Divolvir Must Die . . .

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VII
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Divolvir Must Die . . .

Post by VII »

A single boot rested the weight of his body on it; toe first, and then the heel of a boot made from some gleaming black material. The Drow pressed his bare fingers to the bark of the massive branch, a silky cloak resting around him as though it were a pool of darkness. Classic features are his to own: Alabaster hair that fell beyond his shoulders, eyes of brilliant purple that shown the scene below him. Seven assassins, Drow like himself, moved through the growth of forest as if it were a flat land. Swords, bows, knives and hand-crossbows held at the ready. They spoke not a word, instead communicating through a special sign language that only the Drow knew. A small smirk pulled back the corner of his lips, showing bright white teeth that knew nothing of decay or coloring. He could remember the days when he communicated in the same, giving details and descriptions of the creatures he helped to enslave.

They would stop to make came here, being that it was the most secure location they could find. Amateurs. They sent amateurs after him. Now his teeth ground and he moved with a silence only a cat could hold. The boots gave him the perfect cover, masking all of the sound he could make by stepping. From the branch he stood upon, he took a single step and his legs coiled; Thirty feet was covered in a single leap, the cloak whipping to and fro yet no sound was made. Against the moonlight, he was nothing but a dark blight on the perfect fullness.

One branch to another, and it was his home. In the Elgar forest, the ropey vines were perfect to enact his mark on the people whom hunted. He stood fully at five foot seven, hair tossed by the wind. He was lucky to know enough to never bath with scented materials, to always be one with his surroundings. The natural cloak of his people, the additional scouting garb he held; He was made to get in and out without ever being detected. There was no reason to put a blemish on his record now. Two of the seven remained awake, eyes that could see in the darkness watching in full one hundred and eighty degree intervals. They passed to and fro, constantly watching their allies and selves – Perhaps; they were not as amateur as he was lead to believe. Still, an example must be made of them. He walked slowly toward the carcass of a wolf that he had bolted to the trunk of the tree he now rested upon. It had not been an easy kill to manage, but something that was necessary. With a hand reaching forward, he removed the bolt from its place and hoisted the carcass to his shoulders. He’d walk to the edge of the branch, and look over the side. Five bodies laid in an oval pattern, spaced perfectly to allow movement to grab weapons and armor at a moment’s notice.

Both sentries walked with a pace that was determined and purposeful. Discipline was their highest regard, and they wielded it as easily as they did the hand crossbows they held. The five bodies that slept would rest without worry, for not one thing would happen on their watch.

A loud thud landed in the middle of the circle, causing all to jump to their feet that had once been sleeping, the sentries turned and instantly fired at the first target they could think of. The short bolts pierced either one in the chest, a resonating groan as both stared at each other in disbelieve, their bodies slowly losing the life they had been given. One had a bolt piercing his right breast, just shy of the heart. The other held a bolt through the collarbone, blood spurting from the wound. Their bodies fell to the ground slowly, as the group only looked at the carcass of a grey wolf, wounded through the flank, yet dead for several hours. The wound was by a bolt, however it was unidentifiable. They were gathering their armor in minutes, clasping the proper straps, and fastening the proper fasts.

“We know it came from above, so he has been hiding in the trees,” one slimmer Drow stated, notching his bow with a wicked looking arrow. “That is why he has left no tracks to follow, and no areas that he may have slept. Smart traitor, yes?”

“Cut it out, we have been paid to do a job and we will do so.” A female chimed in, unsheathing a scimitar from her back that looked as though it would cleave a horse in two. She admired her blade with a sort of desire that should not be trafficked. The remaining three were silent, though they armed themselves with daggers and swords. They each would turn their backs for a moment, their eyes scanning the outward area. It was one thing to set a trap from above, but the other to move and assault them from open area. With their darkvision, the Drow assembly of five, formally seven, began to step back toward one another in the attempt of providing a faux-phalanx shielding.

Divolvir gripped both swords in by their hilt. Hilts much too large to be for the purpose of swords. But how he wielded them, twirled them within his palm and fingers; The Drow was an expert with these weapons. Foot and a half’s length worth of hilt, as though they were broadswords, and yet the blades only reached four feet in length. Unlike most Drow weaponry, these were not curved in any way, the blades themselves straight with an edge that would make a falling leaf simply split. With another twirl, his hands collided, the blades’ against his forearms with the hilts joining. He pressed hard against the hilts, one to the other, and twisted. A mechanism special to these weapons locked, and what he now held was a double bladed staff. The engravings of the hilt and first half-foot of the blades held glyphs and carvings of the Drow language. A translation could not be managed at this point; however, the smudging’s of the glyphs seemed more to be the reason for such a lack of translation. He grinned at once, glancing over the edge at the group assembled before him. One of them had deduced he was in the trees, but the others dismissed the notion. It wouldn’t be rational to remain in the same place, especially being a Drow. No, he had to distract them and attack from the ground now. They’d get their wish. Divolvir took a single step forward, twirling the double-bladed staff from one hand to the other, and the blades longer than his own body. To the earth he fell, his left hand lifting to call forth an impenetrable blanket of darkness upon the area. The moment the fog of black rose from the ground, his body dropped amongst them.

“He’s here! He’s here!” yelled the female, pressing her back to what she assumed was her ally.

“Everyone stays close!” called a male voice, his body twirling his daggers in hand. He licked his lips and teeth, preparing for a bloodshed that would prove honor to his Matriarch.

“Nobody moves unless they have definite eyes on him,” spoke another male voice, though this one seemed . . . out of place.

The group grew quiet, and for a time that seemed eternal, there were no sounds. Only the tapping of fingers to initiate a sort of Morse-code amongst themselves. Divolvir only shook his head as his left palm accepted the code and knowledge, the right held the bladed staff to his side. The silence would be broken with a simple cry of battle, and a phrase that he had often heard yet never experienced firsthand.

“On my right, attack!” The most fool hearty thing ever spoken. Now there were the sounds of slicing and cries of pain, and the feeling of wetness on the face for all of them. The sounds of heaviness hit the ground, the sound of armor clanking against slicing motions heard.

The lone female Drow breathed heavy as she stepped away from the circle. Her forearm had been sliced, but it was nothing to affect her ability. She held the stance of a warrior, her massive scimitar held before her in a test of steel against steel.

His left hand closed quickly, releasing the blanket of impenetrable darkness from the area. Divolvir’s eyes rested upon the lone female, twirling the double-bladed staff over his hand, around his body; an intimidation tactic. What lay at the female’s feet was her allies, two had been cut down by her own blade, though the others had tried to take each other’s lives, mistaking them for him. Divolvir paced around her, half-circling her as a shark would in the waters. He trapped her in this area, forced her to assault her own as he had the others. His eyes drank of her stance and posture; that smirk upon his features one of years of confidence and tried-and-true tactics. Panic was the greatest weapon in warfare.

“You’ve fought well tonight, woman,” he finally spoke, a voice that was baritone, and dripping with a lethal venom, “But now is the close to our game. You have a choice to make here, Drow. You may return to the Underdark and deliver a message of grief and threat; or, you may stay and die.

“The choice is yours to make, but trust my words when I state them simply,” he began, pointing one end of the blades toward her. “If you remain here, you will die, and my blades will be your only lover in life.” The insinuation was there, placed at her feet to be chosen as far as was possible.

“You know I cannot simply leave and be able to return. They will kill me unless I bring your head,” she spoke. Now, the confidence had returned. She twirled the massive scimitar in her hands, advancing forward. Divolvir could only shake his head.

“Wrong choice.”

She swung wildly as Divolvir dropped to a defensive stance, the bladed staff held at the height of the hilts. One edge swung around and deflected scimitar, the other was made to swat her exposed backside with the blunt of the blade. She stumbled forward, turning quickly and raising the scimitar so that its hilt was at eye level, and the blade pointed directly onto Divolvir. He twirled the blade within his two hands, grinning in such a devilish manner now.
“Very good! But you advance without options, you swing wild like a boar,” he began as she came forward again. She cried out and took a step forward, swinging the scimitar in a diagonal motion. Divolvir spun the bladed staff once, twisting his torso into a spin. One edge deflected the swipe, but the other edge swung low and took her ankles. One swipe had her airborne; when the spin of his staff completes, he drives home the edge. It slices through her armor, straight through the stomach. He lowers his body into a kneel, both hands used to take the armor for what it was – Paper against scissors. His blade pins her to the ground. The scimitar has been dropped, both of her gloved hands grip the hilt at her stomach. He’s buried the weapon as far as he possibly can into her, and the blood has begun to flow. She coughed when she hit the floor, coughing blood onto herself and the weapon.
Divolvir took a deep breath as he stood and took a few steps from her.

“You are good, but not that good. I am sorry it came to this,” he began as he spun around to face her body, fingers curled so tightly into fists that the palm was beginning to bleed.

“Your People believe I enjoy this; that taking your lives was a pleasure for me. You are far from the truth,” he took a few steps forward and ground his teeth. Tears threatened his violet eyes, as alabaster hair framed his shoulders.

“Die with the peace of mind that I find no pleasure in your deaths. I am on a quest for greatest swordsmen of the Drow, and his life will be mine to take. I am twice the warrior he will ever be, and I will prove it.”

“T-then why?” The female gasped, now attempting to understand. Divolvir growled lightly.

“Because the Drow way of life is wrong. We are not about any race placed on this world. Lolth is a forsaken deity, and not worth mentioning. There are so many others that glorify life and prosperity. We will only destroy ourselves in future generations.” He knelt at the female’s side, and his hands drew to the weapon buried in her gullet.

“Find peace, warrior,” he whispered, as his hands drew the weapon from her in a jerk. He stood slowly and spun the weapon, pressing one bladed edge to his forearm, the other to meet just shy of the earth beneath him. He glanced down with violet eyes, and a tear would fall from him. When the blade was pulled from her, her body jerked and spurted blood even further; her cry went unanswered as her hands covered the wound. The blood was dark, though. She had but minutes to live.

“D-Drow . . D-Drache . .,” she sputtered, before the life fled from her. His eyes went wide and he was upon her, the bladed point to her throat as his teeth gritted.

“Where? WHERE?!” He cried out. All to no avail. He plunged the blade anyway, a lifeless body jerking from the force. He removed the blade and spun it to his forearm once more, a left hand pushing his pale strands behind his pointed ears. He brought that left hand to a fist, and the knuckles of that fist to his teeth. He bit down harsh, and breathed a stuttering air from him. A deep breath, and his left hand went to his side, and the calculative killer had returned.

“So, Drache is my destination. . . “
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