Topic: L' Vaen Dalharil d'Quellar Do'Tlar

Greylin

Date: 2009-07-08 18:16 EST
Noamuth Karilth

It was time for the final lesson, the last removal of innocence from the young ones of the House. All others had been learnt and upheld by the children of the House, male and female alike. The daughters were, of course, the favoured ones; the sons, merely tolerated for their blood. But this youngest female, this one her mother had named Greylin - the pale commander - with her dying breath, she had proven to be defiant to the ways of Lolth and her people.

Not only was her manner and form less than what it should be, but she was marked as unusual by view of her appearance. Amber eyes shone brightly from her ebony dark face, where her sisters held the more commonly found blood-red hue. This should have led to her death, but for the sheen of her hair. No pale white, no glorious sheen of red or black or emerald, no ....this child bore the silver-white of a favoured soul. And it was this sign that had protected her from death at birth. Born of her mother's blood, Greylin dril' Vaseyl was an uncompromising mix of favour and disfavour, and already a confusion and burden before her fifth year had come.

She learned well the lessons set before her; she understood in her child's way the teachings of Lolth and the ways of their people. Even at her tender age, she knew her position as a female of the House Do'Tlar, what was expected of her. With the mark of favour, it was expected that she should rise swiftly through the ranks of clerics once her training was done, albeit in many years' time. Perhaps she might even become the Matron Mother of this beleaguered House, with it's many enemies and weakened position in the strife-torn city of Eryndlyn, where the followers of Lolth, Ghaunadaur and Vhaeraun struggled with one another for dominance. But that was a future that could not be guaranteed, not until she was made aware of her true place ....the youngest and last, the least extraordinary of her House.

The blade was set into the child's hand. Small fingers clasped about the hilt, amber eyes studying the finely wrought piece in curious appreciation for the dagger given to her for this one moment in time. Then those eyes turned towards the doors, where a kobold, battered and bruise, sat chained to the wall, regarding her with wary eyes. It knew what was coming, just as she did. It had been a favoured pet to the child Greylin ....too favoured, for this was her last lesson.

The female that was her tutor watched her with dispassionate, dull eyes. It had to be done, she had to learn this vital lesson for herself. If she did not, if she refused ....then Lolth would be given a new life in sacrifice upon her altars come the final moments of the day.

The kobold watched as death stalked it on tottering, juvenile feet. Amber eyes flickered with what could almost have been regret, the blade flashed out, and the creature fell, bleeding from the throat, choking on it's own life's blood. The female tutor nodded, removing the blade from the child's hand, and bade her watch as her favoured pet died, killed by her own hands.

And she did, still, cold, unmoving, unfeeling. The last and most vital lesson of childhood was learned, the final part of her innocence chipped away. All love is foolish, and those who would love are fools a thousand times over. Life is pain. Lolth reigns supreme.

Blood pooled around bare, ebony-skinned feet. Greylin looked down at all that was left of the only friend she had known, and felt a fire burn deep inside. All love is foolish.

She was no fool.

Greylin

Date: 2009-07-09 15:02 EST
Ulu Satiir L' Riknueth Rosan

The tower within was hushed and still. Without, conflict raged, the combined enemies of the House Do'Tlar falling upon their armies, slaughtering them by the score. A fatal error had brought low the weakened House, and now only time would tell if they would stand or fall.

Insanity had taken the Matron Mother Neerynae'ice. As her schemes and plots came tumbling down around her ears, she had delved deeper into the madness of the Spider Queen, only to emerge once more lacking the sense and good judgement that had kept them all alive these past years in war-torn Eryndlyn.

The males of the House she had sent to keep the attackers at bay. The females she had gathered here, within the tower, to witness this final act of madness.

Neerynae'ice stalked the hall, cold red eyes glaring across the line of her surviving grandchildren. Politics and infighting had reduced what had once been a prolific line of more than twenty, to a mere seven, and two of them children still, useless for anything until they could be trained. The eldest of them had centuries of experience, the youngest less than a decade. It was time, said her enflamed mind, to see which was worthy to continue the bloodline.

"You!" Her hand whisked from beneath her cloak, pointing the butt of a barbed whip at her eldest granddaughter. "Your lineage. Recite!"

Not a muscle moved on the female's face, nor indeed elsewhere in the hall. None knew what to expect from this unstable, unpredictable Matron any longer.

"I am Ust'Ryn, xund Alaunual, xund Neerynae'ice, xund Iriirmice, xund ..."

The calm voice went on, reciting back to the Matron the noble line of their House. Until that voice faltered, generations back, unable to recall the name which came before.

The hall held it's breath. Neerynae'ice's cold, mad eyes turned to the struggling Ust'Ryn, sharp disapproval and hatred flaring within those blood-red depths. Then she lashed out. The blade concealed within her fist flashed, and the unworthy Ust'Ryn fell, her throat slit from jowels to collar, her breath gurgling and choking as she drowned in the flow of her own blood.

"You!" All eyes turned to the next granddaughter, who dragged her gaze from her dying sister to stare unflinching into the Matron's madness. "Recite."

"I am Triel'Drada, xund Alaunual, xund Neerynae'ice, xund Iriirmice, xund ..."

Again the recitation went forth, the shaken voice the only sound within the hushed hall. From without came the muffled sounds of battle, the screams of the dying, the clash of weapons. Time could very well be running out.

Triel'Drada faltered, and joined her sister in choking, dishonourable death. And so it went on, one after another of the blood of the House falling before their grandmother and Matron Mother's insanity.

Neerynae'ice came to a halt before the last of her bloodline still living. The child Greylin looked up at her, unflinching through the trickles of her sisters' blood making their way down her face. Amber eyes and silver-white hair - so alike, yet so different from the madness glaring down at her.

"Recite."

"I am Greylin dril'Vaseyl, xund Nathniss, xund Neerynae'ice, xund Iriirmice ..."

It should not have been possible. No child of less than a decade should be able to recall the names of her lineage as far back as the records tell. Yet that is what Greylin did, without hesitation or fear, her childish voice high and piping in the growing clamour from without. No one there could know that a voice within her mind was speaking those names to her, names she had never learned, had never heard of before. And even at the tender age of seven years, she knew it would be folly to admit to voices within her mind that were not her own.

"....xund Myrae'yl, zund Tlar. Blessed and honoured is the name of Lolth, the Mother, the Spider Queen."

The Matron Mother stared down at the child in a mix of incredulity and insane delight. Her blade, still awash with the blood of her House, she lifted, running the tip with deceptive gentleness from the watchful Greylin's temple, down to her throat.

"You are worthy," Neerynae'ice spoke finally. "Worthy of my blood. Come, you shall sit at my right hand when the ingrates and fools come to treat with us."

Greylin moved forward with her grandmother, to stand beside the great throne of their House. On the one hand, madness, heat, blind hatred of all who opposed her. On the other, cold sanity, dripping with the blood of those who should have been standing where she now stood.

The bitter rains had fallen, cutting down the prime of House Do'Tlar. Now, only death awaited them.

Greylin

Date: 2009-07-11 18:37 EST
Ulu Rei Xuileb Lle'isgar

It was over. The fighting, the treating, the insanity of death and destruction ....all was silenced. Of the blood of the disfavoured House Do'Tlar, only two remained; the Matron Mother Neerynae'ice, and the only child she had found worthy of her blood, the infant Greylin dril'Vaseyl. They stood together before the altars of Lolth, awaiting the judgement of the Spider Queen for their faults.

Around them were gathered the collective clerics, priestesses and Matrons of all the ruling Houses loyal to Lolth in Eryndlyn. Hatred and hostility reigned supreme, palpable, filling the air with a closeness unnerving. And finally that dread voice, heard only by those who were truly loyal, spoke.

"Come to me, my Neerynae'ice, be one with my spiders."

The maddened Matron moaned in what could have been fear, compelled by that voice to move forward, to stand beneath the insanity of her goddess. She looked full into the face of the Spider Queen, and screamed out her anger and terror and shame.

The child Greylin watched, small fists clenched at her sides, as her grandmother's form twisted and changed. Legs split in a shower of blood and flesh, mail shattered, the hum of power filled the temple. And when it was done, all that was left was a single drider, slumped and whimpering in pain and terror. Neerynae'ice was no more; a pale shadow of herself, cursed to live out her immortal life as a servant of the madness that had taken her, in the form drow found despicable to look upon.

"Bring the child."

Hands grasped Greylin's shoulders, pushing her forward, to stand beneath the all-seeing eye of Lolth. She stared upwards in defiance, struggling to hide her fear of what could be. The mind of the Spider Queen touched hers, searching, seeking within for a punishment fitting an unwary child. Something within her mind pushed back, and Lolth laughed, the dread sound filling the minds of all those who heard her.

"She is touched by my divine favour, though her blood is thin. She is rothe, a slave. Make her so."

The child Greylin was seized roughly, stripped of the marks of her rank and House, and thrown into the hands of males who stood guard. To the slavemasters she was taken, to be broken, to be made to suffer humiliations beyond the worst a drow could suffer and yet still live. Blows were landed, torturous examinations done, her face and form were reviled, laughed at, and finally, she was thrown into the pens with those other slaves who were yet to be broken, yet to be sold.

Through it all, she spoke not one word, gave not one cry. The other slaves hissed and spat at her, hating her for being drow, and she was forced into a corner, alone, to contemplate her coming fate. Rothe, a slave, she was nothing, lower than even those favoured slaves who may yet live through the benevolence of their mistresses. And the voice of Lolth echoed in her mind, words only for her hearing.

"Learn to fall without rising, ugul uss, or thy master's plans are for naught. Thou art nothing to me, but for the service thou shalt be to him. My favour shall not save thee again."

To fall without rising ....Greylin's back straightened stiffly, one hand lifting to dash the unbidden tears from her cheeks. That was one lesson she would never learn.

Greylin

Date: 2009-07-23 09:41 EST
L' Venorik Ul'nusst

Years passed. Years spent in the slavemasters' hold as the best and most brutal of the slavers fought to break the spirit of the rothe child. It should have been hell, to be spat on, tortured, beaten and flogged, over and again, each time more bloody and brutal than the last. If they went too far, her wounds were healed and she was allowed an hour's grace before the breaking began again. And through it all, Greylin uttered not one word that was subserviant to them, holding her defiance, her pride, close to her heart.

She grew into a gangling, awkwardly limbed teen, never clean, never unblemished. Thanks to the efforts of the slavers, six years of beatings and tortures had maimed her skin, given her scars that would never heal on their own. She saw surfacer slaves come into the hold, watched as they bent and broke beneath the slavers' cruelty and malice, and knew that from the moment they left to serve one of the great Houses, that she would never see them again. Some showed her kindness, understanding in their limited way that she was a child, innocent of the crimes she was being punished for. Others went further, trying to befriend her, but she shunned them. To form such an attachment was tantamount to signing their death warrants, and though they would never know it, the proud drow girl-child protected them with her silence.

She did not know why the anger had remained, how she had remained unbroken by their determined efforts to make her see how very low she was in their eyes. The voice that had saved her life from her grandmother's insanity had not spoken to her again, nor had the Spider Queen. Greylin was alone, left to fend for herself against the trials that came her way. It should have hardened her, made her cold and as unyielding as adamantine, and perhaps it had. But every child knew, adamantine crumbled to dust in the light of the sun. It was not so flawless as their elders would have them believe.

There was only one atrocity they did not commit on her, and it was through the order of the priestesses of Lolth. She was not to be mated, either by force or willingly, for fear the silver-white hair of Lolth's favour would grant her a child. The child of a rothe and a slaver could never be anything but worthless, and yet it would be drow. And if it was female, born of a mother touched once by favour and now in disgrace, there was no telling what she might be capable of in her future. So they left her be, and watched her closely. Had any surfacer slave made overtures of passion towards her, they would have been killed on the spot, and she punished for their foolish weakness.

And so it continued, on and on. Only once did she bow to the whip, under the silent cry of that unknown voice within her mind that not to do so would result in her death. It did not wish her dead. So she bowed, and was sent to serve the great House of Do'Rahel. They set her to keeping their pets and spiders well treated, a dangerous, disgusting chore that kept her away from their eyes for the years it took for her childhood to be over, and her adolescence to begin. And in those years, she was sentenced to a fate worse than any she could have imagined.

Mistake it not, drow are not as surfacers, more akin to their distant elven cousins than people may think. Adolescence for Greylin began at the age of 50, when her body had completed its growth, her limbs fully formed and ready for teaching. One chance encounter with the Matron of House Do'Rahel, and the rothe girl's fate was sealed. For even through the blood and dirt that caked her, that Matron could see that the favour of Lolth was still upon Greylin dril' Vaseyl. She had grown tall and slender, with a face not unattractive to those who bothered to look. Skinny, it was true, but that could be remedied. And the Matron knew exactly how next to punish the last daughter of House Do'Tlar.

She was taken from her chores, and sent to the houses of pleasure. Other slaves were set to clean her, feed her well, help her regain the curves that would please any drow, male or female. Her scars and wounds were healed completely, her skin left now unblemished as it had been in childhood. Cloth of silk and velvet was draped across her body, concealing only enough to make the revealing worth the effort. And she was given to any who earned that right - males, females, all those who it was felt would benefit from the domination of a drow female.

She was less than nothing, there for the pleasure of others and nothing else. And if she did not learn her place quickly, even the favour of Lolth would not save her.

Greylin

Date: 2009-07-28 12:32 EST
Natha Ssrigg'tul Rothe

Strange though it may seem, the life of a pleasure slave was far better than that of the ordinary, worthless rothe who worked their lives away to cater to the whims of the drow who owned them. In the Houses of Pleasure, Greylin was reasonably well treated. She was kept clean and well fed, had a bed in which to sleep, a room of her own to order as she wished. She was still considered too stubborn, too willful, to be as other slaves were, and those traits earned her more than her share of beatings and tortures. But the wounds inflicted by those punishments were healed quickly. No one wanted a pleasure slave who was scarred and ugly to look upon.

As a drow female occupying this low rank, she was also afforded a little more courtesy than the surfacers who lived in the Houses with her. Only males and females of a certain rank or higher were permitted to make use of her, though in many ways this was more of a curse than a blessing. Those who attained that rank were often adept at causing pain without injury, and found great pleasure in it. Each time her services were hired or bought, she knew to prepare herself, for the next hours would be spent screaming in pain and humiliation at the hands those who should have been her servants.

But there were skills to be learned in those years, skills she picked up and applied, and in time, could employ to spare herself much of the pain intended for her. A subtle change of tone, a simple touch of the hand in the right place and at the right time, and most drow would melt a little to the pleasure her touch and voice could inspire. She became adept at holding back her own pleasure for however long it took, always seeking to serve the pleasure of her master or mistress before her own. It had been the first lesson she was taught, and she cleaved to it well. Without it, she would have died within weeks of being elevated from her chores among the spiders and pets.

One House, in particular, made use of her skills many times over as the years progressed. House Zaut'tar, once a weakened ally of her own House whose name was now lost from her memory, had risen to become one of the more powerful Houses loyal to Lolth in the beleaguered city of Eryndlyn, and as such, had the wealth necessary to engage the services of the pleasure slaves at will. Males and females had her, used her, and only once in those years of being hired was there any complaint. Odd, then, that it should be that the young Greylin did not seem to take pleasure in being honoured with the bed company of the Matron Mother herself. With the change of the Matron, it was decided that it was foolish to simply hire her over and again, to waste such resources on a slave, and in the end, Greylin dril' Vaseyl was bought and paid for, transferred to the pleasure halls of House Zaut'tar.

Once there, she was afforded more luxury than she could possibly have imagined. But with the sweet came the sour. Her punishments were harsher, the healing less effective. All those under the Matron's rule were under orders that in using the new pleasure slave, they must make her scream for mercy before ever taking true pleasure in her body. She was a living reminder of the low status they had once held, and as such must be made to understand intimately how the mighty had fallen. The sight of her, beaten and bloodied at the feet of whomever had been given her life as reward for services rendered, pleased the Matron and her daughters greatly.

And through it all, Greylin kept her silence, honouring them with her screams only when the pain became too much. She drove herself hard to please those who came to her, always in the hope of experiencing something that might make this existence worth living, but it never came. They entered her rooms, hurt her, used her, and threw her away, often without allowing her to find anything within the coupling that might give her continued living some meaning.

But she persevered, the strength of her will growing stronger with each passing year. The weakness her own grandmother had punished her for became her one great strength; for it was in the friendship of other rothe, other slaves, be they surfacers or drow, that she found solace. They taught her to laugh and smile, to hide the pain and torment behind a rictus of pleasure, for without any visible sign that the pain inflicted was unendurable, the drow who used her soon lost interest in doing such to her. And in the midst of the slavery, the defilement, the use and misuse, she heard the rumours of House Zaut'tar's weakness, and began to plot her escape.