Revenge.

[Kevetsa]

Three horses walked through the woods. Three riders sat in silence. The forth, gagged and bound, struggled and grunted against the ropes holding her in place. Days passed, three companions and one hostage, drawing closer to the end of their path, and the end of the unwilling passengers life.

The rain poured. The first man, in heavy mail and leather, grunted. How cliched. The female who had been carried across the back of his horse was led to the platform by a heavy guard. A noose placed around her neck. A crier arrived next to her, pulling out a long scroll.
“You stand here today, accused of the following crimes: murder, torture, witchcraft, the worship of false gods, necromancy, and kidnapping. Do you have any final words, before justice is served upon you?”
The figure looked up from where she stood, her ivory hair damp against her face.
“Dos yorn jal zah'har whol nindol hawresâ€"“
-- the litany was cut short by the drop. Another wretched one from the flushed   
Underdark was dead.

Later. The three men in the tavern, enjoying the bounty they received on the latest capture. The first man approaches his companions, placing a hand on each stool, he effortlessly parts the chairs, making room for himself in the middle. One of the men laughs,
“Ahh, Noen, the strength of an ox. The brains to match, too.”
The one called Noen responds with a string of curses, causing one man to laugh harder, the other to choke. Noen and his friend consult a list of names. Several are blackened out, more remain. The names are those of the…citizens…of a recently discovered Drow city, close to the city borders. A successful raid destroyed the caves, sending the inhabitants fleeing. Census and ownership records revealed a long list of those who escaped, once the capture and slain were accounted for. Bounty hunters, adventurers, and fortune seekers from around the lands can freely access the master list, to hunt down any former occupant for a reward. These three travellers met for this reason, deciding a three way split of gold was better than the risk of an early grave.

With a slight flash of flame, the insulting one blackens the paper over a new name, erasing that which they had just broguht in, after a tedious week of searching and tracking through the woods and farmland. The next on their list: Drahca Noquaryn, a skilled enough assassin, though a common slave among his people.

The choking builds. Noen and this mage â€" Tandeer â€" turn in amusement. Noen thumps the third traveller on the back, causing the man to slump forward. With a note of worry, the mans head is lifted back. Blood trickles from his mouth, and around his neck and jaw, thick veins behind to swell.

“Poison! Tan, help him!”

Tandeer fumbles in a pouch at his side. Several herbs and roots are extracted and grasped tighly. A muttered word, and the reagents vanish in a flash, a brief flash of fire pulses through the poisoned mans body. Noen and Tandeer hold their breath, waiting. For a moment, everything seems calm. For a moment, they think they have saved the third of their trio.

With a cry, the man pitches backwards, spasming on the ground. Other patrons back away, fearful of this unseen death. Noen pulls a vial from his pack, rushed to his friend. Pinning a lighter man down with one arm, he tried to pour the orange solution into the dying friends mouth. A boot connects with his wrist, knocking the potion away to shatter on the ground. Noen looks up, rage in his eyes, lunges at the figure who dares to interfer. With an effortless twist, a second boot is connected with Noen’s temple, sending him sprawling, dazed. Lights flash in his eyes as he staggers to his feet. The figure glances up from the now-dead mans body.

From the shadows he watched as the foolish hunters laughed and joked. The brains, the braun, and the agile. How fortunate each embodied only one attribute. The ranger would be the hardest to kill. He did not freeze in combat as the mage was prone to doing, and even a badly aimed arrow can cripple. He was the best choice to die first. Walking  past a waiter, Drahca trips, reaches out for support on the mans shoulder. Pulling himself up, he apologises profusely in the common tongue, while palming a small vial over a jug of ale. Revenge.

With a grin, the figure turns and dashes through the room, out the door before any can realise what has happened. With a shout of rage, Noen and Tandeer follow out into the dark. Revenge.

[Kevetsa]

Through the dense streets, out the gates, into the surrounding forest. Tandeer and Noen charged after the fleeing man. Though no faster than them, he had the advantage of knowing where he was heading, while as a pursuers they are forced to respond, and are unable to take more proactive measures.

Once into the woods, with no torches or lanterns, light vanished almost instantly. Slowing to a halt, they looked for a trail. Though no tracker or ranger, and fleeing man leaves an obvious path to any observer. Slowly the pair traced a path through the trees, winding back and forward, looping, even crossing a small stream at one stage. After a painfully slow pursuit, they spotted the enemy ahead, hiding in the shadow of a tree.

Taking the lead, Noen walked up to the prey, moving past him as though he hadn’t seen the shadow. With a whirl, his gauntleted fist closes on the figures throat, a sword appearing in his other hand. With a snarl he plunges the blade into the figures’ stomach. It passes through with ease and the tip sticks in the wood. The Drows face remains impassive, as the body slowly dissolves into smoke, leaving the two hunters alone.

Running. The fools behind, trying to catch him. This city is so weak and lax that even in these troubled times he has no difficulty dashing through the town gates before the guards can stop him. Into the woods, out of the light. Let those with inferior senses try to track him through unfamiliar terrain. Without thought to the trail he leaves, Drahca charges ahead, winding and twisting, but making no effort to shake the hunters off. As they slow down to inspect the trail he pulls ahead even further. Closing his eyes, a moment of concentration, a hand signal unknown to most in these lands, and suddenly there are two Drahcas running through the woods. Without changing pace, the first leaps, foot onto a low branch, without hesitation he kicks off, higher into the tree. The second figure presses its body to the wood, shrouded from obvious sight.

“What in the name ofâ€"”, a rustle from above. Noen dives aside as a dark shape drops down, his own weapon drawn, its arc missing him by a fraction of an inch. Leaving the sword behind, Noen pulls an axe from his hip as he rolls. On his feet, armed and ready. The opponents observe each other. Noen, heavy armour, moderately sized axe. An embodiment of strength and constitution. Drahca, only light leather, a short blade drawn. Noen knows nothing of him, only what he has seen - poisons, and trickery. They circle, Tandeer forgotten. The axe swings down, Drahca effortlessly steps out, dodging, then back in, bringing the blade to Noens wrist. A scraping noise as the blow is stopped against the heavy metal covering the forearms. With a grunt, both disengage, circling again. This continues, Noen unable to hit, Drahca unable to land a blow to exposed flesh. The blade comes down above Noens head, releasing the axe he reaches up and catches the arm. Pulling the light figure forward, he brings his forehead down hard onto the opponents nose. But the fight is now too far into the stronger mans circle of comfort. As he brings his head down, the Drow bends his arm, bringing the elbow forward to catch the oncoming jaw. Stunned, Noen steps back, Drahca instantly inside again, a foot to the inside of the knee, a sharp fist to the throat. With a flamboyant and exaggerated movement, he knocks out the injured opponents feet, sending him rolling gracelessly along the floor.
Pulling a dagger from within his robes, Drahca approaches the fallen opponent. Dagger raised, now descending. Its motion is halting by a freezing pain in the head. Drahca drops to his knees, hands to his head. Looking back, he sees the mage, finally taking action. Regaining himself, Drahca rises and stalks forward. Tandeer holds his ground, despite his initial shock he is not a coward. Reaching to his belt he pulls out a small black object. With a word, it ignites, and the flame is hurled forward. It is easy to dodge, but the sudden light blinds Drahca, and before he can regain vision a second fireball is almost upon him. Less grace this time, he hurls himself to the floor to avoid the spell. Hitting the ground, he disappears. The illusion lasts only a second, but by the time the mage has spotted it, the attacker is almost upon him. Fighting only with his hands, Tandeer fends off the blows of his attacker quite competently.

Lor a nindol wael. L'lentan wun ukt sol. Uk talinthe uktan ussta ilthy'eo. Usstan yorn jous ukta ukt yibinss.
With a cruel smile, Drahca presses the attack, upping his speed and frequency of blows.

Though he can still keep up, Tandeer feels his parries become more sloppy and last minute. Unable to get the time required to send off a spell, he must hope for intervention from Noen. It comes. A heavy hand of the Drows shoulder, pulling him back from the mage. Drahca turns, dagger raised. He feels the mages hand against his back, and suddenly his muscles seems filled with lead. Movement is slow, then impossible. Frozen as he his, off-balance, he falls over like a statue. His opponents step into his line of vision, faces glowing with adrenaline and victory. Feeling a slight easing of the magic cast on him, Drahca jerks his head towards the weapon in his hand. Blood coats the blade.

With a cold shiver, the mage looks down. On his left arm, a trail of blood runs down from the shoulder. Fear grips him, he knows this poison is too stronger for him to cure on his own, and out this far there is no hope of finding one who can. As he slumps down, convulsions beginning, the spell binding Drahca lifts, and he lunges towards his final opponent…

[Kevetsa]

Watching from the shadows. The enemy and the ally fighting. The enemy, a powerful brute of a man. The ally, shorter and wiry. Not fighting at his full potential. An interesting display to doubt. Two kills to just the poison, daggerwork a minor.
Xal udos yorn ragar natha k'lar uchado p'luin jal.

Lashing forward, Drahca pushes the attack. Abandoning all care of self-protection, he strikes again and again. Noen sees the weakness but is unable to press an attack, for fear of being struck by the mans weapon. Taking an arm behind his back, he feels the length of his club. Not a prefered weapon by any means, but at this stage anything is better than nothing. Lashing out he almost catches the Drow off guard. Almost. The blade comes down, connecting to the shaft of the weapon then instantly sliding up the weapon to his hand. In surprise, Noen shouts and releases his hold. As his eyes drop to the club, Drahca kicks out, pushing him over.

Rolling back, Noen then springs to his feet. Were he in any tavern or public gathering this fight would be an embarassment, but here it is too deadly for such thoughts to waste his time. Axe in hand, he pushes another attack attempt. With a flick of the wrist, Drahcas dagger disappears into his robe. Empty handed now, he begins dodging the axe blows.

Nindol nesst z'reninthen uktan honglath. Ukt kor'inth vaq'e ukta, uk uriu nau khlurysten. Nindol yorn tlu jivvin. Vharcan! Ori'gato udossa olplynir ukt ultrinnan.

“Stop mocking me!”, with a shout, Noen swings the axe horizontal. As Drahca ducks, the weapon is twisted. The flat of the blade, much wider than the edge, catches him across the head, sending him sprawling. Raising the weapon high, Noen approaches. Revenge at last.
“You have killed my friends and shamed me here. Have you any final words before I end your life, cretin?”
A pause. Drahca thinks, not fluent in this speech.
“Hello, brother.”

A crunch behind him. Noen spins, just in time to see the mace as it connects with the side of his neck. The blow leaves him unable to move, and he crumples to the ground. The newcomer pulls out his own dagger, plunging it into Noens chest, through the gap at the side of his armour. The weapon is twisted in the wound. Drahca rolls once, then launches into the air, back on his feet. No sign of any disorientation from the blow Noen put his faith in.

“Nind inbal belbaunin udossa jivviim.”
“Ninta elghinnen ph' l' alurl udos shlu'ta xun.”
Drahca pauses.
“No, the best we could do was taking his life in this manner. A bitter loss right when he thought he had won.”

They turn and depart, leaving the cooling remains and twitching body of Noen to the wolves.

This announces the arrival of two new characters. Drahca and Dareyan Noquaryn. Once is me, obviously, We're hoping to help boost the numbers of evil Drow, since they seem pretty few and far between. Any existing Drow guilds, or possible starting ones who would like to get in contact, we'll gladly consider joining.[/i]

[Talon]

I am Talon Syndicate, leader of the Syndicate Legion, and I welcome you to join the ranks of my growing legion.  Feel free to contact me to be shown around our place

[Nioka Syndicate]

What interesting people her jade green eyes did see. In places high in the wood where shadows are lost with the waving canopy of branches She perched herself with bow in hand. A hunt, for lively game to feed those who serve a like cause. Perchance... sweet chase brought her in to the vicinity to watch with eager eye the blood letting to water the mangled roots of overgrown trees. Inhuman gaze ate away at the darkness, pealing back its shroud till night vision took hold so the picture was a clear as crystal waters in a still and shallow pond. Thick branch that served as a wide perch, lowering herself with out a sound to lay upon her belly, content to watch the action unfold. Witness to a murder so it seemed, such succulent sweetness as tender as veal cooked just right so it melts upon the tongue. Oh yes, these two the dark flower enjoyed to watch so very well.

Scent of blood, the metallic tang and rancid odder filled the air assaulting those animalistic senses till shivers rolled down her spine in anticipation of the investigations to come. Dare she lower down and perchance impede their hasty departure? Two against one could be rather dangerous, and even more so knowing that these two ruthless men handled two equal to their size all by themselves. Her own ego one day would be the end of her, this she had accepted, but this little opportunity to test her self was far to much to pass up. Slithering from her lofty perch as that last suckling pop of a dagger ripped flesh filled the air. Womanly curves vanished deeper in to the shadows. Down, down she came, light footed to each bending branch so it appeared the wind moved them and nothing more.

Bare feet made contact with the damn undergrowth of a woodland floor, a comfort to the skin, far different from the ruff texture of tree bark and jagged branches. Shade of shadows kept her under a covenant camouflage giving her a minor advantage... very minor if these two were what she thought they were. No amount of darkness could blind a drows vision. "Folt klezn, folt tet klezn wun l' olath Usstan kyorl." A silent prayer that her accents did not mangle the language and insult the pair before they left. That jade green gaze peered at them from under the edge of the kasa resting lowly upon her brow. "Leaving so soon?"

[Kevetsa]

A smirk. Gaer zhah zuch uss.

Turning, a white orb falls from Drahca's sleeve. It hits the ground creating a harsh blue smoke. When the smoke settles, Dareyan is gone. And in Dracha's place stand three. At this stage all are unarmed.

"Gaer zhah folbol udos zhal'la tlu feithin whol?"

[Nioka Syndicate]

"Mayoe gaer zhah, Usstan zhahus ves mzilt l'amith l' l' jous"

Oh they were... darling wern't they? Stepping from the shadows to peer at each little figure in turn trying not to let the smoke agitate her lungs to much. Curse the keen sense of smell she possessed some times. From the shadows she did creep so a better view could be obtained. Slender, light and agiel, and a stature lacking in height to be male. The voice matched the vestige of a young woman. But she played no tricks... Not yet any way. It was still two to one and a decoy... So the bow she carried was slung over her back to rest against her quiver. She crouched down beside one of the dead men titling her head this way and that. "Your wounded.... you need to have it seen to...."  She paused for a moment, letting the smirk cross over her lips as she studyed the three images in front of her. ears peked up, eyes honed in. No chanseing that the three in front were the facks.

She spoke with out looking at the pair and their decoy apparition. Studying the face of the man who lay there lifeless on the ground, his face a mask of pain. Talon would be very rewarding if she could bring more... skillful warriors in to the embrace of the Legions... So perhaps her act of kindness was not so selfless an act of care then it seemed. But she have a skill for healing. "Can you Ride?" She asked the wounded one. "Or are you going to stand here in front of me playing these tricks all night?" It took only the small flick of her wrist, so much like any woman would do to when ranting on about this, that or the other thing. But the small round globe spilled from her sleave in to her hand at the ready when she turned her eyes slightly off th three to cast a wider net of vision on the wood.... Where did the wounded one really go?

[Kevetsa]

"Tricks? ...tricks....golhyrren? Tricks are for street magicians. Only one truely foolish or arrogant would accuse such of a superior force."

Outnumbered yes, but she is quiet. And most likely adept with the bow. But perhaps not so observant as she thinks...

"Wounded? A bruise, if that. And a worthwhile sacrifice."

Dropping from his tree, Drahca enters the clearing. No doubt she could have found him from the voice alone. Arrogance in Drow is common, at least in the opinion of outsiders. Taking a calming breath, Drahca thinks. Not wanting to inflame the situation. Doubtless this woman has all sorts of hidden weapons and abilities, but then so do the Noquaryns. It is unlikely she would leave here alive if they so wished, but she alone would pose more threat than the three already dispatched combined. With their home destroyed and their people on the run, an ally would be useful.

"Udos ja'hai l'athiyk d'lil gultah. Ori'gato udossa telanth, jhal naut uchado. Udos yorn ser wun unboi xuil dosst zaphodiop."

[Nioka Syndicate]

The perfect mask was one that made you appear less then what you were. These two would be a bit of a handful she surmised just having seen the quick work they made of the men who now... lay in pools of their own blood on the forest floor. Stoic vestige rose to her full height with no effort or strain in her muscles. Tucking the small smoke bomb back in to her sleeve seconds before her bow was drawn from her back to keep it still as they traveled. Eyes to eye she came to stand facing the one who dropped from his hiding place in the trees. Listening to his voice, working over the words in her head. Fluent enough in Drow, some times it did take some effort to work out the dialect in her head.

Jade green pools ate away at what she saw, taking details of features, attire, and marking any weapons that may be hiddin with his their keeping. Not as naive as she let on, careful of herself and not fully trusting of any one. Those you trust normally stab you in the back. "Asanque. Udos xun naut inbal feir ulu alu. Ussta maurna zhah anchored au a... Usstan kestal dos xun naut shar l' inthuul." With out another word she moved, working her ways though the trees some distance, The dark brownish black beast tethered to the unearthed roots waiting to be claimed by his master. Only an hours ride to the coastline, and just a few hours by sea to the inhospitable shores of Dagger Island (ice Island) where the Syndicate Legions kept haven.