Post by Deilakrion on Oct 13, 2008 17:15:38 GMT -5
The white mists of Vailkrin clung about Deilakrion like a shroud, flickering about her in a strange dance. Its movements were not reflected by her, for she crouched upon a stone bench as might a statue. She brooded, stubbornly staring down the road to the fountain, arms loosely folded about herself as though she were one of the numerous gargoyles that guarded Vailkrin against mischievous interlopers. Before her, upon the bench, a sock wavered. Yes, a sock. It was a startling royal blue, with colorful embroidery about its hem and a wealth of stiches that formed a mouth. Two brass buttons shimmered in a simulation of life, and, what's more was that it appeared to be talking. Those who got close might get an earful: ". . .that fountain. Y'never know what might bite'cha inna backside, know ya? Them poles though, thems was the stuff! Never seen nothin' so high wit' such a smooth surface, know ya? 'N how 'bout them sta. . .sta. . .statutes! Yeah, them guys, they'm be summat like I never seen! 'N y'know them other. . ." So on and so forth the odd sock would ramble, whilst Deilakrion stared balefully out into the mist.
Walks. They were sometimes a good thing, and sometimes a necessary thing. This walk found itself as one of the latter, the drow's gaunt features strikingly different from his usually vibrant self. Shadows clung under his eyes, and his bare-chested form was hunched, a hand lazily dragging against shop walls as his feet carried him further into the city of the undead. Blood. He had been too long without it, during his sort of self-imposed exile, and his meal a handful of days past was not nearly enough to sate him, nor be of any long-term help to his now-vampiric body. And so, when the jabbering of the sock reaches his sensitive ears, his hopes rise, and his pace hastens...But what he saw almost stopped him with enough force to make his knees pop from the force of it. The Creature. Dared he venture forward in his current state? Would he have enough self-control not to just shove himself upon the woman and feast? By Cire, he hoped so, for his feet were already doing the unbidden, and carrying him towards his long-time companion. He attempted a facade at his normal countenance as the proximity closed, his normal, haughty smirk plastered on his lips and a brow risen as he finds that it's the sock talking. "You've started to keep stranger company than usual, Creature," he comments, his voice rougher than it should be
". . .then when th' stupid tried t' haul me off liken I was a. . .a. . .piece o' clothing! Never seen a man run screamin' and hollerin' like tha' one, know ya? Not wh' I call a fancy intro-duction. . ." On and over the drow the sock rambled, inherently focused upon Deilakrion, who turned that dead stare upon Vaelustil. Her fingers were scraping against the stone bench, and she was hunched into herself as if to keep herself as still as she was. "The. . ." that stare turned momentarily upon the sock, who was still rambling, and it seemed as those the creature was defeated by her normally impeccable ability to name things at whim, "Stray. Stray won't shut up." By the way she spoke the word 'stray' it was obvious it was a name and not simply one of her callings. Even as she spoke to Vaelustil the sock kept talking, occasionally hopping up and down in animated discourse while its tiny sock arms waved about. Its voice got slightly louder, and while it wasn't quite high-pitched to the point of annoying it was still on the high end of alto, which was enough. Especially when it wouldn't shut up.
Vaelustil cocked his head to the side, staring at the thing Deilakrion called Stray. And then it dawned on him, it dawned that it wasn't just a title. Since when did the Creature use names? "It seems I've missed a lot more than I thought," he muttered to himself as his eyes trailed back to his packmate. "I could always burn it," he jests, trying in whatever way he could to lighten the mood. Between a ceaselessly talking puppet, a less-than-animated Deilakrion, and a thirsty Vael, it was almost as necessary as the drow's need for blood. "I do have all these nifty spells I haven't used in some time, after all."
Deilakrion slapped the sock down-- which, after a muffled exclamation cursing rude travel companions, continued to ramble -- and left her hand over it. "No. Saved this creature." Clearly, the protection of the talkative sock cost her, for her tone was mournful and resigned. Yet, she took such a thing quite seriously, for she wouldn't remove her hand until the drow acknowledged her statement.
Vaelustil was confused, and his face showed it. The socked saved her? "Just how in the hells...No, nevermind. I'm not sure I want to know what trick caused that to occur." He sighed, almost as resigned as Deilakrion, perhaps, his eyes travelling away from the pair of unlikely companions on the bench. "What brings you out here, at any rate, Creature?"
Deilakrion removed her hand from the sock and waved at it in mute explanation. To that, she belatedly added in a resenting mutter: "Won't shut up."
Vaelustil took another look at the sock puppet, moving from his end of the bench to its own, staring down at the talkative thing. Picking it up, he looked it in what he presumed to be its eyes and quite clearly said, "Shut up." He doubted it would work, but hey, it was worth a shot. Regardless of the result, he set the thing back down, his garnet gaze again turning to his favored comrade. "I have a bit of a problem I could use your help with dispatching."
Brass button eyes would turn wonderingly to Vaelustil. "'Ey! Did y'know 'bout them gar. . .gar. . .gargoyals over yonder? They'm move! Swears it! Seen it wit' me own eyes too! Th' last time I went walkin', there was. . ." So on and so forth, whilst Deilakrion turned that dreary gaze back to Vaelustil with a spark of interest. As if roused, her mouth pursed in a thoughtful expression. "Yes. Many problems. This creature has much to show." Decided, she would stand, and pick up the puppet. While it was still talking, she'd stuff it into a pouch slung at her side in such a manner as to not interfere with her many belts and dangling weapons. It'd pop its 'head' out and continue talking at Vaelustil. As if in weary explanation she'd start muttering, herself. "Wanted to go see places. This creature took. Wanted to see more. Kept seeing more. Now Stray won't shut up."
Vaelustil could only roll his eyes, despite him raging thirst, at the reasoning behind the puppets endless yammering. Leave it to a sock, eh? But regardless, Vael motions towards the east, and the forest in which the entrance to the Underdark lays. "I was followed up," he said by way of the short explanation, motioning for the Creature to follow him, his feet already carrying him towards the edge of Vailkrin proper.
Deilakrion tagged along after Vaelustil, hand occasionally dipping to the pouch at her side to shove the sock back into its pouch whenever it got too exciteable. She was muttering to herself, mimicking the sock's constant stream of chatter. She made a mental note to herself to implement a drawstring upon the pouch. Sock puppets didn't need air to breathe, after all.
Vaelustil wasn't at all paying attention to the sock puppet, and so both sets of chatter were nearly blocked out until he reached the edge of the bridge. "Quiet, the both of you," he veritably growls as low as he could, his eyes narrowing at the scenery of the forest at the other end of the bridge. There, at the edge of the forest, barely perceptible to anyone without good vision - or, for the most part, any with vision worse than an elf - stood a small group of male drow, all of them wearing a particular Patron's house insignia...and all of them with eyes locked on the Cabal's resident drowish vampire. "It would seem Keter's men still believe me to be a slave, and seek to capture me. Care to relieve them of their ignorance with me, my friend?"
Deilakrion would unsheathe two sharp things, and nudge the puppet down with a pommel. She'd bend slightly and whisper something to the puppet, who would then immediately stop talking as two brass button eyes glittered over the edge of the pouch. She'd creep off into the white mists of Vailkrin, back around until she wasn't visible to any eye, using the cover of vegetation and rocky outcroppings to her advantage in such a way that even night-ready drow would be unable to find her. They were focused upon Vaelustil, in any case. And he would seem to be alone and vulnerable, a prize fit for the taking to any looking for easy reward.
Vaelustil smirked. Yes, it would seem she would help. And so, stepping forward two steps, the vampire draws his longsword, that spider-pommelled weapon he was so fond of, and calls out to the men across the way. "You hide in the shadows like a group of conspiring Matrons!" he shouted - already that was riling them from their concealment. "Here I stand; Come and play, children!" First to be compared to Matrons, and then to be reminded of their adversary's mounting centuries, and in turn of their own youth? No, they did not like that. Three strolled casually out of the forest...but two of the youngest were already charging across the bridge to the grinning and ravenously hungry Vaelustil.
Deilakrion would slink about like a craven dog in the shadows, yellow eyes buttery soft even as Stray jiggled at her side like some hyperactive chipmunk. Its weight was not enough to sway her balance, and so she continued in a half crouch, quite adept at her chosen role in the shadows of the mist. She slipped after the rearmost drow, ever vigilant of their superior senses and easy awareness in the dark. She knew she'd be unable to completely stray after them without being noticed, but her own years of practice were beneficial. Too, she herself was hungry in a feral fashion, and as she slipped behind the rearmost, she caught him up even as he turned with sword drawn. Lycan she was, but her appearance was fashioned after the hated elves, and it was with a vindictive snarl that the drow turned upon her. Second rearmost also turned at the hiss of his companion. Attack! She clashed with the first, long daggers dull even in the moonlight (specially darkened just for such a purpose) even as her light skin glinted pale in stark comparison to the drow. A clash of metal, and muffled grunts; element of surprise fashioning her a swift kick to the knee before the first drow recouped. Hobbled, he could not follow her as she demonstrated her speed to jump back and dart around the other. Their own blades flashed and blood hit the air. Drow to elf. Worthy opponents, and Deilakrion would have a new scar to add to her constantly mounting collection. As for the drow. . .she closed, for she had no intent that their wounds would ever heal.
Vaelustil grinned all the more as sounds of battle rose into the air from behind the young ones charging him. They both slowed to look over their shoulders, wondering what death lay behind them...and forgetting the key lesson every drow learns early in life. "Those that watch their backs," He quotes, charing forth, "meet death from the front!" Already one had Vael's sword through his stomach, eyes widening as they turned back to their initial prey. He was the lucky one. He had enough time to stab through the side of Vaelustil's lower abdomen before his strength gave out. Snarling and pulling the fallen drow's weapon out with a roar, Vael's bloodthirsty eyes turn towards the other, who no longer watches behind. This young drow, it seemed, had learned well in his time in the underdark. His stance was ready, but not forced, and his precursory lunge was nothing more than a feint. Another gash, this one shallow across the twisting spellblade's stomach, but what none of the attacking drow had counted on was the vampiric quality that had changed Vaelustil. No, it was clear it was not expected at all when the poor boy's eyes widened as fangs buried into his throat. Vael only hoped that the Creature could hold her own until he finished drinking and went to help her with the remaining older and more practiced drow.
Of the Underdark they may be, but the creature had learned in the wild forests of the above, without real training other than the natural guile of a predator amidst predators. Her teeth flashed in wordless snarls as she proved she had more weapons than merely those in her hands. Her movements were furious as daggers met swords, and the third who had not engaged with her continued forward to meet Vaelustil -- that one, perhaps, was the most experienced of the group. Yet she had no thought for that but the most muddled of instincts, her matted hair whirling as she used pommel, blade, knee, foot and teeth to make her presence known. Her hands were a blur as she twisted behind and around the hobbled one, jumping onto his back to extend one dagger forward at her still mobile (if bleeding) opponent, stabbing the other downward before a roll off and a sweep of a wiry leg under him, catching his good leg with a muted thump at the metal-encased ankle (likely to bruise her foot something good) yet the sheer force of it would be enough to cause the other to catch his balance even as a long sword rang out to test her own mettle. Metal clanged, she was pushed back herself even as the other whirled upon her with his good arm; shoulder stabbed. She found an old wound reopened near her shoulder, to which scar tissue flayed open caused a mighty roar from her throat. Lycans weren't fond of bleeding upon their opponents, but she fed the hunt with her own sacrifice as she bulled forward, pushing the other's blades away so that she might headbutt the other drow in the stomach. The hobbled drow came up from behind, recovered, and slipped a blade against her ribs, which she turned to meet as the other drow recovered. Blood was shed aplenty.
Vaelustil watched the approaching drow as he finished the last traces of living blood from the drow he holds, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground when that's done. With blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, he grins at the man, his sword twirling in his hand as he moves to meet his opponent. Vael guessed this one wasn't much younger than him, and that only made him laugh, giddy with anticipation. Adamantite began to sing as their swords met, armored drow versus unarmored, precision versus fluidity, rigidity versus the dance. He heard the scream from Deilakrion, and rage began to fuel his movements. They were actually hurting her! His need to aid her was something that was irrational, as adept as the woman was, but it was there, and so he stopped playing, a quick sucker punch all that was needed to earn himself the edge over the eldest drow. Poor man. Vaelustil didn't leave much of his face for identification when he was done, and the vampire was already running towards the Creature's pair before the body made its final thud against the ground.
One-two, feint: blood. Practiced, she finished off the other's knee, slipping a blade in betwixt that blasted armor to watch the man fall even as the drow behind her recovered his air. Blade met blade, and the shrill commentary and exhilirated whoops from the sock were ignored by all as the fury of the fight was given fullest attention. Likely she would have to wash a blood-drenched sock and pouch out later. No matter, for they were hilt to hilt in a contest of drow vs. lycan strength, though she had a bit of an advantage there. They were face to face, and it wasn't much for her to delve forward to push teeth into flesh and rip a chunk of it out, eliciting something of a broken cry from the drow as a deeper training kicked in. Temperance. Rigidity. Precision. The lock was broken in a flurry of movements, and suddenly Deilakrion's elbow was at his throat and his blade skittered over her sternum before slicing into the flesh beneath her collar bone. Was a lung punctured? She found it hard to breathe as he lost all breath completely: windpipe collapsed. The drow would fall with hands clutched to throat as she whirled to face the other drow as a blade skewered a foot. Unable to quite walk, with a collapsed knee, he would face off with her as she stooped to free her foot, and two blades would clash before spinning off into the darkness, and the two would roll hot and heavy upon the ground, grappling with fingers slippery with blood as they sought eachothers throats with bare hands.
Vaelustil came upon the scene in a rage...but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. One down - not quite dead, yet, though - and the other battling with her to grab her throat...and he could only laugh. Leaning against a tree, he simply watches, for now, ready to stab the drow should he get too firm of a grasp on his companion.
Upon the ground, the two were even, though each found cause to aggravate open wounds in moves to distract the other. Teeth were bared, eyes flashed and blood soaked the ground as snarls and growls permeated the air to the accompaniment of bloodscent. The two were rolling, each tiring and imbued with an excess of pain. Nerve endings were summarily ignored as hands slapped at hands and then a battle for other weapons began, knees jerking and elbows thumping into weak points. Finally, the male managed to throw off Deilakrion, and panting, sighted Vaelustil. A dagger was grippled, and with a single glare at the other he threw the dagger at Deilakrion as she was staggering to a bloody stand. It caught her near the base of the throat, and she toppled as the drow advanced to her in a hobbled half crawl.
His eyes flared open as the dagger cut through Deilakrion's flesh, and the force with which the vampire pushed off the tree he was against left a nice big - and noisy - crack in its trunk. The remaining drow was getting ready to run. Getting ready, yes, because he didn't get the chance to, as soon a dark hand was entwined in its hair, yanking his head back to expose the throat that connects head to body. "You would have been wiser to run first," Vael growls, sinking fangs into flesh for the second time this day. Again a drow was drained and the vampire's thirst sated ever-more towards negligent, before he moves to his favored companion, looking over her wounds. "Gods be damned," he curses, already falling into the intonations of a prayer, his hands hovering over the woman's body - he would not touch her, not with the magics soon to flow through her - and healing energies seeped from the wounds as they were mended as best as the fledgling priest could manage.
Deilakrion pulled the blade from the spot near to the base of her throat with a reddened hand, and a spray of blood not quite aortal pronounced that nothing vital had been hit. She swayed as she struggled upwards, and an outshot hand would slap at Vaelustil's hands as an irritated growl pulsed weakly from her throat. Blood, at least, was starting to lessen as veins and arteries closed themselves, though there was a hitch to her breathing that wasn't right at all. "Pack territory," She rasped in her ruined voice, "breached. Gather pack."
Walks. They were sometimes a good thing, and sometimes a necessary thing. This walk found itself as one of the latter, the drow's gaunt features strikingly different from his usually vibrant self. Shadows clung under his eyes, and his bare-chested form was hunched, a hand lazily dragging against shop walls as his feet carried him further into the city of the undead. Blood. He had been too long without it, during his sort of self-imposed exile, and his meal a handful of days past was not nearly enough to sate him, nor be of any long-term help to his now-vampiric body. And so, when the jabbering of the sock reaches his sensitive ears, his hopes rise, and his pace hastens...But what he saw almost stopped him with enough force to make his knees pop from the force of it. The Creature. Dared he venture forward in his current state? Would he have enough self-control not to just shove himself upon the woman and feast? By Cire, he hoped so, for his feet were already doing the unbidden, and carrying him towards his long-time companion. He attempted a facade at his normal countenance as the proximity closed, his normal, haughty smirk plastered on his lips and a brow risen as he finds that it's the sock talking. "You've started to keep stranger company than usual, Creature," he comments, his voice rougher than it should be
". . .then when th' stupid tried t' haul me off liken I was a. . .a. . .piece o' clothing! Never seen a man run screamin' and hollerin' like tha' one, know ya? Not wh' I call a fancy intro-duction. . ." On and over the drow the sock rambled, inherently focused upon Deilakrion, who turned that dead stare upon Vaelustil. Her fingers were scraping against the stone bench, and she was hunched into herself as if to keep herself as still as she was. "The. . ." that stare turned momentarily upon the sock, who was still rambling, and it seemed as those the creature was defeated by her normally impeccable ability to name things at whim, "Stray. Stray won't shut up." By the way she spoke the word 'stray' it was obvious it was a name and not simply one of her callings. Even as she spoke to Vaelustil the sock kept talking, occasionally hopping up and down in animated discourse while its tiny sock arms waved about. Its voice got slightly louder, and while it wasn't quite high-pitched to the point of annoying it was still on the high end of alto, which was enough. Especially when it wouldn't shut up.
Vaelustil cocked his head to the side, staring at the thing Deilakrion called Stray. And then it dawned on him, it dawned that it wasn't just a title. Since when did the Creature use names? "It seems I've missed a lot more than I thought," he muttered to himself as his eyes trailed back to his packmate. "I could always burn it," he jests, trying in whatever way he could to lighten the mood. Between a ceaselessly talking puppet, a less-than-animated Deilakrion, and a thirsty Vael, it was almost as necessary as the drow's need for blood. "I do have all these nifty spells I haven't used in some time, after all."
Deilakrion slapped the sock down-- which, after a muffled exclamation cursing rude travel companions, continued to ramble -- and left her hand over it. "No. Saved this creature." Clearly, the protection of the talkative sock cost her, for her tone was mournful and resigned. Yet, she took such a thing quite seriously, for she wouldn't remove her hand until the drow acknowledged her statement.
Vaelustil was confused, and his face showed it. The socked saved her? "Just how in the hells...No, nevermind. I'm not sure I want to know what trick caused that to occur." He sighed, almost as resigned as Deilakrion, perhaps, his eyes travelling away from the pair of unlikely companions on the bench. "What brings you out here, at any rate, Creature?"
Deilakrion removed her hand from the sock and waved at it in mute explanation. To that, she belatedly added in a resenting mutter: "Won't shut up."
Vaelustil took another look at the sock puppet, moving from his end of the bench to its own, staring down at the talkative thing. Picking it up, he looked it in what he presumed to be its eyes and quite clearly said, "Shut up." He doubted it would work, but hey, it was worth a shot. Regardless of the result, he set the thing back down, his garnet gaze again turning to his favored comrade. "I have a bit of a problem I could use your help with dispatching."
Brass button eyes would turn wonderingly to Vaelustil. "'Ey! Did y'know 'bout them gar. . .gar. . .gargoyals over yonder? They'm move! Swears it! Seen it wit' me own eyes too! Th' last time I went walkin', there was. . ." So on and so forth, whilst Deilakrion turned that dreary gaze back to Vaelustil with a spark of interest. As if roused, her mouth pursed in a thoughtful expression. "Yes. Many problems. This creature has much to show." Decided, she would stand, and pick up the puppet. While it was still talking, she'd stuff it into a pouch slung at her side in such a manner as to not interfere with her many belts and dangling weapons. It'd pop its 'head' out and continue talking at Vaelustil. As if in weary explanation she'd start muttering, herself. "Wanted to go see places. This creature took. Wanted to see more. Kept seeing more. Now Stray won't shut up."
Vaelustil could only roll his eyes, despite him raging thirst, at the reasoning behind the puppets endless yammering. Leave it to a sock, eh? But regardless, Vael motions towards the east, and the forest in which the entrance to the Underdark lays. "I was followed up," he said by way of the short explanation, motioning for the Creature to follow him, his feet already carrying him towards the edge of Vailkrin proper.
Deilakrion tagged along after Vaelustil, hand occasionally dipping to the pouch at her side to shove the sock back into its pouch whenever it got too exciteable. She was muttering to herself, mimicking the sock's constant stream of chatter. She made a mental note to herself to implement a drawstring upon the pouch. Sock puppets didn't need air to breathe, after all.
Vaelustil wasn't at all paying attention to the sock puppet, and so both sets of chatter were nearly blocked out until he reached the edge of the bridge. "Quiet, the both of you," he veritably growls as low as he could, his eyes narrowing at the scenery of the forest at the other end of the bridge. There, at the edge of the forest, barely perceptible to anyone without good vision - or, for the most part, any with vision worse than an elf - stood a small group of male drow, all of them wearing a particular Patron's house insignia...and all of them with eyes locked on the Cabal's resident drowish vampire. "It would seem Keter's men still believe me to be a slave, and seek to capture me. Care to relieve them of their ignorance with me, my friend?"
Deilakrion would unsheathe two sharp things, and nudge the puppet down with a pommel. She'd bend slightly and whisper something to the puppet, who would then immediately stop talking as two brass button eyes glittered over the edge of the pouch. She'd creep off into the white mists of Vailkrin, back around until she wasn't visible to any eye, using the cover of vegetation and rocky outcroppings to her advantage in such a way that even night-ready drow would be unable to find her. They were focused upon Vaelustil, in any case. And he would seem to be alone and vulnerable, a prize fit for the taking to any looking for easy reward.
Vaelustil smirked. Yes, it would seem she would help. And so, stepping forward two steps, the vampire draws his longsword, that spider-pommelled weapon he was so fond of, and calls out to the men across the way. "You hide in the shadows like a group of conspiring Matrons!" he shouted - already that was riling them from their concealment. "Here I stand; Come and play, children!" First to be compared to Matrons, and then to be reminded of their adversary's mounting centuries, and in turn of their own youth? No, they did not like that. Three strolled casually out of the forest...but two of the youngest were already charging across the bridge to the grinning and ravenously hungry Vaelustil.
Deilakrion would slink about like a craven dog in the shadows, yellow eyes buttery soft even as Stray jiggled at her side like some hyperactive chipmunk. Its weight was not enough to sway her balance, and so she continued in a half crouch, quite adept at her chosen role in the shadows of the mist. She slipped after the rearmost drow, ever vigilant of their superior senses and easy awareness in the dark. She knew she'd be unable to completely stray after them without being noticed, but her own years of practice were beneficial. Too, she herself was hungry in a feral fashion, and as she slipped behind the rearmost, she caught him up even as he turned with sword drawn. Lycan she was, but her appearance was fashioned after the hated elves, and it was with a vindictive snarl that the drow turned upon her. Second rearmost also turned at the hiss of his companion. Attack! She clashed with the first, long daggers dull even in the moonlight (specially darkened just for such a purpose) even as her light skin glinted pale in stark comparison to the drow. A clash of metal, and muffled grunts; element of surprise fashioning her a swift kick to the knee before the first drow recouped. Hobbled, he could not follow her as she demonstrated her speed to jump back and dart around the other. Their own blades flashed and blood hit the air. Drow to elf. Worthy opponents, and Deilakrion would have a new scar to add to her constantly mounting collection. As for the drow. . .she closed, for she had no intent that their wounds would ever heal.
Vaelustil grinned all the more as sounds of battle rose into the air from behind the young ones charging him. They both slowed to look over their shoulders, wondering what death lay behind them...and forgetting the key lesson every drow learns early in life. "Those that watch their backs," He quotes, charing forth, "meet death from the front!" Already one had Vael's sword through his stomach, eyes widening as they turned back to their initial prey. He was the lucky one. He had enough time to stab through the side of Vaelustil's lower abdomen before his strength gave out. Snarling and pulling the fallen drow's weapon out with a roar, Vael's bloodthirsty eyes turn towards the other, who no longer watches behind. This young drow, it seemed, had learned well in his time in the underdark. His stance was ready, but not forced, and his precursory lunge was nothing more than a feint. Another gash, this one shallow across the twisting spellblade's stomach, but what none of the attacking drow had counted on was the vampiric quality that had changed Vaelustil. No, it was clear it was not expected at all when the poor boy's eyes widened as fangs buried into his throat. Vael only hoped that the Creature could hold her own until he finished drinking and went to help her with the remaining older and more practiced drow.
Of the Underdark they may be, but the creature had learned in the wild forests of the above, without real training other than the natural guile of a predator amidst predators. Her teeth flashed in wordless snarls as she proved she had more weapons than merely those in her hands. Her movements were furious as daggers met swords, and the third who had not engaged with her continued forward to meet Vaelustil -- that one, perhaps, was the most experienced of the group. Yet she had no thought for that but the most muddled of instincts, her matted hair whirling as she used pommel, blade, knee, foot and teeth to make her presence known. Her hands were a blur as she twisted behind and around the hobbled one, jumping onto his back to extend one dagger forward at her still mobile (if bleeding) opponent, stabbing the other downward before a roll off and a sweep of a wiry leg under him, catching his good leg with a muted thump at the metal-encased ankle (likely to bruise her foot something good) yet the sheer force of it would be enough to cause the other to catch his balance even as a long sword rang out to test her own mettle. Metal clanged, she was pushed back herself even as the other whirled upon her with his good arm; shoulder stabbed. She found an old wound reopened near her shoulder, to which scar tissue flayed open caused a mighty roar from her throat. Lycans weren't fond of bleeding upon their opponents, but she fed the hunt with her own sacrifice as she bulled forward, pushing the other's blades away so that she might headbutt the other drow in the stomach. The hobbled drow came up from behind, recovered, and slipped a blade against her ribs, which she turned to meet as the other drow recovered. Blood was shed aplenty.
Vaelustil watched the approaching drow as he finished the last traces of living blood from the drow he holds, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground when that's done. With blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, he grins at the man, his sword twirling in his hand as he moves to meet his opponent. Vael guessed this one wasn't much younger than him, and that only made him laugh, giddy with anticipation. Adamantite began to sing as their swords met, armored drow versus unarmored, precision versus fluidity, rigidity versus the dance. He heard the scream from Deilakrion, and rage began to fuel his movements. They were actually hurting her! His need to aid her was something that was irrational, as adept as the woman was, but it was there, and so he stopped playing, a quick sucker punch all that was needed to earn himself the edge over the eldest drow. Poor man. Vaelustil didn't leave much of his face for identification when he was done, and the vampire was already running towards the Creature's pair before the body made its final thud against the ground.
One-two, feint: blood. Practiced, she finished off the other's knee, slipping a blade in betwixt that blasted armor to watch the man fall even as the drow behind her recovered his air. Blade met blade, and the shrill commentary and exhilirated whoops from the sock were ignored by all as the fury of the fight was given fullest attention. Likely she would have to wash a blood-drenched sock and pouch out later. No matter, for they were hilt to hilt in a contest of drow vs. lycan strength, though she had a bit of an advantage there. They were face to face, and it wasn't much for her to delve forward to push teeth into flesh and rip a chunk of it out, eliciting something of a broken cry from the drow as a deeper training kicked in. Temperance. Rigidity. Precision. The lock was broken in a flurry of movements, and suddenly Deilakrion's elbow was at his throat and his blade skittered over her sternum before slicing into the flesh beneath her collar bone. Was a lung punctured? She found it hard to breathe as he lost all breath completely: windpipe collapsed. The drow would fall with hands clutched to throat as she whirled to face the other drow as a blade skewered a foot. Unable to quite walk, with a collapsed knee, he would face off with her as she stooped to free her foot, and two blades would clash before spinning off into the darkness, and the two would roll hot and heavy upon the ground, grappling with fingers slippery with blood as they sought eachothers throats with bare hands.
Vaelustil came upon the scene in a rage...but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. One down - not quite dead, yet, though - and the other battling with her to grab her throat...and he could only laugh. Leaning against a tree, he simply watches, for now, ready to stab the drow should he get too firm of a grasp on his companion.
Upon the ground, the two were even, though each found cause to aggravate open wounds in moves to distract the other. Teeth were bared, eyes flashed and blood soaked the ground as snarls and growls permeated the air to the accompaniment of bloodscent. The two were rolling, each tiring and imbued with an excess of pain. Nerve endings were summarily ignored as hands slapped at hands and then a battle for other weapons began, knees jerking and elbows thumping into weak points. Finally, the male managed to throw off Deilakrion, and panting, sighted Vaelustil. A dagger was grippled, and with a single glare at the other he threw the dagger at Deilakrion as she was staggering to a bloody stand. It caught her near the base of the throat, and she toppled as the drow advanced to her in a hobbled half crawl.
His eyes flared open as the dagger cut through Deilakrion's flesh, and the force with which the vampire pushed off the tree he was against left a nice big - and noisy - crack in its trunk. The remaining drow was getting ready to run. Getting ready, yes, because he didn't get the chance to, as soon a dark hand was entwined in its hair, yanking his head back to expose the throat that connects head to body. "You would have been wiser to run first," Vael growls, sinking fangs into flesh for the second time this day. Again a drow was drained and the vampire's thirst sated ever-more towards negligent, before he moves to his favored companion, looking over her wounds. "Gods be damned," he curses, already falling into the intonations of a prayer, his hands hovering over the woman's body - he would not touch her, not with the magics soon to flow through her - and healing energies seeped from the wounds as they were mended as best as the fledgling priest could manage.
Deilakrion pulled the blade from the spot near to the base of her throat with a reddened hand, and a spray of blood not quite aortal pronounced that nothing vital had been hit. She swayed as she struggled upwards, and an outshot hand would slap at Vaelustil's hands as an irritated growl pulsed weakly from her throat. Blood, at least, was starting to lessen as veins and arteries closed themselves, though there was a hitch to her breathing that wasn't right at all. "Pack territory," She rasped in her ruined voice, "breached. Gather pack."