Hunt, hunt, scent, scent, find, find, kill, kill, seek, seek, hunger.

Must find the scent, the female, reward. Mistress.

These were the only thoughts he knew, the only thoughts he dared to have. Atop a roof, for most in winter it would be difficult to track scent so far away from the ground. He was not most. No, he was Mistress? most precious, mistress? faultless hound.

Mistress behind him was absolutely still, but she was always perfect in all that she did. She could wait for eons if she had too for the hunt, and Hound could only wonder at her endurance while his blood stirred for the chase.

He remembered the scent. His Mistress had given him the fabric to play with, hold in his mouth, and carry it for a ways until the unique signature of the female was memorized. He could find her now, anywhere. Or on anyone she?d touched. He felt pride at how well his Mistress had taught him.

The night sky had terrified him at first, so vast, and open with no end in sight, not like the comfort of below. He could not afford to be distracted by it all, he had to find the taste of her or Mistress would be displeased with him.

The sky kept weeping, at first it was disconcerting, eventually that too had to be pushed out of his mind for concentration. All for the hunt, for the chase.

Hunt, hunt, scent, scen?

What was that? Raising upon his haunches the Hound tipped his face up to the sky, breathing deep. So faint, as if it had been burned away by fire, an afterthought- yet it was unmistakable. The scent.

Hounds body became tense; he swiveled around and lowered his head, extending his neck to point in the direction he had smelled it.

Behind him, Mistress? brown eyes showed pleasure and she reached down to lay a hand upon the Hound?s bare, black head, scratching fondly behind a half mangled pointed ear. The drow naked but for collar, chain, as well as muzzle half-closed his eyes in a sign of pleasure at his Mistress? touch.

Mistress? sent her sights over the buildings below, iris flaring dull sooty red in infrared vision. The cacophony of rainbow-heat shimmering was confusing at first, orange, yellow, pink, blue, purples, reds?But one shape stood distinctly out. Humanoid shaped bright white as the sun and burning hotter than anything else did.

The Mistress? lifted her hand, two fingers, then three, a circular motion with a downward arc in the absolute silence.

All around the Hound and the Mistress?, red eyes in the dark flared to sullen life. One set after another, after another until the roof tops looked as if they had been decorated by some wholly evil child.

The Mistress smiled, to pet the Hound upon the head once more. He felt immense pleasure.

It was time for the hunt.

Mistress? hands continued gesturing in the near dark of the building?s roof. It did not matter that very little light touched here, in the dark Mistress? hands and fingers made heat outlines of inner yellow and outer red from her body heat. To the drow anywhere near her, they were beacons of easily followed light. They followed Mistress? movements receiving their instructions and began to fan out.

The sequence was as old as time. For each female there were three males, trained and versed in both blade as well as magic.

Though they were as dangerous as one would assume drow to be, it was always the females an enemy had to worry about. For most often the males were used as nothing more than bait, or a means to tire their prey to allow the true danger (females) to move in for the kill or the stunning blow.

Across white washed walls, brick and mortar, thatched or reeds, slender feet inched along, in all there were roughly twenty five males to the five female drow. Mistress was the only one who did not rightly count Hound as the fifth, and Hound wouldn?t probably dispute this.

Mistress? hands gestured again, three of the groups to the right were to split, but remain to the right, with one attempting to gather behind the still blinding outline of the Desert born. It was an attempt to either drive him into the middle of their slowly closing circle, or at least close it around him before he knew exactly where each of them were.

They tried their best to remain downwind.


In the eerie silence, a strange dog bayed to the hidden moon, sending his chilling cry to bounce across blank city walls.

Because they needed something.

And the drow, when they needed something, were often at the very least, not willing to destroy that which could be useful to them.

Not...immediately.

They all watched him move, with red eyes zeroed in like great cat's eyes, fixated on nothing but the single act of his movement, his breathing, as if they could pick his mind by observing what the body did. Some times, if one was proficient enough in this study of gestures it almost seemed like it. But this sand-creature was different from anything they'd ever encountered before. So they could not read him.

The Priestess on the roof top, one hand upon fine silver chain gave the signal to her hound to stand guard. Her hands said: 'Stay, and do not move. No matter what happens here. When it is over, take word to the Matron. '

It was not that his Mistress had any doubt at all about what would happen, it was simply the ritual of what she did every hunt. He had never had to return to the Underdark by himself.

Her hands worked to resend the signal, a change of pace. All but herself and her group were to stay on the roof tops now and wait for her signal should anything go wrong -- the female's hands moving in secret talk a blur before she and her companions were gone from the roof like ghosts. No sound and no movement to mark that they had gone from the roof to descend to the street below.

The hound watched from above, as his mistress and four of her personal guards dropped to soundless crouch on the cobblestone, then straightened in slow steps toward the bright-One.

From the dark, the female's high, fluting voice called.

"Udos inbal natha char'riss," rending the night air with it's first cautious call. Somewhere near him, and perhaps a bit to the right.

The voice which responded, did so in common.

"Only a fool is unprepared." Just that. But the words were mangled, halting and horrid in it's accent with common. The female that spoke it obviously did not do it often, nor see a need for it.

The night gave him nothing, even though he saw it all, they did not know that. Yet the drow were the drow, they moved in this dark, lived in it, and used it as they would. True things of the dark and masters of what they were.

The female did not move forward. But behind her, the four split into two groups of two, and went both left and right to disappear.

"We bring a message." Repeated, with the sort of sound clenched teeth in patience would bring. "Will you carry it?"

The expression which crossed the females flawless face was almost similar to another female's expression. Thin lips had pulled back from her teeth, but here any resemblance ended, for her mouth curved into a righteous sneer.

She was almost tempted to remind the male of whom he spoke too, and that such disrespect from a pitiful male would not be tolerated. Almost.

As tempting as it would be to lay him out on the street, split him open to see just how far canine attributes ran on the outside as it did on the inside --or perhaps if he could be trained as well as her own dog, the expression only remained. No words to it. Her teeth were as startling white as the crescent of the moon had it hung itself to be shown.

"I speak how I speak. The message is simple and it is this: 'Bring back that which you stole, bitch. Or become a pet on a chain to be tied to my bed again.' "

The two groups who had split off early did not come any nearer, but they did wait. To protect their mistress. One was never sure with surface creatures, foul, slow, idiotic things that they were. Like animals: they could and often snapped at any moment. They had to be on their guard.

A matron would not sully her hands with the surface directly. Though a Matron may send a daughter, a priestess, or some one wishing to prove them selves.

It would be logical to assume that some family member related some how, to the scarred female roaming above had caught wind of location. But how? Did some one sell information? Were their eyes unseen?

At his words and insult, the brief flare of rage from the female seemed palatable. Bitter heat and molten earth, before being wrapped up in the cool ice of endless underground.

"Do not toy with us, male. We know you are aware of her. We know many things, " Dog. "- and all we want is for you to repeat the message. If you cannot, then we will find some other way to reach her. " The female lifted hand to inspect her fingers, spread in leather glove. " I have always thought these people breed too fast. A few younglings nailed to a wall to spell out a message is an effective way to reach someone, do you not think?"

Temperament of females, were as unstable as rock faults. She was always a brash one, too quick to anger. So many had died in random fits of red rage, that she often regretted the death of so many after. But it was as Lloth wanted her, was it not? Who was she to worry of a little blood on her hands.

The single hand lifted was distraction, the other hand went to her belt which was laden with pouches. Forefinger and thumb dipped into one to throw what seemed to be dust into the air. A single, sharp, guttural incantation was uttered from her mouth.

And the night burst into blinding magical light.

((*Drow are not blinded by certain magical effects. Such as fire ball, enchanted lights, dancing lights, etc. Searing light, however and other such spells affect their eye sight.

*She is casting fire ball.))

She did not seem perturbed by his resistance to her fire, only propelled further. A different set of guttural words, a different scent -- and darkness so thick, so terrifying descended in a cone around the desert man. No light, nothing...The drow's preferred environment.

The females with their grounds of three scuttled closer, blades were pulled from sheaths, all of this again in the eerie silence. It made for the strangest sensation, these soundless killers coming closer to a clash.

There would be death here, in these streets.