An Assassin's Tale: The Return of Grummok - A taste of things to come =]
- Thread starter BLACKDIRGE
- Start date
Rikandur Azebol
First Post
We would slaughter anyone claiming that Blackdirge's stories aren't of the higest quality. I and my clones. 
Dear Co-Readers ... I'm really curious how Grummok would surviwe confrontation with Nysanna. I bet she'll attack when he'll be at his most vurnerable ... for example distracted by his student. Because I belive that gargoyle, given time to prepare would have upper hand against careless and desperate drideress. To belive in Llolth's promises ...
Dear Co-Readers ... I'm really curious how Grummok would surviwe confrontation with Nysanna. I bet she'll attack when he'll be at his most vurnerable ... for example distracted by his student. Because I belive that gargoyle, given time to prepare would have upper hand against careless and desperate drideress. To belive in Llolth's promises ...
Graywolf-ELM
Explorer
A few posts missing, but just to let you know we are still around.
GW
GW
recentcoin
Explorer
I always thought that gargoyles were just something to kill...I find that I'm quite intrigued by having one as the main character.
RC
RC
rathlighthands
First Post
Keep it coming
Keep it coming, this is a great stóry. I never thought of a gargoyle in such a role, but it is a great read.
Keep it coming, this is a great stóry. I never thought of a gargoyle in such a role, but it is a great read.
rathlighthands
First Post
Bump
Post an update now..... or or or or....... I will have to hire a gargoyle to track you down
Don`t forget us dude, this is a great story.
Post an update now..... or or or or....... I will have to hire a gargoyle to track you down
Don`t forget us dude, this is a great story.
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Update Time!
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Part IX
The private chambers of Matron Mother Kezekia Tormtor were not what Grummok expected. He certainly would not have been surprised by gross opulence, as most drow nobility considered garish audacity to be the height of style and statement. But the simple, almost Spartan stone chamber in the center of the vast Tormtor compound was certainly not what one would expect of the most powerful drow in Erelhei-Cinlu. The chamber was thirty feet square, and contained only a simple divan, a low wooden table with two chairs, two large chests, a stand for the Matron Mother’s armor, and a wall-mounted rack for her weapons.
There were no guards, no glyph-covered walls spelling out a dire, arcane warning to all who entered; there was not even a simple, mundane lock to be found on any of the Matron Mother’s possessions. Taken out of the lavish compound that contained it, Kezekia Tormtor’s personal chambers could belong to any common soldier or free laborer.
But Kezekia Tormtor was not without her treasures. A short hallway led from the Matron Mother’s personal chambers to what was likely one of the most complete arcane and theological libraries in the known world. This massive, high-ceilinged chamber was protected by a portcullis in the adjoining hallway, constructed of adamantine and brazenly scribed with no less than a dozen powerful wards and glyphs. It was here that Grummok was led, by Kezekia herself, once the Matron’s Mother’s party had reached the Tormtor compound.
The library, although huge, was as plain and workman-like as the Matron Mother’s chambers. The walls were covered in stout, stone bookshelves, each stuffed with every imaginable size and type of book or scroll. The top shelf was an easy thirty feet from the floor, and since there were no ladders, it was only assessable by those with the ability to reach such heights with magical or mundane flight. A single rough stone table with two low benches sat in the center of the library, dwarfed by the cyclopean size of the room. Beyond this, the library’s only notable feature was the two gigantic, iron statues of armed drow warriors that flanked the stone table. Each was ten feet tall and gripped a massive, and very real, adamantine short sword in one iron fist.
Grummok sat alone at the stone table, studying one of the iron statues from a respectable distance. He was quite certain that each statue was some kind of formidable automaton tasked with guarding the room, but he had no desire to awaken the dire golems, and sat quietly awaiting the return of his host. Kezekia had led him here, bade him to sit, and then had left without a word.
Although he still found them strange, Grummok had grown quite used to the eccentricities of drow nobility, and Matron Tormtor’s abrupt leave-taking did not worry him overmuch. Still, he was glad that his weapons were not confiscated, as was usual for those entering the presence of the Matron Mother, and one taloned hand crept down to the hilt of his dagger, the cold steel of the weapon as reassuring as anything in the chaotic drow city.
Grummok did not have to wait long for the Matron Mother’s return, and she entered the library from the adjoining hallway not more than fifteen minutes after leaving her guest, bearing a small silver ewer and two crystal goblets. In addition, a scabbarded, basket-hilted sword dangled from one hip, an odd weapon for the Matron Mother, as it was widely known that she favored the mace for up-close-and-personal work.
Kezekia Tormtor was dressed in the same garb she had worn at the Noquar compound: a hauberk and leggings of fine mithral links. The silvery metal composed a full suit of armor as hard as dragon scales, but as light as spider-silk. The Matron Mother was alone, unguarded, and unconcerned. Only a fool would attack her here, surrounded by the strength of her entire house.
Kezekia moved to the stone table where Grummok sat and placed the ewer and glasses on the table. She then unbelted the sword from around her waist and laid that upon the table as well. “Slyph nectar,” she named the contents of the ewer, and sat down opposite the gargoyle assassin.
Grummok raised one scaled brow in surprise at the mention of the slyph nectar. The slyph were an elusive race of subterranean fey, and any product made by their hands was rare indeed. Slyph nectar was reputed to be fermented lichen, although its sweetness and heady alcoholic content seem to refute that assertion. Grummok owned a small cask of the liquor himself, having accepted the incredibly expensive libation as payment on a contract.
“You did well with Henevra,” Matron Tormtor said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar and pouring herself and her guest a glass of the viscous, amber fluid.
“Thank you, mistress,” Grummok said, taking the offered glass of liquor. “She was far too volatile to leave alive, despite her considerable talents.”
“Yes, Lolth once favored that one, although the Spider Queen’s favor has been rather fickle of late,” Kezekia said, sipping thoughtfully at her own glass of slyph nectar. “But the control I now have over Nerrod and house Aleval is well worth the loss of Henevra. And for that, I have you to thank.”
“I am always pleased to serve you, Kezekia.” Grummok lifted his glass towards the Matron Mother and then downed the contents in a single large gulp.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Kezekia Tormtor smiled, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “But let it not be said that house Tormtor is niggardly with its servants.” She reached out and pushed the scabbarded sword on the table towards Grummok.
“For me?” Grummok asked, grasping the sword by the hilt and drawing the blade from the scabbard. It was a saber, a curved, single edged blade, with an enclosed basket hilt of the same silvery metal as the blade. The weapon was vaguely familiar, but before Grummok could chase down the elusive thread of memory, the room was suddenly filled with the torturous sound of metal grating on metal.
Both of the massive iron statues flanking the table suddenly turned toward Grummok, who was within easy reach of the giant automatons, and brought their massive weapons to bear upon the assassin.
Grummok vaulted from a sitting position into a graceful back flip, showering the golems with slyph nectar from his discarded glass as their blades came crashing down in the exact spot he had just vacated. The stone bench exploded in a shower of dust and fragments as the golem’s massive swords all but obliterated it. The assassin still had the Matron Mother’s gift in hand, and he struck out on reflex, aiming at one of the golem’s outstretched arms but knowing full well that even the best enchanted blades were all but useless against golems. To his surprise, the silvery metal passed through the construct’s limb without the slightest hint of resistance, and the severed member crashed to the ground with a clatter.
“Yvish!” Kezekia screamed, eyes wide with surprise, her voice carrying the unmistakable power of magic. The command word had an instantaneous effect, and the two golems ceased their attack and ponderously returned to their original position flanking the table.
Grummok tensed, awaiting another attack. He had been surprised by the golems, but if the Matron Mother had more in store for him, she would not find him an easy target. He raised the sword and stared hard at the drow noble.
Kezekia Tormtor suddenly began to chuckle. Not the mirthless cackle she reserved for her enemies, but a true laugh. Her face darkened, the effects of a flush on drow skin, and she covered her mouth like an embarrassed schoolgirl. “Oh, Grummok. I am so sorry,” She said, stifling a giggle. “You must realize that there was nothing intentional about that.”
Grummok’s just stared in mute confusion. He had always prided himself in the ability to spot a liar, but every bit of the Matron Mother’s body language said she was telling the truth.
“Truly, Grummok, I beg your forgiveness.” The Matron Mother stood and held out her arms, palms up in the drow sign for peaceful negotiation. “The golems have been ordered to attack anyone drawing a weapon in the library. And since you are the first guest I have had here in almost one-hundred and fifty years, I had simply forgotten.”
Grummok found himself smiling, and his heart rate, which had been thundering a scant moment ago, was returning to normal. “Ye gods, Kezekia!” He breathed out explosively. “I had already counted the chinks in your armor, and was deciding the best place to push a blade. It is not wise to jangle the nerves of a master assassin, my dear.”
“Chinks?” Kezekia said, and began looking down the length of her armored body. “Are you sure?”
Grummok walked the few paces back to the table, picked up the scabbard that still rested there and sheathed his new saber. “Of course I’m sure,” He said, wiping the stone fragments off of the only section of bench that remained and sitting down. “Six weak links above your left breast, three weak links below your right, two weak links just above your right knee, and a single weak link at the base of your throat. The last one would be an excellent spot for a crossbow bolt. You really should speak with your armorer.”
“All that in what…under five seconds?” Kezekia asked, the smile fading from her face. “Would you have killed me?”
“No, “ Grummok said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar, and taking a draught. “Killing you would lead the other Matron Mothers to believe that I had murdered Matrons Aleval and Noquar, and would unite them against me. Plus I am not even sure I could kill you. You are hardly defenseless.”
“I find myself forgetting that you are not drow,” Kezekia said. “Your mind is as complex and duplicitous as the most power-hungry noble.”
“One picks up a few thing here and there,” Grummok said, taking another sip from the ewer of slyph nectar. “Plus, I have had the advantage of watching and learning from one of the best.” He raised the ewer towards the Matron Mother.
“You flatter me, assassin,” Kezekia said, retrieving and raising her own glass. “Tell me, does the sword please you?”
Grummok lifted the sword from the table again, being very careful not to let the blade slip from its scabbard. “It is a beautiful weapon, and I know I have seen it before. I just cannot remember where.”
“You have seen it before,” the Matron Mother said, her voice suddenly somber. “It belonged to my son, Azakai.”
“Truly?” Grummok breathed. “This cannot be Bitterbite? I heard it was lost after Azakai’s…death.” Azakai had died by Grummok’s own hand, his death ordered by his mother for heresy against the church of Lolth. This is damned peculiar, Grummok thought. Rewarding me with her son’s own blade; what is she up to?
“Yes it was lost, but an agent of mine managed to recover it a few years ago.” Kezekia leaned over the table and stared directly into the gargoyle’s eyes. “Believe me when I say, I bear you no ill will for Azakai’s demise. It was Lolth’s will.”
There was a hitch in the Matron Mother’s voice when she spoke her son’s name aloud, heralding something Grummok had rarely encountered in a drow noble: grief.
“He was a fine weapon master, my lady,” Grummok said, setting the sword back upon the table.
“The finest,” she replied. “There was no one in the city that could best with a blade.” There was pride in the Matron Mother’s voice, and she looked away from Grummok as she spoke. “At least, when he was sober.”
“He fought like a demon when we came for him, despite his inebriation,” Grummok said. “I have no doubt he would have slain us all if he had had his wits about him.”
Grummok remembered Azakai’s death clearly. He had hired a group of orcs and a powerful bugbear named Thagmot to help him slay the weapon master. The orcs and the bugbear were meant to simply occupy Azakai so that Grummok could get into position for the killing blow. They had confronted the drow weapon master at his favorite drinking hole, well after he was good and drunk. The assassination was not one of Grummok’s smoothest, and Azakai still managed to slay all of the orcs and severely wound the bugbear before the gargoyle put a dagger through his eye.
“I pleaded with the goddess for a fortnight, begging her to spare his life,” Kezekia whispered. Her face had lost some if its youthful vigor, and she appeared simply tired and world-weary. “But she would not listen.”
“But he was only a male,” Grummok said, tossing out a barb he knew was sure to land.
“No, he was more than that,” She said. “He was beautiful, intelligent, and so very skilled. I have never felt anything for any of my offspring, but he, he was different. I was proud of him.” The last words came out choked and Grummok could see tears welling up in the Matron Mother’s eyes.
“Why do you tell me this, Matron?” Grummok asked, knowing that Kezekia was inviting the Spider Queen’s wrath with her grief. Lolth forbade such emotions, especially among her priestesses.
“It does not matter.” Kezekia answered suddenly, wiping her eyes with the back of one mailed sleeve. The vulnerability fell from her face and was instantly replaced by the stoic mask of the Matron Mother. “What did you find at the Aleval compound?”
Grummok decided not to press the Matron Mother and reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the statuette of Eilistraee. He placed the small ebony figure upon the table. “I found this.”
Kezekia sucked in a breath, here eyes wide with shock and terror. “You dare bring this…abomination into my house?” She hissed. “Do you know what the penalty is for owning such a thing?”
“Death, slow and torturous,” Grummok replied calmly. “I know it quite well. And I am sure Matron Aleval knew it as well, for this depiction of Eilis…
“DO NOT SPEAK HER NAME!” Kezekia broke in thunderously. “Do you wish to bring the handmaidens of Lolth swarming down upon us?!”
“My apologies, Matron Mother,” Grummok said, bowing his head. “But we must speak of this. It is almost assuredly the reason for Matron Aleval’s death.”
“Put it away then,” Kezekia said, the rancor in her voice fading. “It is painful to look upon.”
Painful because you fear its implications, my dear Matron Mother, Grummok thought acidly. “Of course,” he said, and returned the statuette to his pouch.
“So, Matron Aleval was a worshipper of the false one.” Kezekia said, naming Eilistraee as she was known among Lolth-worshiping drow. “Then the reason for her death is clear.”
“Yes, but I find it odd that none in her house had any knowledge of her illicit faith,” Grummok said. “And there was much more in her chambers that made it very clear that the Matron Mother had many improper tastes and interests for a ruling member of Erelhei-Cinlu.”
“I will request that a cadre of the Sisters of Eight be sent to house Aleval. They will root out any other worshippers of the false one.”
Grummok shuddered inwardly at the mention of the fanatical group of priestesses tasked with routing out forbidden faiths. They operated independently of the ruling Matron Mothers by command of the Spider Queen herself, and were feared by all.
“I am sure Nerrod will give his full cooperation to the Sisters of Eight,” Grummok said.
“He’d better. Not even I can protect him from their wrath,” Kezekia said flatly.
“So, the crimes of our two slain Matron Mothers have been laid before us,” Grummok said. “Heresy for Matron Aleval, and improper affection for Matron Noquar.”
“Then you believe the murders will stop? Lolth having punished the guilty.”
“No,” Grummok replied, his eyes finding and holding the Matron mother’s own. “You are their next target.”
“What? Me?” The Matron Mother asked incredulously. “What is my crime?”
“Grief for your lost son,” Grummok answered. “Your crime is the same as Matron Noquar’s.”
Kezekia stared silently, her mouth an impassive line. There was no denying her guilt; she had laid her emotions bare for Grummok to see.
“You are right, assassin. I grieved for my son. I still grieve for him.” The Matron Mother stood and stared down at the master assassin sitting across from her.
“Then Lolth’s assassin will come for you, and soon,” Grummok said.
“I cannot avoid it, and I cannot escape this grief that claws at my soul each day,” Kezekia said, her mouth quivering. “How can it be wrong to grieve for your own child?” She pleaded. “He could have been a great servant of Lolth, if she would have spared him.”
“There is not mercy in the Spider Queen. No compassion or sympathy. You know this. You have known it all your life.” Grummok stood and watched the carefully constructed mask Kezekia had worn all her life crumble away, revealing the centuries old pain beneath.
“ I have not had Lolth’s blessing for some time now,” Kezekia said, her whole body trembling with emotions long contained. “The Spider Queen has surely abandoned me, and when the assassin comes, I will be left defenseless. For who will stand with a broken priestess without the power to summon a simple orison?”
Grummok stared silently as the Matron Mother, watching her pain unfurl like a great pair of wings, finally unbound after being held immobile for so long. Her face reminded him of Hek’s, pain-stricken as it was. The human’s face had not looked so different on the night he had bled out his life on the cold floor of Grummok’s trophy room. She is nothing to me, he thought, knowing it to be a lie. There was a heat within him now, a lone spark in the cold emptiness of his assassin’s soul. And what Kezekia Tormtor truly meant to him didn’t matter, because he felt something for another living creature for the first time in decades.
Like the frost melting away in the spring thaw, Grummok felt compassion gnawing at the hardened integument of his heart and mind. It clawed and scraped against the withered husk of his soul, and finally, after decades of his own struggles with loss and grief, found purchase.
Grummok walked slowly over to the Matron Mother, and to her credit she did not shrink away, even though she expected his bestial, horned visage to be the last things she saw in this world. She did not even struggle when he took her hand, cradling it gently in his own taloned digits. Grummok looked into the Matron Mother’s eyes, letting her grief and pain wash over him, letting her emotions kindle and fan the flames of his own.
“I will stand with you.”
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Part IX
The private chambers of Matron Mother Kezekia Tormtor were not what Grummok expected. He certainly would not have been surprised by gross opulence, as most drow nobility considered garish audacity to be the height of style and statement. But the simple, almost Spartan stone chamber in the center of the vast Tormtor compound was certainly not what one would expect of the most powerful drow in Erelhei-Cinlu. The chamber was thirty feet square, and contained only a simple divan, a low wooden table with two chairs, two large chests, a stand for the Matron Mother’s armor, and a wall-mounted rack for her weapons.
There were no guards, no glyph-covered walls spelling out a dire, arcane warning to all who entered; there was not even a simple, mundane lock to be found on any of the Matron Mother’s possessions. Taken out of the lavish compound that contained it, Kezekia Tormtor’s personal chambers could belong to any common soldier or free laborer.
But Kezekia Tormtor was not without her treasures. A short hallway led from the Matron Mother’s personal chambers to what was likely one of the most complete arcane and theological libraries in the known world. This massive, high-ceilinged chamber was protected by a portcullis in the adjoining hallway, constructed of adamantine and brazenly scribed with no less than a dozen powerful wards and glyphs. It was here that Grummok was led, by Kezekia herself, once the Matron’s Mother’s party had reached the Tormtor compound.
The library, although huge, was as plain and workman-like as the Matron Mother’s chambers. The walls were covered in stout, stone bookshelves, each stuffed with every imaginable size and type of book or scroll. The top shelf was an easy thirty feet from the floor, and since there were no ladders, it was only assessable by those with the ability to reach such heights with magical or mundane flight. A single rough stone table with two low benches sat in the center of the library, dwarfed by the cyclopean size of the room. Beyond this, the library’s only notable feature was the two gigantic, iron statues of armed drow warriors that flanked the stone table. Each was ten feet tall and gripped a massive, and very real, adamantine short sword in one iron fist.
Grummok sat alone at the stone table, studying one of the iron statues from a respectable distance. He was quite certain that each statue was some kind of formidable automaton tasked with guarding the room, but he had no desire to awaken the dire golems, and sat quietly awaiting the return of his host. Kezekia had led him here, bade him to sit, and then had left without a word.
Although he still found them strange, Grummok had grown quite used to the eccentricities of drow nobility, and Matron Tormtor’s abrupt leave-taking did not worry him overmuch. Still, he was glad that his weapons were not confiscated, as was usual for those entering the presence of the Matron Mother, and one taloned hand crept down to the hilt of his dagger, the cold steel of the weapon as reassuring as anything in the chaotic drow city.
Grummok did not have to wait long for the Matron Mother’s return, and she entered the library from the adjoining hallway not more than fifteen minutes after leaving her guest, bearing a small silver ewer and two crystal goblets. In addition, a scabbarded, basket-hilted sword dangled from one hip, an odd weapon for the Matron Mother, as it was widely known that she favored the mace for up-close-and-personal work.
Kezekia Tormtor was dressed in the same garb she had worn at the Noquar compound: a hauberk and leggings of fine mithral links. The silvery metal composed a full suit of armor as hard as dragon scales, but as light as spider-silk. The Matron Mother was alone, unguarded, and unconcerned. Only a fool would attack her here, surrounded by the strength of her entire house.
Kezekia moved to the stone table where Grummok sat and placed the ewer and glasses on the table. She then unbelted the sword from around her waist and laid that upon the table as well. “Slyph nectar,” she named the contents of the ewer, and sat down opposite the gargoyle assassin.
Grummok raised one scaled brow in surprise at the mention of the slyph nectar. The slyph were an elusive race of subterranean fey, and any product made by their hands was rare indeed. Slyph nectar was reputed to be fermented lichen, although its sweetness and heady alcoholic content seem to refute that assertion. Grummok owned a small cask of the liquor himself, having accepted the incredibly expensive libation as payment on a contract.
“You did well with Henevra,” Matron Tormtor said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar and pouring herself and her guest a glass of the viscous, amber fluid.
“Thank you, mistress,” Grummok said, taking the offered glass of liquor. “She was far too volatile to leave alive, despite her considerable talents.”
“Yes, Lolth once favored that one, although the Spider Queen’s favor has been rather fickle of late,” Kezekia said, sipping thoughtfully at her own glass of slyph nectar. “But the control I now have over Nerrod and house Aleval is well worth the loss of Henevra. And for that, I have you to thank.”
“I am always pleased to serve you, Kezekia.” Grummok lifted his glass towards the Matron Mother and then downed the contents in a single large gulp.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Kezekia Tormtor smiled, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “But let it not be said that house Tormtor is niggardly with its servants.” She reached out and pushed the scabbarded sword on the table towards Grummok.
“For me?” Grummok asked, grasping the sword by the hilt and drawing the blade from the scabbard. It was a saber, a curved, single edged blade, with an enclosed basket hilt of the same silvery metal as the blade. The weapon was vaguely familiar, but before Grummok could chase down the elusive thread of memory, the room was suddenly filled with the torturous sound of metal grating on metal.
Both of the massive iron statues flanking the table suddenly turned toward Grummok, who was within easy reach of the giant automatons, and brought their massive weapons to bear upon the assassin.
Grummok vaulted from a sitting position into a graceful back flip, showering the golems with slyph nectar from his discarded glass as their blades came crashing down in the exact spot he had just vacated. The stone bench exploded in a shower of dust and fragments as the golem’s massive swords all but obliterated it. The assassin still had the Matron Mother’s gift in hand, and he struck out on reflex, aiming at one of the golem’s outstretched arms but knowing full well that even the best enchanted blades were all but useless against golems. To his surprise, the silvery metal passed through the construct’s limb without the slightest hint of resistance, and the severed member crashed to the ground with a clatter.
“Yvish!” Kezekia screamed, eyes wide with surprise, her voice carrying the unmistakable power of magic. The command word had an instantaneous effect, and the two golems ceased their attack and ponderously returned to their original position flanking the table.
Grummok tensed, awaiting another attack. He had been surprised by the golems, but if the Matron Mother had more in store for him, she would not find him an easy target. He raised the sword and stared hard at the drow noble.
Kezekia Tormtor suddenly began to chuckle. Not the mirthless cackle she reserved for her enemies, but a true laugh. Her face darkened, the effects of a flush on drow skin, and she covered her mouth like an embarrassed schoolgirl. “Oh, Grummok. I am so sorry,” She said, stifling a giggle. “You must realize that there was nothing intentional about that.”
Grummok’s just stared in mute confusion. He had always prided himself in the ability to spot a liar, but every bit of the Matron Mother’s body language said she was telling the truth.
“Truly, Grummok, I beg your forgiveness.” The Matron Mother stood and held out her arms, palms up in the drow sign for peaceful negotiation. “The golems have been ordered to attack anyone drawing a weapon in the library. And since you are the first guest I have had here in almost one-hundred and fifty years, I had simply forgotten.”
Grummok found himself smiling, and his heart rate, which had been thundering a scant moment ago, was returning to normal. “Ye gods, Kezekia!” He breathed out explosively. “I had already counted the chinks in your armor, and was deciding the best place to push a blade. It is not wise to jangle the nerves of a master assassin, my dear.”
“Chinks?” Kezekia said, and began looking down the length of her armored body. “Are you sure?”
Grummok walked the few paces back to the table, picked up the scabbard that still rested there and sheathed his new saber. “Of course I’m sure,” He said, wiping the stone fragments off of the only section of bench that remained and sitting down. “Six weak links above your left breast, three weak links below your right, two weak links just above your right knee, and a single weak link at the base of your throat. The last one would be an excellent spot for a crossbow bolt. You really should speak with your armorer.”
“All that in what…under five seconds?” Kezekia asked, the smile fading from her face. “Would you have killed me?”
“No, “ Grummok said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar, and taking a draught. “Killing you would lead the other Matron Mothers to believe that I had murdered Matrons Aleval and Noquar, and would unite them against me. Plus I am not even sure I could kill you. You are hardly defenseless.”
“I find myself forgetting that you are not drow,” Kezekia said. “Your mind is as complex and duplicitous as the most power-hungry noble.”
“One picks up a few thing here and there,” Grummok said, taking another sip from the ewer of slyph nectar. “Plus, I have had the advantage of watching and learning from one of the best.” He raised the ewer towards the Matron Mother.
“You flatter me, assassin,” Kezekia said, retrieving and raising her own glass. “Tell me, does the sword please you?”
Grummok lifted the sword from the table again, being very careful not to let the blade slip from its scabbard. “It is a beautiful weapon, and I know I have seen it before. I just cannot remember where.”
“You have seen it before,” the Matron Mother said, her voice suddenly somber. “It belonged to my son, Azakai.”
“Truly?” Grummok breathed. “This cannot be Bitterbite? I heard it was lost after Azakai’s…death.” Azakai had died by Grummok’s own hand, his death ordered by his mother for heresy against the church of Lolth. This is damned peculiar, Grummok thought. Rewarding me with her son’s own blade; what is she up to?
“Yes it was lost, but an agent of mine managed to recover it a few years ago.” Kezekia leaned over the table and stared directly into the gargoyle’s eyes. “Believe me when I say, I bear you no ill will for Azakai’s demise. It was Lolth’s will.”
There was a hitch in the Matron Mother’s voice when she spoke her son’s name aloud, heralding something Grummok had rarely encountered in a drow noble: grief.
“He was a fine weapon master, my lady,” Grummok said, setting the sword back upon the table.
“The finest,” she replied. “There was no one in the city that could best with a blade.” There was pride in the Matron Mother’s voice, and she looked away from Grummok as she spoke. “At least, when he was sober.”
“He fought like a demon when we came for him, despite his inebriation,” Grummok said. “I have no doubt he would have slain us all if he had had his wits about him.”
Grummok remembered Azakai’s death clearly. He had hired a group of orcs and a powerful bugbear named Thagmot to help him slay the weapon master. The orcs and the bugbear were meant to simply occupy Azakai so that Grummok could get into position for the killing blow. They had confronted the drow weapon master at his favorite drinking hole, well after he was good and drunk. The assassination was not one of Grummok’s smoothest, and Azakai still managed to slay all of the orcs and severely wound the bugbear before the gargoyle put a dagger through his eye.
“I pleaded with the goddess for a fortnight, begging her to spare his life,” Kezekia whispered. Her face had lost some if its youthful vigor, and she appeared simply tired and world-weary. “But she would not listen.”
“But he was only a male,” Grummok said, tossing out a barb he knew was sure to land.
“No, he was more than that,” She said. “He was beautiful, intelligent, and so very skilled. I have never felt anything for any of my offspring, but he, he was different. I was proud of him.” The last words came out choked and Grummok could see tears welling up in the Matron Mother’s eyes.
“Why do you tell me this, Matron?” Grummok asked, knowing that Kezekia was inviting the Spider Queen’s wrath with her grief. Lolth forbade such emotions, especially among her priestesses.
“It does not matter.” Kezekia answered suddenly, wiping her eyes with the back of one mailed sleeve. The vulnerability fell from her face and was instantly replaced by the stoic mask of the Matron Mother. “What did you find at the Aleval compound?”
Grummok decided not to press the Matron Mother and reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the statuette of Eilistraee. He placed the small ebony figure upon the table. “I found this.”
Kezekia sucked in a breath, here eyes wide with shock and terror. “You dare bring this…abomination into my house?” She hissed. “Do you know what the penalty is for owning such a thing?”
“Death, slow and torturous,” Grummok replied calmly. “I know it quite well. And I am sure Matron Aleval knew it as well, for this depiction of Eilis…
“DO NOT SPEAK HER NAME!” Kezekia broke in thunderously. “Do you wish to bring the handmaidens of Lolth swarming down upon us?!”
“My apologies, Matron Mother,” Grummok said, bowing his head. “But we must speak of this. It is almost assuredly the reason for Matron Aleval’s death.”
“Put it away then,” Kezekia said, the rancor in her voice fading. “It is painful to look upon.”
Painful because you fear its implications, my dear Matron Mother, Grummok thought acidly. “Of course,” he said, and returned the statuette to his pouch.
“So, Matron Aleval was a worshipper of the false one.” Kezekia said, naming Eilistraee as she was known among Lolth-worshiping drow. “Then the reason for her death is clear.”
“Yes, but I find it odd that none in her house had any knowledge of her illicit faith,” Grummok said. “And there was much more in her chambers that made it very clear that the Matron Mother had many improper tastes and interests for a ruling member of Erelhei-Cinlu.”
“I will request that a cadre of the Sisters of Eight be sent to house Aleval. They will root out any other worshippers of the false one.”
Grummok shuddered inwardly at the mention of the fanatical group of priestesses tasked with routing out forbidden faiths. They operated independently of the ruling Matron Mothers by command of the Spider Queen herself, and were feared by all.
“I am sure Nerrod will give his full cooperation to the Sisters of Eight,” Grummok said.
“He’d better. Not even I can protect him from their wrath,” Kezekia said flatly.
“So, the crimes of our two slain Matron Mothers have been laid before us,” Grummok said. “Heresy for Matron Aleval, and improper affection for Matron Noquar.”
“Then you believe the murders will stop? Lolth having punished the guilty.”
“No,” Grummok replied, his eyes finding and holding the Matron mother’s own. “You are their next target.”
“What? Me?” The Matron Mother asked incredulously. “What is my crime?”
“Grief for your lost son,” Grummok answered. “Your crime is the same as Matron Noquar’s.”
Kezekia stared silently, her mouth an impassive line. There was no denying her guilt; she had laid her emotions bare for Grummok to see.
“You are right, assassin. I grieved for my son. I still grieve for him.” The Matron Mother stood and stared down at the master assassin sitting across from her.
“Then Lolth’s assassin will come for you, and soon,” Grummok said.
“I cannot avoid it, and I cannot escape this grief that claws at my soul each day,” Kezekia said, her mouth quivering. “How can it be wrong to grieve for your own child?” She pleaded. “He could have been a great servant of Lolth, if she would have spared him.”
“There is not mercy in the Spider Queen. No compassion or sympathy. You know this. You have known it all your life.” Grummok stood and watched the carefully constructed mask Kezekia had worn all her life crumble away, revealing the centuries old pain beneath.
“ I have not had Lolth’s blessing for some time now,” Kezekia said, her whole body trembling with emotions long contained. “The Spider Queen has surely abandoned me, and when the assassin comes, I will be left defenseless. For who will stand with a broken priestess without the power to summon a simple orison?”
Grummok stared silently as the Matron Mother, watching her pain unfurl like a great pair of wings, finally unbound after being held immobile for so long. Her face reminded him of Hek’s, pain-stricken as it was. The human’s face had not looked so different on the night he had bled out his life on the cold floor of Grummok’s trophy room. She is nothing to me, he thought, knowing it to be a lie. There was a heat within him now, a lone spark in the cold emptiness of his assassin’s soul. And what Kezekia Tormtor truly meant to him didn’t matter, because he felt something for another living creature for the first time in decades.
Like the frost melting away in the spring thaw, Grummok felt compassion gnawing at the hardened integument of his heart and mind. It clawed and scraped against the withered husk of his soul, and finally, after decades of his own struggles with loss and grief, found purchase.
Grummok walked slowly over to the Matron Mother, and to her credit she did not shrink away, even though she expected his bestial, horned visage to be the last things she saw in this world. She did not even struggle when he took her hand, cradling it gently in his own taloned digits. Grummok looked into the Matron Mother’s eyes, letting her grief and pain wash over him, letting her emotions kindle and fan the flames of his own.
“I will stand with you.”
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
javcs said:
I don't know about love. I don't think creature's like Grummok or Kezekia are capable of that kind of emotion. But it would give me an excuse to make a half-gargoyle template.
I'm working on Metamorphosis. It will get the next update.
BD
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