Chapter Text
The deep caverns are now like familiar walls of a home to those who abandoned hope and lost their minds for a better fate of oblivion and mind’s attempts at shielding the soul and core from the horror that besieged the unlucky scum of the Underdark. There is no irony to be lost on anyone, to think - is a privilege many can’t afford to dwell upon their sad-sad little tales.
He lays on his side, having buried himself between dead bodies of his brethren, their cold touch and foul smell a small comfort to one's escaping mind, a promise that he wasn’t alone in his fate that awaited him. He can almost feel their comforting touches and whispers of encouragement from beyond the other side. The man buries himself deeper into the cold and lifeless embrace of another drow, his skin sickly and malleable, the body having been dead for probably a few days, four perhaps. Fresh body… rarity in the tunnels, such luxury not to be eaten immediately or disappear without a trace. The living breathes in the putrid smell of his fallen brethren, especially the fresher corpse. The damned person is missing a leg and his arm is broken, died from blood loss, poor thing, then again all of them that are here are. Perhaps his death was a good one? To slowly loose grasp on reality and enjoy euphoria for a few moments before sweet oblivion in the embrace of their Dark Mother. But he ended up here, the death sector, the mines of mad, so there is no salvation for his soul, just like for the drow that holds him.
The living drow holds onto his dead kin, the latter's skin bloated, foul stench of rotted eggs and fecal matter mixing together, emanating from him and yet the one, whose heart is beating can almost feel a phantom warmth to him. The man nuzzles into another, as if a long lost lover, his nose pressing into the sternum of another, feeling the firm softness no skin of his living kin can quite grasp and sluggishness of the flesh below his own, as if a pudding in a way, begging to be touched and nibbled onto, a sweet poisonous treat. The first layer of epidermis rip from lower levels, the tissue sliding against one another, creating strangely alluring move, calming in its slide across itself. He figures he could make the male’s whole skin spin around the muscle if he were to coax it with enough strength and care, as to not rip it open, like a protective sack over the innards. He looked up into the eyes of his very dead companion, back at him stared unmoving and unblinking orbs of an eternity, red irises now looking like dirt from late menstrual cycles of Mistresses, rather than a bioluminescent glow of life, yet no less beautiful, the whites sickly grey and yellowish, like moldy sludge, as if trying to escape their eyesockets along with black tears of the innards that gasses push out. The living tentatively wipes them away, mesmerized by the feel of the sticky black ooze that smelled perhaps of home he was long denied when he was birthed, the sweet cradle of love, the most poisonous of lies.
For now he is blessed to draw air, or not, who is he to judge, a criminal, a murderer, vile being upon the noble name of the drow kind. Dead be his witness he knows not how much time has passed, how long he has been here. He almost forgot his name. Almost. He is always reminded by the shadows, the distant whispers. By the vile burnt mark upon his chest, the flesh never truly healed, serum leaking from it sometimes still. Perhaps the Dark Mother is looking down upon him in disgust, keeping him alive for his vile crimes, for his ways, a punishment fitting for someone like him…
A loud snap gets the attention of the only living thing in the tunnel, his eyes snapping to attention from the semi relax state he was in prior, one of his ears almost twitching softly, trying to understand from which cavern came the noise and what reassure could it be: His meal or his potential competition for the food. Instead he hears something far more unsettling than anything else he has ever heard for the past… However long he was here. Metal. The sound of no simple scrapped weapon, but by the distant thumping, if his ears don’t deceive him and he has yet to go fully mad, can never roll out that one probability, genuine sound of gear, metal boots, multiple pairs too. Soldiers. Deep within the mines. What kind of madness is that?! He was thrown here to rot while still living and they walked in willingly? He must’ve lost it, there’s no other reasonable way to understand what he is hearing. They grow louder, closer, as if more potent, he can do nothing but close his eyes, regulate his breath and hope he’ll pass as one in the pile of dead.
His ears strain, as he tries to suppress the natural want to move them a little to hear better. Closer. 3, no 4, heavy or medium armor, one definitely has a spear or something of a similar kind, perhaps one of them is more heavily armoured then another- They've stopped by the pile he has assembled, by him. A long pause, he holds his breath.
“Get up, male.” Firm command reached his ears. No, he won’t fall for it, if he plays dead a while longer, they’ll leave him. He can keep laying here, he will pass peacefully and won’t be-
“I said, get up, male.” And before he knows it he’s being pulled by his hair violently from beneath the corpse pile. His eyes snap open in fear and pain, a familiar condition of his as of lately. How could they tell he was still alive? Was he breathing not shallow enough? Did his ear twitch? As he opened his eyes, the man was met with a mask, rather than a face, leather with a strong base, from the bottom a thick tubing going towards the guard’s back, where he could get only a glimpse of some kind of backpack? Where eyes normally are two giant disks of almost black glass stared back into his own, while wide, impossible to look behind to try and to discern to whom he was talking to, the whole thing looking more like an insectoid face almost rather than humanoid. A hood of sorts coming around the back of the head, keeping face in some kind of vacuum from the mask, the leather then disappearing beneath the metal plates of the armor. The said metal garment bore familiar dark, almost obsidian like quality of their homeland, small intricate buckles between different parts of it, spider sigil on the chest piece, the arachnid as if tangling down from its web, ready to strike the fly below.
“Will this one do?” the woman behind the mask, her voice muffled by the material, gruff with disgust.
“All of them here are dead, she won’t care, what’s the difference?" Another replied, a similar mask on her face too, as she didn't even spare him a glance of assessment, the woman using her halberd to poke around in his nest to try and find any other living just in case. “Then again… She might get offended if we got one in such poor condition.” She added, turning to the guard which was still holding him by his hair, making the man almost appear on his knees, twisting the locks, his scalp prickling, he could feel some hairs being ripped out.
“The quality of the soul doesn’t diminish. Besides, look at him. He was already cuddling with rot, he can take it, if she is truly displeased.” The third one waved the two others off and with a commanding turn almost, the confidence of a high rank, leading them back away, or rather implying they follow.
“And if she’s so displeased she refuses him, then what? The Matron will have our fingers for it, and that is if our guest is feeling merciful.” The one holding him protested, accidentally yanking by his hair, making the man let out another pained whimper, albeit a weak one. The woman, who seemed to be somewhat of a leader to the other 3, turned back around, the soulsess glass where eyes should be glaring down at him, making him want to pull away, which the hold of another guard made almost impossible to do, his kin far more terrifying than anything he has seen in these mines.
“Male, do you understand the Common tongue still?” She asked, practically spelling out each word, as if he was a pet spider or its unsuspecting snack. A slight accent to her voice, obviously mainly talking in drow rather than common, a trait of a noble The male nodded, as much mobility as the other woman allowed him. “Can you still serve? I permit you to use voice.” She asked again, her person almost looming menacingly over him like a real shadow despite the heavy armor her person had on.
“Y-yess” The man whimpered, the pain now coming from the need to use his vocal cords and form sentences rather than the fact that he’s being held down by his hair and forced onto his knees. The woman yanked at his flimsy locks, the hair unwashed with caked up dirt and blood, seemingly to make him quiet or put him in place.
“Previous occupation?” Another question followed, full of grim determined boredom of one who thinks this whole situation is a waste of their time.
“Plea-sure s-servant.” The drow on his knees replied, coughing at the end of his phrase, each syllable a torture to his damaged throat, like cracks on a rock in a desert. It's a miracle he could string such a composed reply to begin with.
“Whore that speaks, I reckon it would be of amusement to our dearest guest, perhaps he’ll even entertain her. He’ll do.” The guard chuckled, concluding the debate of sorts they were having, as his captor nodded, all four began to move back from where they presumably came from, the man dragged by his hair effortlessly by the armor clad drow, his legs trying to move along with their determined gait, limping subtly, as he gritted his teeth, trying to make as little noise as possible, more so not to anger the mistresses rather than creatures that inhabit the mines that were to be his grave. He didn’t know where to looks, the stone both familiar and alien in his life, the women dragging him along, the biggest threat there was to his salvation and yet the fear of what they might do to him kept the drow in place, simple primal thing of want to preserve once self when met with danger, to submit to your tormentor. The bug-like masks of theirs, the dark glass blinking with otherworldly light, that was entirely alien from any scrying eye that was ever sent down here. The man’s heart was beating like a wild fly in a spider web, trying to jump free, as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the very simple proof of reality that he’s being denied the sweet end. Of course his punishment is prolonged, the rocks and pebbles beneath his feet be his witnesses, the blood from his body that the mines have claimed will forever be the happiest piece of him. The caverns changed, tunnels curved and with each step the prisoner felt change in the atmosphere, his temples pulsing with pain, faint tremors running down his fingers as he’s trying to keep up with seemingly steady and paced steps of his kin, while also trying not to pass out, knowing he’ll be punished later for such daring behaviour.
As he feels his mind burn with unfamiliar sensation, each breath feels like a strange mix of acid and water down his throat, his eyelids flutter as light hits them. He dares to crack his eye open, only to shudder with the impossible. He’s out of the mine. He’s on the surface again. Menzoberranzan.
No, it can’t be, he’s dreaming, he has gone mad. All who enter the Death sector never come back, their place is to never be seen, what is this madness?! And yet the man’s eyes do not deceive as he looks upon the small, meager line of a few men before an empty mine cart, guards on all sides of the prisoners in the confining building they’re in the same one he was in, their chests branded just like his was, fresh. And yet as they look upon him, it is as if they’ve seen a drider, some looking away even. The building is the same, the same indifferent stone and metal, sconces on the walls burning in a soft almost teasing pink. The two tunnels upon which the highest offenders are sent in are there too and yet he’s coming back from one of them and they… they soon will be going in. The station of death is never at ease, always churning on the unfortunate few criminals deemed guilty enough for it. Before he can gawk at the life that spewed him out of it even more he is yanked once more harshly to follow, which he does, tearing his eyes from the others, who are ordered to get into the mining carts, crossbows pointed at them.
“Male! Clean this one. Then give him something proper to wear. He is a gift to be.” The Leader of the four that dragged him back announced to an attendee, who was cleaning up the floors, metal plates lining the walls, meant for guards and figures of importance to walk upon. The half dressed drow immediately bows his head as the etiquette demands, before stepping closer as the prisoner is practically thrown into his arms, the healthy male catching him and with another nod, leads the survivor down the corridor. The drow who is being managed like a cattle is experiencing too many emotions at once. Not only is his path repeating, albeit backwards he is to be of service again. He is to have a Mistress… His mind is buzzing, the pain in his temples intensifying, burn in his throat doubling as is in his nose, as the sensations overwhelm him, sheer shock of being alive still thrumming within, a reality far too hard to grasp at the moment. He is being led away, not resisting the pull of the other male, his ruby eyes distant and wide. Before the criminal knows it he was in the chamber where the final cleaning was allowed, the attendee discarding his loincloth, the fabric rotted through and dirty, letting the survivor soak for a few moments, grime immediately peeling off of him, swirling within the basin’s water in delicate spirals, and as he looks upon such simple natural beauty he shudders, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes burn, the man shaking, reality of everything crushing him, making the male feel less than a person, a bug more like it or less than that.
The servant paused, not entirely sure what to do, he is prohibited from comforting the damned and yet this one… clearly he is not to die in the sick mines no more. With a hesitant, yet gentle hand he begins to pat the other man’s shoulder, shushing him softly, trying to calm the one who saw the other side and yet came back, the latter shaking violently as his body attempts to squeeze out tears and yet there is nothing to give. The servant whispers a soft mantra of reassurances as he helps the other man, cleaning him and scrubbing off layers of dirt, blood, filth and Dark Mother knows what else. It takes a long time, the unfortunate soul bearing dirt as if an armour on his scarred and malnourished body, his ribs protruding too much, hollowed cheeks, and soulless eyes that show too much pain to be alive, his hair, once pride and joy, now a mess of dry and thin hairs, is cut, leaving length far too short for a man, only covering his neck, his crooked nails are cut and filed down, same with toe nails, the dead skin on his feet scrubbed off, making him hiss. His teeth are brushed, making him gag as they also went for his tongue, his gums bleeding immediately and burning unpleasantly. His wounds, once that somehow closed yet pain him always, a constant burn under his skin are tended to, some reopened to be rid of rot and pus that keeps oozing out. Humiliating ritual lasts far too long for his own liking, he can read pity and disgust of the other drow, other servants he called in to help with cleaning. And yet, he is clean once more, he feels almost presentable, which makes him think: who is he to serve? A regal noble? No, those wouldn’t settle for a criminal. A mage needing a new humanoid form to experiment upon? While it is a possibility, why would they need one from the death’s door step? The questions swim in his mind as his wounds and imperfections are tended to, make-up applied to make him appear more lively, as much as it was possible, the warmth of water still lingering with soft steam in the room, making his mind slip a little, as he closed his eyes the second time since the beginning of his day.
He is jolted into wakefulness by the servant that was ordered to attend to him, the male shaking him awake, the attendee saying something and yet the survivor can’t seem to grasp the words, his mind murky waters, ringing in his ears, as he tries to remember where he was. He’s then pushed onto his unsteady feet and led through long corridors, a path he once took walking in. And then he is shoved into the arms of the same four guards that dragged him from the mines. The talk amongst themselves and yet he can’t hear them, time seemingly slipping through his fingers, slowing down and speeding up accordingly as he looked around himself, his airways still burning with each breath, even his eyes watering, as the thrumming at his temples became somewhat of a familiar drum, mirroring his heart in a steady rhythm.
“It’s a miracle what a bath can do to a male, I can now even see why people would pay for that in the past.” Shakti chuckled watching the dazed drow they dragged from the depths of stone, her eyes assessing his facial features, the proud hook of a nose, sharp lines of his jaw, shade of skin slightly deeper than one of a regular drow, an almost aristocratic air to him, if he were healthy, she’d have some fun with him.
“Really? Sickly are now in your taste? I shall keep that in mind and inform your husband.” Liriel replied, rolling her eyes, used to her colleague being a pest.
“Har-Har, you know what I mean.” Shakti sighed in annoyance, her eyes narrowing, the scarred tissue of an old wound running down her brow and side of her face wrinkling unpleasantly. “Can’t a woman simply appreciate what once was?”
“You can appreciate all you like in your home, the Matron will strangle us if the gift is used. We don’t know the temper of our ‘guest’. I still can’t believe we’re dealing with something so…” Liriel tried to find words, her full lips pursing in thought.
“Disgusting? Foul? Beneath us?” Zesstra finally joined the conversation, walking behind the alleged ‘gift’ for a special visitor, as all three walked to the closed coach where their employer awaited. “I can come up with more, if those aren’t sufficient enough.”
“Shut up! Do not speak ill of those things, or they’ll haunt you and take your soul.” Liriel hissed at her coworker, trying to appear calm and yet dread slowly creeped up on her spine.
“Lies, the lot of them, those bags of bones can’t do nothing.” Zesstra chuckled, Shakti humming in agreement, as they finally made their way to the transport.
“Lady Viconia, he is ready to be presented. Do we need to escort you to the mansion?” Liriel announced calmly, their discussion ceased immediately as they stood before the formidable woman, who commanded them, her trusted blades.
“No, return to the base, I shall come shortly, if all goes well.” The elder woman replied, while opening the door of the closed coach, shoving the frail man in, the unsaid implication loud and clear for her subordinates, making them stay imperceptibly taller, and as Lady Viconia turned away from them all looked between themselves.
The damned drow comes back to reality as he is unceremoniously shoved into the coach, plush velvet doing little for his dry form. He scrambled to sit himself at least somehow on the relatively smooth and harmless floor of the transport as after him entered the woman, who questioned him in the mines, the lilt of the voice unmistakable with a slight scratch that comes from excess smoking. Her face is a roadmap of harshness and tiredness of a person who just wants to get this over with, wrinkles near her brows and chin confirmation of the character he was trying to perceive, her white hair braided intricately into a small bun low on her head, making her features appear sharp, her nose straight and strangely elegant on such harsh face, eyes - blazing garnet, as she stared down at him, settling down herself on a plush velvet cushion of the seat as coach begun to move, rhythmic swaying of the box they were in. The silence was natural as he lowered his gaze and attempted to sit up straighter, trying to behave in accordance with decorum which was drilled into him during his 200s.
“Fear not, male. You are to serve a noble purpose to our kind. Honored one, to atone for your sins. Consider yourself blessed by the Goddess.” The woman chuckled, watching him briefly before quickly losing interest, as her voice with the same accent he heard prior reached his ears. The man simply nodded in response, as he was not permitted to use his voice. The rest of the ride was uneventful, as the man busied himself with watching subtle patterns on the floor of the coach and smoothing out folds of his silken pants that were provided, his fingers occasionally playing with a few silver chains that hung around his neck now, plasters of metallic jewelry hiding shameful burn on his chest.
The coach came to a halt, the woman, after looking through the small window, moved to open the door, motioning for him to follow, which the man did. As he quickly scanned their surroundings, his wide eyes widened a bit more than usual, he didn’t recognise the district. This was probably a place for a wealthier class than he ever was. But before the male could ponder more where he was and what purpose he served in all of this, he was quickly grabbed by the shoulder, the elder woman leading him with her, keeping him pressed up against her armed person, her cloak partially covering him as she quickly moved to the back of the estate to which the arrived, guards, now in different armour, bearing family crests, parted seamlessly before her, as she entered the gates at the very back of the grand building, for servants and deliveries as to not draw attention away from the gorgeous facade of the front the building, as it rested imbedded into a wall, as if made of very same stone the natural walls of Underdark are and not build, fluidity of rock that makes the roof - perfect, in imitating intricate motifs of a spider web as the walls look like build ups around it to support an offering to a Goddess to rest upon the web, small patterns of fresh liquid like blood dropping down, rubies used for such detail.
Before he knows it, he is being handed to another drow woman, her face is less stern and she is obviously younger, yet now less regal than the woman who previously handled him, her uniform one of the main maids. She quickly looks him over before leading towards the adjacent hallway into intricate small passages for the servants and such, to be used and not seen. The inside is almost as lavish as the outside, yet with less bold offerings to the Goddess, the walls with dark carved pillars in each corner, supporting floor after floor, grand paintings upon the walls, each immortalizing a family member or a spider. It all but flashes before his eyes as he is led further and further in, until they emerge in a hallway, standing before a great wooden door with simple sharp motives, as they… Stand.
His heart beats erratically once more, his gaze flicks between the door and long hallway that led to it, the passage within the wall no longer there, as they have no use of it, as if it was just a figment of his imagination. He wants to ask, but he holds his tongue, she is still a woman, even if a servant. The silence stretches as they wait for… Something. A signal, a sign and yet the worst torment so far is the wait, the ringing in his ears growing impossibly louder and subtle tremors that are beginning to travel up and down his body, though he holds strong for now. And as if final mercy was granted to him, a soft ringing of a bell was heard from inside the room.
The servant opens the door, hinges not making a single sound, as he is gently pushed in. Before his eyes is undeniably an office of sorts, this one more for collective meetings rather than solitude and work, makes him think of an office Madame owned back in the ‘Silks’ brothel. It has the same air to it, quite literally smelling of faint tobacco too, of importance and richness, the room pristine, bookshelves lined with thick folds and books, a few artifacts that look both absurd and insanely expensive. Walls are painted in deep blue that shimmers pleasantly under the light of sconces with delicate carvings on the bases lining the wall, burning in soft dim purple light. There are two chaises deeper into the room across from each other, their sitting surface lined with deep purple plushness, a coffee table between them, a fireplace further in the wall, embers fully out, yet definitely showing signs of usage. But that’s not what grabbed his attention.
By the Spider Queen, she punished him with what stood in the room, fate worse than the mines, and yet sweet oblivion seems to be the ultimate end for the likes of him.