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]

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.]