Gwindolyn Spiritor and AelKennyr Rhiano
Pain...pain in evert step. The way back to his room has never been so long, and all the way back, he could hear the whistling, nasal sound of the drow as he breathes though the broken swollen nose. A smile curves the Teleri's lips. He straightens his shoulders and strikes his heel down all the harder against the stone floor. Pain shoots up his leg, and he hisses in response. But the pain makes him notice the textures of the walls as they walk, makes his sense of smell keener. His mouth waters as he smells meat cooking somewhere. He is alive, such as he has never been before.
Nimros turns to the teacher at the door of the room and waits for the grunt from the Drow that passes for a farewell. Slowly he enters the room, and upon closing the door he leans against the table nearby and gives voice to the moan of pain he has been holding back. He limps over to the bed and sitting down gingerly, he slowly unlaces the boot and examines the injured foot. Not broken, but badly injured, bruised. He closes his eyes and feels the pain. It sweeps thought his being until he is almost dizzy. He flops back on the bed and gives a moan, not of pain this time, but of near pleasure. He has never felt so alive as his time here. He cannot remember, now, a time in Alqualonde where he has been so alert and so aroused.
It isn't too long after he was there examining his ankle, she opened the door to his room. She enters it wearing not much more than her heeled boots, ceremonial dagger and a smile. The tension of her duties carefully tucked away along with all thoughts and desires, she would only show him a smile filled with lust and need for him. "Did your training go well?"
Nimros hears click of heels approaching the door. He knew the sound of her boots. Slowly he pushes himself into a sitting position as she opens the door and enters. His green eyes sweep over her body, and a smile crosses his face, one of lust and desire and possession. For to the young Teleri, she is his. He allows his gaze to travel over her body, while a hand pats the bed beside him. "Training went very well," he answers. "Very well." He watches her.
Ilharess does not hesitate more than a teasing moment before going to him. She has seen that hunger in other eyes and knows it. She smiles to see it there. She does not see the hurt ankle, nor does she deeply inspect him to see it. "Oh, care to tell about it?" She says as she takes the seat offered her on the bed. "Or do you have something else in mind?" Her voice grows darker, deeper with the second sentence.
Nimros watches her cross the room. The bed creaks and groans as she sits. He shifts and hisses as pain shoots up his leg from the swollen foot. He bends over the hurt foot, rubbing at the swollen areas. "Were I on the surface, I could locate the herbs that I could make into a poultice for this." He shrugs, straightening up. "It is of no importance," he says quickly. Then he turns to her and giving her a sharping measuring look, he pushes a lock of hair from his eyes. "How many drow live here?" he asks.
Ilharess watches as he bends down to rub his ankle. She almost grins at his pain, but catches herself. She hears him mention herbs and healing. She could heal him. She weighs the options, thinking that might be a way to the next stage of his training when his question catches her off guard. "Just my family."
She doesn't count the servants as they don't matter. She doesn't count the other beasts they use to do grunt work, cannon fodder or sacrifice material. They are just things. Her spider crawls out from under her hair and down onto her neck. She lifts a hand to secure the misbehaving hair out of his eyes for him. Her fingers ghosting his intent on taking the hair from him and curling it behind his ear. Her blue eyes with thin red lines through the blue look to his green eyes.
Nimros grabs her wrist and squeezes it painfully, his green eyes narrowing, his lips pursing into a thin line. He leans forward and his voice is cold. "I know better," he hisses."I am no fool. That Drow that spars with me is no family. Servant, perhaps, and an old soldier, given his wounds. But I am no fool. I have smelled too many cook fires, heard the distant sounds of voices and life beyond the corridor between this room and the training arena. I have heard the tolling of some sort of bell. You think me a dullard for my youth." He tightens his grip. "How many drow live here?" he repeats.
Ilharess is not used to being talked to or treated in such a manner. Her eyes narrow to thin slits. The thin red lines in them widen and begin to pulse slightly. Her hand twitches with a chaotic energy. She takes a deep breath, and her hand relaxes. She reminds herself who she is and why this elf is touching her at all. Her eyes soften and the redness departs. "Many would call you a fool for the nights we spend together. Others would call you a fool for the color of your skin. Others might think you not so foolish for learning what teaching I offer you. Let's leave silly titles to the fools." She pauses and looks at him almost woundedly, "My dearest, do I not satisfy your desires?" Her blue eyes sweep down her nearly naked body in an exaggerated way so she is sure he does not miss the movement.
Nimros follows her eyes, his own travelling down the length of her body, the smooth silkiness of her dark skin. But then his eyes travel back up, and it is a flint hard look he gives her. "How. Many. Drow?" His voice is low and he pulls her to him as he asks. He starts to twist the arm behind her back, pushing at her, so that she would fall back upon the bed.
Ilharess was too secure in her superiority to see this move coming from him. In spite of his growing discontent and boldness, she was caught off guard by the quick, sure movements of the elf. She growls as her hand is twisted behind her back and she is pinned to the bed. His full length over hers similar to so many times before, but with such a different tone. Her free hand moves to his back. Her hand reaches the smooth expanse of a fisherman's son's back as she can picture her sharp nails slicing his back open. Her eyes regain the redness and her voice grows hard and cold. "You truly want to know drow?"
His body swings atop hers, pinning her. "You will answer me," he tells her. "I tire of knowing nothing."
Ilharess groans at the pain of him atop her with her arm twisted behind her. She digs her claws into his back. The sharp silver manicure creating holes where there were none before. She kicks her heeled, leathered foot at his sore ankle as she rolls, meaning to dislodge him. Nimros yelps as the silver tips slice though his leather jerkin and begin to rake his flesh, long furrows that well up with blood. He arches his back at the pain, uttering a curse he had learned from the male drow, "Elg'caress!"
He tries to bring his weight to bear down upon her, but her foot connects with his injured one, and he howls at the unexpected pain. His stoic endurance of earlier gone, he rolls off her and clutches his foot. Green eyes slitted, he seethes. "Olath waess elg'caress," he growls, spitting the words at her.
Ilharess doesn't know whether to laugh, hit him or be pleased he shows such corruption already. The audacity to use such a tone with her. His accent was atrocious. The fact he would utter such words at all shows much corrosion of surface ideals. But he dared taint her language with his tongue before given permission. "Don't speak my language until given permission or meet your death. For now, follow me." In a purposeful stride towards the door, she shows no worry about dressing or if the elf follows her or not.
Jumping up from the bed, he reaches out and grabs one of her upper arms, his finger digging into her flesh. "Who are you to threaten me?" he demands hotly. He steps closer to her, his eyes a glittering green. "You have done nothing but deceive me," he continues. "All of this. A lie. Gaer zhah nau aster wun dos," he says in her tongue. "There is no truth in you."
Ilharess wrenches her hand deftly in order to free it. Her blue eyes nearly red as the lines in them widen and pulse slight warnings to him. She fixates her glare on his green pupils. "So you begin to see the truth of drow. I said to follow me and perhaps you will live this night through. Persist and you will meet truths you are not ready for." Whether he still had her hand or not, she would turn to the door, intent on leaving the room.
Nimros presses up hard against her. He slams a hand against the door to bar her way. "This best not be another deception, j'nesst," he hisses in her ear, his cheek pressed against her hair. Then he drops his arms and allows her to open the door, following close behind her.
Ilharess gives him a haughty, smug laugh. As she walks past the elf as she tosses back, "Or what? You will throw a temper tantrum and hold your breath like a spoiled brat child?"
She shakes her head, muttering, "Wele jaluk zhaun natha xan'ss xor draa d' ilythiiri lu' talinthe uk ehmtau har'oloth. (Stupid male knows a word or two of drow and thinks he owns the underdark.)"
She leads him down a twist of corridors and halls until she reaches a very large room. It is nearly empty save for the almost edible darkness hovering in the atmosphere. In the middle of the room is a Large obsidian statue. The top half is of a drow woman with fangs. The long curls falling down her loosely sculpted body. The bottom half is a spider. in front of this statue is a stone table with webs and runes etched into its surface. The tall ceilings and walls were perfectly straight and polished, almost unnaturally so.
There are torches. She speaks a single word of power, "Chath," and the sconces flare to life only to settle into a dim light that sparkles over the room. The table is as if new, it is so immaculate. Spiders skitter about. A drow passes, and knowing the room should be empty at this hour, darts in to see what the matter is. Upon seeing her, he drops instantly to his knees and bows his head so his eyes dare not even look at her. "Ku-lam lu' sila uns'aa ussta elgluth," she commands.
The drow rises silently and backs out of the room with his head down. When out of the room, he turns and heads away from the room. She turns her attention to Nimros and says,"This is the house temple"
> Next
Nimros turns to the teacher at the door of the room and waits for the grunt from the Drow that passes for a farewell. Slowly he enters the room, and upon closing the door he leans against the table nearby and gives voice to the moan of pain he has been holding back. He limps over to the bed and sitting down gingerly, he slowly unlaces the boot and examines the injured foot. Not broken, but badly injured, bruised. He closes his eyes and feels the pain. It sweeps thought his being until he is almost dizzy. He flops back on the bed and gives a moan, not of pain this time, but of near pleasure. He has never felt so alive as his time here. He cannot remember, now, a time in Alqualonde where he has been so alert and so aroused.
It isn't too long after he was there examining his ankle, she opened the door to his room. She enters it wearing not much more than her heeled boots, ceremonial dagger and a smile. The tension of her duties carefully tucked away along with all thoughts and desires, she would only show him a smile filled with lust and need for him. "Did your training go well?"
Nimros hears click of heels approaching the door. He knew the sound of her boots. Slowly he pushes himself into a sitting position as she opens the door and enters. His green eyes sweep over her body, and a smile crosses his face, one of lust and desire and possession. For to the young Teleri, she is his. He allows his gaze to travel over her body, while a hand pats the bed beside him. "Training went very well," he answers. "Very well." He watches her.
Ilharess does not hesitate more than a teasing moment before going to him. She has seen that hunger in other eyes and knows it. She smiles to see it there. She does not see the hurt ankle, nor does she deeply inspect him to see it. "Oh, care to tell about it?" She says as she takes the seat offered her on the bed. "Or do you have something else in mind?" Her voice grows darker, deeper with the second sentence.
Nimros watches her cross the room. The bed creaks and groans as she sits. He shifts and hisses as pain shoots up his leg from the swollen foot. He bends over the hurt foot, rubbing at the swollen areas. "Were I on the surface, I could locate the herbs that I could make into a poultice for this." He shrugs, straightening up. "It is of no importance," he says quickly. Then he turns to her and giving her a sharping measuring look, he pushes a lock of hair from his eyes. "How many drow live here?" he asks.
Ilharess watches as he bends down to rub his ankle. She almost grins at his pain, but catches herself. She hears him mention herbs and healing. She could heal him. She weighs the options, thinking that might be a way to the next stage of his training when his question catches her off guard. "Just my family."
She doesn't count the servants as they don't matter. She doesn't count the other beasts they use to do grunt work, cannon fodder or sacrifice material. They are just things. Her spider crawls out from under her hair and down onto her neck. She lifts a hand to secure the misbehaving hair out of his eyes for him. Her fingers ghosting his intent on taking the hair from him and curling it behind his ear. Her blue eyes with thin red lines through the blue look to his green eyes.
Nimros grabs her wrist and squeezes it painfully, his green eyes narrowing, his lips pursing into a thin line. He leans forward and his voice is cold. "I know better," he hisses."I am no fool. That Drow that spars with me is no family. Servant, perhaps, and an old soldier, given his wounds. But I am no fool. I have smelled too many cook fires, heard the distant sounds of voices and life beyond the corridor between this room and the training arena. I have heard the tolling of some sort of bell. You think me a dullard for my youth." He tightens his grip. "How many drow live here?" he repeats.
Ilharess is not used to being talked to or treated in such a manner. Her eyes narrow to thin slits. The thin red lines in them widen and begin to pulse slightly. Her hand twitches with a chaotic energy. She takes a deep breath, and her hand relaxes. She reminds herself who she is and why this elf is touching her at all. Her eyes soften and the redness departs. "Many would call you a fool for the nights we spend together. Others would call you a fool for the color of your skin. Others might think you not so foolish for learning what teaching I offer you. Let's leave silly titles to the fools." She pauses and looks at him almost woundedly, "My dearest, do I not satisfy your desires?" Her blue eyes sweep down her nearly naked body in an exaggerated way so she is sure he does not miss the movement.
Nimros follows her eyes, his own travelling down the length of her body, the smooth silkiness of her dark skin. But then his eyes travel back up, and it is a flint hard look he gives her. "How. Many. Drow?" His voice is low and he pulls her to him as he asks. He starts to twist the arm behind her back, pushing at her, so that she would fall back upon the bed.
Ilharess was too secure in her superiority to see this move coming from him. In spite of his growing discontent and boldness, she was caught off guard by the quick, sure movements of the elf. She growls as her hand is twisted behind her back and she is pinned to the bed. His full length over hers similar to so many times before, but with such a different tone. Her free hand moves to his back. Her hand reaches the smooth expanse of a fisherman's son's back as she can picture her sharp nails slicing his back open. Her eyes regain the redness and her voice grows hard and cold. "You truly want to know drow?"
His body swings atop hers, pinning her. "You will answer me," he tells her. "I tire of knowing nothing."
Ilharess groans at the pain of him atop her with her arm twisted behind her. She digs her claws into his back. The sharp silver manicure creating holes where there were none before. She kicks her heeled, leathered foot at his sore ankle as she rolls, meaning to dislodge him. Nimros yelps as the silver tips slice though his leather jerkin and begin to rake his flesh, long furrows that well up with blood. He arches his back at the pain, uttering a curse he had learned from the male drow, "Elg'caress!"
He tries to bring his weight to bear down upon her, but her foot connects with his injured one, and he howls at the unexpected pain. His stoic endurance of earlier gone, he rolls off her and clutches his foot. Green eyes slitted, he seethes. "Olath waess elg'caress," he growls, spitting the words at her.
Ilharess doesn't know whether to laugh, hit him or be pleased he shows such corruption already. The audacity to use such a tone with her. His accent was atrocious. The fact he would utter such words at all shows much corrosion of surface ideals. But he dared taint her language with his tongue before given permission. "Don't speak my language until given permission or meet your death. For now, follow me." In a purposeful stride towards the door, she shows no worry about dressing or if the elf follows her or not.
Jumping up from the bed, he reaches out and grabs one of her upper arms, his finger digging into her flesh. "Who are you to threaten me?" he demands hotly. He steps closer to her, his eyes a glittering green. "You have done nothing but deceive me," he continues. "All of this. A lie. Gaer zhah nau aster wun dos," he says in her tongue. "There is no truth in you."
Ilharess wrenches her hand deftly in order to free it. Her blue eyes nearly red as the lines in them widen and pulse slight warnings to him. She fixates her glare on his green pupils. "So you begin to see the truth of drow. I said to follow me and perhaps you will live this night through. Persist and you will meet truths you are not ready for." Whether he still had her hand or not, she would turn to the door, intent on leaving the room.
Nimros presses up hard against her. He slams a hand against the door to bar her way. "This best not be another deception, j'nesst," he hisses in her ear, his cheek pressed against her hair. Then he drops his arms and allows her to open the door, following close behind her.
Ilharess gives him a haughty, smug laugh. As she walks past the elf as she tosses back, "Or what? You will throw a temper tantrum and hold your breath like a spoiled brat child?"
She shakes her head, muttering, "Wele jaluk zhaun natha xan'ss xor draa d' ilythiiri lu' talinthe uk ehmtau har'oloth. (Stupid male knows a word or two of drow and thinks he owns the underdark.)"
She leads him down a twist of corridors and halls until she reaches a very large room. It is nearly empty save for the almost edible darkness hovering in the atmosphere. In the middle of the room is a Large obsidian statue. The top half is of a drow woman with fangs. The long curls falling down her loosely sculpted body. The bottom half is a spider. in front of this statue is a stone table with webs and runes etched into its surface. The tall ceilings and walls were perfectly straight and polished, almost unnaturally so.
There are torches. She speaks a single word of power, "Chath," and the sconces flare to life only to settle into a dim light that sparkles over the room. The table is as if new, it is so immaculate. Spiders skitter about. A drow passes, and knowing the room should be empty at this hour, darts in to see what the matter is. Upon seeing her, he drops instantly to his knees and bows his head so his eyes dare not even look at her. "Ku-lam lu' sila uns'aa ussta elgluth," she commands.
The drow rises silently and backs out of the room with his head down. When out of the room, he turns and heads away from the room. She turns her attention to Nimros and says,"This is the house temple"
> Next