Gwindolyn Spiritor and AelKennyr Rhiano
The voice Olwe feared, the voice she loved, had told her he would be here and she was to take him. She had been waiting there, in a tree with a piwafi around her, the piwafi of with the magic insignia of her home that could render a drow invisible at a word. She lay there under protective cloak. Finally, she sees him. Not too far away. Just far enough that her presence would not be felt. She continues to watch until he separates. She quickly and quietly, with the grace that even an elf would be jealous of, slips to another tree with a clearer line of sight. She holds her breath so as not to give any signal of her position. He seems not to notice anything.
Nimros quickened his pace as he ran further up the hill toward the fruiting trees, his anxiousness to be reunited with Lady Elwing causing him to be heedless. "Elwing?" he calls, urgently, looking around. He swallows hard, his eyes searching for any sign of the Protrectress of the Silmaril. He comes to a stop by a pear tree and casts a glance downward, noticing that already some of the fruit has fallen, overripe and uneaten, to the ground, the cloying smell rising up, almost too much for sensitive noses.
Gwindolyn Spiritor follows as he runs up a hill. A piece of fruit stops him in his run. The silly elf stops to inspect the fruit. She grins. "Almost too easy" goes through her mind. As he is looking at the fruit, she does the small rhyme under her breath that empowers an innate magic all drow have - globe of darkness, a darkness so deep, even the drow's dark tempered eyes cannot peer into it. A fixated sphere of darkness positioned with the drow in the middle. Before the sphere manifested, she was moving, a small bit of poison on an arrow in hand. She moves so silently, even the wind does not mark her motions. A hand shoves the arrow across-wise at neck level, hoping to just barely scratch the skin. The poison is potent enough to feel a giant, a mountain troll, a human and even those magic resistant dwarves in an instant. It is a very unique formula that the drow have worked to perfection over centuries of exile.
Nimros takes a back, instinctively from the rotting fruit, wrinkling his nose. Of all the images that would go through his mind later, the image of the overripe pears in the morning sun, dewdrops still on them, would stay fixated. He looks up and around, a hand going back for his bow as he continues to speak. 'I did not mean to fall behi..." Then a darkness descends...black, unnatural and sudden. In the distance, the sounds of the sea birds increases, their fussing and squawking causing his head to turn in that direction. He pulls more urgently at his bow, his left arm up at neck level. A sudden sharp jab, like a needle or a bramble pricks his arm, and he pauses in mid-action, taking another disoriented step back. Then he quickly pulls forth the bow. But as he draws it, his left arm begins to feel heavy, and the young Teleri breaks out into a sweat. Puzzled, he switches the bow to his right hand, and tries to orient himself in the pitch darkness.
Gwindolyn Spiritor whirls around in the darkness to redirect her momentum and to come to a stop behind him. She is ready to catch where he should fall. She is puzzled as she does not hear any sound of him landing on the ground. She takes the used arrow and tries to swipe the second bladed side across the back of his neck, judging from her memory of the height. She would try to slash from right to left. Her mind goes back over the feeling of the arrow biting flesh as she slashes. She knows she hit him: why did he not fall? The poison is potent. She tested it on a goblin who died instantly earlier. Elves are a bit heartier: they just go into a sleep instantly. A quick drop of the right vial, and he would wake at her whim or a day to two would see it wear off. She opens her arms to catch him when he falls. She thinks, "He better fall."
The ground tilts crazily to Nimros, and bile rises to the back of his throat as waves of dizziness overtakes him. He sways and feels the bow drop from his numb right hand, as he register a sharp pain across the back of his neck. The young elf tries to will a hand to move up to feel where the skin is now burning and stinging, but his limbs won't obey. His lungs feel like they cannot pull in enough air, and he gasps, red spots blossoming before his eyes as his legs collapse beneath him and he falls, struggling vainly, unconscious.
She hears the step this time, the clumsy flailing arms. She reaches to catch him so that he doesn't hit the ground. She begins to prepare the teleport in the ring she purchased at great expense. Then she opens the rift. On the other end, there were two drow waiting for her. She nods her head, and they come out to drag the elf into the dungeon of her home; a stalagtyte carved and cared for over centruries by the greatest craftsmen available, a work of art hanging from the ceiling of a huge cavernous underground pocket. Large enough to house a thriving city of drow complete with the revered spaces and mansions like hers. But the elf will likely never see any of that. He will likely not know how blessed he is to experience this glorious world. He is dragged to a cell and stripped, left to sleep until she deemed herself ready to wake him.
> Next
Nimros quickened his pace as he ran further up the hill toward the fruiting trees, his anxiousness to be reunited with Lady Elwing causing him to be heedless. "Elwing?" he calls, urgently, looking around. He swallows hard, his eyes searching for any sign of the Protrectress of the Silmaril. He comes to a stop by a pear tree and casts a glance downward, noticing that already some of the fruit has fallen, overripe and uneaten, to the ground, the cloying smell rising up, almost too much for sensitive noses.
Gwindolyn Spiritor follows as he runs up a hill. A piece of fruit stops him in his run. The silly elf stops to inspect the fruit. She grins. "Almost too easy" goes through her mind. As he is looking at the fruit, she does the small rhyme under her breath that empowers an innate magic all drow have - globe of darkness, a darkness so deep, even the drow's dark tempered eyes cannot peer into it. A fixated sphere of darkness positioned with the drow in the middle. Before the sphere manifested, she was moving, a small bit of poison on an arrow in hand. She moves so silently, even the wind does not mark her motions. A hand shoves the arrow across-wise at neck level, hoping to just barely scratch the skin. The poison is potent enough to feel a giant, a mountain troll, a human and even those magic resistant dwarves in an instant. It is a very unique formula that the drow have worked to perfection over centuries of exile.
Nimros takes a back, instinctively from the rotting fruit, wrinkling his nose. Of all the images that would go through his mind later, the image of the overripe pears in the morning sun, dewdrops still on them, would stay fixated. He looks up and around, a hand going back for his bow as he continues to speak. 'I did not mean to fall behi..." Then a darkness descends...black, unnatural and sudden. In the distance, the sounds of the sea birds increases, their fussing and squawking causing his head to turn in that direction. He pulls more urgently at his bow, his left arm up at neck level. A sudden sharp jab, like a needle or a bramble pricks his arm, and he pauses in mid-action, taking another disoriented step back. Then he quickly pulls forth the bow. But as he draws it, his left arm begins to feel heavy, and the young Teleri breaks out into a sweat. Puzzled, he switches the bow to his right hand, and tries to orient himself in the pitch darkness.
Gwindolyn Spiritor whirls around in the darkness to redirect her momentum and to come to a stop behind him. She is ready to catch where he should fall. She is puzzled as she does not hear any sound of him landing on the ground. She takes the used arrow and tries to swipe the second bladed side across the back of his neck, judging from her memory of the height. She would try to slash from right to left. Her mind goes back over the feeling of the arrow biting flesh as she slashes. She knows she hit him: why did he not fall? The poison is potent. She tested it on a goblin who died instantly earlier. Elves are a bit heartier: they just go into a sleep instantly. A quick drop of the right vial, and he would wake at her whim or a day to two would see it wear off. She opens her arms to catch him when he falls. She thinks, "He better fall."
The ground tilts crazily to Nimros, and bile rises to the back of his throat as waves of dizziness overtakes him. He sways and feels the bow drop from his numb right hand, as he register a sharp pain across the back of his neck. The young elf tries to will a hand to move up to feel where the skin is now burning and stinging, but his limbs won't obey. His lungs feel like they cannot pull in enough air, and he gasps, red spots blossoming before his eyes as his legs collapse beneath him and he falls, struggling vainly, unconscious.
She hears the step this time, the clumsy flailing arms. She reaches to catch him so that he doesn't hit the ground. She begins to prepare the teleport in the ring she purchased at great expense. Then she opens the rift. On the other end, there were two drow waiting for her. She nods her head, and they come out to drag the elf into the dungeon of her home; a stalagtyte carved and cared for over centruries by the greatest craftsmen available, a work of art hanging from the ceiling of a huge cavernous underground pocket. Large enough to house a thriving city of drow complete with the revered spaces and mansions like hers. But the elf will likely never see any of that. He will likely not know how blessed he is to experience this glorious world. He is dragged to a cell and stripped, left to sleep until she deemed herself ready to wake him.
> Next