AelKennyr Rhiano
"Thrityh 'sohna," the killianen jabbuk barked at him, his arms ready, poised, yet his sword still in his scabbard. "Attack again."Skin so dark, it had a midnight blue cast to it, eyes like two red hot coals, the killanen jabbuk, the swords master, saunters across the expanse of the uneven and broken stone of the practice arena. Nimros' emerald eyes are drawn to the whorls and faded lines of a massive tattoo that spanned the whole of the drow's chest. Fingers callused from years of fighting and training others to use the weapons of blood and death flexed and relaxed as the drow drops his hands to either side of him. In broken Quenya, the drow says, “In battle no rest. In drow no mercy. You fight like taught but tire like child.” He turns his heads and spits out a glob of blood.
“Usstan g'jahallus dos, yibin nest,” Nimros hisses at him in the drow’s own tongue. The young Teleri’s lips curl into a sneer as he tosses down his practice sword on the ground. His pale skin caught the weak smoky light of a torch that the swords master had lit, casting a bare finger of illumination, hungrily gobbled up by the immense darkness. A tattoo covered half of Nimros’ chest, around his eyes and over both arms. The pain of it as the Matron inked his skin aroused in him a dizzy passion, a hungry bestial need that throbbed low and tight in parts of his body and hung heavy and burning in his loins as he lay with her that night. His green eyes narrow to slits as he regards the drow before him. “I tire of beating you, old weak man,” he adds in the Common speech.Hissing, the older drow male turned his body away from the elf, as though walking away. The pale elf boy has transformed into an adult under his watchful eye, the muscles of the Teleri’s upper body chiseled and well-defined. No longer has he the awkwardness of a child, a dalhar, but the poise and the sureness of a budding warrior. Fueled by a raw desire for the things only Lloth can bring a male, Nimros took every blow delivered without complaint. Injury upon injury the drow inflicted upon the young Teleri; cracked ribs, broken bones, body bloody and beaten, still he came back the next day. The small red eyes of the swords master watched while Nimros struggled to master the bautha z'hin, the “dodge and walk.”
Slowly, beneath the burning gaze of the drow, the rapid and painful blows he would loose upon the elf if he failed to perform up to his peak even for one moment, Nimros mastered the skill of dodging blows, or maneuvering about his foe, rushing in and attacking and rushing back out with little damage to himself. And not only that, but he began to pick up bits of drow phrases, wordings, and began to teach the drow his own tongue, which felt too light upon the tongue. The sounds too soft and bleating to the swords master’s ears.The drow had been commanded by the Matron to instruct Nimros. “Zao ukta naut ulu el queelas,” she had commanded. “Teach him not to die quickly.” And she ran her long, tapered, finely sharpened nails across his chest, thin lines of blood tracking where she had touched him. Then she raised her other hand to his face and clawed his left cheek. “Fail me, old slave,” she purred, her voice low and husky, and he felt his body stir with desire even as she continued her threat, “and I will bind you with your own entrails while I peel the flesh off you.” He had not failed, but he also had not stopped with teaching the boy elf the rudiments of attack. He had a student burning with thirst, and he quenched it.
With a speed that Nimros had yet to being to approach, the swords master draws his long sword and turning the blade just right, he swings back toward Nimros. With the grace of a Vanya dancer, he moves into and closes with the young elf and with his other hand; it is easy for him to grasp the younger male by the throat even as he uses the flat of the blade to beat Nimros, raining blows upon hard blows on his sides, his belly, and his back. Nimros never has a chance to bend down for the discarded blade, and so suddenly has the drow moved, his eyes has barely widen before he feels the thick, scarred hand close about his throat. His own hands scrabble at the one at his throat, push at the hand wielding the sword. He flails and gives choked, half strangled sounds of pain and rage as relentlessly, the swords master beats him. 
Finally, the swords master releases Nimros, watching him slump to the floor. Already the pale skin is reddened and turning shades of blue, brown and black, thin lines of red, oozing blood where the edge of the blade has nicked his flesh. With a tilt of his head, his blood red eyes boring into Nimros’, the drow tells him, “Huthin draeval Usstan zhal harventh tir biu har, darthirii.” Huddled on the floor, Nimros wraps his arms around his stomach, groaning helplessly. “Next time I shall cut off an ear, elf,” a distance part of his mind translates. Gasping for air, he draws in a shallow breath. “Why not this time?” he asks, his voice thick with hate for the drow at this moment. “Answer me! Why do you spare me?” He looks up, green eyes filled with self-loathing for being so defeated, mouth twisted in hatred, body curled in pain.
From his greater height, for he was tall for his kind, the male drow answers with one word. “Lloth.”
Nimros starts to open his mouth, but his next question would never be asked, never be answered. For in that moment, there came a sound he had never heard before, the sound of the very bowels of the earth being ripped asunder. In the distance there arise shouts and curses and screams. The ground shakes beneath them. The drow pauses for only a moment, and then bends down and with sure hands pulls Nimros roughly to his feet. “Come,” he commands and pulls the elf after him.
“Come? Come, where? Why? What is happening?” gasps Nimros, wheeling drunkenly upon his fear, his body screaming at him from a dozen deep bruises and shallow cuts.
Without a backward glance, the drow pulls and pushes at the elf. All about them, the ground, buckles and shifts before the rock floor cracks, Above them the rock ceiling screams and wisps of sandy rock debris betrays where the roof over them was cracking and breaking apart. “Earthquake?” Nimros yells over the sound of the rending of earth.
“Death,” replies the drow, snatching and shoving him. “If you want life, come.”
Nimros obeyed.