Your death is my greatest accomplishment.

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VII
Esquire
Posts: 10
Joined: Wed Nov 07, 2012 1:37 pm
Characters: Divolvir
Atreiyu
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conDracul
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Your death is my greatest accomplishment.

Post by VII »

He disposed of the bodies without incident, trusting the local wildlife to deal with the carcasses as nature had intended. Divolvir smoothed his alabaster hair back, violet eyes glancing at the scene around him. There was no reason to belief that more would come for him, however, the chances he did not take are what kept him alive and driving for his goal. He placed the bladed staff to his back, taking a moment to glance around himself. His mind worked with the idea of watching his foes fall, one by one, proving that psychologically, he was ahead of them. Yet, the proof of his superiority had yet to be determined. For the murder of his own House, he was labeled a traitor. Cursed forever to never return to the Underdark without a bounty on his head. It wasn’t so much the label of traitor that bothered him. It was more the fact that none had equated his skills to that of his imaginary foe, a Drow of great reknown, said to be the greatest swordsmen to have ever lived from Drow heritage. The very thought had him grinding his teeth. His head looked upward, and his legs coiled. It took only a moment but the wind was pressed hard against his face, the air acting like a blanket against his leap from the ground to the branches he once heralded.

The boots held the blessing of silence. Gifted with the power that no matter how hard he pressed, how loud he stomped, they would never make a sound. It didn’t prove helpful with his armor and other body parts, but it ensured that so long as he did not make unnecessary movements, his steps could make no sound. A gift, indeed.
He took a moment to glance around him, suddenly having the sensation that something waited for him. Watched him. Like a predator stalking prey in the wild Savannah’s of today, he felt as though he were being stalked. His elfish eyes could see nothing; his senses did not make him feel as though he was in any immediate danger. He gave himself a calming breath as his bare hands pressed against the trunk of the trunk. There were engravings of his fingers in the tree, and it was a simple thing for him to find. He pushed hard against the bark, and then slid the false door to the right. Now, the tree itself held a base of six meters in circumference, and could easily have allowed for a person to stand within it with arms and legs spread holding the sides. He had been busy in his time in the forest, carving himself a place to call his own for the time being.

He stepped forward onto a makeshift ledge, and turned to replace the door. As he turned, his eyes caught movement. He didn’t have the time necessary to react, with his mind so distracted with the previous thoughts. A boot kicked him straight in the chest, taking the air from his lungs and giving it back to the world. His back hit the back of the makeshift shaft and he fell four stories to an underground cavern, illuminated by torches and glowing stones. Even some fungi seemed give some sort of radiance. Not enough for the average human to see much of anything, but for his own kind it was an easily navigated cavern.

He hit the ground with his bladed staff bouncing next to him, coughing as he rolled to his feet, digging his palms into the moist dirt of the underneath. He heard boots hit the ground next to him, before he felt a kick to his stomach. He coughed loudly as the air was, again, forced from his lungs. His body rolled back to its back a foot or two away from where he had originally landed, and his eyes rose to meet his attacker.

There before him stood a Drow male, taller than himself at six foot, and broader in shoulders and armor. A scimitar in his right hand, a dagger in his left. His hood still blocked his features from sight, yet he could easily see the smug grin on the male’s face. He noticed a crossbow on the backside, bolts at his hip.

“Stand and fight, og’elend,” the male said, calling him a traitor. “I’ll not have my reward tarnished with you on your backside like a common woman.”

Divolvir stood to his feet, a hand rubbing his gut. The anger that was building, the adrenaline in his veins; the pain was quickly being forgotten. He glared daggers into the male’s soul, if he could’ve, and smirked lightly.

“You attack like a woman. I’ve been hit harder by children.” He tilted his head as he retrieved his bladed staff, twirling the hilt over the top of his hand, to catching it once more with his grip lower on the ground facing blade. He pointed the tip at the male, turning his head down and toward him. “To whom do I have the pleasure of killing tonight?”

“I am Weapons Master of the House of Duskryn, and you may call me Derzril.” He swung both sword and dagger, before his arms moved outward slowly and his body dipped his head. Divolvir nodded his head, setting the point of his bladed staff to the ground.

“And I am-“

“Yes, we all know who you are, Divolvir DeVir. Slaughtered your own House and Weapons Master, murdered your Matron,” he tsked as his stance grew wide, and only a second twirl of the weapons were done. Divolvir smiled darkly.

“Then the start of my point has already been made!” Divolvir cried out as he lifted his bladed staff, twisted his torso and then his body, rotated his wrists so that the staff could spin over the tops of each hand. When his body faced Derzril again, the staff was swung on a downward swipe from shoulder to hip. With his dagger parrying the swipe, Derzril’s sword swung upward. With the momentum of the parry, Divolvir advanced with a half-step, twisted the handle and swung the other blade to meet the strike. Derzril had only inches to spare from where the edge of the blade passed in front of him.

A strike resulted in a parry and counter, but the counter was then deflected and countered. The two exchanged martial blow for blow. Metal resonated in clangs throughout the cavern, as the two leapt here and dodged there, somersaulted over for advancement only to find a waiting defense at their feet. The time was growing to long for Divolvir, who was falling more and more into a part of himself he kept away. A lethal mindset, an unconscious battling that would’ve made him a berserker if he were of the height and strength. A minute passed before Divolvir made a choice.

A step backward had the desired affect; Derzril advanced with a scissoring swipe. Divolvir pressed each blade to his forearms, pushed forward on the hilt and twisted. As he did so, his legs coiled and released into a backflip. As he landed, he now held two swords in each hand, and they were swung from overhead to scissor and pin. The sword and dagger were scissored to the ground, bringing them shoulder to shoulder in a teeth-grinding battle of who would hold out longer. Sweat beaded the two’s brows, with Divolvir glancing between his own swords and Derzril. Derzril chortled once, shaking his head.

“I . . . I expected . . . more!” He said, before he used his shoulder to bump Divolvir back. Divolvir stepped back, removing his two swords from the ground. Derzril advanced forward, spinning his torso so that dagger and sword could come together on two different levels, and leave Divolvir in three pieces. The spin was quick, the aim was flawless. He had only one mistake.

Divolvir placed his foot behind him, slamming it as hard as he could. He threw his body forward with his blades against his forearms. He dived just over the swinging blades, a cry was heard, and he hit the ground into a roll, springing to his feet and spinning. Derzril dropped his scimitar, the dagger’s hilt pressed to the wound freshly opened over his right bicep. He turned too, wincing as he attempted to apply pressure. Divolvir glanced down at his leg, where blood had formed. He then noticed that the dagger had taken a slice out of his calf. He looked back at Derzril, and grinned devilishly.

“You were dead before you came here, Derzril. And now, my cavern will be your tomb.” He swung both scimitars, before the left was brought to be held in reverse, the right pointing at the ceiling. He put his weight on his back leg, spread his legs a bit and placed his right scimitar’s blade to his lefts near the hilt, and slide the blades together. He growled as his arms separated, both held in a position of stabbing at Derzril.

“Lolth will see your death, og’elend,” he replied, and pushed harder on the wound. He threw his arms to his side, and cried out. “I WILL SEE YOUR END!” He rushed forward, intent on driving that dagger straight to the heart. He was mindful, though. He knew there would be a deflection. He just didn’t see it coming.

Divolvir licked his teeth as he sprung forward. His left arm pushed the blade from him, utilizing the blade to ensure he would not be further wounded. As his left jerked, his torso and body spun. His right arm moved next, completing the spin with a slice at the neck. The scimitar is twirled through the air as he stands to the side, offering a profile. Derzril’s body stumbles forward before to the ground. Seconds later, his head lands next to the body, rolling a bit before settling next to the hips. Divolvir growled out his breathes as he took a step toward the lifeless, headless body of Derzril. He became quiet for a moment, simply staring.

He stared for what seemed like hours, before he knelt down behind the body, placed both blades to the ground, and rested his head against the hilts. For a moment, he knew a sense of peace and calm, a sense of Zen if you will. He uttered only one prayer for his fallen enemy.

Dosst elghinn zhah ussta zhennu xundus.”
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