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An Assassin's Tale: The Return of Grummok - A taste of things to come =]
- Thread starter BLACKDIRGE
- Start date
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Nasma said:
The next installment's almost done, another thousand words or so...
Dirge
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Quick question for you guys...
Do you think Grummok would make a good comic book/graphic novel? Just an idea I have been kicking around.
Thanks,
Dirge
Do you think Grummok would make a good comic book/graphic novel? Just an idea I have been kicking around.
Thanks,
Dirge
Fimmtiu
First Post
BLACKDIRGE said:
It's got a ton of potential. What that means, in realistic terms, is that it could be either really awesomely great or terribly laughable, depending on the script, artwork, etc. Fantasy is hard to make mainstream, and Story Hour readers alone aren't a big enough audience to justify a printing. The biggest worry I'd have, however, is about the intellectual property issues of publishing D&D-derived works. I'm no lawyer, but that seems like an obvious enough tar-pit.
Thomas Hobbes
First Post
My thoughts were about the same as Fimmtiu's. You're a great prose writer- the question is, will your style translate well into comic script form? Here's hoping... a Grummok comic book would be pretty cool.
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Hi all, sorry for the long delay between updates. Here is the next installment. Oh and thanks for the input on the Grummok comic book idea.
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Part III
The nobles of Erelhei-Cinlu exist apart from their common brethren, occupying massive walled compounds, which rest precariously upon a gargantuan shelf of rock jutting from the soaring wall of their subterranean vault. Each of the nine noble houses has its own fortress-like palace, and each one is more extravagantly constructed than the next. Commoners from the city below are not allowed in this area, which is simply called the “Upper Vault”, unless expressly invited by a matron mother. The penalty for violating this law is a long and lingering death upon the sacrificial altar.
The most common means of accessing the Upper Vault is by a single well-guarded path that winds upwards from the city through the rock of the Upper Vault itself. Magical flight is also a possibility, but can be a dangerous proposition for the uninvited, as the air space around the noble compounds is rigorously patrolled by all manner of flying horrors. This relative isolation affords the drow nobles a modicum of safety from the hordes of thieves, murderers and other villainy that live in the city below. But drow, especially powerful drow, go to great lengths to ensure their own personal safety, and each noble house employs a small army of guards, spies, and even assassins to protect them at all times.
Visiting the upper vault is always a dubious proposition, whether one has been invited or not. For even those who are summoned under the protection of the matron mothers, often do not return. This very thing occupied Grummok’s mind as he stood outside the gates of his guild house, reluctantly awaiting the arrival of an entourage from house Aleval. The master assassin had not been to the Upper Vault in over twenty years, and he was not looking forward to a return visit. But there was no denying Kezekia Tormtor, especially under the dark auspices of recent events. The death of Matron Aleval had the entire city abuzz with fearful speculation, and Grummok had been shoved directly into the middle of the whole frightful affair. Mere hours after his meeting with Matron Tormtor, the gargoyle had received a summons from house Aleval, complete with the ruling matron mother’s personal seal. So, dressed in his best tunic and sporting the twin daggers that had ended the life of countless drow, Grummok once again placed his life in the hands of those he trusted least, and waited for his escort to arrive.
Grummok’s escort arrived in due course and consisted of six house guards and a well-groomed drow male that Grummok recognized as Nerrod Aleval, the eldest son of the recently slain Mevremas. The guards were all dressed in fine mithral chain, their royal blue tabards sporting the rearing spider crest of house Aleval. They were armed in similar fashion, with short sturdy swords at their hips, and finely crafted crossbows slung across their backs. Nerrod was clad in a knee-length coat of black scalemail, cinched at his waist with a broad leather belt. A cloak of deep purple trailed behind the young noble, and a warhammer hung upon above his right hip. Upon his left arm Nerrod carried a large round shield bearing his family’s colors and crest.
Grummok watched Nerrod as he moved at the head of his small troop along the Way of Artisans, towards the guild house and the assassin himself. There was an air of quiet confidence about the young noble, and the crowds that thronged the Way of Artisans parted almost reverently as he and his guards moved along. Grummok noted Nerrod’s conspicuous choice of armor and weaponry, as it was nearly unheard of for a drow warrior to wield a warhammer, or wear such heavy armor. Such armament was thought uncouth by drow society, and considered the domain of lesser races, such as dwarves and humans.
Nerrod and his troop stopped just before the guild house gates where Grummok waited, and the young noble bowed deeply to the master assassin.
“Lord Grummok, I bid you welcome from house Aleval.” Nerrod’s voice was deep and smooth. “I am to escort you to our compound where my sister eagerly awaits your arrival.”
Grummok smiled in spite of himself, he was amused by the honorific Nerrod had used. Erelhei-Cinlu was completely matriarchal, and hence had no “Lords”. But the title had been used in relation to Grummok before, as his unique status and powerful reputation had gained him no few admirers among the oppressed males of the city.
“Very well, Nerrod. I am ready.” Grummok said and stepped forward to join the small party of drow.
The guards enclosed Nerrod and Grummok as they made their way from the guild house, two in front, two in back and one on either side. The small party made their way west, down the Way of Artisans towards the main thoroughfare of Nightdelve Street, turning north and proceeding to the heart of the city. Grummok said nothing at first, studying the young Aleval noble with a well practiced eye. He was tall for a drow, almost as tall as Grummok, and solidly built. Nerrod went helmetless, and Grummok could see that his long hair, tied back in a single braid, was a milky blue, a rare color for drow. He was not, however, handsome, his features were coarse and blunt, as all the Alevals were, but there was a quiet strength in his visage, a deep and abiding solidness that Grummok found reassuring.
“I was grieved to here of the loss of your mother.” Grummok said suddenly, finally tiring of silence. “She was a valuable member of this community, and will not be easily replaced.”
The gargoyle’s voice caught Nerrod off guard and he gave a slight start. “I thank you for your kind words, Lord Grummok.” He said hesitantly. “She was the core of our house, and I fear that my sister may no be able to live up to such lofty standards.”
Grummok’s scaly brow rose in surprise. “You doubt your sister’s ability then?”
Nerrod seemed unfazed by the assassin’s direct question, and simply smiled. “Lord Grummok, do not think me un-loyal to my house or to Henevra, I only speak aloud that which all my house is thinking. No one will contest Henevra’s right to rule - none have the power - but my sister does not have half the guile or grace my mother had.” The young drow’s smile evaporated, leaving a thick line of worry and doubt. “I fear that I shall live to see the downfall of my house, assassin.”
Grummok did not reply to Nerrod’s dark omen as he and his escort followed Nightdelve Way to the heart of the city, a huge circular intersection where all the main roads and avenues of Erelhei-Cinlu met. Dominating this concourse was a looming statue of Lolth, towering thirty feet into the air and sheltering all beneath her dark majesty. Countless makeshift huts and stall filled the area beneath Lolth’s statue, as merchants from beyond the city plied their wares in the only place they were permitted. Throngs of slaves and indentured servants crowded the small spaces between the merchant’s huts as they went about whatever errand their master had demanded of them.
Grummok and his party cut directly through the heart of this humanoid morass, ignoring the pleading calls of merchants as they enthusiastically hawked their wares to the obviously wealthy group. The crowds parted easily enough, none wished to gain the attention of the master assassin and his party. Grummok was well known throughout the city, as he was –to his knowledge anyway- the only gargoyle in Erelhei-Cinlu. This level of notoriety worked against him in his chosen profession, and he was often forced to appear in public under the magical guise of a common drow soldier. But here, in the middle of the concourse, he was as conspicuous as a fish on dry land, and many of the common drow stopped to watch him.
“You have many admirers, Lord Grummok.” Nerrod said with a grin, as they moved through the dense sea of merchant tents.
“Yes, admirers.” Grummok said sarcastically. He saw more fear on the faces of those thronging the concourse than anything resembling admiration. Grummok had killed more drow, and enemies of drow, than could easily be counted, and that was what he was best known for.
“So, Nerrod,” Grummok said quickly, eager to pull the conversation back to a more useful topic, “tell me all you can about the night your mother was killed.”
“Unfortunately, I was not present” Nerrod, sighed. “The night my mother was slain, I was patrolling the outer vault.”
“A drow noble on patrol?” Grummok asked, mildly surprised. “I thought that was the lot of the common soldier, not a highborn warrior such as yourself.”
“Highborn!? Hah!” Nerrod snorted. “To the matron mothers, I am just as useless as any other male. Fit for mating and cannon fodder, and little else.” The venom in Nerrod voice was plain, and his guards shifted nervously to hear their leader speak such blasphemy in public. “If you must know, Henevra sent me out to collect some shadowwort for one of her experiments. It grows in the upper vault, so I gathered some of the men in hopes of hunting some wild rothe while I played errand boy to my sister.”
Grummok was familiar with shadowwort; it was a rare lichen that grew in certain parts of the vault, harvested mainly for its hallucinogenic properties. Many drow found the chaotic dreams and visions caused by inhaling the fumes of burnt shadowwort to be very pleasurable.
“What of the guards outside her room that night, surely they saw or heard something.” Grummok asked, his mind jumping to the next logical source of information.
Nerrod smiled thinly, and cast his eyes to the ground. “That may be true, but I doubt they are in any condition to tell you anything. Both have been under the ministrations of our house torturer since my mother’s death.”
Grummok grimaced in disappointment. The cruelty of drow society was often counterproductive. Drow reacted to stressful situations with malice and violence, conditioned by a lifetime of oppression and the unpredictable and often brutal rule of the matron mothers.
“That is unfortunate. Your sister may have removed our most important source of information.”
“Yes, but the guards were lax in their duties, they must be punished, and made an example of. My mother died from their lack of vigilance.” Nerrod said, his tone even and matter of fact. The hideous torment of the two guards meant little to the jaded drow noble.
Grummok chuckled acidly. “Do you truly think two guards could have halted the progress of something powerful enough to slay your mother, Nerrod?”
The young drow grimaced, his brows creasing with the difficult concept of mercy, even for practical reasons. “I see your point, assassin.” He conceded. “Perhaps my sister has been too hasty. When we reach the compound, I will see what can be salvaged from the two guards, before they are put to death.”
They had reached the northern end of the concourse and the crowds were thinning. Nightdelve Street stretched ahead of them, ultimately to terminate at the Noble Gate, the first bulwark between the nobles and their city. The houses as well as the shops of local merchants began to grow in both stature and luxuriousness as Grummok and his party neared their destination. In addition, because Nightdelve Street ran along the eastern edge of the ghetto of performers, some of the most popular theatres and inns in the city could be found here. Wealth was in evidence, as successful merchants and artisans flaunted their largess with displays of fine clothing, jewelry or troops of expensive bodyguards. All gave Grummok’s band a wide berth.
Grummok had largely ignored Nerrod’s guards as they walked, although he had noticed their general state of anxiousness. The death of their matriarch was a monumental blow to their power base, and the doubts regarding Henevra’s ability to replace her mother trickled down the ranks to even the lowliest guard of house Aleval. The guards closed in tight around Grummok and Nerrod, as the looming bulk of the Noble Gate came into view.
Bolstered by the adamantine wall that surrounded Erelhei-Cinlu, the Noble Gate was even more imposing than the Great Gate, which served as the main entrance to the city. Two soaring towers of blackened metal held between them a double gate of truly staggering proportions. Eighty feet high, and nearly twice that in length, the Noble Gate was nearly four feet thick, and its crenellated heights supported the heavily armed ranks of an elite guard pulled from each noble house. Two large buildings, barracks for more troops, lined the terminus of Nightdelve Street where it met the gate. And if this was not enough to deter those wishing to gain illicit entrance to the noble dwellings beyond, the troop of drow wizards and clerics that resided in the two towers, usually did.
Grummok and his group had been expected and the massive gate swung silently open, propelled by some unseen mechanism deep within its inner workings. Beyond was only blackness, and the unmistakable sound of rushing water.
“Just a bit further.” Nerrod said, as they passed through the yawning aperture of the Noble Gate. “I have always hated this part.” He added with a nervous grin. Grummok could understand why. Beyond the Noble Gate, not more than a hundred yards from the gate itself, a wide impassible chasm stretched into the darkness. It plummeted into untold depths, finally ending in the ebon flow of the Blackshine River, a rushing current of dark water that was said to empty into a vast subterranean sea, miles below the vault.
To cross the chasm, visitors to the upper vault used a narrow bridge of rope and planks, which hung suspended over the rushing chaos of the river below. Although well maintained, the bridge was notoriously treacherous, and had cast more than a few unlucky travelers into the depths. Gifted with the ability of flight, Grummok had little to fear, but the nervous demeanor of Nerrod and his guard, all terrestrial bound, as they approached the bridge was understandable.
It was necessary to travel in single file to cross the chasm, and two of the Aleval house guards boldly led the way, stepping on to the swaying bridge with no hesitation. Nerrod followed after, with Grummok close behind, while the four remaining guards brought up the rear. Shields, crossbows and weapons were all slung to allow the hands complete freedom for balance. Drow were naturally dexterous, and the small party was making excellent pace before Grummok’s much tested danger sense thrummed to life in the fore of his mind.
The gargoyle had been studying the soaring wall of the upper vault as he walked along, his darkvision failing him well before he could make out the looming shadow of the giant rock shelf that held the noble compounds. The river was loud beneath his feet, echoing off the cavern wall in a tumultuous aural assault; and still the ominous click of a crossbow releasing its quarrel cut through the noise like a clarion bell.
The lead guard took the first bolt in the throat, just above his gorget. He crumpled and slid bonelessly into the depths. Before the unseen archer could reload, Grummok leapt from the bridge, his wings flaring out to carrying him aloft. Nerrod had unslung his shield, completely unaware that Grummok was no longer behind him, and was shouting orders to his men. Beating his wings in powerful down strokes, Grummok climbed, halting his upward momentum nearly one hundred feet above the bridge. Nerrod and his guards were now beyond the limit of the gargoyle’s darkvision, but he heard them clearly enough. Nerrod’s voice rang out as he shouted for his guards to return fire against their unseen opponent.
Grummok circled for a few moments, the occasional scream as one of Nerrod’s guards was picked off, drifting up to him through the din of the river below. He waited, there in the darkness for one sound, and one sound only. It came soon after the last of the Aleval guards had tumbled from the bridge. The inglorious clang of a crossbow bolt bouncing off of Nerrod’s shield was the assassin’s cue, and he folded his wings and fell into a dive.
Darkness rushed by Grummok as he dove, instantly giving way to the ignoble scene of Nerrod cowering beneath his shield, alone on the bridge. The gargoyle aligned his plummeting body to pass just over Nerrod, and as he hurled past, both taloned hands shot forward to gain sound purchase upon the armored shoulders of the drow noble. Nerrod was yanked unceremoniously off his feet, and over the side of the bridge as Grummok's momentum carried them both into the waiting darkness below.
Fully armored, Nerrod was a heavy burden, and it took all of Grummok’s magically bolstered strength to halt their descent into the Blackshine River. There was nowhere to land, so Grummok simply hovered, Nerrod dangling from his grasp like a fish on a hook.
“Did you see him!?” Grummok shouted. They were only a few dozen meters from the river, and the noise was all but impenetrable.
“No! The bolts came from above!” Nerrod shouted back, his black face upturned.
Grummok considered his options. He lacked the strength to simply hover here and wait for their attacker to leave and he was quite interested to find out who would shoot at a drow noble less than a stones throw from the Noble Gate. The assassin doubted there was any coincidence in the timing of this attack, and his summons to the Aleval household.
Grummok made up his mind in an instant, and relayed his decision to Nerrod. “ I am going to climb now!” He shouted. “I promise that I will deliver you safely to your home, but in the meantime you must trust me! No matter how odd my actions will seem in the next few moments, you have my vow that you will live beyond this day! Agreed!?”
With little choice, Nerrod nodded, his eyes betraying the suspicion that must be running rampant through his brain. Grummok was little concerned with the young nobles apprehension, and began to climb, his powerful wings beating in great, air churning strokes.
Grummok stayed close to the cliff wall, climbing steadily, eyes searching the crags and crevices for any sign of their attacker. The sound of their ascent was well masked by the noise of the river, for they stumbled upon their attacker clinging to the cliff wall, all but oblivious of their approach. The sight of it drew a hiss of surprise and disgust from Nerrod, for the assassin’s six limbed, spider-like body was the object of scorn and hatred in drow society. A bizarre mixture of spider and humanoid, the chitine warrior was no larger than a drow child, and was held secure to the sheer rock face by four of its spindly, many jointed limbs. The remaining two held an oddly shaped crossbow, loaded and ready.
The assassin had never seen one of the elusive spider folk, but he was well versed in the myths surrounding their creation. Purportedly a failed experiment in an unknown drow city, the chitine race had been banished to the deepest trenches and caverns of the subterranean world. There they had embraced the teachings of Lolth, and had flourished. Chitines were despised by drow, considered no better than driders, and were killed on sight.
The chitine was completely surprised, as Grummok sped upward, not more than a few feet from where it clung. The gargoyle grinned as he heard the snap of the chitine's crossbow as an errant shot sped off into the darkness. Grummok climbed another thirty feet, and then stopped suddenly, hovering again. “Nerrod, I am going to drop you. You will pass very close to him, I want you to knock him off the wall.”
“What…!?” Nerrod cried, dumbstruck with horror at the gargoyle’s plan. Grummok did not give the young noble time to argue, simply releasing his grip, turning his cargo over to the forces of gravity.
Soundlessly, Nerrod dropped into the blackness, and, as Grummok had said, passed very close to the chitine assassin. Nerrod had taken hold of his hammer before Grummok had dropped him, possibly to threaten the gargoyle into changing tactics, and lashed out with it as he sped past the stunned chitine warrior. With a resounding thud, the hammer struck the spider-like creature just below its right shoulder. The force of the blow, and the momentum of Nerrod’s descent was more than enough to dislodge the chitine from its perch, and it tumbled after the plummeting drow, chittering madly.
Pleased that his plan had worked so well, Grummok folded his wings and dove after Nerrod. Passing the chitine on his way down, Grummok slashed at the little beast with one claw, connecting solidly and sending it into a wild spinning, midair cartwheel that carried it into the cliff face with bone crushing force.
Grummok caught Nerrod not more than ten feet from the surface of the river, latching on to him again, and pulling him safely into controlled flight, The chitine splashed into the river mere seconds after, already dead from its impact with the cliff wall.
“Well done, Nerrod.” Grummok said, as he again began the laborious scent upward.
“Rot in hell, assassin.” The clenched jawed reply brought a grin to Grummok’s lips, and he decided then and there that Nerrod Aleval was his kind of drow.
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Part III
The nobles of Erelhei-Cinlu exist apart from their common brethren, occupying massive walled compounds, which rest precariously upon a gargantuan shelf of rock jutting from the soaring wall of their subterranean vault. Each of the nine noble houses has its own fortress-like palace, and each one is more extravagantly constructed than the next. Commoners from the city below are not allowed in this area, which is simply called the “Upper Vault”, unless expressly invited by a matron mother. The penalty for violating this law is a long and lingering death upon the sacrificial altar.
The most common means of accessing the Upper Vault is by a single well-guarded path that winds upwards from the city through the rock of the Upper Vault itself. Magical flight is also a possibility, but can be a dangerous proposition for the uninvited, as the air space around the noble compounds is rigorously patrolled by all manner of flying horrors. This relative isolation affords the drow nobles a modicum of safety from the hordes of thieves, murderers and other villainy that live in the city below. But drow, especially powerful drow, go to great lengths to ensure their own personal safety, and each noble house employs a small army of guards, spies, and even assassins to protect them at all times.
Visiting the upper vault is always a dubious proposition, whether one has been invited or not. For even those who are summoned under the protection of the matron mothers, often do not return. This very thing occupied Grummok’s mind as he stood outside the gates of his guild house, reluctantly awaiting the arrival of an entourage from house Aleval. The master assassin had not been to the Upper Vault in over twenty years, and he was not looking forward to a return visit. But there was no denying Kezekia Tormtor, especially under the dark auspices of recent events. The death of Matron Aleval had the entire city abuzz with fearful speculation, and Grummok had been shoved directly into the middle of the whole frightful affair. Mere hours after his meeting with Matron Tormtor, the gargoyle had received a summons from house Aleval, complete with the ruling matron mother’s personal seal. So, dressed in his best tunic and sporting the twin daggers that had ended the life of countless drow, Grummok once again placed his life in the hands of those he trusted least, and waited for his escort to arrive.
Grummok’s escort arrived in due course and consisted of six house guards and a well-groomed drow male that Grummok recognized as Nerrod Aleval, the eldest son of the recently slain Mevremas. The guards were all dressed in fine mithral chain, their royal blue tabards sporting the rearing spider crest of house Aleval. They were armed in similar fashion, with short sturdy swords at their hips, and finely crafted crossbows slung across their backs. Nerrod was clad in a knee-length coat of black scalemail, cinched at his waist with a broad leather belt. A cloak of deep purple trailed behind the young noble, and a warhammer hung upon above his right hip. Upon his left arm Nerrod carried a large round shield bearing his family’s colors and crest.
Grummok watched Nerrod as he moved at the head of his small troop along the Way of Artisans, towards the guild house and the assassin himself. There was an air of quiet confidence about the young noble, and the crowds that thronged the Way of Artisans parted almost reverently as he and his guards moved along. Grummok noted Nerrod’s conspicuous choice of armor and weaponry, as it was nearly unheard of for a drow warrior to wield a warhammer, or wear such heavy armor. Such armament was thought uncouth by drow society, and considered the domain of lesser races, such as dwarves and humans.
Nerrod and his troop stopped just before the guild house gates where Grummok waited, and the young noble bowed deeply to the master assassin.
“Lord Grummok, I bid you welcome from house Aleval.” Nerrod’s voice was deep and smooth. “I am to escort you to our compound where my sister eagerly awaits your arrival.”
Grummok smiled in spite of himself, he was amused by the honorific Nerrod had used. Erelhei-Cinlu was completely matriarchal, and hence had no “Lords”. But the title had been used in relation to Grummok before, as his unique status and powerful reputation had gained him no few admirers among the oppressed males of the city.
“Very well, Nerrod. I am ready.” Grummok said and stepped forward to join the small party of drow.
The guards enclosed Nerrod and Grummok as they made their way from the guild house, two in front, two in back and one on either side. The small party made their way west, down the Way of Artisans towards the main thoroughfare of Nightdelve Street, turning north and proceeding to the heart of the city. Grummok said nothing at first, studying the young Aleval noble with a well practiced eye. He was tall for a drow, almost as tall as Grummok, and solidly built. Nerrod went helmetless, and Grummok could see that his long hair, tied back in a single braid, was a milky blue, a rare color for drow. He was not, however, handsome, his features were coarse and blunt, as all the Alevals were, but there was a quiet strength in his visage, a deep and abiding solidness that Grummok found reassuring.
“I was grieved to here of the loss of your mother.” Grummok said suddenly, finally tiring of silence. “She was a valuable member of this community, and will not be easily replaced.”
The gargoyle’s voice caught Nerrod off guard and he gave a slight start. “I thank you for your kind words, Lord Grummok.” He said hesitantly. “She was the core of our house, and I fear that my sister may no be able to live up to such lofty standards.”
Grummok’s scaly brow rose in surprise. “You doubt your sister’s ability then?”
Nerrod seemed unfazed by the assassin’s direct question, and simply smiled. “Lord Grummok, do not think me un-loyal to my house or to Henevra, I only speak aloud that which all my house is thinking. No one will contest Henevra’s right to rule - none have the power - but my sister does not have half the guile or grace my mother had.” The young drow’s smile evaporated, leaving a thick line of worry and doubt. “I fear that I shall live to see the downfall of my house, assassin.”
Grummok did not reply to Nerrod’s dark omen as he and his escort followed Nightdelve Way to the heart of the city, a huge circular intersection where all the main roads and avenues of Erelhei-Cinlu met. Dominating this concourse was a looming statue of Lolth, towering thirty feet into the air and sheltering all beneath her dark majesty. Countless makeshift huts and stall filled the area beneath Lolth’s statue, as merchants from beyond the city plied their wares in the only place they were permitted. Throngs of slaves and indentured servants crowded the small spaces between the merchant’s huts as they went about whatever errand their master had demanded of them.
Grummok and his party cut directly through the heart of this humanoid morass, ignoring the pleading calls of merchants as they enthusiastically hawked their wares to the obviously wealthy group. The crowds parted easily enough, none wished to gain the attention of the master assassin and his party. Grummok was well known throughout the city, as he was –to his knowledge anyway- the only gargoyle in Erelhei-Cinlu. This level of notoriety worked against him in his chosen profession, and he was often forced to appear in public under the magical guise of a common drow soldier. But here, in the middle of the concourse, he was as conspicuous as a fish on dry land, and many of the common drow stopped to watch him.
“You have many admirers, Lord Grummok.” Nerrod said with a grin, as they moved through the dense sea of merchant tents.
“Yes, admirers.” Grummok said sarcastically. He saw more fear on the faces of those thronging the concourse than anything resembling admiration. Grummok had killed more drow, and enemies of drow, than could easily be counted, and that was what he was best known for.
“So, Nerrod,” Grummok said quickly, eager to pull the conversation back to a more useful topic, “tell me all you can about the night your mother was killed.”
“Unfortunately, I was not present” Nerrod, sighed. “The night my mother was slain, I was patrolling the outer vault.”
“A drow noble on patrol?” Grummok asked, mildly surprised. “I thought that was the lot of the common soldier, not a highborn warrior such as yourself.”
“Highborn!? Hah!” Nerrod snorted. “To the matron mothers, I am just as useless as any other male. Fit for mating and cannon fodder, and little else.” The venom in Nerrod voice was plain, and his guards shifted nervously to hear their leader speak such blasphemy in public. “If you must know, Henevra sent me out to collect some shadowwort for one of her experiments. It grows in the upper vault, so I gathered some of the men in hopes of hunting some wild rothe while I played errand boy to my sister.”
Grummok was familiar with shadowwort; it was a rare lichen that grew in certain parts of the vault, harvested mainly for its hallucinogenic properties. Many drow found the chaotic dreams and visions caused by inhaling the fumes of burnt shadowwort to be very pleasurable.
“What of the guards outside her room that night, surely they saw or heard something.” Grummok asked, his mind jumping to the next logical source of information.
Nerrod smiled thinly, and cast his eyes to the ground. “That may be true, but I doubt they are in any condition to tell you anything. Both have been under the ministrations of our house torturer since my mother’s death.”
Grummok grimaced in disappointment. The cruelty of drow society was often counterproductive. Drow reacted to stressful situations with malice and violence, conditioned by a lifetime of oppression and the unpredictable and often brutal rule of the matron mothers.
“That is unfortunate. Your sister may have removed our most important source of information.”
“Yes, but the guards were lax in their duties, they must be punished, and made an example of. My mother died from their lack of vigilance.” Nerrod said, his tone even and matter of fact. The hideous torment of the two guards meant little to the jaded drow noble.
Grummok chuckled acidly. “Do you truly think two guards could have halted the progress of something powerful enough to slay your mother, Nerrod?”
The young drow grimaced, his brows creasing with the difficult concept of mercy, even for practical reasons. “I see your point, assassin.” He conceded. “Perhaps my sister has been too hasty. When we reach the compound, I will see what can be salvaged from the two guards, before they are put to death.”
They had reached the northern end of the concourse and the crowds were thinning. Nightdelve Street stretched ahead of them, ultimately to terminate at the Noble Gate, the first bulwark between the nobles and their city. The houses as well as the shops of local merchants began to grow in both stature and luxuriousness as Grummok and his party neared their destination. In addition, because Nightdelve Street ran along the eastern edge of the ghetto of performers, some of the most popular theatres and inns in the city could be found here. Wealth was in evidence, as successful merchants and artisans flaunted their largess with displays of fine clothing, jewelry or troops of expensive bodyguards. All gave Grummok’s band a wide berth.
Grummok had largely ignored Nerrod’s guards as they walked, although he had noticed their general state of anxiousness. The death of their matriarch was a monumental blow to their power base, and the doubts regarding Henevra’s ability to replace her mother trickled down the ranks to even the lowliest guard of house Aleval. The guards closed in tight around Grummok and Nerrod, as the looming bulk of the Noble Gate came into view.
Bolstered by the adamantine wall that surrounded Erelhei-Cinlu, the Noble Gate was even more imposing than the Great Gate, which served as the main entrance to the city. Two soaring towers of blackened metal held between them a double gate of truly staggering proportions. Eighty feet high, and nearly twice that in length, the Noble Gate was nearly four feet thick, and its crenellated heights supported the heavily armed ranks of an elite guard pulled from each noble house. Two large buildings, barracks for more troops, lined the terminus of Nightdelve Street where it met the gate. And if this was not enough to deter those wishing to gain illicit entrance to the noble dwellings beyond, the troop of drow wizards and clerics that resided in the two towers, usually did.
Grummok and his group had been expected and the massive gate swung silently open, propelled by some unseen mechanism deep within its inner workings. Beyond was only blackness, and the unmistakable sound of rushing water.
“Just a bit further.” Nerrod said, as they passed through the yawning aperture of the Noble Gate. “I have always hated this part.” He added with a nervous grin. Grummok could understand why. Beyond the Noble Gate, not more than a hundred yards from the gate itself, a wide impassible chasm stretched into the darkness. It plummeted into untold depths, finally ending in the ebon flow of the Blackshine River, a rushing current of dark water that was said to empty into a vast subterranean sea, miles below the vault.
To cross the chasm, visitors to the upper vault used a narrow bridge of rope and planks, which hung suspended over the rushing chaos of the river below. Although well maintained, the bridge was notoriously treacherous, and had cast more than a few unlucky travelers into the depths. Gifted with the ability of flight, Grummok had little to fear, but the nervous demeanor of Nerrod and his guard, all terrestrial bound, as they approached the bridge was understandable.
It was necessary to travel in single file to cross the chasm, and two of the Aleval house guards boldly led the way, stepping on to the swaying bridge with no hesitation. Nerrod followed after, with Grummok close behind, while the four remaining guards brought up the rear. Shields, crossbows and weapons were all slung to allow the hands complete freedom for balance. Drow were naturally dexterous, and the small party was making excellent pace before Grummok’s much tested danger sense thrummed to life in the fore of his mind.
The gargoyle had been studying the soaring wall of the upper vault as he walked along, his darkvision failing him well before he could make out the looming shadow of the giant rock shelf that held the noble compounds. The river was loud beneath his feet, echoing off the cavern wall in a tumultuous aural assault; and still the ominous click of a crossbow releasing its quarrel cut through the noise like a clarion bell.
The lead guard took the first bolt in the throat, just above his gorget. He crumpled and slid bonelessly into the depths. Before the unseen archer could reload, Grummok leapt from the bridge, his wings flaring out to carrying him aloft. Nerrod had unslung his shield, completely unaware that Grummok was no longer behind him, and was shouting orders to his men. Beating his wings in powerful down strokes, Grummok climbed, halting his upward momentum nearly one hundred feet above the bridge. Nerrod and his guards were now beyond the limit of the gargoyle’s darkvision, but he heard them clearly enough. Nerrod’s voice rang out as he shouted for his guards to return fire against their unseen opponent.
Grummok circled for a few moments, the occasional scream as one of Nerrod’s guards was picked off, drifting up to him through the din of the river below. He waited, there in the darkness for one sound, and one sound only. It came soon after the last of the Aleval guards had tumbled from the bridge. The inglorious clang of a crossbow bolt bouncing off of Nerrod’s shield was the assassin’s cue, and he folded his wings and fell into a dive.
Darkness rushed by Grummok as he dove, instantly giving way to the ignoble scene of Nerrod cowering beneath his shield, alone on the bridge. The gargoyle aligned his plummeting body to pass just over Nerrod, and as he hurled past, both taloned hands shot forward to gain sound purchase upon the armored shoulders of the drow noble. Nerrod was yanked unceremoniously off his feet, and over the side of the bridge as Grummok's momentum carried them both into the waiting darkness below.
Fully armored, Nerrod was a heavy burden, and it took all of Grummok’s magically bolstered strength to halt their descent into the Blackshine River. There was nowhere to land, so Grummok simply hovered, Nerrod dangling from his grasp like a fish on a hook.
“Did you see him!?” Grummok shouted. They were only a few dozen meters from the river, and the noise was all but impenetrable.
“No! The bolts came from above!” Nerrod shouted back, his black face upturned.
Grummok considered his options. He lacked the strength to simply hover here and wait for their attacker to leave and he was quite interested to find out who would shoot at a drow noble less than a stones throw from the Noble Gate. The assassin doubted there was any coincidence in the timing of this attack, and his summons to the Aleval household.
Grummok made up his mind in an instant, and relayed his decision to Nerrod. “ I am going to climb now!” He shouted. “I promise that I will deliver you safely to your home, but in the meantime you must trust me! No matter how odd my actions will seem in the next few moments, you have my vow that you will live beyond this day! Agreed!?”
With little choice, Nerrod nodded, his eyes betraying the suspicion that must be running rampant through his brain. Grummok was little concerned with the young nobles apprehension, and began to climb, his powerful wings beating in great, air churning strokes.
Grummok stayed close to the cliff wall, climbing steadily, eyes searching the crags and crevices for any sign of their attacker. The sound of their ascent was well masked by the noise of the river, for they stumbled upon their attacker clinging to the cliff wall, all but oblivious of their approach. The sight of it drew a hiss of surprise and disgust from Nerrod, for the assassin’s six limbed, spider-like body was the object of scorn and hatred in drow society. A bizarre mixture of spider and humanoid, the chitine warrior was no larger than a drow child, and was held secure to the sheer rock face by four of its spindly, many jointed limbs. The remaining two held an oddly shaped crossbow, loaded and ready.
The assassin had never seen one of the elusive spider folk, but he was well versed in the myths surrounding their creation. Purportedly a failed experiment in an unknown drow city, the chitine race had been banished to the deepest trenches and caverns of the subterranean world. There they had embraced the teachings of Lolth, and had flourished. Chitines were despised by drow, considered no better than driders, and were killed on sight.
The chitine was completely surprised, as Grummok sped upward, not more than a few feet from where it clung. The gargoyle grinned as he heard the snap of the chitine's crossbow as an errant shot sped off into the darkness. Grummok climbed another thirty feet, and then stopped suddenly, hovering again. “Nerrod, I am going to drop you. You will pass very close to him, I want you to knock him off the wall.”
“What…!?” Nerrod cried, dumbstruck with horror at the gargoyle’s plan. Grummok did not give the young noble time to argue, simply releasing his grip, turning his cargo over to the forces of gravity.
Soundlessly, Nerrod dropped into the blackness, and, as Grummok had said, passed very close to the chitine assassin. Nerrod had taken hold of his hammer before Grummok had dropped him, possibly to threaten the gargoyle into changing tactics, and lashed out with it as he sped past the stunned chitine warrior. With a resounding thud, the hammer struck the spider-like creature just below its right shoulder. The force of the blow, and the momentum of Nerrod’s descent was more than enough to dislodge the chitine from its perch, and it tumbled after the plummeting drow, chittering madly.
Pleased that his plan had worked so well, Grummok folded his wings and dove after Nerrod. Passing the chitine on his way down, Grummok slashed at the little beast with one claw, connecting solidly and sending it into a wild spinning, midair cartwheel that carried it into the cliff face with bone crushing force.
Grummok caught Nerrod not more than ten feet from the surface of the river, latching on to him again, and pulling him safely into controlled flight, The chitine splashed into the river mere seconds after, already dead from its impact with the cliff wall.
“Well done, Nerrod.” Grummok said, as he again began the laborious scent upward.
“Rot in hell, assassin.” The clenched jawed reply brought a grin to Grummok’s lips, and he decided then and there that Nerrod Aleval was his kind of drow.
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Thomas Hobbes
First Post
Huah.
