An Assassin's Tale: The Return of Grummok - A taste of things to come =]
- Thread starter BLACKDIRGE
- Start date
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Its gargoyle time. 
*******************************************************
Part V
Grummok watched dispassionately as two Aleval guards dragged the pale, bloodless corpse of Henevra Aleval from the throne room. The grim carcass of the drow maiden, and the gory aftermath of her demise, had little effect on the veteran assassin. Death had long ceased to stir him, it no longer held any mystery, it was simply the end product of what he was, a killer. It had been his blade that had ended the life of Henevra Aleval, and although it had been a brash killing, Grummok feared no reprisal. There were simply none that would dare challenge him, save one, and this murder had been of her own design.
Henevra’s murder had been slated the very moment her mother’s death had been made public. Brash and ineffectual, the sole Aleval daughter would have certainly lead her house to ruin, and Kezekia Tormtor hated to see valuable resources squandered.
The command to kill Henevra had arrived in the same sealed summons that had brought Grummok to house Aleval to investigate Mevremas Aleval’s death. Kezekia’s own handwriting had spelled out the Henevra’s doom, and in addition, had detailed the annexing of house Aleval as a mercenary training ground under the rule of Mevremas’s only son, Nerrod. Grummok had to admire Kezekia Tormtor’s efficiency; she had removed a troublesome rival and gained the loyalty of a small army of drow warriors in a single move. It was no wonder that Matron Tormtor had held her position for centuries.
In truth, Grummok preferred not to be involved in political maneuvering of this magnitude, but one did not deny Kezekia Tormtor, not if one wished to remain breathing. So, just like that, Henevra Aleval ended up on the wrong side of Grummok’s dagger, and the most powerful noble house in Erelhei-Cinlu grew in strength. Such was the ebb and flow of power within Erelhei-Cinlu.
The dour faced guards dragged Henevra past her brother Nerrod, and if the drow noble felt any grief for his slain sister he did not show it. In fact, Nerrod Aleval was literally shaking with pleasure and excitement. The death of his mother and now his only sibling, had vaulted Nerrod into a position of profound opportunity. He had been given control of his house, even granted the title of Lord, and all for the small asking price of absolute loyalty to house Tormtor. Nerrod’s eyes were alight with the flames of possibility, and Grummok had no doubt that his head was full of fantasies enticing only to those who had never truly experienced power. .
Grummok watched the last remaining child of Mevremas Aleval and felt the smallest pangs of regret. He too had once been given control of a powerful organization when he had slain Jen Kedar Everhate and took his place as the guild master of assassins. He too had rejoiced in his newfound prestige and influence, but he soon learned the ephemeral nature of power presented on the silver platter. Kezekia Tormtor had engineered Grummok’s ascension just as she had masterminded Nerrod Aleval’s, and the matron mother was not shy about collecting on past favors.
“Lord Aleval.” Grummok said, shaking the young drow from his reverie. “I must see your mother’s body.”
Nerrod did not answer immediately, staring blankly at the assassin for a moment, he then grinned sheepishly and nodded his head. “I’m sorry, it will take me some time to get used to the sound of Lord Aleval. Please, follow me.”
Grummok followed Nerrod from the throne room, and up the stairs to the final level of the Aleval main tower, where Mevremas had kept her quarters. Like the level below it, the top most level of the tower was built around the small chamber that housed the central staircase. The tiny circular room contained three doors, two to the south and one to the north. With a wave of his hand Nerrod indicated the northern door as the one once belonging to his mother. “Her body has remained untouched since her death, save for a few spells to keep the corpse from decomposing.” Nerrod said stoically. The woman who had given him life lay murdered in the room beyond, but Nerrod’s voice held no trace of grief. Grummok knew that this was simply because Nerrod did not feel any grief; all emotional attachments were shunned by drow; even the primal connection between a mother and her children was tenuous at best. Mercy, pity, and even love were seen as potentially dangerous states of mind that could be used to gain by one’s enemies to gain advantage.
“I will leave you to your investigation, I must inform the rest of the household of the recent turn of events.” Satisfied that he was finished with Grummok, Nerrod turned to go, but found his progress halted by a pair of taloned hands upon his shoulders. Grummok slowly pulled the drow noble to him, pressing his body close to Nerrod’s back and folding his wings about both of them. Grummok felt Nerrod’s entire frame stiffen against the awkward embrace, but held him fast, squeezing the drow’s shoulder hard enough so that he could feel the gargoyle’s talons even through his armor. “Do not make the mistakes your sister made, Nerrod.” The assassin breathed through a forest of needle teeth, just behind Nerrod’s right ear. “If Kezekia doubts your loyalty for an instant, I will return under less… pleasant circumstances.”
“Release me!” Nerrod hissed, but did not struggle or attempt to pull away.
“Not until you have heard me, and heard me well, young pup.” Grummok whispered back. “You have a whole household of men who will chafe beneath the rule of one so young, and if your head is filled with delusions of power and glory, you will not live out the week.”
“No, the warriors respect me.” Nerrod said flatly, and without much enthusiasm.
Grummok suddenly flared his wings, spreading them wide, and then spun Nerrod around to stare directly into his ebon face. Doubt filled the young drow’s eyes, and the assassin could smell the fear coming off of him in waves. Good. Grummok thought. Fear will serve him well in the days to come. It will keep him alert.
“Your men will not respect you until you have proved yourself their better.” Grummok said. “ I suggest that when you leave here, you go directly down to the barracks and pick a fight with one of your most skilled veterans. Make sure it someone who is well respected, and make sure you kill him. Do you understand?”
Nerrod’s white brows furrowed in anger and he shook himself away from Grummok’s grip. “That is ludicrous, I will need every man I have if I am to serve Matron Tormtor effectively.”
“Then tell me, my young friend. How effective will be when your dead?” Grummok asked pointedly. “If your men do not fear you, then they will kill you. It is that simple. You no longer have your mother or even your sister to frighten them, so you had best prove that you are just as fearsome as any rampaging matron mother.”
Grummok watched with pleasure as Nerrod suddenly realized the awesome weight of responsibility that had been laid upon his shoulders. “They will not rebel if I kill one of them?” He asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
The assassin smiled. At last he is thinking clearly. “No, they will not rebel. If I am not mistaken, your skill at arms is more the twice that of any under your command. Is this not so?”
“Yes, there are none that could stand against me in a fair fight.” Nerrod confirmed, the slightest touch of arrogance creeping into his words.
“Good, then make a show of it.” Grummok said. “Make it last, don’t kill your man outright, let him suffer a bit.”
“And then?” Nerrod prompted.
“And then, you will have planted the seeds of doubt within the hearts of each and every one of them. They will never be certain just how strong you are, and that uncertainty will keep them from unifying.”
Nerrod shook his head and grinned. “I was a fool to doubt your wisdom, Lord Grummok. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, do what you must, and you will live to see your house grow great and powerful.” Grummok said. “ No go, and leave me to what I must do.
Nerrod bowed in compliance. “And please tell matron Tormtor that Nerrod Aleval shall ever be her most trusted servant.”
That position has long been filled, my naïve young friend, Grummok thought. “Prove your loyalty with actions, Nerrod. Your words will mean nothing to the matron mother.”
Nerrod nodded, frowning slightly, and then turned and disappeared down the staircase. Grummok listened for the Nerrod’s footfalls on the stairs to fade into silence before turning to the door that led to Matron Mevremas’s living quarters. The door was carved in similar fashion to the one that led into the Aleval throne room, but contained the symbol of house Aleval, a nine pointed star on a round, black field, amid the leering demonic faces and cavorting spiders.
Grummok found the door unlocked and slowly pushed it open. The door swung silently inward, and the assassin was struck blind by the dazzling burst of light the poured forth from the room beyond. Grummok’s light aversion was no where near as severe as the infamous drow handicap, but still, Erelhei-Cinlu was for the most part unlit, and Grummok had learned to rely primarily on his darkvision. He had not seen light of this magnitude in years.
The sudden flash of light had startled him, and both of his daggers had found their way into his eager hands long before his vision cleared, but no enemy materialized to confront him. Cursing, Grummok returned his daggers to his belt, and chided himself for falling victim to something as innocuous as a well-lit room. He well knew the dangers of being unprepared, for anything, and he also knew that in those few seconds of blindness he could have been killed a dozen times over.
Still squinting against the unaccustomed glare, Grummok stepped forward into the inner sanctum of the slain Mevremas Aleval. He turned and closed the door behind him, using the surprisingly simple latch and grove lock to secure the room from unwanted intrusion.
If the rest of the Aleval tower was spartan, them Mevremas had made up for all of it in her own living quarters. Like the throne room below, Mevremas’s chamber was a semicircle in shape, taking up half of the top floor, but its ceiling was far lower, and the floors were covered in soft carpets. The illumination that flooded the room was obviously magical in nature, shining brightly from a globe of yellow crystal that hung suspended from the ceiling. Its presence was certainly out of place in the private chambers of drow matron, and Grummok found himself more than a little puzzled by it.
Mevremas had been a sorcerer of no small skill and she had possessed a keen mind, so it was of little surprise to Grummok to find bookshelves of every description lining the walls from floor to ceiling, each cleverly carved to match the curvature of the room’s shape. The shelves were laden with books of all sizes, and the assassin noted that each tome had been arranged according to color and size, creating the feeling of a well-ordered library. Furnishings consisted of a large desk with accompanying chair, placed precisely in the center of the room, two plush, high-backed guest chairs, placed at identical angles in front of the desk, and finally the massive wrought iron bed, which held the still body of Mevremas herself.
Grummok did not approach the bed where the corpse of matron Aleval awaited him; instead he continued to explore the chambers she had left behind. It was obvious that the former matron had had an affinity for art, for in the few places that were not covered by book shelves there hung exquisite paintings of remarkable skill. These paintings, like the globe of light hanging from the ceiling, also brought many questions to Grummok’s mind. Drow, like surface elves, appreciated the artistic endeavor, but there was naught but darkness and cruelty in the minds of drow, and their art reflected this. Grummok recalled a sculptor that had risen to great fame in the city a few years ago. This sculptor, one Vynash Larzyan, had used as his medium the living flesh of elven slaves, brought at great price and effort to the slave markets of Erelhei-Cinlu. Vynash carved his subjects into ghoulish masterpieces with a wide variety of scalpels and gouges before an audience of noble and wealthy patrons. He was exceptionally skilled at keeping his subject alive during this process, and even possessed the ability to turn his victim’s screams into a form of musical accompaniment. Vynash’s career was abruptly ended by an assassin’s blade, namely Grummok’s own, as his main rival was Matron Fadarra Noquar, ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu’s fourth house and an aspiring artist.
Vynash Laryzan’s work had been typical of what drow appreciated as art, so Grummok’s puzzlement over Matron Aleval’s collection of paintings was hardly misplaced. What he saw were not images of torture and death, but breathtaking landscapes of sun drenched splendor. All were of a surface world Grummok had never seen, but he recognized them for what they were. A golden field at sunset, a towering forest stretching into emerald brilliance, a many towered city reaching up into the everlasting glory of an open sky, and finally the azure majesty of the ocean, all captured in vivid and stunning detail. This forbidden beauty enraptured the assassin, all images of the surface were strictly forbidden, and the owning of such a thing would endure a swift and certain death, but Grummok could not look away. He slowly approached the nearest painting, that of the city, coming close enough to see the whorls and spirals of the paint itself. The assassin extended one spade clawed hand and gingerly touched the canvas, marveling at the rough texture of the paint beneath his fingers. Why is this here? He wondered.
Grummok stared at the painting of the city and let his mind drift into that foreign realm of light and open space. He wondered what it would be like to walk through those streets and smell the strange scents of a world he had only dreamed of. The assassin saw himself there, walking in anonymity among the throngs of humans, unburdened by the weight of responsibility and the ever-present darkness of Erelhei-Cinlu. These were, of course fool’s dreams, for even if he did leave the lightless caverns of the drow for the surface, the human lands above would be less than hospitable to a gargoyle, and a former assassin at that. But still, he felt the draw nonetheless, and as he stared longingly into the depths of canvas and paint he thought of Hek.
Grummok’s former apprentice rarely entered his mind these days, mostly because he would not allow it, but he suddenly found the human’s face looming large in his mind, and the old feelings of guilt and loss came rushing back in a torrent. He wondered if Hek had come from a city like the one in the painting and Grummok could not help envisioning his friend, strolling down the wide avenues of this bustling city, a slender girl on one arm, smiling with the simple pleasure of being young and alive. The gargoyle smiled at the fantasy, and felt the emptiness of his loss yawn all the wider. Hek had never had the chance to experience anything resembling a normal life. He had been abandoned in the depths of Erelhei-Cinlu, when his merchant parents had been slain by a vindictive drow priestess. Hek grew to manhood in the Ghetto of Foreigners, a crumbling ruin of desolate buildings and the cast off dregs of drow society, hiding from patrols and learning to be a killer.
Grummok could still hear Hek’s last words, as he lay on the floor of the assassin’s trophy room, impaled on the gargoyle’s own blade. Let it end, Hek had said, wishing for Grummok to perform one last act of friendship and allow him to die. The assassin had granted this final request, and that decision had haunted him for twenty years.
Grummok shook his head savagely, trying in vain to dislodge the terrible memories. You are an assassin! He screamed to himself silently. You had a job to do; if it had not been done it would have been your life ending on that cold stone floor. This was nothing but truth, but it did not comfort him.
Refusing to let his emotions run rampant, Grummok brought his right hand up to his mouth and bit down hard. The pain lanced through his mind like a clarion bell, and he tasted the acrid tang of his own blood. The pain soothed him. Pain he understood, pain he could cope with. Grummok continued to bite until his mind was a white-hot blur of agony, a gushing torrent of torment that washed away all before it. Seconds passed and finally his emotions resumed their place within the dark and seldom visited recesses of his brain. The assassin removed his hand from his mouth, noting the crescent shaped wound on either side, and hoped the scar that it left would remind him not to pick at old wounds
Grummok forced himself to turn away from the painting and focus on the task at hand. He was still uncertain why Matron Mevremas had kept her private chambers in such an un-drow like fashion, and suddenly realized that he knew almost nothing about her.
There were eight ruling houses in Erelhei-Cinlu, each controlled by a powerful and territorial matron mother. Of the eight, seven had used Grummok’s services, most more than once. Only Mevremas Aleval, of all the matron mothers, had never darkened his door, had never once filed a contract with the assassin’s guild. Assassins were an integral part of drow politics, especially among the power hungry matron mothers. They were not permitted to take contracts out on each other, such was forbidden by Lolth, but important members of rival noble houses were fair game. To think that Mevremas had never once used an assassin was mind boggling, she would have been severely handicapped in the deadly games of intrigue played by all matron mothers. And yet, she had managed to claim and hold the second highest rank in the city, just below Kezekia Tormtor.
Grummok felt the first stirrings of serious unease unfurl within his gut. He had already been less than enthused with this assignment and the volatile ramifications of what he might find. The assassin glanced over at the wrought iron bed and its silent occupant and sighed heavily. He had not even examined the body of Mevremas Aleval yet, but he was certain that it would reveal anything but an easy solution to this whole affair.
Still not ready to tackle Mevremas’s body, Grummok turned instead to her desk. It had obviously been brought from the surface, as it was carved from a single piece of dark, rich wood that was wholly unavailable here in Erelhei-Cinlu. There were two drawers, neither locked, which contained nothing more than a few sketches and half finished writings on a dozen diverse subjects. Grummok gave these drawers little more than a cursory examination, what he was really looking for would not be so easily found.
Grummok began to slide his hands over the surface of the desk, running his highly sensitive fingers along every groove, corner and notch of the wood. His eyes were closed, for he trusted his hands far more than his sight for this delicate operation. The wood unfolded beneath his fingertips, slowly transmitting information to his brain that his eyes could never duplicate. He felt every change in texture, every imperfection, and soon his unerring hands found what they were looking for. A tiny lever, so small that only the most skilled would ever find it, rose up like a mountain beneath his eager fingers. He worked the tiny mechanism and was rewarded with a barely audible pop and a tiny gust of stale air, as the hidden lid of a small hidden compartment sprang open in the very center of the desk. The secret compartment was roughly six-inches wide and only half that in depth. It contained only one item, and its appearance made all the paintings and the bright light normal by comparison.
Grummok reached into Mevremas’s hidden cache, and removed a small, delicately carved figurine. The idol was carved of white jade and depicted a nude drow woman, with long flowing hair, and clutching a naked bastard sword. Grummok breath caught in his throat, he recognized the figure immediately. It was the goddess Eilistraee, patron of all drow who had turned away from the darkness and cruelty of Lolth and returned to the surface. The mere mention of her name was enough to ensure a slow and painful death, and those caught worshipping her were subjected to the most horrendous torments imaginable.
Grummok sat the figurine of Eilistraee down upon the desk and collapsed into one of the two high-backed guest chairs with a shudder. He cast a long and weary glance at the body of Mevremas Aleval and sighed deeply. “Oh Mevremas, what have you been up to?”
*******************************************************
Part V
Grummok watched dispassionately as two Aleval guards dragged the pale, bloodless corpse of Henevra Aleval from the throne room. The grim carcass of the drow maiden, and the gory aftermath of her demise, had little effect on the veteran assassin. Death had long ceased to stir him, it no longer held any mystery, it was simply the end product of what he was, a killer. It had been his blade that had ended the life of Henevra Aleval, and although it had been a brash killing, Grummok feared no reprisal. There were simply none that would dare challenge him, save one, and this murder had been of her own design.
Henevra’s murder had been slated the very moment her mother’s death had been made public. Brash and ineffectual, the sole Aleval daughter would have certainly lead her house to ruin, and Kezekia Tormtor hated to see valuable resources squandered.
The command to kill Henevra had arrived in the same sealed summons that had brought Grummok to house Aleval to investigate Mevremas Aleval’s death. Kezekia’s own handwriting had spelled out the Henevra’s doom, and in addition, had detailed the annexing of house Aleval as a mercenary training ground under the rule of Mevremas’s only son, Nerrod. Grummok had to admire Kezekia Tormtor’s efficiency; she had removed a troublesome rival and gained the loyalty of a small army of drow warriors in a single move. It was no wonder that Matron Tormtor had held her position for centuries.
In truth, Grummok preferred not to be involved in political maneuvering of this magnitude, but one did not deny Kezekia Tormtor, not if one wished to remain breathing. So, just like that, Henevra Aleval ended up on the wrong side of Grummok’s dagger, and the most powerful noble house in Erelhei-Cinlu grew in strength. Such was the ebb and flow of power within Erelhei-Cinlu.
The dour faced guards dragged Henevra past her brother Nerrod, and if the drow noble felt any grief for his slain sister he did not show it. In fact, Nerrod Aleval was literally shaking with pleasure and excitement. The death of his mother and now his only sibling, had vaulted Nerrod into a position of profound opportunity. He had been given control of his house, even granted the title of Lord, and all for the small asking price of absolute loyalty to house Tormtor. Nerrod’s eyes were alight with the flames of possibility, and Grummok had no doubt that his head was full of fantasies enticing only to those who had never truly experienced power. .
Grummok watched the last remaining child of Mevremas Aleval and felt the smallest pangs of regret. He too had once been given control of a powerful organization when he had slain Jen Kedar Everhate and took his place as the guild master of assassins. He too had rejoiced in his newfound prestige and influence, but he soon learned the ephemeral nature of power presented on the silver platter. Kezekia Tormtor had engineered Grummok’s ascension just as she had masterminded Nerrod Aleval’s, and the matron mother was not shy about collecting on past favors.
“Lord Aleval.” Grummok said, shaking the young drow from his reverie. “I must see your mother’s body.”
Nerrod did not answer immediately, staring blankly at the assassin for a moment, he then grinned sheepishly and nodded his head. “I’m sorry, it will take me some time to get used to the sound of Lord Aleval. Please, follow me.”
Grummok followed Nerrod from the throne room, and up the stairs to the final level of the Aleval main tower, where Mevremas had kept her quarters. Like the level below it, the top most level of the tower was built around the small chamber that housed the central staircase. The tiny circular room contained three doors, two to the south and one to the north. With a wave of his hand Nerrod indicated the northern door as the one once belonging to his mother. “Her body has remained untouched since her death, save for a few spells to keep the corpse from decomposing.” Nerrod said stoically. The woman who had given him life lay murdered in the room beyond, but Nerrod’s voice held no trace of grief. Grummok knew that this was simply because Nerrod did not feel any grief; all emotional attachments were shunned by drow; even the primal connection between a mother and her children was tenuous at best. Mercy, pity, and even love were seen as potentially dangerous states of mind that could be used to gain by one’s enemies to gain advantage.
“I will leave you to your investigation, I must inform the rest of the household of the recent turn of events.” Satisfied that he was finished with Grummok, Nerrod turned to go, but found his progress halted by a pair of taloned hands upon his shoulders. Grummok slowly pulled the drow noble to him, pressing his body close to Nerrod’s back and folding his wings about both of them. Grummok felt Nerrod’s entire frame stiffen against the awkward embrace, but held him fast, squeezing the drow’s shoulder hard enough so that he could feel the gargoyle’s talons even through his armor. “Do not make the mistakes your sister made, Nerrod.” The assassin breathed through a forest of needle teeth, just behind Nerrod’s right ear. “If Kezekia doubts your loyalty for an instant, I will return under less… pleasant circumstances.”
“Release me!” Nerrod hissed, but did not struggle or attempt to pull away.
“Not until you have heard me, and heard me well, young pup.” Grummok whispered back. “You have a whole household of men who will chafe beneath the rule of one so young, and if your head is filled with delusions of power and glory, you will not live out the week.”
“No, the warriors respect me.” Nerrod said flatly, and without much enthusiasm.
Grummok suddenly flared his wings, spreading them wide, and then spun Nerrod around to stare directly into his ebon face. Doubt filled the young drow’s eyes, and the assassin could smell the fear coming off of him in waves. Good. Grummok thought. Fear will serve him well in the days to come. It will keep him alert.
“Your men will not respect you until you have proved yourself their better.” Grummok said. “ I suggest that when you leave here, you go directly down to the barracks and pick a fight with one of your most skilled veterans. Make sure it someone who is well respected, and make sure you kill him. Do you understand?”
Nerrod’s white brows furrowed in anger and he shook himself away from Grummok’s grip. “That is ludicrous, I will need every man I have if I am to serve Matron Tormtor effectively.”
“Then tell me, my young friend. How effective will be when your dead?” Grummok asked pointedly. “If your men do not fear you, then they will kill you. It is that simple. You no longer have your mother or even your sister to frighten them, so you had best prove that you are just as fearsome as any rampaging matron mother.”
Grummok watched with pleasure as Nerrod suddenly realized the awesome weight of responsibility that had been laid upon his shoulders. “They will not rebel if I kill one of them?” He asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
The assassin smiled. At last he is thinking clearly. “No, they will not rebel. If I am not mistaken, your skill at arms is more the twice that of any under your command. Is this not so?”
“Yes, there are none that could stand against me in a fair fight.” Nerrod confirmed, the slightest touch of arrogance creeping into his words.
“Good, then make a show of it.” Grummok said. “Make it last, don’t kill your man outright, let him suffer a bit.”
“And then?” Nerrod prompted.
“And then, you will have planted the seeds of doubt within the hearts of each and every one of them. They will never be certain just how strong you are, and that uncertainty will keep them from unifying.”
Nerrod shook his head and grinned. “I was a fool to doubt your wisdom, Lord Grummok. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, do what you must, and you will live to see your house grow great and powerful.” Grummok said. “ No go, and leave me to what I must do.
Nerrod bowed in compliance. “And please tell matron Tormtor that Nerrod Aleval shall ever be her most trusted servant.”
That position has long been filled, my naïve young friend, Grummok thought. “Prove your loyalty with actions, Nerrod. Your words will mean nothing to the matron mother.”
Nerrod nodded, frowning slightly, and then turned and disappeared down the staircase. Grummok listened for the Nerrod’s footfalls on the stairs to fade into silence before turning to the door that led to Matron Mevremas’s living quarters. The door was carved in similar fashion to the one that led into the Aleval throne room, but contained the symbol of house Aleval, a nine pointed star on a round, black field, amid the leering demonic faces and cavorting spiders.
Grummok found the door unlocked and slowly pushed it open. The door swung silently inward, and the assassin was struck blind by the dazzling burst of light the poured forth from the room beyond. Grummok’s light aversion was no where near as severe as the infamous drow handicap, but still, Erelhei-Cinlu was for the most part unlit, and Grummok had learned to rely primarily on his darkvision. He had not seen light of this magnitude in years.
The sudden flash of light had startled him, and both of his daggers had found their way into his eager hands long before his vision cleared, but no enemy materialized to confront him. Cursing, Grummok returned his daggers to his belt, and chided himself for falling victim to something as innocuous as a well-lit room. He well knew the dangers of being unprepared, for anything, and he also knew that in those few seconds of blindness he could have been killed a dozen times over.
Still squinting against the unaccustomed glare, Grummok stepped forward into the inner sanctum of the slain Mevremas Aleval. He turned and closed the door behind him, using the surprisingly simple latch and grove lock to secure the room from unwanted intrusion.
If the rest of the Aleval tower was spartan, them Mevremas had made up for all of it in her own living quarters. Like the throne room below, Mevremas’s chamber was a semicircle in shape, taking up half of the top floor, but its ceiling was far lower, and the floors were covered in soft carpets. The illumination that flooded the room was obviously magical in nature, shining brightly from a globe of yellow crystal that hung suspended from the ceiling. Its presence was certainly out of place in the private chambers of drow matron, and Grummok found himself more than a little puzzled by it.
Mevremas had been a sorcerer of no small skill and she had possessed a keen mind, so it was of little surprise to Grummok to find bookshelves of every description lining the walls from floor to ceiling, each cleverly carved to match the curvature of the room’s shape. The shelves were laden with books of all sizes, and the assassin noted that each tome had been arranged according to color and size, creating the feeling of a well-ordered library. Furnishings consisted of a large desk with accompanying chair, placed precisely in the center of the room, two plush, high-backed guest chairs, placed at identical angles in front of the desk, and finally the massive wrought iron bed, which held the still body of Mevremas herself.
Grummok did not approach the bed where the corpse of matron Aleval awaited him; instead he continued to explore the chambers she had left behind. It was obvious that the former matron had had an affinity for art, for in the few places that were not covered by book shelves there hung exquisite paintings of remarkable skill. These paintings, like the globe of light hanging from the ceiling, also brought many questions to Grummok’s mind. Drow, like surface elves, appreciated the artistic endeavor, but there was naught but darkness and cruelty in the minds of drow, and their art reflected this. Grummok recalled a sculptor that had risen to great fame in the city a few years ago. This sculptor, one Vynash Larzyan, had used as his medium the living flesh of elven slaves, brought at great price and effort to the slave markets of Erelhei-Cinlu. Vynash carved his subjects into ghoulish masterpieces with a wide variety of scalpels and gouges before an audience of noble and wealthy patrons. He was exceptionally skilled at keeping his subject alive during this process, and even possessed the ability to turn his victim’s screams into a form of musical accompaniment. Vynash’s career was abruptly ended by an assassin’s blade, namely Grummok’s own, as his main rival was Matron Fadarra Noquar, ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu’s fourth house and an aspiring artist.
Vynash Laryzan’s work had been typical of what drow appreciated as art, so Grummok’s puzzlement over Matron Aleval’s collection of paintings was hardly misplaced. What he saw were not images of torture and death, but breathtaking landscapes of sun drenched splendor. All were of a surface world Grummok had never seen, but he recognized them for what they were. A golden field at sunset, a towering forest stretching into emerald brilliance, a many towered city reaching up into the everlasting glory of an open sky, and finally the azure majesty of the ocean, all captured in vivid and stunning detail. This forbidden beauty enraptured the assassin, all images of the surface were strictly forbidden, and the owning of such a thing would endure a swift and certain death, but Grummok could not look away. He slowly approached the nearest painting, that of the city, coming close enough to see the whorls and spirals of the paint itself. The assassin extended one spade clawed hand and gingerly touched the canvas, marveling at the rough texture of the paint beneath his fingers. Why is this here? He wondered.
Grummok stared at the painting of the city and let his mind drift into that foreign realm of light and open space. He wondered what it would be like to walk through those streets and smell the strange scents of a world he had only dreamed of. The assassin saw himself there, walking in anonymity among the throngs of humans, unburdened by the weight of responsibility and the ever-present darkness of Erelhei-Cinlu. These were, of course fool’s dreams, for even if he did leave the lightless caverns of the drow for the surface, the human lands above would be less than hospitable to a gargoyle, and a former assassin at that. But still, he felt the draw nonetheless, and as he stared longingly into the depths of canvas and paint he thought of Hek.
Grummok’s former apprentice rarely entered his mind these days, mostly because he would not allow it, but he suddenly found the human’s face looming large in his mind, and the old feelings of guilt and loss came rushing back in a torrent. He wondered if Hek had come from a city like the one in the painting and Grummok could not help envisioning his friend, strolling down the wide avenues of this bustling city, a slender girl on one arm, smiling with the simple pleasure of being young and alive. The gargoyle smiled at the fantasy, and felt the emptiness of his loss yawn all the wider. Hek had never had the chance to experience anything resembling a normal life. He had been abandoned in the depths of Erelhei-Cinlu, when his merchant parents had been slain by a vindictive drow priestess. Hek grew to manhood in the Ghetto of Foreigners, a crumbling ruin of desolate buildings and the cast off dregs of drow society, hiding from patrols and learning to be a killer.
Grummok could still hear Hek’s last words, as he lay on the floor of the assassin’s trophy room, impaled on the gargoyle’s own blade. Let it end, Hek had said, wishing for Grummok to perform one last act of friendship and allow him to die. The assassin had granted this final request, and that decision had haunted him for twenty years.
Grummok shook his head savagely, trying in vain to dislodge the terrible memories. You are an assassin! He screamed to himself silently. You had a job to do; if it had not been done it would have been your life ending on that cold stone floor. This was nothing but truth, but it did not comfort him.
Refusing to let his emotions run rampant, Grummok brought his right hand up to his mouth and bit down hard. The pain lanced through his mind like a clarion bell, and he tasted the acrid tang of his own blood. The pain soothed him. Pain he understood, pain he could cope with. Grummok continued to bite until his mind was a white-hot blur of agony, a gushing torrent of torment that washed away all before it. Seconds passed and finally his emotions resumed their place within the dark and seldom visited recesses of his brain. The assassin removed his hand from his mouth, noting the crescent shaped wound on either side, and hoped the scar that it left would remind him not to pick at old wounds
Grummok forced himself to turn away from the painting and focus on the task at hand. He was still uncertain why Matron Mevremas had kept her private chambers in such an un-drow like fashion, and suddenly realized that he knew almost nothing about her.
There were eight ruling houses in Erelhei-Cinlu, each controlled by a powerful and territorial matron mother. Of the eight, seven had used Grummok’s services, most more than once. Only Mevremas Aleval, of all the matron mothers, had never darkened his door, had never once filed a contract with the assassin’s guild. Assassins were an integral part of drow politics, especially among the power hungry matron mothers. They were not permitted to take contracts out on each other, such was forbidden by Lolth, but important members of rival noble houses were fair game. To think that Mevremas had never once used an assassin was mind boggling, she would have been severely handicapped in the deadly games of intrigue played by all matron mothers. And yet, she had managed to claim and hold the second highest rank in the city, just below Kezekia Tormtor.
Grummok felt the first stirrings of serious unease unfurl within his gut. He had already been less than enthused with this assignment and the volatile ramifications of what he might find. The assassin glanced over at the wrought iron bed and its silent occupant and sighed heavily. He had not even examined the body of Mevremas Aleval yet, but he was certain that it would reveal anything but an easy solution to this whole affair.
Still not ready to tackle Mevremas’s body, Grummok turned instead to her desk. It had obviously been brought from the surface, as it was carved from a single piece of dark, rich wood that was wholly unavailable here in Erelhei-Cinlu. There were two drawers, neither locked, which contained nothing more than a few sketches and half finished writings on a dozen diverse subjects. Grummok gave these drawers little more than a cursory examination, what he was really looking for would not be so easily found.
Grummok began to slide his hands over the surface of the desk, running his highly sensitive fingers along every groove, corner and notch of the wood. His eyes were closed, for he trusted his hands far more than his sight for this delicate operation. The wood unfolded beneath his fingertips, slowly transmitting information to his brain that his eyes could never duplicate. He felt every change in texture, every imperfection, and soon his unerring hands found what they were looking for. A tiny lever, so small that only the most skilled would ever find it, rose up like a mountain beneath his eager fingers. He worked the tiny mechanism and was rewarded with a barely audible pop and a tiny gust of stale air, as the hidden lid of a small hidden compartment sprang open in the very center of the desk. The secret compartment was roughly six-inches wide and only half that in depth. It contained only one item, and its appearance made all the paintings and the bright light normal by comparison.
Grummok reached into Mevremas’s hidden cache, and removed a small, delicately carved figurine. The idol was carved of white jade and depicted a nude drow woman, with long flowing hair, and clutching a naked bastard sword. Grummok breath caught in his throat, he recognized the figure immediately. It was the goddess Eilistraee, patron of all drow who had turned away from the darkness and cruelty of Lolth and returned to the surface. The mere mention of her name was enough to ensure a slow and painful death, and those caught worshipping her were subjected to the most horrendous torments imaginable.
Grummok sat the figurine of Eilistraee down upon the desk and collapsed into one of the two high-backed guest chairs with a shudder. He cast a long and weary glance at the body of Mevremas Aleval and sighed deeply. “Oh Mevremas, what have you been up to?”
Last edited:
Ghostknight
First Post
Excellent stuff BlackDirge. Makes me want to copy you and start my own story thread instead of story hour based on a game.
Poor ol' Grummok- not nice to learn that all the neat little compartments just ain't that neat after all!
Poor ol' Grummok- not nice to learn that all the neat little compartments just ain't that neat after all!
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Ghostknight said:
Please, copy away.
There is always room on the boards for another good tale.
Thanks for reading
Dirge
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
pogre said:
Hey pogre,
Did you know that you have the very first reply on both my story hours? I just wanted to say thanks for getting the ball rolling, and sticking around after.
Dirge
pogre
Legend
BLACKDIRGE said:
I actually had no idea. I'm just a geeky fanboy who checks the Story Hour section of ENWorld 1st
[edit] Actually, I'm 2nd in Metamorphosis - only a fanboy like me would actually go check
[/edit]I'm working on a gargoyle miniature very much inspired by the fearless head of the assassin's guild! Your knowledge of the rules astounds me in the rogues' gallery, but your writing skill here is what really inspires. Thanks for your efforts once again!
Last edited:
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
pogre said:I actually had no idea. I'm just a geeky fanboy who checks the Story Hour section of ENWorld 1st
[edit] Actually, I'm 2nd in Metamorphosis - only a fanboy like me would actually go check
I'm working on a gargoyle miniature very much inspired by the fearless head of the assassin's guild! Your knowledge of the rules astounds me in the rogues' gallery, but your writing skill here is what really inspires. Thanks for your efforts once again!
Right you are (sorry Nifft), second on Metamorphosis. Oh well, I appreciate it anyway.
I can't wait to see that miniature. Will you post it here when it's finished?
Dirge
Similar Threads
