized what the traitor held, and in that darkening moment she could only scream, and lift her sword to stop that thing as it strangled. . .him, but he was supposed to find her. Is this where he had been, and she had not protected him? And then the other form disappeared, hatred writ large upon its twisted features. She knelt besides him, and he looked at her as he struggled to breathe. "Keraln." She breathed, cradling him in her arms, "I'm home."
Vael lashes out with his longsword, only to find a shortened, broken version of the magnificant blade intercepting it. "Who are you, that you hold my sword, that you have broken my sword?!" He was furious to see his prized weapon in such a state. It had taken him many years to get it crafted to perfection. "You know who I am," his double replied. "And you had best be glad we are alone in this place...where ever this is. You would look silly arguing with yourself." A growl, and a shove...no no effect. They remained in their stalemate, simply faces closer to each other, garnet eyes staring into white. "You know which memories are real, and which are being fed into your mind, on some deep level. But can you figure out on your own which is which, and bring the truth to the surface?" The priest had power. He couldn't afford to give that up. He couldn't afford to die. But he could feel the power in his double, as well, the unholy power of necromancy. And most likely, the doppleganger felt the same way. "The Creature," his double whispers, causing Vaelustil's brow to furrow. "Remember the Creature, and you will find reality." But he had his reality! He was a High Priest, an impossible thing in his culture that he had made possible! "Ah, but that's right. You always did aspire for such supreme power as to cause that ursurping of power from the matriarchy. I remember that. You would have doomed yourself, had that come to pass. Behind you." Paranoid as any drow, especially a High -Priest-, Vael looked, only to fall forward when his double simply vanished. There was nothing there. There was nothing anywhere. Rising to his feet, he could only go on. The truth. What was the truth? Conflicting memories. In one set, he escapes the Underdark, and meets this Creature his double had spoken of. In the other, he remains, and becomes what he is - High Priest of House D'eathe.
Senka feels restless, as she often does when wandering and so it’s no surprise that the trail she leaves upon the sand is chaotic, each whim bringing her into another spot until the pattern becomes no pattern at all. Fierce red eyes sharpen in curiosity however when the smell of death reaches her sensitive nose and as any true predator, the wolf can’t resist taking a look. White fur gleams healthily as it’s tossed in wind’s grasp, more rapidly the closer she comes to the odd place that has caught her attention so effectively. The feathers are given a curious sniff yet in a careless manner, one that soon becomes uninterested as the sight of rotten wood pulls her attention. The albino has seen ships before, even been on one because of one very persuasive ‘pup’ in the past, but never has she seen one that looked so…dead. Not to mention that there is something in that place that is…calling her. The wolf isn’t sure what it is, only where it comes from and it isn’t long before paws sink into the shallow water of a starting sea. A gleam races over the silver of her seamless collar when Senka suddenly starts however, wincing back as a foul-smelling bridge rises to invitingly rest in front of her, leading towards the ship that is calling, calling. Thing has only now caught up with the wolf and gives a worried ‘quack!’ as the albino lingers, red eyes darkening in suspicion before turning into an entirely other emotion as she realises that the foul smell comes of the –birds-. The bridge is made of birds, the concept is something she can’t bring her mind to accept making her linger for several more heartbeats. But the call is not something that can be ignored and so, with rising ears to match her curiosity, Senka ignores the protesting honks of the creature that insist on stalking her, putting a moist paw upon the bridge. A pause, but the bridge holds and with her test succeeded her other paws soon follow to lead her onward. Thing, meanwhile, tries to climb upon the bridge after it but one quick snarl puts it back in place, though the following sweep of a white tail is more convincing; throwing the tiny duckling two feet back. Senka doesn’t bother to look back though, instead moving forward, forward until paws make a gentle tap upon rotten wood, nails making sure of that rather then the soft ‘squishy’ sounds she’s made before on the dead birds. Death lingers in her nose, but the smell cannot defeat the curiosity that burns and so, rather then turn back, Senka takes a moment to take in the scene around her.
She was laying on hard ground, but she was wet. She yanked herself up with a groan, and found that nothing was as it had been. Her surroundings were once again ivory and ebony, set up into walls with floors that led in no direction whatsoever. She knew this. It was her mind, however, that was sucking her in. What once had been halved was now some strange sort of whole, and within the self-loathing that surfaced was also. . .life. She wasn't sure if she could stand, but then again. . she wasn't sure if she wanted to. Her head felt too whole. She blinked slowly, a hand raising to touch her hair. . .and she noticed belatedly that her arm was sleeved. That was strange, and what's more, there was a strange buffer that held back her shrieking inner self that wanted it off. Next was her scalp. Where once had been a large, long tangled mass of ratty hair was now just skin: the hair completely gone. That too was odd. For the first time in years her fingers touched her ears, those dreadful ears, and liquid was bubbling into her eyes. It was because of those ears that everything had changed. In light of all that had happened, she didn't think she ever wanted to rise again. Her lips drew back in a snarl, but it didn't feel as raw as it usually did. And then her words. . .she knew them. Knew them quite well, in a familiarity that was not hers to have. The fragments were stuffed in place, and as her thoughts drifted she pinpointed the cause in a rush of nausea. Vilaelia. Vilaelia was out. The hands upon her head tightened, and the woman bent over in anguish. "Get out! Get out! No more tricks!" There was latent malignancy within her skull, and it pressed softly against the bits that had been born from madness. Deilakrion was fine how she was, how she had been born, how she lived, how she would die. Vilaelia had buried herself far and deep, so that the creature had forgotten. But in this place, somehow the other had been given life, and now. . .now creature had to face a nightmare: a Hunt that was no longer entirely her own.
Promises of a life as a High Priest. Promises of power as a necromancer, befriended by powerful allies. A life of paranoia, or a life of freedom. Such was the debate that kept going back and forth in the drow's head as he wandered aimlessly through the directionless paths the ship presented him. He still couldn't bring to mind which life was real. Was the exhileration of Deilakrion's hunts his true life, or was it the prestige of holding a title that no male drow had ever held? Had he escaped life in the Underdark, or thrived in it? Nothing was clear. Nothing except that light. By all things unholy, that light was annoying, glowing ahead of him as it was. But...wait...light? Here? Vaelustil the Drider, Vaelustil the High Priest, Vaelustil the Necromancer, all three rushed forward in his mind, but which was the one truly rushing towards the light, he wondered? All three, he found, when he came to stand in the circular room it had lead to, each coming from one of three ways. The Drider was far too skittish. And then there was the Necromancer, cocky as he had been. "Now how do you propose we settle which of us is the real one?" the High Priest queried. The Drider cowered, afraid of the answer. The Necromancer smirked. He had a new weapon in hand, this time, a great, double-headed poleaxe. That left Vael with his answer, and he hefted his sword to the ready. "Whoever prevails," all three said at once, surging inward to the center of the room. The poor Drider didn't stand a chance.
The moment paws met wood, the place twisted and twisted until Senka was left to gaze at a flicker of white that soon disappeared as eyes were forced to close, pale lids protecting red eyes from the sudden wave of sand. As the wind lies down, red eyes open, softened as they haven’t been in years for the hardened, surviving predator seems to have left her. There are no paws to support her, but hands the beast finds as she slowly rises to unsteady feet. Loathing crosses that pale face, a face with only that single white line beneath her right eye for all the other scars have miraculously disappeared from her skin, at the sight of limbs, and not only just limbs but ones that are covered in delicate fabric. Long white hair, rather then tangled and full of sticks, is smooth and tied back in an elegant braid so that the beast, human?, is left to gaze at her surroundings. There is nothing but endless, endless sand, all for the raging storms far in the distance that clash so violently she can feel the drum of thunder in her bones, on the lonely spot she stands. And the lycan is lonely, for no other life form is around, not even a single brave cactus, nothing but her own beating heart to drum in her ears, no one using the air but her own lungs. Nothing, except for the woman Senka standing on hot burning sand that’s unbearable on her skin, forcing her to uneasily shift her weight from foot to foot for no footwear is there to protect her from the burning anger of the soil. Confused, for she was sure that there was wood before and her usual hairy form to be comfortable in, the woman turns and turns but every time she does she’s only met with a horizon filled with storms, nothing else but the occasional gust coming from them to kick sand in her face. She wants to howl, but she can’t find the voice to do it and the sound would’ve been cut off anyway by the strangled one that escapes her now. She could’ve sworn she heard the cry of a monster somewhere…
If it was possible to rip thoughts from one's own skull, she would have done it. The creature wrestled with herself, trying to tear Vilaelia out and forget all that had been. Her skin rasped as she tore the clothes from it, and started to run. Faster and faster, but the walls of the Labyrinth merely closed in on her. The walls mocked her, and the floor accused her. She had been born in the cage, used to endure the torments that Vilaelia could not stand. She'd been born of fire and ash and a terrible thirst for the Hunt. And now, now that woman sought to deny her? She ran without caring to see, intent upon dashing herself and ending the farce.
The Drider. Poor, poor Drider. He had rushed forward, compelled by whatever foul magics call the labrynth home. He hadn't wanted to. He had wanted to cower at his door. But he was forced forward, to contend with the other versions of himself. Poor Drider. He was the first to fall. With only High Priest and Necromancer left, they simply circled each other, for a time, studying each other. The Necromancer, however, wore a knowing smirk. "I know your swordplay," he mocks, chuckling as his taunting elicits rage from the priestly drow. "I know your every martial strike. You only have your spells to your advantage." Almost as proof of the Necromancer's words, the High Priest lunged forward, moving through a quick flurry of strikes...none of which landed a solid hit, and none to the drow, himself. Even with such a bulky weapon, the Necromancer was able to fend off his blows. "I, however, use a weapon you never thought to use. I use magics that are long forgotten to you. So come, Priest; let us see who is truly the one that survived our past." The Priest hesitated. He always hesitated when confronted with such confusing words. But the Necromancer didn't. He didn't see that axehead coming at him until far too late. He lifted his sword, trying to fend off the other form of himself. But a sword was never meant to compete with such a brutal weapon as that which the Necromancer uses. Poor Priest, he died to, his own sword sticking out of his neck. "I could use a replacement for my broken sword," the remaining Vaelustil comments to himself, stooping to pull the still-intact sword from his dead counterpart's neck. Shards are deposited with the corpse, and the whole sword stored in a sheath it never sat in, yet always resided in. The single remaining Vaelustil D'eathe walked away from that encounter. The Necromancer would live to tell this tale, and it was the Necromancer that was spat out of the ship, deposited back on the shore of the beach as though nothing had occured. Vaelustil gazed at the ship, his white eyes drawn by the power that had drawn him here the night past. "Keep those two wretches," he bids the ship. "I never want to see them within my mind again." But he did not leave. Not yet. He waited, wondering just who might escape next, and just what they'll leave behind.
Just what had happened to him last night, when he slipped into the ship's darkness, he didn't know. He remembered dragging his way in, but beyond that, he must have lost conciousness. It was with a groan that he awoke, somewhere else, seemingly, towering walls surrounding him, made of stone and smoothed as by a mason's hand, and the floor...truly, whoever crafted this hall had a good measure of patience, for each stone fitted with the next exactly, no mortar holding the stones in place. "How did I wind up here?" he grumbled to himself, running a hand over his face...a smooth face, no scars, no marring runes...but...didn't he have scars just last night? Whatever tumble he took, it had messed with his head. Which was truth and which was not was uncertain to the drow, but from the smoothness of his face, he assumed that he had always been unscarred. Scars cannot just be removed, after all. They do not heal so quickly as to vanish overnight. To his feet, all eight of them he climbed, 'tick-tick-tick-tick-tick' resounding with each arachnid step. Down the path seemed to slope, down into darkness that just barely concealed the whiteness of the walls of this place. Down to glowing red eyes. Fear and hatred both exploded into Vael the Drider's mind, fear of what those eyes were, and hatred for what they had done to him. A hand was held out before him, and he willed...something...to come from it. But nothing ever came. Nothing ever did. His magic had been stripped of him so, so long ago, and yet he still couldn't get used to that fact. Damn it all.
"I'm not a creature, silly man. I'm Vilaelia." The creature-turned-woman smiled guilelessly at the Monster, whose entire body fuzzed in and out as he tried to reach Deilakrion. "What happened to creature?" He thundered, glaring at her with slanted, dark eyes. The woman flipped her head and made an ugly scowl. The illusion dropped, and the creature's gaunt form was revealed. "I am so tired of hearing that damn word! Creature this, creature that! It's so stupid, and yet all these dolts blindly accept it with nary a blink! Well back off. That woman is nothing more than a flit of the imagination. I am real." The Monster stared at her in shock, and then let out a particularly nasty curse. It disappeared, leaving her to stand and look around herself. Ivory walls surrounded the small, circular area. She saw an exit, and headed for it.
His sword...he still had his sword, he remembered, broken though it was. Some demented mercy from his kin, he assumed long ago, that they let him keep its shards. But still, something felt amiss in all this. Wasn't he Vaelustil D'eathe, a necromancer of some power, not this drider with a broken sword as his only means of defense? But...that couldn't be, could it? It had been centuries since he was a drow, punished for his plots to escape the matriarchy, to slay his own house. He could have sworn he had recent memories of...but, the gods alone knew what delusions his warped mind could summon. Bone dragons. Bah! Indeed, as though he could ever summon a bone dragon in his current state. But those eyes...they were still there, staring at him, mocking him. The drider lowered himself onto his belly, quacking with fear. He always quacked with fear at the sight of those whole drow. Even the others of his own mutated kind sent him sulking away to hide. They ridiculed him, the 'all-mightly Vaelustil' having been reduced to one of their ranks. "Come, spider-boy." The call, both mocking and comforting, found its way to his ears. He didn't want to. He didn't want to come, or even to look up. But he did look up, and, in the end, rose and heeded the call. Female, whoever it was. It sounded familiar. He should have known this person's voice, but he just couldn't place it. "Come, Spider. Come traverse my web." Web, indeed. Follow the black-stoned, white-walled tunnels as he might, he could not find the source of the voice. Ever did it call him. Ever did it sound closer. Ever did he search.
Her lips held a queer smile, odd for the face of the creature. "Clothes. . .I need clothes." She sang to herself, and stretched her arms wide even as she twirled on calloused feet. It had been long for she-who-had-been-known-as-Vilaelia. Some eighty odd years had passed, while she lay dormant and helpless within the throes of a torment long removed. This had once been her body. This had once been her mind. It was now hers again. The smile deepened as she skipped along the white walls, trailing fingers by its length. She liked to explore, and this was an odd place, odd indeed. She did not question how her weak will had come to dominate the creature, nor why this place. This was merely another adventure, another chance at love lost and a ruined life that could be once more. It did not cross her mind that those she had loved and who had known her would be dead now. She lived, and so would they, and that was all that mattered. Her lips crooked wide as she came to a bend, and she followed it, digging deeper into this mind and the wonderful powers it held. Yes, she would find her horse and take up the reins of the Riders, and then she would traverse the beloved hills of her homeland once more.
Vael only gradually noticed that, as he moved, his eight legs had begun to lessen, and that he now strode upon two. What was this place, that could turn a drider back into a drow? Or was it the woman that called to him? He didn't know. But he could feel cloth against his skin. His eyes swept downward as he paused, and his eyes bulged at the black robes that adorned his body. Robes? But...yes, that was right. He could perform magic, after all. But these robes, they were not those of a mage. Then what was he? He remembered seeing others wear such robes. His mother had worn such, High Priest of the Spider Goddess as she was. But then...he was a priest? Males were never allowed to be priests. But the eyes of those that passed him by, they all lowered in respect reserved only for such a being. One even mumbled some greeting involving the words "High Priest Vaelustil." Did that mean...did that mean his life as a drider had been a dream, and his waking life had passed him by as though dreamless sleep? Something was all too wrong here. "Come, Spider," came the woman's call again. This web was far too large for Vael's liking. He let his mind wander as he travelled the tunnels' seemingly endless stretches. He tried to remember his life. Death. There had been lots of death. His family had died, long ago. Murdered. By who, though? He couldn't remember that. Many had accused him of it, and claimed his rise to priest as proof. What male could take such a role in a House unless he had forced his way to the only remaining being to sit at its head? He could almost see the memories in his head, his own dark magics and that elegant sword of his stealing both souls and life from the members of his House, laying waste to that little bit of the Matriarchy. He could remember fleeing the city, making his way to...but no, he was still here, travelling the Underdark as High Priest. He couldn't have fled. No, he could not have killed his family. That was...someone else. It had to be.
The tunnels stretched long ahead of her, and she vaguely remembered that she was not overly fond of caves. "Light, I need light." Her feet continued on their journey, and the darkness sang around her. She would not get her light, not like this. So she would move until she found what she was seeking. She giggled. That was why she had come in here. She sought the life it had to offer, and the treasure trove he'd told her about. Of course! It was a dare, if a silly one. She could find that piece to the puzzle, and when she offered him it back his eyes would bulge with wonder, and his affection for her would grow. . .deeper. . .she paused, and stared at the sight before her. Twin statues rose high into the darkness, and the chill of the place assaulted her with renewed vigor. In the distance, a horrid moan rose, and she could feel the very air tremble. She stooped, and picked up a pebble. There was only one upon the ground, and now it was hers.
"Come..." I'm coming, damnit... "Come, Spider..." I'm coming, I said, and stop calling me Spider! Oh yes, Vaelustil was getting furious with whoever this woman was. So nagging, so demanding. He had the mind to call upon his goddess to smite her from where ever she perched. "Co-" "Enough, and show yourself!" A chuckle was his only response. Oh, how he hated the women of his race. How they saw themselves above him. How easily they truly were to kill. Yes, after all this walking, he had admitted to himself that it was, indeed, he who had slain his House. They had never seen it coming. They had never expected the necromancer to actually rise up and follow his ambitions. They never thought he could best their precious House Mage. But Chaos had its own mechanations, and Vaelustil, it seemed, was one of them. Rage had fuelled him, and he had perservered. "Poor, poor little Spider." Finally the woman showed herself, walking towards him in the haughty way those of his kind do. But...it wasn't a drow, after all. No, it was an elf, dark of hair and fair skinned. "You follow my web so obediantly." Rage burned behind Vael's garnet eyes. She only chuckled. "Oh, you won't harm me, dear Vaelustil. I remember the way you held me. I remember the way y-" A roar interrupted her, Vaelustil's primal nature bursting forth to cut her off. "I will not have you slander my name as such," he bellowed, though he made no attempt to actually harm the woman. He always did have a soft spot for the light skinned cousins of his kind.
The pebble, if she concentrated hard enough on it, would make do as clothes. Soft, silky garments that would clasp obediently around her form. Practical garments, the sort Riders would wear under their armor. It was so. She smiled down at the image, even if her form was ugly. She had been considered a beauty, once, if only by him. She chuckled. He would find her any time now, and together they would find the hole to the end of the world, and there. . .it could be ended. Her eyes brightened at the thought, and she tottered onwards, singing snippets of nursing lullabies to herself. She came upon a sunlit cavern that spilled light onto her delightful form, and she danced about it until she found a still pool of water. It winked at her with sanguine fervor, and so she leaned over it, and looked upon her reflection. The whip-thin body of another scratched up at the surface at her, eyes and mouth wide with unheard, sustained screams. "I hate you, you know," she told her reflection, holding fingers over the surface. "You ruined everything." She cast her hand into the water, and everything tipped sideways.
She chuckled again, coming up to press her body sensually against his. "But, come now, Vaelustil. Don't you remember those nights, on the surface, when you would sneak up to see me?" Yes, he remembered them. But he remembered so much more, as well. He remembered seeing her dead. He remembered her blood on his hands. He remembered having to save face, because a scouting party had followed him. He remembered the loathing when they slaughtered her village. But here she stood. Could it be that his memories were flawed so greatly? Could it be that he had imagined a whole other life? But no, there, behind her, strode...himself? How in the world? It couldn't be. But it was. The scarred man that he remembered. Vaelustil looked upon the scarred half of his face, upon the scars that littered most of his chest, and marred his abdomen. He looked upon the contrast of the smoothness of the untouched flesh, and oh, the shiver it sent down his spine. "What game is this that you play, elf?" She, now, looked at Vaelustil's double, and lofted a brow. "Don't you know, by now? Don't you see how easily you are to be controlled?" Controlled. That single word snapped something within the dark elf. That one word sent him into a rage beyond anything he thought he could ever enter. It wasn't long before the elf was nothing but shredded meat before him, cleaved by sword, by hands, by teeth. And still her chuckle haunted him. His double now receieved his look of ire, and he sneered. "You are not me." The double simply smirked.
Red floated everywhere, and with her sword in hand she tore through the fibrous strands of fresh-dyed gauze. Up ahead was her quarry, and she could not let such a knave escape unscathed by such heinous actions. She was a Rider. It was her job. She was as fleet of foot, and somewhere beyond the red she knew she was catching up. It crowded close to her, tinting her fresh-bought leather jerkin. She suppressed a snarl of anger, knowing well that her profession was one that did not let her keep nice clothing. Not while she was on duty, anyways. She grinned with fierce exhilaration, and cut through the final sheath of red. She had come upon a little cavern, and saw the dim form in the distance. "Got ya, beastie!" She crowed with delight, and charged forward with sword poised. It wasn't until too late that she realized what the traitor held, and in that darkening moment she could only scream, and lift her sword to stop that thing as it strangled. . .him, but he was supposed to find her. Is this where he had been, and she had not protected him? And then the other form disappeared, hatred writ large upon its twisted features. She knelt besides him, and he looked at her as he struggled to breathe. "Keraln." She breathed, cradling him in her arms, "I'm home."
Vael lashes out with his longsword, only to find a shortened, broken version of the magnificant blade intercepting it. "Who are you, that you hold my sword, that you have broken my sword?!" He was furious to see his prized weapon in such a state. It had taken him many years to get it crafted to perfection. "You know who I am," his double replied. "And you had best be glad we are alone in this place...where ever this is. You would look silly arguing with yourself." A growl, and a shove...no no effect. They remained in their stalemate, simply faces closer to each other, garnet eyes staring into white. "You know which memories are real, and which are being fed into your mind, on some deep level. But can you figure out on your own which is which, and bring the truth to the surface?" The priest had power. He couldn't afford to give that up. He couldn't afford to die. But he could feel the power in his double, as well, the unholy power of necromancy. And most likely, the doppleganger felt the same way. "The Creature," his double whispers, causing Vaelustil's brow to furrow. "Remember the Creature, and you will find reality." But he had his reality! He was a High Priest, an impossible thing in his culture that he had made possible! "Ah, but that's right. You always did aspire for such supreme power as to cause that ursurping of power from the matriarchy. I remember that. You would have doomed yourself, had that come to pass. Behind you." Paranoid as any drow, especially a High -Priest-, Vael looked, only to fall forward when his double simply vanished. There was nothing there. There was nothing anywhere. Rising to his feet, he could only go on. The truth. What was the truth? Conflicting memories. In one set, he escapes the Underdark, and meets this Creature his double had spoken of. In the other, he remains, and becomes what he is - High Priest of House D'eathe.
Senka feels restless, as she often does when wandering and so it’s no surprise that the trail she leaves upon the sand is chaotic, each whim bringing her into another spot until the pattern becomes no pattern at all. Fierce red eyes sharpen in curiosity however when the smell of death reaches her sensitive nose and as any true predator, the wolf can’t resist taking a look. White fur gleams healthily as it’s tossed in wind’s grasp, more rapidly the closer she comes to the odd place that has caught her attention so effectively. The feathers are given a curious sniff yet in a careless manner, one that soon becomes uninterested as the sight of rotten wood pulls her attention. The albino has seen ships before, even been on one because of one very persuasive ‘pup’ in the past, but never has she seen one that looked so…dead. Not to mention that there is something in that place that is…calling her. The wolf isn’t sure what it is, only where it comes from and it isn’t long before paws sink into the shallow water of a starting sea. A gleam races over the silver of her seamless collar when Senka suddenly starts however, wincing back as a foul-smelling bridge rises to invitingly rest in front of her, leading towards the ship that is calling, calling. Thing has only now caught up with the wolf and gives a worried ‘quack!’ as the albino lingers, red eyes darkening in suspicion before turning into an entirely other emotion as she realises that the foul smell comes of the –birds-. The bridge is made of birds, the concept is something she can’t bring her mind to accept making her linger for several more heartbeats. But the call is not something that can be ignored and so, with rising ears to match her curiosity, Senka ignores the protesting honks of the creature that insist on stalking her, putting a moist paw upon the bridge. A pause, but the bridge holds and with her test succeeded her other paws soon follow to lead her onward. Thing, meanwhile, tries to climb upon the bridge after it but one quick snarl puts it back in place, though the following sweep of a white tail is more convincing; throwing the tiny duckling two feet back. Senka doesn’t bother to look back though, instead moving forward, forward until paws make a gentle tap upon rotten wood, nails making sure of that rather then the soft ‘squishy’ sounds she’s made before on the dead birds. Death lingers in her nose, but the smell cannot defeat the curiosity that burns and so, rather then turn back, Senka takes a moment to take in the scene around her.
She was laying on hard ground, but she was wet. She yanked herself up with a groan, and found that nothing was as it had been. Her surroundings were once again ivory and ebony, set up into walls with floors that led in no direction whatsoever. She knew this. It was her mind, however, that was sucking her in. What once had been halved was now some strange sort of whole, and within the self-loathing that surfaced was also. . .life. She wasn't sure if she could stand, but then again. . she wasn't sure if she wanted to. Her head felt too whole. She blinked slowly, a hand raising to touch her hair. . .and she noticed belatedly that her arm was sleeved. That was strange, and what's more, there was a strange buffer that held back her shrieking inner self that wanted it off. Next was her scalp. Where once had been a large, long tangled mass of ratty hair was now just skin: the hair completely gone. That too was odd. For the first time in years her fingers touched her ears, those dreadful ears, and liquid was bubbling into her eyes. It was because of those ears that everything had changed. In light of all that had happened, she didn't think she ever wanted to rise again. Her lips drew back in a snarl, but it didn't feel as raw as it usually did. And then her words. . .she knew them. Knew them quite well, in a familiarity that was not hers to have. The fragments were stuffed in place, and as her thoughts drifted she pinpointed the cause in a rush of nausea. Vilaelia. Vilaelia was out. The hands upon her head tightened, and the woman bent over in anguish. "Get out! Get out! No more tricks!" There was latent malignancy within her skull, and it pressed softly against the bits that had been born from madness. Deilakrion was fine how she was, how she had been born, how she lived, how she would die. Vilaelia had buried herself far and deep, so that the creature had forgotten. But in this place, somehow the other had been given life, and now. . .now creature had to face a nightmare: a Hunt that was no longer entirely her own.
Promises of a life as a High Priest. Promises of power as a necromancer, befriended by powerful allies. A life of paranoia, or a life of freedom. Such was the debate that kept going back and forth in the drow's head as he wandered aimlessly through the directionless paths the ship presented him. He still couldn't bring to mind which life was real. Was the exhileration of Deilakrion's hunts his true life, or was it the prestige of holding a title that no male drow had ever held? Had he escaped life in the Underdark, or thrived in it? Nothing was clear. Nothing except that light. By all things unholy, that light was annoying, glowing ahead of him as it was. But...wait...light? Here? Vaelustil the Drider, Vaelustil the High Priest, Vaelustil the Necromancer, all three rushed forward in his mind, but which was the one truly rushing towards the light, he wondered? All three, he found, when he came to stand in the circular room it had lead to, each coming from one of three ways. The Drider was far too skittish. And then there was the Necromancer, cocky as he had been. "Now how do you propose we settle which of us is the real one?" the High Priest queried. The Drider cowered, afraid of the answer. The Necromancer smirked. He had a new weapon in hand, this time, a great, double-headed poleaxe. That left Vael with his answer, and he hefted his sword to the ready. "Whoever prevails," all three said at once, surging inward to the center of the room. The poor Drider didn't stand a chance.
The moment paws met wood, the place twisted and twisted until Senka was left to gaze at a flicker of white that soon disappeared as eyes were forced to close, pale lids protecting red eyes from the sudden wave of sand. As the wind lies down, red eyes open, softened as they haven’t been in years for the hardened, surviving predator seems to have left her. There are no paws to support her, but hands the beast finds as she slowly rises to unsteady feet. Loathing crosses that pale face, a face with only that single white line beneath her right eye for all the other scars have miraculously disappeared from her skin, at the sight of limbs, and not only just limbs but ones that are covered in delicate fabric. Long white hair, rather then tangled and full of sticks, is smooth and tied back in an elegant braid so that the beast, human?, is left to gaze at her surroundings. There is nothing but endless, endless sand, all for the raging storms far in the distance that clash so violently she can feel the drum of thunder in her bones, on the lonely spot she stands. And the lycan is lonely, for no other life form is around, not even a single brave cactus, nothing but her own beating heart to drum in her ears, no one using the air but her own lungs. Nothing, except for the woman Senka standing on hot burning sand that’s unbearable on her skin, forcing her to uneasily shift her weight from foot to foot for no footwear is there to protect her from the burning anger of the soil. Confused, for she was sure that there was wood before and her usual hairy form to be comfortable in, the woman turns and turns but every time she does she’s only met with a horizon filled with storms, nothing else but the occasional gust coming from them to kick sand in her face. She wants to howl, but she can’t find the voice to do it and the sound would’ve been cut off anyway by the strangled one that escapes her now. She could’ve sworn she heard the cry of a monster somewhere…
If it was possible to rip thoughts from one's own skull, she would have done it. The creature wrestled with herself, trying to tear Vilaelia out and forget all that had been. Her skin rasped as she tore the clothes from it, and started to run. Faster and faster, but the walls of the Labyrinth merely closed in on her. The walls mocked her, and the floor accused her. She had been born in the cage, used to endure the torments that Vilaelia could not stand. She'd been born of fire and ash and a terrible thirst for the Hunt. And now, now that woman sought to deny her? She ran without caring to see, intent upon dashing herself and ending the farce.
The Drider. Poor, poor Drider. He had rushed forward, compelled by whatever foul magics call the labrynth home. He hadn't wanted to. He had wanted to cower at his door. But he was forced forward, to contend with the other versions of himself. Poor Drider. He was the first to fall. With only High Priest and Necromancer left, they simply circled each other, for a time, studying each other. The Necromancer, however, wore a knowing smirk. "I know your swordplay," he mocks, chuckling as his taunting elicits rage from the priestly drow. "I know your every martial strike. You only have your spells to your advantage." Almost as proof of the Necromancer's words, the High Priest lunged forward, moving through a quick flurry of strikes...none of which landed a solid hit, and none to the drow, himself. Even with such a bulky weapon, the Necromancer was able to fend off his blows. "I, however, use a weapon you never thought to use. I use magics that are long forgotten to you. So come, Priest; let us see who is truly the one that survived our past." The Priest hesitated. He always hesitated when confronted with such confusing words. But the Necromancer didn't. He didn't see that axehead coming at him until far too late. He lifted his sword, trying to fend off the other form of himself. But a sword was never meant to compete with such a brutal weapon as that which the Necromancer uses. Poor Priest, he died to, his own sword sticking out of his neck. "I could use a replacement for my broken sword," the remaining Vaelustil comments to himself, stooping to pull the still-intact sword from his dead counterpart's neck. Shards are deposited with the corpse, and the whole sword stored in a sheath it never sat in, yet always resided in. The single remaining Vaelustil D'eathe walked away from that encounter. The Necromancer would live to tell this tale, and it was the Necromancer that was spat out of the ship, deposited back on the shore of the beach as though nothing had occured. Vaelustil gazed at the ship, his white eyes drawn by the power that had drawn him here the night past. "Keep those two wretches," he bids the ship. "I never want to see them within my mind again." But he did not leave. Not yet. He waited, wondering just who might escape next, and just what they'll leave behind.