Bitter Blood

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Malochai
Slave on the Altar
Posts: 5
Joined: Fri Aug 13, 2010 3:39 am
Location: England

Bitter Blood

Post by Malochai »

Bitter Blood is the tale of Caelon of Tor Caedroc and Ralnor of Hael Kar, as they become embroiled in an increasingly bitter blood feud - more-so than that which already exists between the Druchii and Asur.

— — —

Prologue
XI, 78
The Eightieth Year of the Reign of Finubar the Seafarer
Ulthuan

"Damn the fool!" Prince Faedon growled, angered, his crimson and gold ithilmar armour dull in the bright sun of Tiranoc. Behind him, three elves rode steeds of their own, two of them armoured in lesser versions of Faedon's full plate. "Caelon, inform the Sentinels and Hawkeyes; we're making camp five miles east tonight and breaking at dawn."

"Immediately, father," the younger elf acknowledged, nodding his head, and turned his horse about with deft movements on the reins and with his knees, guiding the steed back towards the main bulk of his father's army - over five hundred archers and spearmen, all bearing the colours of Tor Caedroc, and all experts with their weapons, ready to bring down punishment upon their dark kin. It was with a heavy heart he would deliver the news that it was not to be.

"Galathil, you shall accompany me to Prince Galathor's camp; I would congratulate him on his victory. You will bear my banner."

"Of course, my Prince; it would be an honour, as -" the asur began to reply, his voice smooth, until a choked gasp interrupted him, and a spasm tore the last elf from her saddle, slumping to the churned ground.

"Daughter!" the Prince cried, terror suffusing his voice as he leapt from his own saddle and knelt in the filth - a mixture of mud and the pooled blood of dead elves, both asur and druchii. His cold, gauntleted hands cradling her head as her convulsions weakened. "Mage!" Galathil bellowed, banner pole thrust into the ground and his horse pounding back to the bulk of the troops, voice still ringing.

"No, no, no ..." Faedon murmured, searching her face for a hint of anything, and finding only shallow breaths. Her eyes flickered deliriously, incomprehensible words murmured through her thin lips. Helmet now discarded, the Caledorian noble pressed his forehead against hers, whispering prayers to Isha and Asuryan. The sound of hooves being sucked down by viscous mud became apparent, and Galathil's steed stopped by the sprawling she-elf, and a robed figure let himself down from its back, kneeling and using her staff to remain upright.

"My Prince, I need space. Please."

"Of course, Nephia," he murmured, standing and taking a step back, dazed.

— — —

The mage worked on Faedon's daughter for almost half an hour, drawing the aethyr around her and muttering incantations, infusing her body with strength and trying to discover the cause for her collapse. Eventually, the ailing she-elf shot up into a sitting position, her back covered with sludge, eyes wide and showing the whites. "Father," she muttered urgently, seeking him out with flitting glances.

"I'm here," he replied, kneeling beside her once more, "I'm here!"

"So are they."

The whispered pronouncement chilled those present to the bone, and immediately Galanthil pulled the horn he wore on a leather thong around his chest to his lips, sounding a warning. A druchii war cry shattered the ilence of the aftermath, and bodies which had lain still and hidden amongst the truly dead simce they arrived leapt to their feet, weapons in the pir hands and feral, blood-thirsty grimaces on their faces. "Mount up!" The Prince ordered, his roared command booming, he and Galathil helping his daughter onto her horse, Nephia after her; then he took to his own steed and mounted up. As one, the three horses turned about and fled towards their own encampment, followed by a hail of crossbow bolts which either fell short or dinged harmlessly from ithilmar barding. The asur were out of the range of the druchii weapons when a horse screamed, collapasing and spilling her riders into the mud. The two still mounted reigned their steeds in and tried to turn, but an arrow, black-shafted and fletched with coruscating navy-jet raven feathers, took the mage in the back, piercing her heart and setting crimson life-blood blooming across her dirtied, once-white robes. Another took her charge through the thigh, and she screamed in agonising pain. Shifting his gaze back, the Prince of Tor Caedroc saw a tall, brooding druchii flanked by two elves wearing strange, outlandish armour and wielding longbows of black hickory, quivers hung at their waists, full of arrows, and all of them were striding forwards quickly. Faedon started to urge his horse forward, but more arrows were loosed and Galathil placed himself between his uncle and their enemies.

"I'm sorry, my Prince, we have to go!" Faedon tried to move around him. "You'll die as well, Prince! Caelon isn't ready to rule in your place; he isn't tested!" Regardless of the banner-bearer's words, the lord of Tor Caedroc drew his sword and charged towards the druchii. The weapon burned with an internal flame, glowing as if fresh from the forge, and runes burned white.

The horse, a black gelding from Ellyrion, charged fearlessly and bouldered into their lesder, who spun easily and lashed out with his twin serrated swords, tearing through the mortal flesh. Faedon rolled as he hot the ground, and surged to his feet, ancient runic weapon flashing out and skewering one archer through an piece of his evil-looking armour, but before he could turn to block the others blow, he found himself forced into the mud, a heavy boot on his back.

"Now, now, Sisorho, that's hardly sporting. Let the filthy creature look me in the eye as I kill him!" The oressure on his back lifted, and he rolled over weakly, he mud trying to suck him down and claim him as its due. The brooding druchii was looking down at him like he would a bug, with a sword held loosely in each hand, twirling casually. "My name's Ralnor Blackscale; and your lands will be mine to rape!"

Faedon heard a groan to one side and looked sidelong to see Sisorho dragging his daughter to her feet, a blade at her neck, and then all the elves were distracted by the sound of a horn from the direction of the asur camp and the sound of hoofbeats closing on them. The Prince recovered first and swung his blade viciously, runes blazing with a feral intensity, and it sheared through armour and ripped flesh. Ralnor staggered, and dipped his fingers into the wound, frowning at the sight of his own blood; with a scream he doubled over, simultaneously stabbing his own swords into Faedon's stomach.

"Back to our lines," he growled st Sisorho, voice vehement, and they made the short walk - with their prisoner - to where their troops had formed up into ranks, just as a group of twenty knights, all with horses barded in drake-like ithilmar armour, and wearing plate themselves. Galathil and Caelon lead them, and formed a protective ring around the injured elf.

"Take him back to the camp," Caelon growled, scowling at the laughing druchii. "Fall back to our regiments, and then we'll show these traitors the error of their ways!"


— — —

Part I
XI, 180
The Hundred and Eightieth Year of the reign of Finubar the Seafarer
Ulthuan

Tor Caedroc lay before Caelon, rising from the foothills of Mount Evereshk as if crafted from the mountain itself, and he smiled as he looked upon his home for the first time in three decades. Immense spires rose from within the walls, crafted from pearlescent marble, the tips of which reflected the fiery last minutes of the sun’s grasp on the day, brilliant reds and oranges flaring up like bursts of dragon fire streaking into the encroaching darkness. The noble knew that, on the clearest of days, one could see from the top of the Dragon Spire as far across the Great Ocean to Tor Sethai. “It’s good to be home, is it not, Caelon?” said a silken voice beside him, Chloë said, shooting him a glimmering smile.

“Indeed it is, sister,” he replied, voice alight with excitement at being home and tempered with melancholy, “It is long past time we returned. The scions of the line of Helyanwë have been absent much longer than we should have been, and the peaks of the Dragonspine have long been haunting my dreams …”

“Brother, have you ever noticed you grow poetic when you talk of Tor Caedroc and Caledor?” Ayluin turned to glower at her, but found her beam infectious, breaking into a grin of his own, handsome on his slender, weather face. Glancing behind, he took in the baggage train which had accompanied them from Lothern to their home city, astounded at the number of guards his father had deemed it necessary to send - fifty elves bearing the livery of Faedon Helyanwë, Prince of Tor Caedroc. Each elf wore fine a Sapherian steel cuirass, held a tall shield and spear whose tip glimmered in the dying light and had a sword belted at his waist. The guards walked in two columns, flanking the carts which bore the belongings of the two nobles. At the head of the column Caelon and Chloë rode fine Ellyrion geldings side-by-side, he armoured in crested Ithilmar the colour of dried blood, she dressed in robes of the finest cloth to be found in Lothern.

"The elves of other kingdoms may call these mountains bleak, or our lands dour, but there is an austere beauty, awe-inspiring, to them that cannot be denied - not to mention the incredible power which lies beneath those peaks."

"Brother, you are one of few who can see the beauty here. At times, when the chill evening winds blow off the sea and the halls of Tor Caedroc are silent, even I long to be away, in the balmy summer days of Ellyrion or the frivolous nights of Avelorn," his sister replied, resting a hand on Caelon's forearm to smooth the ire she had raised in him. "I'm sorry, brother, but it's the truth. I feel the call of Lothern in my blood far more than that of Caledor at times ..." He glared at her for a moment, but found that the resentment of the way she spoke of their homeland melted away as he looked into her emerald eyes, full of sincerity.

"I will never understand how you can be of the same blood as me, sister ..." he murmured, a coy smile curling his lips. She raised one of her delicately shaped eyebrows and stuck out her tongue playfully.

Before the caravan rose the tall walls of Tor Caedroc, lined with veteran soldiers who eyed them carefully, helms glinting redly. From a pouch on his saddle-bag, Caelon pulled a horn hewn from dragon bone, engraved with runes of flickering ruby light. Putting it to his lips, he blew a long ululating note, followed by two short blasts, and the runes blazed brightly. An answering call sounded from the walls, and the vast city gates began to open slowly, a portal through the immense ensorcerelled walls of pure marble. As the siblings approached on their mounts, Caelon noticed a faint plume of thin smoke rising in the near-distance, before the tramp of armoured feet on stone drew his attention earthwards, the slam of wooden spear-butts and shields on the ground a potent reminded of his father's strict adherence to the military protocols set down in the time of Caledor the Conqueror by Lareth, his predecessor and part of an extinct family line.

"Halt, in the name of Prince Faedon Stormwalker, of the line of Caelon Helyanwë, and state your name and business in Tor Caedroc!" Chloë sighed beside her brother, who rolled his shoulders casually, his hands resting easily atop the pommel of his saddle.

"Stand easy, Aslir," Caelon commanded, his voice an expert mix of authority and comradeship, "We do not come to invade my father's land," he added drily, raising a chuckle from the house guard which Aslir, with a filthy look, silenced. 'Ever the tyrant over his tiny domain,' the noble thought, shaking his head.

"I said, state your name and business in Tor Caedroc!" The captain drew his sword, holding it in a ready position before him.

"For the love of Asuryan, Aslir, this is pathetic!" When he looked unimpressed, Caelon sighed and uttered a curse. "I am Caelon Bloodclaw, scion of the line of Caelon Helyanwë, known as the Drakescale and companion to Caledor Dragontamer, heir to the seat of Tor Caedroc, Drakemaster of the Ruby Hearts, commander in the armies of the Phoenix King, and your superior! Stand aside, or I shall have to explain to my father why his Captain of the Gate is unfit to continue in his role!" The elf nudged his steed forward, the large beast dancing forward nimbly and forcing the glowering low-born captain backwards.

"Warriors, stand aside! The heir-apparent has returned!" A dozen elves slammed their weapons on the ground, and the moved to line the wide avenue as far as they could, to allow the entourage to pass. Aslir was the last to move, his burning gaze shooting daggers at the mounted highborn. Finally, he nodded his head coldly and moved out of the way. Chloë, displeased at being slighted by omission, tutted loudly as she touched her heels to her mounts flanks.

"I, Chloë Firetalon, scion of the line of Caelon Helyanwë, mage of the White Tower of Hoeth and courtier of the Phoenix Court, am also returned home!" She glared at the captain - who visibly blanched under her formidable gaze, despite having a much lesser physical presence than her brother - and muttered, "And what a homecoming it is .."

— — —

The highborn Caledorian elves, their full escort in tow, rode up the central promenade through Tor Caedroc which lead to the palatial fortress at its heart, a vast series of buildings rising tall and proud from the hill atop which it was built, almost as if it had grown from the rock itself. The Dragon Spire, a citadel within a citadel, watched over them as if judging them, large enough to house a dragon if necessary, built in the time of Sidhion Doomrider and Bel Shanaar. Banners, bearing the heraldry of the descendants of Caelon Drakescale, fluttered in the wind shearing off the Great Ocean, and all bore the image of a great, crimson dragon. The longer they were in the city, the more elves lined the promenade, welcoming home their prince with great improvised fanfare. Cries of 'Drakemaster!' and 'Prince Caelon!' rang around the boulevarde, and with all the confidence of a Dragon Prince, he nodded at them as detachedly as they expected, albeit with a warm, ingratiating smile on his face. Unlike other Caledorian nobles he knew, Caelon didn't look down on others for their heritage, instead revelling in the pride his gave him whilst maintaining a realistic vision on the world.

Suddenly, a young woman ran into the street, causing even the impeccably trained steed to shy slightly, and began kissing the visible hem of Caelon's robes. A guard rushed forward, dragging the hysterical elf away, leaving a shocked Caelon stranded in a sea of strangers, completely bemused, and his attention was only dragged back when, further along the street where it turned into a square, gates opened and a dozen household guard poured out, blocking off the entrances to the plaza - as Caelon and Chloë passed, they drew backwards in a protective half-circle behind them as they entered the short tunnel into the palace grounds, and when the cooling sun shone on his face again, grooms were rushing forward to take the horses' reins, and before he had time to even consider washing before attending upon his father, stewards were shepherding him towards the immense doors. Chloë was somewhere behind him, and when he looked to see, Caelon saw a look of mixed amusement and hurt cross her face. It was the last straw.

"Stop!" The bellowed command rang out angry and hollow in the vast courtyard, and movement ceased. With his dragon armour on, winged helm in the crook of his armpit, exposing his spartan, highborn good lucks, letting his long blonde hair stream down his back, ancient rune-sword belted at his waist in an elaborate sheath, he was every part the image of a noble highborn, albeit one with salt riming his hair, and his tone matched the look. "I am weary from my journey! I was barely returned from Elthin Arvan when my father demands my presence here, and I have spent the last two weeks on a hawkship from Lothern - specially sequestered from Finubar's fleet for the sole purpose, I might add - so that I may be here as quickly as possible, and made my way from the coast inland as fast as I physically could!
"I would be extremely thankful if you would tell my father that I wish to wash before presenting myself to him; a luxury I have had little time for in the last few months. Now, leave me! I am perfectly capable of remembering how to reach the hot spring baths without aid!" Angrily, he shook off the retainers and strode towards a side-entrance by himself.

A smug half-smile on her face, Chloë eased herself away from the elves surrounding her and slipped into the palace by another door, determined to help ease her brothers deep angst in the best way she knew how, and that meant finding someone who would be hidden in one of the many towers, trying to feign disinterest in the return of Tor Caedroc's greatest hero since the time of Bel-Korhadris and the purging of the Annulii.

— — —

The baths, deep beneath the palace, were warm and relaxing, a light haze of steam hanging around the large, natural cavern, diamanté droplets of crystalline water hanging onto the stark marble columns and beams added by ancient artisans to add a measure of elven grace to the natural space. Caelon had removed his armour in the antechamber, allowimg a servant to begin the process of cleaning it whilst he did the same to himself. Now, he was stripped to his underclothes and revelling in the heat which suffused the bath room - before removing the last of his clothing and slipping into the sping. A sigh passed through his lips, and immediately he felt his muscles begin to unwind. Crystalline ripples spread from the place he entered the pool, and when he slipped under completely it retook it's glassy façade.

The elf reemerged with a gentle outward breath, hair plastered to his face, back and shoulders. Hands which had often known the grip of a sword, or the heft of a lance, ran through his blonde locks, spraying salty water around him like a shower. Reaching behind him, Caelon took a coarse sponge and scoured his skin roughly, feeling cleansed as the filth and sweat worked its way free, and luxuriating in the feel of hot water on tender skin. A sigh escaped him again, and he grasped a bar of rose-scented soap, working up a thick lather and spreading it over his sculpted torso - taut and lithe, only marred by a long-healed scar across the right of his chest, from his sternum to the bottom of his ribcage. Dipping back beneath the water, he sloughed off the frothy lather, swimming away from the remnants which floated atop the water before resurfacing.

Feeling refreshed, and finally clean, the elf heaved himself sinuously from the water, letting water run off of him before he wrapped a thick cotton towel around his waist and grabbed another to dry his torso and hair as he exited the bathing chamber, coming into a smaller room where clothes had been set out by his valet, Calawë - tunic the same crimson as his armour, with a high neckline framing his features and intricate golden detailing stitched onto it in the form of dragons and runes, and breeches to compliment it. He slipped on supplemleather boots and then, finally, his eyes alighted upon Hædfen, known as 'Throng Cleaver' to the dwarves, a weapon forged during the War of the Beard and borne by his ancestor in Elthin-Arvan. It was with pride he wielded the weapon, but he knew that soon the time would come to lay it aside and take up one of the weapons forged in the time of Aenarion and Caledor as a symbol of his right to rule Tor Caedroc. Cardfully, he belted the sheath around his waist and picked up the last piece of his ensemble, a circlet made of pure silver and gold elaborately intermingled and set with a large ruby. A full length mirror stood on feet in the image of a dragons, and he admired how he looked.

"The clothes fit as well as ever, my prince, and you look every part the Prince of Caledor!" Calawë stated, coming out of the shadows from where he had been waiting for his liege to be ready. "Your father awaits you in the Great Hall, and from what I have heard, he is unhappy about waiting upon you."

"I never thought that he would be, and whilst I understand his authority as both my father and Prince, I refuse to be shepherded about as if I have no will of my own. He must learn that!" His face reflected the anger he felt, but quickly he smoothed over it with a blank mask. "Come, Calawë, I cannot tarry much longer ..."

— — —

"How dare you male me wait?" Faedon's voice, full of unrestrained ire and insulted pride, demanded. "I am your Prince, your liege, your father! I requested your return as a matter of urgency the moment I heard of your return from the human Empire, and send you a retinue worthy of your position as my heir, but as soon as you return, you insult me! Not only that, you do it so my entire court can see it!
"Now, my position is weakened, and the members of my court will see a rift in our family where there is none! Your naïve recalcitrance, your refusal to submit to your superiors, is-"

"Learnt from you, and my grandfather! It is a part of Caledorian nobility!"

"Silence! Such impertinence from my own son! I am struggling to reconcile you with the stories which have reached me. Where is the commanded of the Phoenix King's armies? Where is the ambassador sent to the Empire?"

"He is here, chafing in the shadows as his father fails to recognise he is his own person, whilst recognising his achievements! You yourself have just stated some of my deeds, and yet still treat me like I am some untested child!" By now, both father and son were stood, glaring at each other imperiously over the large desk in Faedon's study, and suddenly the Prince was leaning heavily on it, sighing in defeat, features softening slightly, although his eyes still flared with anger.

"I shall deal with your insubordination later; at the moment there is something more importsnt to discuss. Ralnor Blackscale. He's been located; tracked to Hael Kar." As if struck dumb, Caelon staggered backwards, grasping the back of a chair to steady himself.

"I'm listening ..."

— — —

Part II
VII, 43
The Forty Third Year of the Age of Vengeance
Naggaroth

Breath plumed before him in the frigid cold of Naggaroth, and he shrugged his scaled cloak into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. Ralnor clasped his hands behind his back, cold steel-grey eyes frostily gazing over the Straights of Fear, imperilously staring at the vessels coming and going. Armoured boots, and the sound of metal on stone, behind him drew his attention. Knowing instinctively who it was, he kept his gaze over the stone battlements for another minute, letting him sweat. Eventually, though, his desire to know what the other druchii had to say made him speak, although he kept his tone aloof and disinterested.

"Speak, Seviel."

"Yes, Dreadlord; Khais has returned from the Peaks. Mathvur has also returned, and has brought you an offering. He awaits your pleasure within the Tower." His interest piqued, Ralnor turned, his imperious gaze locked onto his subordinate. Seviel was knelt, head bowed, before him, the black-armoured form seemingly small as he prostrated himself.

"Seviel, stand," he ordered, disintered, before turning on his heel and striding away. A half-dozen retainers, druchii nobles sworn to his service, fell into step behind him, weapons sheathed at their hips but their hands hovered near the hilts. In truth, Ralnor doubted they were necessary - in Hael Kar, he had ruled with an iron fist as harsh as the Witch King's for nigh on two centuries, and the populace cowered in fear as he passed - but they were a necessity, for druchii social rules insisted he must. His feet led him on the quickest route back to the Tower, along the tall walls around the keep, which rose like an isle of rock, atop which an elf would be three hundred feet above the barren ground and black glass of the sea. It was black and glistened in the harsh Naggarothi sun, made up of four mighty pilars of many-sided stone melded into one by powerful magics. A narrow bridge, wide enough for a single person to walk across, spanned the distance from wall to Tower.

As Ralnor approached the door, runes on his armour glowed, matching those which burst into life on the portal, before it yawned open of its own accord, admitting the lord of Hael Kar and his retinue to the heart of his domain. Thick shadows engulfed him, until pale wytchfires flared into life, illiminating the barren hallways which snaked through the immense structure, and then made his way to the spiralling staircase which lead to his audience chamber. The large space was austere and fobidding; lit by a single wytchfire which flickered low in the grate and allowed shadows to creep around the edge of the room. A carved marble throne was set opposite the immense door, and Ralnor sat in it, becoming statuesque in his repose, and his retainer spread themselves along the walls.

"Seviel, send Khais in!" he commanded stonily, and waited as guards, bearing shields and spears, pulled open the black-steel doors, revealing a single figure who approached easily, with a slight limp in his left leg and a hood covering his head. He reached the foot of the dais where the throne-like seat rested, falling into a respectful kneel. "Stand, Khais. Deliver your report."

"Yes, Dreadlord," the druchii said, throwing back his hood and standing, the pale, lean face the double of Ralnor's, framed by long black hair, which was braided intricately. His armour, leather overlaid with gauntlets, greaves and a chestplate of light, purple-black steel, seemed to absorb the little light in the chamber. "I have scoured the Titan Peaks, Dreadlord, and have found what it was you were looking for. I could only advance past the first set of wards with the amulet the Lady Morgaine created; I would need her or one of hers to accompany me to even attempt going further."

"Do you have the exact location, Khais? I assume you would be able to return?" The lord of Hael Kar's voice was dangerous, filled with a warning.

"Of course, Dreadlord. I can be ready to leave within an hour!"

"Good ... Good. See to your preparations, but you shall not leave until the morning; the Lady Morgaine will not be ready before then. At the Tenth Bell, return here and you'll tell me more about the location." Khais nodded, his face a perfect mask. "Seviel, see Khais out and send Mathvur in. I would see what the gift he has supposedly brought me."

"Of course, Dreadlord, very good!" Ralnor fought the urge to roll his eyes or grind his teeth; the druchii was a pathetic, snivelling fool who thought that to court great power was to wield it himself. When the doors once again opened, a group of four elves waited to enter - two guards dressed in the full plate armour of the lord's household guards and one wearing leather armour over incredibly fine chainmail. A cloak trailed liquidly over his shoulder like shadow-made-cloth, and Ralnor knew that his hood wouldn't be lowered, nor the cloth half-mask which covered the lower half of his face. A few strands of silver-white hair escaped from the low top-knot Mathvur wore his hair in, and bronze eyes glared soullessly from their slighty-sunken sockets.

The last elf, being held up by the guards flanking him, was limp and had a rough hemp sack secured over his head, booted feet dragging along the floor.

"Dreadlord Ralnor," the Khainite said, his voice barely a sibilant whisper, failing to either kneel or even bow his head, and his tone spoke volumes of the lack of respect he had for his superior. "As you have no doubt been told by your lackey-" Seviel glared at the assassin, who didn't deign to reply to such petty posturing "I bring you a gift ..." He gestured very slightly with a gloved hand, and one of the guards removed the sack; rouch, craggy features were revealed once the other guard yanked his lolling head upringht, lacklustre black hair hanging lank and long, iron cords braided into it shining dirtily as months of dirt dulled it. A filth-encrusted black cloak hung from his shoulders, dappled grey tunic and breeches having been abused just as much; an empty sheath at his waist and quiver on his back. Ralnor grinmed viciously, the first piece of true emotion he had shown for a week, and the Khainite grinned beneath his mask. "A so-called Shadow Warrior from the treacherous remnants of ancient Nagarythe. He was scouting five miles up the coast, with three of his companions. Two of them are dead, and the last was allowed to escape - Sorisa is following him to the vessel he must have used to get here."

"Well, this is something special indeed, Mathvur. This is extremely pleasing; you shall be rewardedas befits your accomplishment ... Seviel, take the traitor above and prepare him. I plan to enjoy this ..."

"I do not require your reward, Dreadlord; the offerings I have sent to the Bloody-Handed God are payment enough."

— — —

A freezing wind screamed through the open windows of Hael Kar's highest chamber, laden with slivers of ice. The pale wytchflames within the room danced frenziedly, jumping and shrinking erratically. In the centre, suspended from the high ceiling with iron shackles, hung the asur prisoner, his feet half a foot from the ground and restrained with chains, despite the fact they were limp. Ralnor looked impassively at his prize, taking in every detail - the shallow kinks of his hair, a dozen scars on his chest, the sharp, angular features of his craggy face. The druchii stalked the perimeter of the chamber, wearing only a loose kheitan of human hide, and he held a thin, razor sharp blade in his right hand. When directly behind his victim, the elf strode forwards and grabbed the roots of his lank hair, pulling the asur's lolling head back sharply.

"Wake up," he whispered, "It's time to play ..." A bead of blood welled up from the point where the blade pierced his flesh, and the warrior gasped in pain, shocked into awakening, gulping down air like someone saved from drowning. Scraping the blood from pale flesh, Ralnor licked it from the blade and slipped around the restrained figure, standing square in front of him, arms crossed. "Aha, you're awake."

A hail of curses spouted from the Nagarythe's mouth, and he fixed the druchii with a deadly stare. Weakly, he tried to wrench his limbs free of the restraints, and Ralnor barked a harsh laugh, before backhanding him - he barely elicited a grunt, causing his gaoler to laugh again. "This is going to be fun," he murmured, turning to a black wooden table with a silver platter upon which a varied selection of knives lay. "Oh, a lot of fun ..."

— — —

Thud. Thud. Thud. A long, tortured scream punctuated the knocks, ragged as if the throat from which it issued had been flayed. The clatter of metal against metal rang hollowly, and a cold voice infused with rage sounded from the other side - "Enter."

Khais pushed the door imwards, the cold wind sucking the breath from him, and knelt quickly, his head lowered so he could only see Ralnor's feet, still pointing towards his elven toy. "What is it, Khais?" he asked dismissively, wiping a blade on a blood-stained rag.

"Dreadlord, you commanded my presence at the Tenth Bell."

"I do not forget my commands, fool. It is not yet the Tenth Bell; you are early. I am still enjoying my sport - I will give Mathvur this, he gave me a very thoughtful gift. I haven't got so much as a name yet." The druchii scout risked a glance and saw the ruination of his proud, if treacherous, kin. Blood pooled and was beginning to congeal beneath his feet, rhythmically dripping in a hypnotic manner. Following the trails up, he saw severed hamstrings, patches of flensed flesh and glistening muscle, dried blood which resembled a second skin over areas of ruined skin which would be agonising to peel off. Three fingers had been severed, and an ear mutilated. On the high elf's forehead was etched the rune of Khaine, white bone visible in the harsh light, and the crimson lifeblood which had seeped from the wound had sealed shut his remaining eye, the other hanging grimly from the socket, and the set of his face, the tension in his body sent out a powerful, palpable aura of rage and pain. Khais shivered; he knew that he would have spilled his guts long ago had he been in the Shadow Warriors position. "Get out; I shall see you in my audience chamber when I am ready, and the Lady Morgaine will wait as well - any more interruptions and I shall have your head, after every other appendage, limb and organ."

"Of course, Dreadlord. I serve at your pleasure."

"No, Khais, you serve at my command and live at my sufferance. Now go, before my tolerance runs dry."

"Of course, Dreadlord."

As Khais backed from the room, Ralnor took a deep breath to contain his rage, a constant battle, but one he found more difficult than normal in the other druchii's presence, and then concentrated fully on his tapestry, frowning. The other druchii had only caught a glimpse of the damage he had wrought; circling, he observed the flayed skin and sliced muscles, the network of split nerve endings. With delicate, deliberate movements, he brushed that which remained, eliciting a delicious scream.

"How do you continue to defy me, hmm?" he muttered, intrigued. "Not that it matters; your will is fraying. And my next trick is excrutiating ... But that will have to wait, I'm afraid, business to attend to. Enjoy the respite!"

— — —

The audience chamber was cold, but far warmer than the torture chamber. What really froze his heart was the presence of Lady Morgaine, Sorceress of the Dark Convent and voice of Morathi within Hael Kar - his mistress and only true rival within the city. Khais was also present, but his presence was nothing more than that of an ant when compared to that of the wytch, on whom lay magical galmours and allures by the dozen which served to accentuate her natural beauty. Ralnor settled himself on his throne-like chair and stared down at her, face a blank mask, as she coyly, coquettishly, glanced at him, whilst appearing to pick at her nails.

"You will show proper deference to your lord and master!" The sorceress turned her full attention on him, violet eyes sparking with power.

"And when a lord and master who is worthy of being called such claims me, I shall show him that deference. Until then, I am ruled only by the Hag Sorceress, and Hekarti, the Mistress of Magic herself!" Morgaine took a step forward, and the sound of swords being drawn from sheaths resonated. The six retainers, favoured by their lord, stepped forward and formed a barrier between the two powerful druchii.

"Halt!" In a moment, the room froze, and Ralnor took to his feet, descending the few steps of his dais and passing between Rorne and Erelor, until he was a foot from the woman, glowering. "You forget your place, Morgaine. I paid a great deal to secure your services, and you are sworn to me." A pale, silvery hand shot out and was dollowed by a gasp as Ralnor intercepted it, twisting violently. "You are to accompany Khais and defeat the wards protecting what I seek. Understood?" She glared violently over her shoulder, and he twisted her arm further, forcing an almost-indecernible gasp of pain to escape her mouth, pressed tightly closed. "Is that understood, Morgaine?"

"Yes, Dreadlord," the sorceress spat, before stumbling forwards as she was released. "You'll come to regret that, Ralnor!" Like a ghost in the night, she stalked from the room, her own followers trailing after her at a safe distance.

"Khais, come forward and tell me all you know." His voice had become a simmering pit of restrained anger, his eyes blazing darkly.

— — —

Ralnor's latest work on the body of the barely-alive elf had been brutal, a departure from the fine, considered torture he had applied earlier; this was not his usual artwork. Potions to keep the asur alive had been forced down his throat, and then the entirety of the flesh which covered his chest had been removed, the muscles pulled apart and ribs sawn through, revealing the victims internal organs. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his teeth - bloodstained, now, were bared in pain when he wasn't bellowing his pain.

"Give me a name!" Ralnor demanded, dry and drying blood up to his wrists, splattered on his face and across the whipcord chest which had been revealed when he removed the top half of his kheitan. A globule of blood was spat at his face, and he backhanded the hanging elf. "Give me a name!" This time, his fist had plunged into the asurs chest and grasped his heart, squeezing slightly. Almost reflexively, the Nagarythe whispered something. "What was that?"

"Prince ... Faedon ..." With a furious growl, the druchii wrenched his hand away, pulling the heart with it, and allowing himself a slightly vindicated smirk. He looked at the heart in his hand, which pulsed weakly one last time and then failed, before dropping it unceremoniously onto the ground and striding from the wound, tracing a scar across his chest.

— — —

Entering his bedchamber, Ralnor glared at the bedslave who was reclining restfully on the immense piece of furniture, silken sheets covering the majority of her body - only her neck, head and right leg were visible, but the obvious signs of her ownership could be seen. Around her neck was a fine silver choker with a plate to the fore inscribed with the sigil of House Sha'nadar, a dragon's taloned foot clutching an egg, and a near-identical image had been tattooed on her forehead, strands of golden hair falling across it. Her leg bore a verical line of tattooes which declared her owner to be Ralnor, of the Great House Sha'nadar. As he approached, he shed the rest of his kheitan. "Stop pretending, Celebrían, I know you're awake. Attend to me!"

"Of course, my master," she murmured, tears in her eyes even after a century of forced servitude, and barely managed to repress the shudder his touch induced as he swept the hair from her face and looked her in the eye, his own glassy orbs full of malicious delight.

"It seems I've been found. Should I let him know what his little girl has become since I took her, before I rip his heart out?"

— — —
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Saintofm
Malekith's Best Friend
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Re: Bitter Blood

Post by Saintofm »

I like it so far. There are some spelling and word usage issues but that has probably more to do with auto correct than anything else.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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