Legends of Belariath

Story

In every desert, a little rain must fall. In every village, sooner or later there shall be an idiot. To every generation, one dragon is born without wings. And in the societies that circle the world of Belariath, there can be found an example of something that was never meant to be, but exists in spite of itself. Much like an animal filling a niche in the food web of nature, occasion will happen when one will rise - or fall - to fill a void that created itself through naught but day-to-day existence.

The history of Story begins far before his birth, almost before the birth of some of his chosen allies. The reason for this was that Story's fate was decided at the very least seven human generations before he was even conceived. The war of Thorns and Rain had just ended, and a young high elven captain of the guard was promoted to warlord status in her home elven kingdom. She was Rhysia Yrilliach, and in the kingdom of Tyrrian, she was considered a hero. Born a elven farmer's daughter in the village of Seles, she had migrated to the kingdom of Tyrrian when she was a mere slip of a girl. By the age of 100, however, had she found a rather unique way to join the palace guard - she knocked out five of their number with wooden staves and slingstones. As a member of the palace guard, she managed to single-handedly deflect three assassination attempts by the rogue human legions plaguing the area, as well as muster a militia to drive them out with the forces of the Queen's Army behind them.

Rhysia's star rose during the darkest hours of the War of Thorns and Rain, teaching herself enough sorcery to use against the priestesses of Lloth. She, and her squadmates including the Enchantress Ima`Oraxia and her ally Hei-Ling the Bladesmith, were instrumental in the final push into the heart of darkness the drow had created within the halls of Emuz`Quar, a labyrinth spawned of horrors summoned from far below Belariath's mystical borders. Their blades rang out against shadow beasts and flesh-coated fiends alike, all the while their voices sung out in harmony to rally the troops around them. It is shocking to hear a battlehymn of your people from behind enemy lines, but truly awe-inspiring when the three leading the chorus sound like a choir all to themselves. The dark elves, unwilling to sacrifice more than they had, left the evil magic of the slabs of rock behind in their hurry to escape the wrath of the righteous high elves. They never forgot that defeat, or those whom caused it, but Rhysia was touched by goddess and destiny both - leaving her unscathed mentally from the wickedness that was inside.

With her remaining forces, Rhysia removed the bodies of the fallen high elves, and the corpses of their noble allies: the dwarves of Piwater Mountain, and the sylvan elves of the Voidless Forest. The humans were in the midst of one of their many wars at the time, so they were not there to particapte. Halfling scouts, and many nymphs and dryads, were caught in the crossfire of the war. With none willing to take responsibility for them, Rhysia brought their bodies back to those whom knew their ways best, earning her forever their appreciation and respect. Rhysia, young maiden once before, was now a legend in her own time. And with this new status, came great responsibility - the responsibility of defending a high elven kingdom from her enemies: both from within and from without.

Rhysia, and her also promoted squadron (some of whom had to be raised from the dead and in rare cases, had magical limbs replace their original ones), needed something that would be beyond the reach of the courts and their popinjay manipulators. They wanted an operative or chain of operative whom were not spies, but could operate like them to destroy the lurking menaces which threatened their home and hearth. Having never taken a husband, Rhysia's nickname as "Rhysia Amazonia Drowslayer" gave her inspiration for what they were looking for. They were searching for not theives or spies, courtiers or seductresses - they wanted a cadre of assasssins. However, this group had to be loyal to the throne in almost absolute certainty, but because of their nature, could never be introduced to the courts as, well, trained killers. They would have to be authorized by the Queen and her Royal Advisors, but beyond that never seen by them consciously. As well, she needed an official name for them: the Demonsreiche suited her purpose. Demon, from the evil creatures they would be designed after because of the bloody work they would need to do, and Reiche from one of the human colonies of the northwest, meaning "empire" in their rudimentary language.

Town to town, village to village, orphanage to orphanage. Rhysia remade her legions of armies from the ground up, and out of every one thousand found, she would choose one for the Demonsreiche. Each of these new assassins to be would be taken away from the majority, and trained in the arts and sciences of death and removal. All of the would-be servants of the empire knew their tasks and knew the risks and possibilities of torture, magical sundering, and permanent demise would follow them no matter wherever they went. Many could not take on such a responsibility, and were wiped clean of their memories through wizardly means, living their lives as regular soldiers in the Queen's Armies. (There are rumours that at least one of them regained their memory, and instead of living with the shame of perceived cowardice, stole two magical blades and strode into the UnderDark, challenging EVERY living being whom she knew had reason to try to kill the Queen. This is only rumour, but there is always truth hidden somewhere within a spark of a tale.)

Some of the assassins-to-be were very attractive, and so they specialized in sexual seductions. Others were powerful in the mystical realm, and developed methods of better slaying through sorcery. Still more were swift of foot and dexterous, and became Rhysia's experts of infiltration. Rhysia herself never took on a mission - at least, not as far as any others knew. (If she had not, however, how else would she have known what best to teach her pupils?) For dozens of years did she do this, and many enemies of the Tyrrian people never woke up to see the light of day again. For those whom were purely nightfall foes, even their nocturnal ways were often not enough to save them, for Rhysia's work spawned many leagues beyond the castle walls indeed.

Then one day, she thought she had a better idea. When she proposed the idea to her comrades, the immediately seized upon in. Why, she thought, would she waste elven lives to save elven lands, when the lesser races would do just as fine a job at times? Using this idea as a background, Rhysia, and her lieutenants in her private legion Ima`Oraxia and Hei-Ling went about purchasing stock slaves from everywhere in the known kingdoms. This brought some suspicion upon her more than once from some of the more powerful (and paranoid) nobles of the high elven courts, but this was alieviated when she presented her plan to the Queen and her Royal Consort. They smiled upon this ingenious concept of using slaves for many of the more dangerous missions, as they would not be missed or wept for. With the Queen's blessing, Rhysia Yrilliach, Savior Warrior Mage of Tyrrian, created the new branch of the Demonsreiche.

The first branch (forever after known as the Pure Willow Branch) was kept for more delicate assassinations and other high level espionage assignments. The second branch, the Twisted Oak, was then developed from the shorter lived races. Using threat of death and dismemberment as influence, the high elves forged various slaves of different races to also undergo the same training the Pure Willow were. This caused many of the slaves to balk and moan in horror, but it did have the desired effect of making a virtually untraceable number of killers to stalk the foes of the Tyrrian kingdom to the ends of the earth. Working in threes, one of the slaves was required to slay the target for any of them to survive - within a limited amount of time. Incantations cast upon the trio were set to poison their minds and blood painfully and fatally if they did not return to the appropriate place in time for the second incantation to be cast. (Given the physiological and psychological trauma inflicted on the slaves during their training, it was unlikely any wished to truly live beyond their missions, but none wanted to perish slowly. Notably enough, many of the "spells" were post-hypnotic commands designed for the body to kill itself, and not true magic at all.) Despite the seeming hopelessness of many of their commands, hordes of the opponents to the rule of the Queen from within and from without died without a single word leaving their lips. The plan was working, and the Queen's long term goals of conquest could be viewed more positively now.

Still, the ever-perserverent Hei-Ling, bladesmith and alchemist, wanted something... else. She wanted to create her own mixed-breeds, so their talents could be observed, utilized, and exacted upon the enemies of the Crown. With Rhysia's help, she started a breeding program amongst the slaves, using both successful candidates and newly found captives. Hei-Ling, acquiring the help of the priestess Birch Rose-Valestream and the Demonsreiche Assassin Wymogenia of the Pure Willow Branch, led experiments and studies of the various races, gaining notes from merchant dwarves, human wizards whom had no clue as to what they were sharing information for (and did not care, for they were paid very well NOT to care), and other sources. Im`Oraxia, after a long discussion with Rhysia and Ima`Oraxia's newfound lovers (both noblemen of another court she had long worked at), stumbled upon an ideal combination - ideal if they could get it to work. What she dreamed of was something that could resist powers of the mind, was magically adept, able to take a beating, and could learn how to obey without question or conscience. In short, an amoral golem without having to build one. How, was the true question, could they find one? Minotaurs were too stubborn, Av'ith'nar too noticable, Magi incomprehensible to enslave, and Dragons - like trolls and the enigmatic BeastKin - just not going to happen. They needed to breed their own golem, literally, from scratch.

Wymogenia came up with the concept of finding four races, two very similar, in order to make this ultra-slave come to life. The races themselves, were fumbled upon by Hei-Ling and - surprisingly enough - the Queen's own niece whom decided to visit the town that night. (The town was made almost purely of Rhysia's hand picked squadron and their families and personal allies. The majority of her soldiers were in two other towns around the castle, set up in a triangular barrier almost. They kept in touch through pigeon and through magic, always alert for possible assaults. This actually saved the castle from dragon's assault once, but that is another matter.) What the close knit group devised was to breed the following: the strength of the barbarians, the speed of the sylvan elves, the learning ability of the cat people, and the sheer stamina of a dwarf.

As all know, however, not all plans work well in practice.

One day, when Ima`Oraxia and her noble Ixuriath-Koi were working on finding a few slaves perfect for their purpose (such as pleasure slaves or worker slaves from mines), they happened on a truly choice buy: a dark elf, captured from a surface raid. He was alone, afraid, physically fit and not very mentally sturdy: in other words, the perfect candidate for training. Purchasing him outright quickly, they brought him back to the town where Rhysia was holding court. Presenting him, they told Rhysia about how it would be far better to find use a drow, in case the sylvan elves got word of this plan. Ever calculating, Hei-Ling told them of a Sheyka also purchased some time ago - a pleasure slave that could not get enough elven into her. Whom better to breed together? They set it up, and lo and behold were twins born the Sheyka slave. Not wanting them at all, she freely gave them to her Mistress Rhysia, as long as she continue serving her lavishly. The drow warrior went on to be a pet for the Queen's Royal Wizardess, one she used like a dog for the rest of his days. (No mention was ever made of the four children she had of sable skin but high elven features, except that their sorcery was far greater than even their mother's at their age. Loyal to Queen and mother, they live in the castle and rarely venture farther than the borders of the Tyrrian kingdom.)

The half-breed children were raised to be great gladiator slaves. While this was going on, another freak accident happened. This was that a wolven female slave had fallen prey to the seductions of a few of the brown-hued barbarians from the grassy plains far away, and was their true bitch in all ways. She bore her children well, not dying due to her natural stamina. Rhysia was ecstatic. Here was the rough copy she needed in order to create her true Assassin of Assassins. As the children of the wolven grew, she introduced them to the twin girls of the Sheyka. As with all things she willed, two of them paired off and coupled frequently. (Constantly feeding various slaves aphrodisiacs will assist such things.) They had a single boy, one whom neither could bear to keep (also trained from birth to wish away their children to their Mistress and Her Legion). They went on to become excellent Demonsreiche Assassins of the Twisted Oak, killing at least thirty offenders each (although most were in general battles or forays into enemy territory).

This boy, whom looked almost completely human, was also born weak of life and unable to eat. With powerful enchantments, the boy was altered to perfectly resemble his human ancestry, almost completely removing his wolven and dark elven features.. except for his eyes and two pairs of fangs. Because of his almost inhumanly dark skin, Rhysia spitefully called her new slaveborn Tophet - the Great Darkness. And so the little baby boy was named,and his destiny sealed. Tophet, slave Tophet of Rhyisa Yrilliach...

This, this was Story.

On his first birthday, he was left out in the sun accidentally by Ima`Oraxia while she decided to enjoy the pleasures of one of her nobles. When she returned, the boy's brown eyes were almost black with silver and gold sparkles, and a strange symbol had shown up on his chest. It was a godsmark - one of the quite dead god Amaunator whom had not been worshipped inside of Belariath since she herself was a girl. Showing this to Hei-Ling, the pair thought this auspicious and certainly a sign Rhysia's great plan would succeed. It was then Story spoke his first word, the word which would change his destiny forever from being the rough copy... to being the first draft. The word he said clearly in front of Rhysia when they showed her the mark was "assassin." He, however, did not say it in the language he had heard regularly - it was in ancient elven. Rhysia, Hei-Ling, and Ima`Oraxia all paused. This child had spoken a word in a language they themseves barely used despite their learning. This altered everything, understandably. The moment he could learn how to run on his own, the moment he was set upon the long dark road he would forever be striding upon.

Three winters of life had passed, and the training of Story (or Tophet as he was still known) was already in full swing. Only spoken to in ancient elven, Story learned how worthless he was to them. He knew no love, no fun, no joy. His life was to serve, and the heavy collar around his neck dictated exactly how he was to learn - through trail and error... and punishment. Story's palate almost constantly tasted of healing potions, so often were his beatings. Rhysia herself hated doing this, but it was for the defense of the Tyrrian Empire (no longer just one kingdom was it), and so no extent could be far enough. To see his squeamishness level, she presented Story with a challenge. All he had to do was plunge a dagger into the still beating heart of a treasonous knave of the Eastern Court. If he succeeded, he would receive a beating, and if he failed he would be tortured and flayed... The high elven warlord had never seen a dagger move so quickly through a elf's ribs since the last war. She smiled, and said his work was good.

From five winters old and onward, Story learned about what it truly meant to be a slave of the empire. One can freely use their imagination concerning what he learned from here on in - his educators did. Soldiers, fellow slaves, visitng dignitaries -any and all were allowed to use Story for their purposes when he failed horribly enough. Story did pick up a lot of information duing that time, swiftly learning various arts of massage, languages, how to write, read, cook, and use salves on injuries. Rhysia herself, his personal Mistress, was shocked at how fast the boy learned his lessons, especially those of sorcery.

At the tender age of six winters, partially into the spring, Story learned a new trick. By whim of fate, a strong wind blew all the scrolls off of one of the battlemages desks in her office. She, a young officer named Svetlana Three-Shivers, viewed Story by one of the posts, waiting for his next command. Calling the human inside, she ordered him to find and organize all her scrolls in proper order immediately, as she was still pouring over an ancient text of some long dead human necromancer. He did, reading the titles of the magescript without any effort and then categorizing them exactly as she used to have them. That was not, however, how they looked five minutes before, and looking at the young human in dumbfounded shock, called in Rhysia. Pointing out what the young Story had done, she suggested the youth learn the mystical arts from that day on, on top of his other daily tasks. The lady Three-Shivers had done Story no favours in this, but those lessons would prove invaluable in the seasons yet to come.

Within hours of his ninth winter's first storm, Story had mastered enough of the arts of sorcery, he could be sent in ALONE to slay the foes of the empire. He was not a master magician to be sure, but none would suspect a threadbare slaveboy to cast energy bolts strong enough to puncture a hole through the chest of an elephant, and the troll behind it - from a scroll, that is. For some odd reason, Story would never be able to cast even the simplest cantrips involving heat. Not that he was actively defying his Mistress, but there was nothing he could do to even utter the words right to evoke the flames himself. His grasp of spells dealing with the enchantment of others was he also a total failure at, yet his perception of cold-based spells was visionnary, even going so far as invoking a hailstorm from a gentle shower to pelt upon the pursuers of a small slayer raid he was chained to.

At times Hei-Ling herself had the boy do her translations from one language to two or three others, simply because he was -better- at it than she herself was. His cooking also improved, so much so he was sent to duties in the mess halls every third night. The boy's talents with his hands in the sciences of healing were never enough to become a healer, but more than enough to assist. Still, the "training" continued, and he would wish he could die or cry himself to sleep.

He knew better, however. He would be punished for crying without command to...

Ten winters old, and the summer was high in the sky. Taken down to the shore of Western Bay, Story was strapped to a sacrifical stone cross which was there from long before Rhysia's grandparents were born. The cold stone rasped his flesh, and the rocks themselves were stained with blood from ages gone by... or more recent. One never could tell. A deep and exacting ritual was used on him that day, cast by Ima`Oraxia, Rhysia herself, and many others whom were their acolytes. Hei-Ling and Wymogenia stood guard against any whom would interrupt the ceremony. Until that day, did Story thought he knew pain and suffering. To his great and terrible anguish, he knew nothing. His body was horribly twisted and burned, stretches and frozen, into a better, more suitable and handsome version of his former self.

The spell made Story a "scripted man," one whom forever would bear an ancient elven edict upon his soul. This did not go as planned either, for Story had been born TOO perfect for the needs of the Tyrrian Empire: he was born without a spirit within him, completely fueled by magic. The incantation would change the script upon his body every time he was wounded - and this caught the eye of more than one of the high elves whom thought such could be excellent entertainment for their troops. His hair and eyes changed as well - the moods Story was in (if he did not control the reaction) would alter his eye colour to varying shades, and his hair was now longer, and had streaks of blue in his nappy locks. Finally, the magic used had left a minor side-effect: a wizard mark was on the back of her neck and upper shoulders like a grotesque tattoo. If one looked at it from three arm lengths away, did the signifcance of it come to the fore: it was the sigil of the Yrilliach family, with Rhysia's personal mon in the center of it all. Story had not fallen unconscious through the torturous process, for fear of His Mistress' wrath when he did arise again. Made to walk back to the temporary camp across sharp rocks and brambles, his feet bled terribly as the writing upon his body shifted repeatedly, providing a full night of amusement for those whom he called Mistress or Master. Inside, however, something had hardened: his hatred. A core of solid rage and abhorration for the entire surface elven races had crystalized, and this gave him the strength to go on. For he knew, someday he would kill them all - from the most ancient sage to the youngest page.

Fifteen springs had Story seen come and go, his sixteenth a few months away. He had suffered, slain, and served so many was his mind close to fracturing. His little reserve of solace he had buried deep inside an island of born upon a lake of fire inside his heart. His first heart had he no longer, as it had been rippied out of him three scant months before to save the life of a "noble better." His new one he knew not where it came from, but it worked. One night, however, he went to sleep and woke up the next day away from all he knew. Some of the slaves (and more than three of the soldiers in Rhysia's personal command) had hated all the attention poured on Story. They did not care how the attention was lavished (usually in the forms of whipping, canings, and other more creative devices), just that it seemed to distract their Lady Drowslayer from her work. And so, in the middle of one night, under cover of a silence spell and darkness, they abandoned Story to his own meager defenses in the midst of Owlshriek Glen - a forest purported to be haunted with some of the more diabolic dead spirits around in Belariath. ) Not knowing the danger he was in, Story woke up with the most awful pain in his head. It was The Call - something instilled into all of Rhysia's favoured slave: the unsubtle want to find their way to her heel again if separated. Fighting it off somehow (costing him a slit arm to start with) he walked in the opposite direction, trying to find his own way out of the forest.

At that time, Rhysia's travel group (as she was on the move that week with Story) was beset by bandits more organized than any she had previously encountered. Obviously, these were all human and orc mercenaries whom wanted to earn some extra money "on the side." More concerned at the time with defending her people than the whereabouts of a slave she has locked up herself, she set about her task with brutal and grim efficiency, slaying left and right. The toll of the wounded was unreasonably high, and she blamed herself for the gouging losses of life. Vowing to hunt down the bandits to the last man, she set up to get to the closest elven city. Leaving her wounded and dead to be healed and raised, she gathered a militia within moments to stalk and decimate the rogue human warriors and mages in the outskirts of Owlshriek Glen with extreme prejudice. Spending a week away from the city, it was only when she arrived - victorious once more - she discovered he was gone. Unable to find him at all, she set a bounty of 1000 Mh to retrieve him... alive. Harmed was fine, but death was not. Story was HERS, and she was not about to let him go so easily. She cared for him in her way, but would never show it as it would decrease his effectiveness as an assassin.

Three days had passed since Story had eaten. Three days, four nights, and only now could he feel the pain of hunger. Happening on to a camp, he thought he could snag some food undetected. Unfortunately for him, that was not to be. Fortunately, however, the man whom caught him had his own reasons for secrecy - he was a Dobluth, a rouge dark elven warrior named Driz'zt Bei-Jishi. The Fallen Elf (as Story had always heard them refered to as) caught Story completely off-guard. It was a trap, and Story had no choice to admit defeat. Instead of slaying him outright, Driz'zt Bei-Jishi of No House befriended the young human mage, and the two became a quick acting pair. The Fallen Elf handed Story a few "acquired" books and asked him if he could read them. Story could - they were spellbooks. Within weeks, the dark-skinned duo were in a new city - this one accepting of all races, even the drow. They set themselves up in a room, and set about to earning money for themselves - mainly through Bei-Jishi's dexterity and Story ability to, well, tell a story. (Their night time exploits were never tracks by the authorities, but the thieves' and assassins' guild both kept close watch on the pair, occasionally sending bullyboys to discourage them. All the hardnosers turned up dead in the sewers, in the allies, in the streets... once on the doorstep of the Assassin Guildmaster himself.) After a few months, they ventured to another city, and another, always staying a step ahead of those whom might be pursuing them. Doing this for over a year, they left behind a legacy of "shadows slaying the unwary" tales behind them...

Finally, fate conspired to split them apart. They were traveling at night, when they were surrounded. Five of the Fallen Elven race had them pinned with arrows and blade at the ready. A priestess stepped forward and told them either they agree to come with her to the UnderDark for "punishment" or she would have them all slain here. Motioning to Story, Bei-Jishi agreed to her command and let himself be placed in irons. Story did as well, but his cold dark eyes bore on her left breast, plotting out how best to slide her flankwoman's dagger through her heart. What they did not know what this was all preordained...

A few weeks before, the Matron of House Tintoreda - a minor drow merchant House whom dealt in rare and hard to acquire items - was sent a vision of her finest capturing a renegade drow and a strange-looking human. The drow was to be set free as he above ground would attract her foes as a lure, while the human would be taken under the earth to serve her House as a fine addition... but not as a slave. That was odd for two reasons: why would she release a prisoner, and why would she not enslave one sole human? yet, her visions had brought her to her position of power, and had saved her from seventeen assassination attempts, so she went with them again. She had sent her own daughter topside, to ensure her orders were carried out without complication.

And so did the pair go down into the UnderDark. Partway, the pair was split up, and then Bei-Jishi was escorted back above the earth - without his weapons and spellbooks, nor his money. Vowing to find Story again, Bei-Jishi vanished into the night, seeking out his own path to vengeance against his own people. Story himself, however, was carted down dark pathway and tunnel both for three days, then through more caverns and underground waterways than he had ever believed possible for another four. Before being presented to the Drow Matron of House Tintoreda, he was thrown into a lake to bathe himself. Cold, miserable, and hungry, Story called upon all his reserve discipline to maintain calm - even with The Call echoing in his mind. The Drow Matron smiled at this bedraggled excuse for a sentient creature, striking him down with one sweep of her ring covered left hand.

"Now explain to me, little boy, why I should not simply enslave you or kill you?" said the Matron, as she needed to discover for herself what made this boy so important. "Tell me your dark secret as to why this krys knife not slit your throat and make your dark red blood seep past your neck and down past your oddly marked-up chest?"

Without fear did the youth reply, for nothing he faced here was worse than his Mistress in his eyes. "None. Just kill me now, as I have seen enough in my brief life. You cannot terrify me, for have I already known death's kiss upon my brow. You may hurt me, even to the point of flaying the flesh from my bones, but this is not new. Even more wizardly antics are but brief winds against the hurricane of suffering I have been o`er my life."

This response intrigued the Matron, as well as some of her acolytes, for she was a priestess after all. As well, the young dark-skinned man has replied in drow - not just passable dark elven speech, but full fledged fluent drow. It seemed the human's former companion had taught him much. Walking around the young human, she pulled her ebonite dagger from her plentiful bosom and stripped the former slave's remaining vestments from him, revealing a VERY well-formed and well endowed brass-writing covered youth. This was priceless - a toy that could probably take a beating as well as any umber hulk. She remembered her vision, however, and gave him one final opportunity within her personal limitations for him to "win" his freedom.

"I will provide you with a test, or instant slavery, boy. Take your pick, unless you truly favour your expiration above all things. Come now, for though I am long-lived, am I short on patience." The blade caressed his chest, deftly needling the writing above his right breast.

"A test? What kind of test?" Story had to grasp at straws, for he truly DID wish to continue living, if only to slay one more high elf before he was sent on to the Abyssal Grey. "I would hear of this test first before making my choice, Matron."

"Simple, human. You must bed three of my favourites within two nights and outlast them. Further more, you must not use sorcery or treachery, yet may they use them upon you without knocking you unconscious. As well, you must clearly defeat them by giving them all orgasms at least thrice per drow superior, human, or you will become our slave for the rest of your days. I trust this is understandable even to one as low as yourself, human -male-."

The human, whom actually was taller than all present, looked around him. Two of the drow women stepped over to him, caressing his rather masculine body in appreciation. A third, a lavender-haired goddess of a dark elf stepped from the shadows, towering over him easily. His eyes examined her physique closer than the others, finding points upon her frame he knew were weaknesses. She caught his face in her hand and stared him in the eye, kissing him roughly before casting him back hard, making Story onto his behind. Slowly coming to his feet, he turned to the Matron.

"Are you SURE only three? They do not look all that laden with wells of supernatural stamina, milady Matron. Perhaps you should lessen the time to one day to make sure they fare well at their duties on the following day, as I doubt they will be given vacation from their proper posts even for this challenge. Two days may be too much for them to handle without fearsome injury or overexhaustion..."

In shock, the Matron yelled at him brutally. "Too much? TOO MUCH? -ONLY- THREE?!? There you have it then, you arrogant male trollbait! You must now defeat FIVE of them in sexual combat before you win your freedom. Two turns of the star above us all is all you have, and then be prepared for a LIFE below the earth as my PERSONAL whipping post!" Her ire was aroused, and her temper flared. All within the room except for the human were startled by her vehemence, but two of the Matron's personal armed sorcerous guard - both strappling with muscles, and still feminine enough to wear their ritual dresses well - stepped forward, swords drawn and pointed at his throat. The looks on their faces were stone cold, prepared to slay this intruder or sleep with him as their Matron directed them to.

The human shrugged once. He was taken away, with the guards, the initial two priestesses, and the Kiss of the Tintoreda in tow. The look on his face was not one of boredom, arrogance or fear. He was concentrating on the features of the Matron, memorizing every line and arch of her visage to recall at a moment's notice. If she was going to have him killed, he wanted to be sure to identify her if he became a revenant. The next forty-eight hours were just as if he was back in the grip of his Mistress again. All his energies were focused solely on the invocation of passion and erotic tension between all five drow women... at once. Hands would grope him, fingers would toy with him, whips would lash about his neck, and incantations would charge through him, yet all he knew was that each of them HAD to be satisfied or he would be no better off before ground than he was above ground. Forty-eight hours, two days, too little time to use everything he had learned, and too much time to simply waste his energies callously.

The next thing the Matron heard from her chosen five was the following in a unanimous voice: they wanted a -REMATCH-. Somehow, the human had used tactics to exhaust even the Kiss of the Tintoreda - a woman whom had slain minotaurs by sexing them into oblivion, quite literally, in her quest for the perfect orgasm. Being a fair and honourable Matron, she granted it to them... and they came back two MORE days later in tears. They could not exhaust the human - it was impossible, they cried. His body was designed for such use, and almost instantly after releasing his seed could he go again.

The human male was granted honourary status in the House of Tintoreda, as an official researcher. Throughout the next two years, he spent going through the books and scrolls of the Tintoreda - not just their own, but anything scavenged from the fallen First City of the Dark Elven Society. He hidden talent for languages was discovered as he was caught relaxing one day analysing a text from the First City, written in the first language of the drow. From that point on, he was then known as Junior Translator as well, for he was to tutor the daughter of the Matron herself in the ancient languages - on pain of torture and death. He did not care, for this was for the first time in his life a place where someone like he belonged. He LIKED it deep underneath the earth, barely missing the sun's rays. Of course, he still ahd to be subserviant to the women of the House of Tintoreda, but his partnerships with various males earned him a "safe" place in the Tor. Safe in the fact they all knew he wanted none of their positions of power, that is. Still eventually he had to go back to the top, but his attitude was changed, and not for the better. He had learned more in the science and arts of assassination and poisions, and this he fully intended to use on his high elven tormentors.

One visit just before he left introduced Story to another Drow House, the Noble House Kinslayer. For over five hundred years, had House Kinslayer been relegated to a position lower than any a common drow would stand for, yet naught would be done about it for such feats as required were far beyond even more courageous (read: more afraid of Lloth than death itself) drow were able to achieve. Yet, things were changing and rapidly for their fortunes. An elder son, the young and handsome Elthorion, had become one of the elite Serpent Knights, and his feats were swiftly becoming legendary. This House was on its way up, and House Tintoreda wanted to make sure the Noble and Mighty House Kinslayer knew two things: that House Tintoreda was not going to stand in their way, and House Tintoreda would be MORE than happy to assist them with proper materials for various quests, provided House Kinslayer knew where not to look or stick their noses. This was a negotiation Story was requested to sit in on, and never before had he seen so much drow silent tongue mixed with vocal conversation as that day. Somehow, he caught more than enough of it to notify his Matron about a small clause conflict, which he then corrected in proper drow male servile fashion. His Matron smiled inwardly: the boy had learned well, and might have saved the throats of three contract writers.

With the promise he would return, Story headed topside again, going it alone. Above ground, he spent afew weeks getting used to the sunlight again in small increments. It did not burn his naturally dark skin, but thte anguish it inflicted upon his eyes drove him mad. Bawling salty tears, he would spend much time in caves by the ocean or near rivers, wanting to be close to water and safe from the light at the same time. When he finally went back to surface society, even his aura had changed - now people would clear space for him to walk. He was a nightmare walking, and he felt it fill his blood with vigor.

On one trip to the West, he ran into Driz'zt Bei-Jishi again, but this time he had a new partner. It was a dragon - a deep dragon to be precise. Somehow, he had never managed to be around when the dragon was, but now he met her - and she HATED him. This suited Story just time, as he just needed someone he could depend on, and that had not changed in the two years Story had absorbed Bei-Jishi's culture into his human veins. They started back on their old ways, but with more advanced tactics, especially as Jakarta (the deep dragon familiar of Story's dark elven bladesinger companion) could shapeshift into a drow-like form, except her hair would take the form of fine scales. (Easily explained away as a style change.)

They ventured down the coasts, encountering numerous swashbucklers and duellists whom all wanted a piece of Driz'zt and NOT Story. None knew whom Story was, but somehow in the two years Story was down in the UnderDark, Driz'zt Bei-Jishi had managed to earn himself a name. Story stayed clear of the duels, expect for when the odds reeked of ambush... and then Story was the equalizer, exterminating extraneous bodies without passion or peril to himself. Together again, they were a fearsome team. Then eventually something happened to them - a woman came between them.

The woman, no more than a slip of a girl named Agrela, somehow happened to blunder in on one of their more interesting jobs. Well, not really IN, per se, but THROUGH. They were chasing a small group of rogue soldiers through the territory of the Vermillion Brigade. Now, managing to evade the RedCloaks AND hunt down marauders at the same time was hard work, but they pulled it off somehow. One night, however, they ran through a section of forest close to the town, almost running OVER the lass standing in the way. Pausing, they went back to check on her. Looking upon the two dark skinned men with weapons drawn, not even noticing the sound of wings flapping overhead, she proudly declared she wanted to go with them. Story immediately refused the notion, stating what they were doing was no place for a child. Bei-Jishi, however, thought she would benefit a little from seeing the world. That, and she looked like a suitable distraction for Story to get his mind off of being evil and cold-hearted all the time.

It did not work.

Story became more dedicated than ever to hunting down the marauders. After Agrela convinced her family she was going away to visit family on the other side of the continent via caravan, she was a constant feature around the pair, but unlike Jakarta, she was joyful even to Story. Her bouncy nature made her a suitable foil for Story's dourness, but his mind was so set in the ways of damnation he barely noticed the beautiful damsel before him. He also failed to notice the reaction difference as to how Agrela viewed Story as opposed to Bei-Jishi. With Bei-Jishi, they were more friends than anything else, even going so far as Bei-Jishi telling Agrela she was not too young to have sex. With Story, however, the way she even walked around him was different: she was a woman drawn to something she could not have but wanted anyway. Her body was so in tune to his, she even felt when he flipped over restlessly in a nightmare... when she was out walking with Bei-Jishi in the moonlight. For a while, however, Agrela had to post as Story's slave, in order to keep unwanted attention from her. Those three weeks were some of the hardest in Story's life, for posing as a slaver went against everything he was. No night went he did not bring up everything he ate the day previous, and only Agrela's constant monitoring kept him from falling ill from starvation.

However, all good things must come to an end, and Story's connection with Agrela ended in death - his own. Fighting off a small group of assassins, Story sacrificed himself to get Agrela and Jakarta (whom had been injured previously that night with poisoned blades) out of harms way. Just ushering them out of the room, he sent them to go off and get Jakarta healed up, while Agrela could see more of the city they were in. Going BACK to the place Story had left them, Agrela was working on how to best break it to Driz'zt Bei-Jishi that she wanted to wait a while before getting intimate with him. Her eyes, however, caught riders heading back to where Story and Bei-Jishi were. Bolting back to where they were staying, Agrela shrieked out Story's name, but it was far too late. She thought there were only two riders, when there were at least six of them. Story's body was shafted with arrows, and he fell to the ground dead. Thinking only of Story's health, she slashed her wrist with a dagger and fed Story some of her blood, using her natural magical talents to fill him with enough sorcery to keep him revivable for days. Wrapping the wrist, she ran into the forest, vanishing from Story and Bei-Jishi's life forever. Story swore she ran off in cowardice, but Bei-Jishi kept silent, knowing the truth of the matter. She had gone into the forest as bait for the men... and was probably dead. They never found a single trace of her, not even her clothing.

Story never did find the men after that. Many rapists whom lurked in the metropolis they went to next suffered his unspent wrath like never before. Even Jakarta whom could easily EAT humans for food was horrified. Body parts were strewn in seemingly random patterns, only until you saw how the blood would spell out "vengeance" in ancient drow. His brutality with those whom deserved no mercy earned him the eye of whom would become his Liege Employer. Sending a few of his more well-known minions, he had the dark-shaded pair and the deep dragon approached. Only Story was interested in what he had to say, for Story's fury was still unspent and his curiosity was piqued. After hearing the deal the devil had to make, he accepted - studying first the contract he was to sign. After quadruple-confirming everything, he signed with ink, not his blood. The devil "smiled" and introduced Story to the world of work beyond the shadow curtains. Story, returning to Driz'zt Bei-Jishi, told him of the contract and everything, and how oddly enough this particular devil was more like a businessman than a terror. Still, he advised his friend NOT to sign a full contract, but actually do "work" on a side basis, keeping himself free. This suited the dark elven bladesinger well, and he did just that.

On a final mission through Belariath, Story and the people he was working with were beset upon my bandits. At that moment, the goddesses of the high elven people struck at Story, removing most of his memory of his incantations... and whom he used to know. Now Story is slowly fighting to regain his lost memory, but it is hard work. As well, he knows with impending doom his former Mistress WILL hunt him down, and every waking moment does he fight The Call, but it is much easier now. His mastery of languages did not fade from the leeching of his sorcery, but his physical talents have. Still, Story refuses to give up, with the support of his Liege Employer... and the godsmark that continues to burn on his chest. Something about that godsmark has fueled him with outrageous stubbornness, enough to even fight death's icy grip with tooth and claw. Not to say he will not perish again, but he MAY have a chance to drag his way back to the world of the living - more so than the average human, of which Story has not been from before his birth...

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