down, down by the river

[nimblest]

[In the Underdark, survival is all that matters. Bloody conflicts are all the surface-dwellers know about the lands below. It is what defines their interactions with the races living underground. Nobody pays attention to the reports of desiccated drow. Their deaths may have been gruesome and unusual, even by the Underdark's standards-

(-heads scalped, skin peeled off to reveal bloodied strips of bloody bone to form frightening symbols no one understood, staked to the ground, and even that was not enough, her fingers still twitched-)

-but violence was expected. Violence was daily. Those who didn't know what to look for simply shrugged and went about their way.

Those wiser can smell the stink of Bhaal.

Deep, deep in the twisting and fungal tunnels, a shade watches. She remains still as stone, her blackened gaze following all who come and go. There is someone new who's arrived. Someone who carries the same scent as she does, setting her blood aflame, making her chest ache so badly with the desire to plunge and tear and rip and-

No. She is going to wait. Wait and see. She is going to follow, and she is going to measure the worth of this newcomer.

Perhaps- just perhaps-]

Comments

[abhorrently]

[it's been a while since she's been here. years, actually. she fingers the token the myconids had given her, since she had been returning to their colony first and then heading onwards. compared to the first time she remembers coming down, there's more room to admire the beauty of it all. the elegance of the life there, how even a corpse becomes honored.

but she's not chasing old friends. she's tracking, as she had resolved to do when the immediate problem ended. her Lord had closed his eyes and granted his blessing when she had explained her plans, and she believed she had seen a smile on his lips. now, she hunts. speaks to corpses and lets their last words guide her, the surface dweller who is searching for something she only hints at.

it's at a certain place that she stops, somewhere more obscure and out of the way. the perfect spot to surprise someone with a knife in the throat, and Fever gazes out at the view from where she is. the shadows, the bioluminescence, the rock and what life endures despite. and then, she speaks.]

I know when I'm being watched. You might as well not hide.

[confidence in her movements, in her voice. she fears nothing down here - not the creatures, not the environment, not a blood-kin who sticks to shadows.]

[nimblest]

[The stone holds its breath. The presence will not answer. Quiet is valued in the Underdark, where shadows and light are equal measures dangerous. Make noise foolishly, and death will come for you. She knows this. She hunts by this law of nature.

Fever will sense her, for Fever is a fellow hunter. The presence circles. She creeps. She watches from behind dark stones, steps near-silent as she moves towards the eastern stalagmites. The crossbow in her hands sleeps; it does not so much as quiver in its master's hands. It will awaken when the opportunity presents itself, if this surface-dweller proves adequate prey.

(She desperately hopes this newcomer is capable.)]

[abhorrently]

[no response. she could have predicted that, brain rotted even as she is. but her staff remains holstered, spells quiet.]

Ivriss. Took me a while to get your name out of someone, did you know?

[even calmly spoken, the words seem louder in this hush. she tracks, in her mind, where the other is. has her shield spell ready, should the woman startle.]

They don't understand why I'd come all this way to meet you. But meet you I must, and will. That's why we're here.

[nimblest]

[The presence pauses. She has not heard her name spoken from another's lips in a long, long time. She should not answer. To answer would be to invite death - a death she cannot control.

But the little girl she buried years ago in her heart stirs at the name. Longing and sadness choke her.]

Nobody should remember me.

[A whisper that floats upon echoes.]

Who told you?

[abhorrently]

Someone who used to live in your community. Someone who remembers before.

[words are good. words are progress, and the faint smile on her face is something audible.]

And it's only polite I give you my name back. It's Fever.

[nimblest]

[A trap. Bait laid out. She's waiting for more sound, crumbs to your location. But the presence does not move. She can hear everything that occurs in these tunnels. Her blood-kin is stationary. Listening?]

I won't let you take me.

[She won't be fodder for another's ascension.]

[abhorrently]

I have no intention of taking you. I came because I want to know you.

[that's really it. should her blood-kin be corrupt, she'll cut them down, refuse to let another Orin rise. but those living, struggling perhaps, but still attempting to exist? her life is now longer. she can take the time to meet them properly.]

What would help you trust me?

[nimblest]

[This is the most she's spoken in years. She doesn't know how to answer. She wants to trust, badly craves the peaceful moments she had as a child, when she could still walk among people without her knife hand aching. But she cannot let herself reach for the possibility. If she extended her hand, she would find a bloody heart in its grasp.

The presence moves closer, but still hidden. There is a long silence.]

... I am hunting.

[An open invitation.]

Walk with me.

[abhorrently]

Alright then.

[she nods to convey her assent, and focuses on the presence. walking with Ivriss would be a test of her own skills, to keep the woman in her perception the entire time, but she'll rise to it.

hunting as well implies staying quiet. stealthy. she'll take care to step softly, moving with caution through the place - there would be no progress if she chased off whatever Ivriss is hunting for real.]

[nimblest]

[To many surface-dwellers, the Underdark is a dangerous, winding land where one could easily lose their sense of direction. The path the presence takes Fever through is no different. The glow of the mushrooms do not light the stone; all is darkness, broken only by the lapping of an underground river.

She will not slow her pace, nor will she indicate where they are headed. Fever, should her wits be about her, may see the subtle signs of drow having passed through.

After nearly half a bell's walk, the presence ceases. She whispers:]

Lie still.

[abhorrently]

[they travel in silence, and Fever needs to focus all she can on staying steady, on following Ivriss's presence. still, she keeps up, determined as anything, taking note of the drow signs left behind, trying to stay vigilant in case anything or anyone was to descend. and so when the command to be still occurs, she obeys, almost startled by a voice after so much quiet.

her fingers twitch, but she doesn't unholster her staff. not yet.]

[nimblest]

[Nothing moves in the darkness. There's only the two of them, bound by blood and common purpose. Heartbeats pass.

Then comes the echoes of skittering - an unnatural, heinous scratching announcing the coming of a monster. She tenses, something her kin may be able to feel despite the distance between them. Even after years of hunting in the darkness, driders send a shiver

(of anticipation, of delight)

of fear down her spine.

From behind the rocks, she notches her bow and holds her breath.]

[abhorrently]

[very slowly, remaining quiet, Fever unholsters her staff from her back. the creature comes closer, closer - but this is Ivriss's prey.

and there's a subtle change over Fever, at the idea of fighting again. a readiness, a drive, a coiled spring of tension that's about to burst forth. the air is thick, charged like the pressure of an oncoming storm, but she waits.

because she can, now. she can wait, she can behave herself without agony.]

[nimblest]

[Fingers twitching. Muscles spasming, anticipating violence. Hunger rises in her throat, sharp as a knife's point, and she grinds her teeth without thinking. She can hear her prey - scuttle tap tap - many legs propelling it through the darkness, stride certain in safety, and she cannot help how hunger twists her lips into a hideous, bared mockery of a smile. She can almost taste the cracking of carapace beneath her teeth.

The drider must sense something, the way hunted prey tend to, for it pauses - and that is its mistake. It does not run. It does not think anything can challenge it.

She looses her arrow.

A whirlwind of shrieks, curses. The arrow's lodged deep in the side of its head. Edema of the cranium is inevitable and its functions will begin to shut down. But it is still alive - and it will fight to survive, suffering all the while.

She changes position, watching for a new opening, savoring and detesting the screams.

Her kin is welcome to partake in the feast.]

[abhorrently]

[it fights, it howls - and the longing for blood springs forth from the chest she had it contained in. the storm responds to her thoughts, a sphere of lightning making her eyes glow and hurled at the drider, arcing across its flesh in what is surely agony. she does not hesitate when she feels the magic licking at her limbs, and flies forward with her staff, aiming to swing its weight into somewhere soft and vulnerable.

death. death. death. it's a drumbeat in her head, mirroring her heart.

the only question is how quickly this one succumbs.]