Belenos StormChaser Magic and Leonardo Rainfall
Súraumo's wings beat strongly as he and the Balrog make their way north. The warmth of the late morning sends currents of air swirling upwards from the peaks and cliffs below and the wily old dragon makes the most of them this day. Yes, he had feasted long and well at the dwarven settlement, but he had learned long ago that one never knew when one's next meal may be so it was always wise to conserve strength whenever the chance arose.
He traveled on the dragon's blind side, casting long, baleful stares at the loathsome creature beside him. Old, old dragon, new when the Master walked Middle Earth, young when they last the great battle. And now, now look at traveling companion, creature. His lips curl back in a grimace. The creature smells of crushed and blackened bones, of decay, of mortality. But still, he yet serves the purpose, and yet may be a tool, the Balrog thinks. For his part, the Balrog had forgotten what flesh tastes like, how it felt to worry at charred muscle and sinew, to tear meat off the bone with your own teeth, chew the stringy mess, feel it fill the belly. Too long has he gone without, but since he was summoned from the black pit where time never moved, day never came, one moment is as much an eternity: now he cannot fill his belly enough with flesh and meat and blood. Soon, soon, another flesh will fill him. It is a taste he carves for with an intensity that burns him brighter.
Súraumo swivels his head as he flies, so he can focus his one good eye down at his unlikely companion-in-arms. The Balrog flew slightly lower than the dragon, skimming the tops of the forests and mountaintops. Súraumo gives a small snort of disgust as he watches his companion, the cinders and smoke whipping away to vanish in the wind of his passing. So far his association with the Balrog had led to one near disaster and one decent meal. Combined with the creature's arrogance and regular insults the old dragon strongly doubted their paths would continue to journey together for much longer. Súraumo's mighty lungs pumped as he hissed in annoyance at the remembered jibes. No, should the Balrog fail with this promised endeavour he would not be journeying anywhere further at all, if Súraumo had anything to do with it!
Below them the mountains ranges were powdered with snow and ice, the air frigid, pushing, pulling, sucking greedly at the fire that burns and fuels the Balrog. Like tiny daggers, the cold air digs into his body, presses against his wings his hands, his feet. But it is nothing to him nothing. The steel sharp kiss of the cutting wind is testimony that he is alive, free, and soon able to go as he wist. Looking down he sees nestled between the mountain peaks, which reach up like a clawed hand of a dying Atani, a human grown withered and sucked dry with age and mortality, nestled valleys of verdant green. He drops lower, his eyes intent to spy the landmarks that tell him they are at this trek's end. He sucks in a lungful of warm air. There! those smells! "Yessssss," he hisses and does a lazy roll in the air. "We approach it, " he tells the dragon. Tonight, the Balrog thinks to himself, your bones will serve as a landmark, should I ever wish to find this place again.
Súraumo keeps a wary eye on the Balrog as he follows him lower. There has been nothing so far to induce trust in the loathsome being so Súraumo followed him cautiously downwards, snaking his head from side to side as he watched for a trap. The land seemed deserted and peaceful enough and his wings backbeat delicately to ease him down into the small clearing indicated by the Balrog. As he landed he takes care to protect his lame foot when he finally makes contact with the earth. Once the flurry of grass seeds and dust has settled he peers about him, again snaking his neck from side to side as he covered his blind spot. Yes, there it was! Mostly hidden by a thicket of wild saplings, there most certainly was a door. Not a door of heavy carved stone such as the Dwarves favoured, but a door of carved wood.
The balrog gives a low growl, his lips peeling back, exposing a mouth that looks nothing so much as a volcano of molten lava. He exhales noisily through two nostril slits where a nose should be and cracks his whip in disgruntled disgust at the maelstrom of wind, leaves. dirt, grass, and cinders. His own feet touched the ground, and leaves a fiery ash track of his steps as he comes up behind the dragon. Side to side, the half blind creature whips his neck back and forth. Giving a snort and striding forward, the balrog dismisses the crippled, aged dragon and moves with a single purpose toward the carved wood door. "Here," he says, low, and licks his lips in anticipation. "Sweet meat inside, dragon. Yes, sweet meat, and sweetest of all yet to be had."
Súraumo's old heart began to beat hard and fast at the prospect of the sport he would have this day. He had learned long ago that these Dark Skins were no soft fat prey such as the dwarves. These were much more worthy of a mighty warrior such as himself. Not that they were overly strong, for they were small as most of the two legs were compared to himself. But these, these were fleet of foot and well trained, some even in the arts of spell-casting. Yes, these old bones would have some sport today. They were close. So close now he could smell them in the air around him. Nothing overt of course, for these ones lived far below the surface mostly, but the whisper of their passing on a recent foray lingered on the air.
Súraumo nods as his wizened old snout snuffled the air. Yes, there it was. The distinct smell of fungus and decay that clung to the Dark Skins even out here in the fresh air, combined with the tang of the animal fat they used to keep their leather supple and waterproof. And the blood. Yes, there was the sharp sweet smell of blood on the air. Their little jaunt had been successful. Súraumo turned to the door and eyed it speculatively. With luck they would have full bellies and slack vigilance this day, but he knew enough of the Dark Skins to know better than to count on it.
The Balrog hears the dragon's movements but dimly. He breathes in all the smells of the forest and the underground, of the Drow that were scurrying about their tiny mortal concerns beneath their feet, like ants clamouring in an anthill. His eyes drink in the wooden door that stood betwixt him and those lives he would gobble down, like a feast. He turns around to turn his burning gaze upon Súraumo and tilts his head, chin jutted up to give to the old dragon his assent and steps to one side. He waits for the dragon like a lord at a high table, waiting but scarcely patient for the serving of a succulent dish.
Súraumo's eyes narrow at the Balrog's manner and a half growl rumbles in his throat. Still, lured by the promise of sport and meat, he steps forward, careful not to catch his crippled foot on some hidden outcrop of rock and snuffles at the rock around the doorway. He had been watching the land below on their journey north with interest, for the formations reminded him of similar peaks he had encountered far to the south when he had been barely fully grown. Now he examined the rock carefully, huffing in deep breaths, inhaling the ancient scent of the stone. His old eye gleamed with satisfaction. Yes! There it was, the thing he had been seeking, the pungent whiff of ancient sulfur.
Súraumo snakes his head around to look at the Balrog and his whisper is like the rumble of rocks tumbling down a mountainside, "These Dark Skins know not what they have done. These mountains are like those of Mount Doom, only much older. This rock was once deep within such a mount and hot and molten. When it cools it is one of the hardest rocks you will ever find. It takes great skill and strength to carve it as they have done. "
He lowers he head even closer to the Balrog as he continues, "What they do not know is that once this rock has been in the air long enough, it becomes brittle as a twig." To demonstrate he tosses his head and gouges at the rock with his nose horn. Bits of stone crumble and fall. He turns and eyes the door and shifts from foot to foot in excited anticipation. "Every tunnel, every cavern, every surface of this rock that is exposed to air will shatter with ease before our might."
As the Balrog watches the aged creature shuffle forward, he stares at the crippled foot with its missing toes. It would be so easy to flick the wrist, crack the whip...just so.....entangle the leg in a molten hot kiss of the whip and tug. He gave a low rumbling snort as in his mind, he sees the dragon go down to his knees, roaring pain, the one clear eye spilling tears and surprised horror in equal measure. Not yet, not yet, he tells himself, his body coiled, tight, heavy with anticipation. Dimly he hears the harsh, rolling words of the dragon. What was that creature droning on about? Rock is rock, the Balrog thinks, and then he sees the stone crumble and gives a soft gasp of surprise as he realizes the import of the Dragon's words. "We will peel back their tunnels like the shell of an egg," says the Balrog, running his tongue, a living fire, over his lips. We will suck them from their holes and feel them tumble down our throats."
Súraumo needs no further encouragement and sets to determinedly . Bracing his legs his lungs pumped for air. When he felt his chest would surely burst with the strain, he opened his maw and out poured a stream of fiery dragon breath. The door, although thick and heavy, was old and weathered, dry as tinder. The wood seemed to welcome the blaze as a release from its servitude to the drow, crackling and popping in joyful surrender as the flames consumed it. Once the flames had a good hold on the door Súraumo turns and puts his shoulder to it, sending it crashing inwards in a cloud of flames and smoke. Balancing carefully on his injured foot, he uses his mighty rack of horns and the talons on his other foreleg to gouge at the rocks, sending rubble and dust flying into the air. He works swiftly and soon there is a hole more than large enough to accommodate both he and the Balrog.
The Balrog throws back his head, the laughter boiling through his body, thick, coiling, a wildfire, tumbles from his lips in a sound that slides and slips around the crashing of the door, the eager, hot consuming flames the lick and gobble at the dried old wood. Wood was once tree, and tree was once not dead, but living thing, growing, graceful, beloved of the Valar, blessed by the One that the Balrog dare not mention, dare not call to mind. As the dragon moves forward, laboring to clear the way for them both, the Balrog raises both arms in the air, his claw hands curling into fists as he shakes them in defiance. He, He who was imprisoned, he who was contained, released through the folly of a mortal blackened elf-like thing...he is here, moments, from shedding any and all limitations. Here he stood, in the world created not for him, but for puny mewling mortal things that he will soon trample beneath his feet, use to feed his rage, stuff his stomach and burn for no other reason than to delight in the destruction Here I am. He gives another wordless cry of exultation. He lowers his arms, and with the stride of a conqueror, he walks up alongside the dragon and reaching up, pats the side of the old dragon's neck. "Good, good," he murmurs, much like men coo to the beasts that pull their plows. "Forward, forward. Your reward lies ahead."
Súraumo snarls savagely and shakes his neck with a dry rattle of scales to dislodge the Balrog's touch. When this day was through it would be more than Dark Skins who would be lying lifeless in the ruins of this mountain! But now, now there was sport to be had! Joyfully he charges forward without hesitation into the cluster of blinking dark skinned inhabitants. He positions himself firmly in the middle of the chamber, his neck snaking out and around as his might jaws snap, his tail flailing from side to side, sweeping any it encounters off their feet and against the rock walls of the chamber where they drop, lifeless and inert.
The dragon surges forward, awkwardness from the shuffle he must do to compensate for the crippled foot falling away like dying, discarded scales to reveal a graceful dance of blood and death. In the middle of the chamber, the dragon falls upon the drow, snapping his jaws, sweeping his tail to and fro, sending the black skinned drow slamming into the walls with a wet smack before sliding lifeless to the floor. The sweet, metallic cloy of blood rose like a rich perfume and floated out to the Balrog, and he surges forward into the chamber, cracking the whip upon those few still alive.
His eyes dance with savage pleasure as some Drow still alive rush toward him, avoiding the dragon nimbly only to meet death at his fiery hands, others seeking to rush further into the chamber, slamming up against the second set of wooden doors. But too late, too late, his whip snakes out, and delivers death, painful and mercifully quick. Not because there is pity in the heart of the Balrog, but a growing impatience now. Now as he moves into the chamber, now the slits that serve as nostrils flare as he catches the scent of the she-dog who yet holds him by ever-so-slender gossamer threads of the geas. He steps over and upon bodies, heedless. He nods at the door, his voice imperious. "This door, " he says and steps over to one side. Let the beast work, he thinks. I will have my own task soon enough.
Súraumo roars in agony at a sudden piercing pain in his ears. Somewhere nearby, unseen there must be a spell caster. Shuddering at the pain, Súraumo opens his jaws and jets forth a spray of fiery dragon breath, snaking his head from side to side on his long muscular neck, both dazzling and scorching those who stand against them. As suddenly as it began, the pain ceases, the culprit now one of many screaming living torches who sought to flee the chamber. Emboldened by his easy success against the Dark Skins, Súraumo sweeps his head around on his long neck, bringing his jaws snapping shut just above the head of the Balrog. "You are the one who knows the way from here," his snarl is deep-throated and full of menace, "It is time for you to stop hiding behind like a wet-nosed pink-skinned child afraid of the dark and lead! Where is this one you claim you seek?"
The Balrog lets out a roar at the insult, and cracks his whip, just inches away from the crippled foot of Súraumo. The primal urge to tear, to rend, to break apart the dragon's head rushes over him, and his vision is awashed in a red film. But as the flames of scores of fires suck at the air like hungry children at their dam's teat, he smells the rich, fleshy, fungal scent of the underdark, and winding like a vine through it all was her smell, the Matron, the one he sought. She was still far below him, and each moment here only gives an advantage, however meager to these drow. Though they cannot defeat him and the dragon, maimed thing he was, yet the Balrog would have them stripped of all recourse, all hope, all possibility of survival. Raising his arms up, he summons the flames that burn inside him to leap and rise up, and he strides to the door, using his arms to batter and beat the door down into a cascade of weeping flames.
Súraumo casts a last look around the chamber before following the Balrog. He had not lived to his great age by leaving a living enemy at his back. Satisfied that nothing but dead and charred bodies remained he stepped through the doorway. There would be time later to return and feast. Now though, he must keep the Balrog in sight. Súraumo was no fool. He knew his taunts had irked the creature of darkness, but it was becoming harder and harder for him to swallow the Balrog's insults. Now as they fight their way down through the Underdark, always Súraumo is aware of the Balrog, where he is, what he does. Many of the Dark Skins die before them. More still, driven by their sense of selfishness and self-preservation abandon the rest of their kind to their fate and disappear down small hidden corridors; corridors too small for one of the dragon's size to follow. And always he keeps the Balrog in sight. No, a wise dragon did not leave a living enemy at his back and there was no doubt in Súraumo's mind that despite their current uneasy alliance that he and the Balrog were most assuredly mortal enemies.
Lichen on the walls catches the dim flicker of torches set periodically as they begin their descent, but soon neither Balrog nor dragon need much light by now...Wave after wave of drow warriors throw their lives away, rushing to meet the enemy they could hear storming the upper levels of their underdark, but not a one of them escape to return below. Down as they make their way further into the bowels of the earth, the Balrog can smell the Matron who summoned him, taste her flesh upon his tongue, hear her heartbeat beginning to speed up. Has she been told her precious underdark is under attack? Has she felt the ceiling of her tunnels shift and groan under the dragon's weight and the crashing of stone pillars and other supports? Does she feel him coming ever close? He feels no sense of fear or alarm in her as he reaches out and grabs a male slave trying to run during the mayhem. The neck makes a satisfying crack, and he drops the body, lifeless. Turning his head to watch the body, he feels a soft breeze against his cheek, and is inclined to disregard it, but only for a moment until he registers that it comes from off to one side. Turning, he nears the inky blackness, his eyes widening as he catches the faint glimmer of something billowy. A spiderweb. He steps forward and is awarded by a stirring of wind that brings a completely new set of smells, danker, darker and deeper into the earth.
Súraumo becomes a shadow among shadows as they descend deeper into the lair of the Dark Skins. The ugly murky colour of his scales make him shapeless, formless in this darkness. Formless even to the sharp-eyed Dark Skins, until too late they hear the rushing snap of his jaws as they close upon their bones. Even against the fires that burn from the Balrog's whip and his own firebreath, Súraumo is a shifting shade, a deeper darkness, not quite believed, for who would imagine a dragon, creature of legend and myth, would be found here, in the precious safety of the Dark Skin lair? But the Balrog, always he must watch the Balrog and now he moves swiftly for one of his size as he sees the creature move and stand before a wall, apparently abandoning the battle and staring at a spiderweb. "I did not know you were one to study the smaller beings," he snorts derisively over the Balrog's shoulder, sending cinders and soot billowing around his head and cannot resist taunting, "Or has thou become lost?"
He does not turn as he answers the taunt. His voice deep as a fire snatching up dry timber to pop, crack and suck the life essence clinging to the wood is thick with scorn, and he applies it as skillfully as he does his whip. "The Dread Lord did say always your kind were thick of wit, that something deep inside you beasts addled as he tried to refine you creatures and make of you better stock." He shrugs his shoulders and plunges into the darkness, his burning body pushing back the darkness to reveal a smaller tunnel angling ever so slightly downward. Traveling further, he feels the temperature shift, the air feel more clinging, older.
Sniffing the air like a dog chuffing for a scent, he can smell the stale odor of drow bodies...male and female...some with the leather smell of warriors, others with the fear smell of slaves, and others...others withe smoky perfume of incense. Incense meant priestesses, and in a flash, the Balrog remembers the first moments after being summoned back to this plane of existence, blinking new skinned eyes as he flexed muscles and shook off confusion. The temple. And he knew then where he must go. "Come or go, dragon," he says, with far less apathy than he felt, for now a wariness creeps over him. "If your old bones cannot carry you to more meat, wait here, and perchance, I will send you the old, dried ones up, for you to suck sustenance from their brittle marrow." He pushes forward and downward.
Súraumo's impulse is to surge forward and destroy the creature of Darkness and Shadow there and then for the insults he has just spoken. Yet, something.. something stops him, even as he begins to open his maw. He narrows his eyes as he regards the Balrog, the one good eye gleaming thoughtfully in the darkness. There was something below of great interest to the foul creature, he could tell. The hideous thing seemed to almost quiver in excitement like a predator closing with prey.
Súraumo quietly closed his jaws as he watches the Balrog step boldly forward. There would be no harm biding his time until he discovers just what was of such interest to the creature. Biding his time had proven worth his while more than once in his long years of life. Still, such an insult could not go unanswered. "Thick of wit, am I?" He growls, his muzzle just behind the Balrog's ear, 'Yet who is it that has lived all these Ages free and alive, while another cooled his heels in the Abyss until summoned by a puny Dark Skin who dabbles in the magic arts? Who is it that still is chained to her by her will, like a mangy cur such as can be found in any village of this world? Lead on, oh great one, and we shall see who is thick of wit by the end of this day."
> Next
He traveled on the dragon's blind side, casting long, baleful stares at the loathsome creature beside him. Old, old dragon, new when the Master walked Middle Earth, young when they last the great battle. And now, now look at traveling companion, creature. His lips curl back in a grimace. The creature smells of crushed and blackened bones, of decay, of mortality. But still, he yet serves the purpose, and yet may be a tool, the Balrog thinks. For his part, the Balrog had forgotten what flesh tastes like, how it felt to worry at charred muscle and sinew, to tear meat off the bone with your own teeth, chew the stringy mess, feel it fill the belly. Too long has he gone without, but since he was summoned from the black pit where time never moved, day never came, one moment is as much an eternity: now he cannot fill his belly enough with flesh and meat and blood. Soon, soon, another flesh will fill him. It is a taste he carves for with an intensity that burns him brighter.
Súraumo swivels his head as he flies, so he can focus his one good eye down at his unlikely companion-in-arms. The Balrog flew slightly lower than the dragon, skimming the tops of the forests and mountaintops. Súraumo gives a small snort of disgust as he watches his companion, the cinders and smoke whipping away to vanish in the wind of his passing. So far his association with the Balrog had led to one near disaster and one decent meal. Combined with the creature's arrogance and regular insults the old dragon strongly doubted their paths would continue to journey together for much longer. Súraumo's mighty lungs pumped as he hissed in annoyance at the remembered jibes. No, should the Balrog fail with this promised endeavour he would not be journeying anywhere further at all, if Súraumo had anything to do with it!
Below them the mountains ranges were powdered with snow and ice, the air frigid, pushing, pulling, sucking greedly at the fire that burns and fuels the Balrog. Like tiny daggers, the cold air digs into his body, presses against his wings his hands, his feet. But it is nothing to him nothing. The steel sharp kiss of the cutting wind is testimony that he is alive, free, and soon able to go as he wist. Looking down he sees nestled between the mountain peaks, which reach up like a clawed hand of a dying Atani, a human grown withered and sucked dry with age and mortality, nestled valleys of verdant green. He drops lower, his eyes intent to spy the landmarks that tell him they are at this trek's end. He sucks in a lungful of warm air. There! those smells! "Yessssss," he hisses and does a lazy roll in the air. "We approach it, " he tells the dragon. Tonight, the Balrog thinks to himself, your bones will serve as a landmark, should I ever wish to find this place again.
Súraumo keeps a wary eye on the Balrog as he follows him lower. There has been nothing so far to induce trust in the loathsome being so Súraumo followed him cautiously downwards, snaking his head from side to side as he watched for a trap. The land seemed deserted and peaceful enough and his wings backbeat delicately to ease him down into the small clearing indicated by the Balrog. As he landed he takes care to protect his lame foot when he finally makes contact with the earth. Once the flurry of grass seeds and dust has settled he peers about him, again snaking his neck from side to side as he covered his blind spot. Yes, there it was! Mostly hidden by a thicket of wild saplings, there most certainly was a door. Not a door of heavy carved stone such as the Dwarves favoured, but a door of carved wood.
The balrog gives a low growl, his lips peeling back, exposing a mouth that looks nothing so much as a volcano of molten lava. He exhales noisily through two nostril slits where a nose should be and cracks his whip in disgruntled disgust at the maelstrom of wind, leaves. dirt, grass, and cinders. His own feet touched the ground, and leaves a fiery ash track of his steps as he comes up behind the dragon. Side to side, the half blind creature whips his neck back and forth. Giving a snort and striding forward, the balrog dismisses the crippled, aged dragon and moves with a single purpose toward the carved wood door. "Here," he says, low, and licks his lips in anticipation. "Sweet meat inside, dragon. Yes, sweet meat, and sweetest of all yet to be had."Súraumo's old heart began to beat hard and fast at the prospect of the sport he would have this day. He had learned long ago that these Dark Skins were no soft fat prey such as the dwarves. These were much more worthy of a mighty warrior such as himself. Not that they were overly strong, for they were small as most of the two legs were compared to himself. But these, these were fleet of foot and well trained, some even in the arts of spell-casting. Yes, these old bones would have some sport today. They were close. So close now he could smell them in the air around him. Nothing overt of course, for these ones lived far below the surface mostly, but the whisper of their passing on a recent foray lingered on the air.
Súraumo nods as his wizened old snout snuffled the air. Yes, there it was. The distinct smell of fungus and decay that clung to the Dark Skins even out here in the fresh air, combined with the tang of the animal fat they used to keep their leather supple and waterproof. And the blood. Yes, there was the sharp sweet smell of blood on the air. Their little jaunt had been successful. Súraumo turned to the door and eyed it speculatively. With luck they would have full bellies and slack vigilance this day, but he knew enough of the Dark Skins to know better than to count on it.
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| Súraumo |
The Balrog hears the dragon's movements but dimly. He breathes in all the smells of the forest and the underground, of the Drow that were scurrying about their tiny mortal concerns beneath their feet, like ants clamouring in an anthill. His eyes drink in the wooden door that stood betwixt him and those lives he would gobble down, like a feast. He turns around to turn his burning gaze upon Súraumo and tilts his head, chin jutted up to give to the old dragon his assent and steps to one side. He waits for the dragon like a lord at a high table, waiting but scarcely patient for the serving of a succulent dish.
Súraumo's eyes narrow at the Balrog's manner and a half growl rumbles in his throat. Still, lured by the promise of sport and meat, he steps forward, careful not to catch his crippled foot on some hidden outcrop of rock and snuffles at the rock around the doorway. He had been watching the land below on their journey north with interest, for the formations reminded him of similar peaks he had encountered far to the south when he had been barely fully grown. Now he examined the rock carefully, huffing in deep breaths, inhaling the ancient scent of the stone. His old eye gleamed with satisfaction. Yes! There it was, the thing he had been seeking, the pungent whiff of ancient sulfur.
Súraumo snakes his head around to look at the Balrog and his whisper is like the rumble of rocks tumbling down a mountainside, "These Dark Skins know not what they have done. These mountains are like those of Mount Doom, only much older. This rock was once deep within such a mount and hot and molten. When it cools it is one of the hardest rocks you will ever find. It takes great skill and strength to carve it as they have done. "
He lowers he head even closer to the Balrog as he continues, "What they do not know is that once this rock has been in the air long enough, it becomes brittle as a twig." To demonstrate he tosses his head and gouges at the rock with his nose horn. Bits of stone crumble and fall. He turns and eyes the door and shifts from foot to foot in excited anticipation. "Every tunnel, every cavern, every surface of this rock that is exposed to air will shatter with ease before our might."
As the Balrog watches the aged creature shuffle forward, he stares at the crippled foot with its missing toes. It would be so easy to flick the wrist, crack the whip...just so.....entangle the leg in a molten hot kiss of the whip and tug. He gave a low rumbling snort as in his mind, he sees the dragon go down to his knees, roaring pain, the one clear eye spilling tears and surprised horror in equal measure. Not yet, not yet, he tells himself, his body coiled, tight, heavy with anticipation. Dimly he hears the harsh, rolling words of the dragon. What was that creature droning on about? Rock is rock, the Balrog thinks, and then he sees the stone crumble and gives a soft gasp of surprise as he realizes the import of the Dragon's words. "We will peel back their tunnels like the shell of an egg," says the Balrog, running his tongue, a living fire, over his lips. We will suck them from their holes and feel them tumble down our throats."
Súraumo needs no further encouragement and sets to determinedly . Bracing his legs his lungs pumped for air. When he felt his chest would surely burst with the strain, he opened his maw and out poured a stream of fiery dragon breath. The door, although thick and heavy, was old and weathered, dry as tinder. The wood seemed to welcome the blaze as a release from its servitude to the drow, crackling and popping in joyful surrender as the flames consumed it. Once the flames had a good hold on the door Súraumo turns and puts his shoulder to it, sending it crashing inwards in a cloud of flames and smoke. Balancing carefully on his injured foot, he uses his mighty rack of horns and the talons on his other foreleg to gouge at the rocks, sending rubble and dust flying into the air. He works swiftly and soon there is a hole more than large enough to accommodate both he and the Balrog.
The Balrog throws back his head, the laughter boiling through his body, thick, coiling, a wildfire, tumbles from his lips in a sound that slides and slips around the crashing of the door, the eager, hot consuming flames the lick and gobble at the dried old wood. Wood was once tree, and tree was once not dead, but living thing, growing, graceful, beloved of the Valar, blessed by the One that the Balrog dare not mention, dare not call to mind. As the dragon moves forward, laboring to clear the way for them both, the Balrog raises both arms in the air, his claw hands curling into fists as he shakes them in defiance. He, He who was imprisoned, he who was contained, released through the folly of a mortal blackened elf-like thing...he is here, moments, from shedding any and all limitations. Here he stood, in the world created not for him, but for puny mewling mortal things that he will soon trample beneath his feet, use to feed his rage, stuff his stomach and burn for no other reason than to delight in the destruction Here I am. He gives another wordless cry of exultation. He lowers his arms, and with the stride of a conqueror, he walks up alongside the dragon and reaching up, pats the side of the old dragon's neck. "Good, good," he murmurs, much like men coo to the beasts that pull their plows. "Forward, forward. Your reward lies ahead."
Súraumo snarls savagely and shakes his neck with a dry rattle of scales to dislodge the Balrog's touch. When this day was through it would be more than Dark Skins who would be lying lifeless in the ruins of this mountain! But now, now there was sport to be had! Joyfully he charges forward without hesitation into the cluster of blinking dark skinned inhabitants. He positions himself firmly in the middle of the chamber, his neck snaking out and around as his might jaws snap, his tail flailing from side to side, sweeping any it encounters off their feet and against the rock walls of the chamber where they drop, lifeless and inert.
The dragon surges forward, awkwardness from the shuffle he must do to compensate for the crippled foot falling away like dying, discarded scales to reveal a graceful dance of blood and death. In the middle of the chamber, the dragon falls upon the drow, snapping his jaws, sweeping his tail to and fro, sending the black skinned drow slamming into the walls with a wet smack before sliding lifeless to the floor. The sweet, metallic cloy of blood rose like a rich perfume and floated out to the Balrog, and he surges forward into the chamber, cracking the whip upon those few still alive.
His eyes dance with savage pleasure as some Drow still alive rush toward him, avoiding the dragon nimbly only to meet death at his fiery hands, others seeking to rush further into the chamber, slamming up against the second set of wooden doors. But too late, too late, his whip snakes out, and delivers death, painful and mercifully quick. Not because there is pity in the heart of the Balrog, but a growing impatience now. Now as he moves into the chamber, now the slits that serve as nostrils flare as he catches the scent of the she-dog who yet holds him by ever-so-slender gossamer threads of the geas. He steps over and upon bodies, heedless. He nods at the door, his voice imperious. "This door, " he says and steps over to one side. Let the beast work, he thinks. I will have my own task soon enough.
Súraumo roars in agony at a sudden piercing pain in his ears. Somewhere nearby, unseen there must be a spell caster. Shuddering at the pain, Súraumo opens his jaws and jets forth a spray of fiery dragon breath, snaking his head from side to side on his long muscular neck, both dazzling and scorching those who stand against them. As suddenly as it began, the pain ceases, the culprit now one of many screaming living torches who sought to flee the chamber. Emboldened by his easy success against the Dark Skins, Súraumo sweeps his head around on his long neck, bringing his jaws snapping shut just above the head of the Balrog. "You are the one who knows the way from here," his snarl is deep-throated and full of menace, "It is time for you to stop hiding behind like a wet-nosed pink-skinned child afraid of the dark and lead! Where is this one you claim you seek?"
The Balrog lets out a roar at the insult, and cracks his whip, just inches away from the crippled foot of Súraumo. The primal urge to tear, to rend, to break apart the dragon's head rushes over him, and his vision is awashed in a red film. But as the flames of scores of fires suck at the air like hungry children at their dam's teat, he smells the rich, fleshy, fungal scent of the underdark, and winding like a vine through it all was her smell, the Matron, the one he sought. She was still far below him, and each moment here only gives an advantage, however meager to these drow. Though they cannot defeat him and the dragon, maimed thing he was, yet the Balrog would have them stripped of all recourse, all hope, all possibility of survival. Raising his arms up, he summons the flames that burn inside him to leap and rise up, and he strides to the door, using his arms to batter and beat the door down into a cascade of weeping flames.
 |
| Balrog |
Súraumo casts a last look around the chamber before following the Balrog. He had not lived to his great age by leaving a living enemy at his back. Satisfied that nothing but dead and charred bodies remained he stepped through the doorway. There would be time later to return and feast. Now though, he must keep the Balrog in sight. Súraumo was no fool. He knew his taunts had irked the creature of darkness, but it was becoming harder and harder for him to swallow the Balrog's insults. Now as they fight their way down through the Underdark, always Súraumo is aware of the Balrog, where he is, what he does. Many of the Dark Skins die before them. More still, driven by their sense of selfishness and self-preservation abandon the rest of their kind to their fate and disappear down small hidden corridors; corridors too small for one of the dragon's size to follow. And always he keeps the Balrog in sight. No, a wise dragon did not leave a living enemy at his back and there was no doubt in Súraumo's mind that despite their current uneasy alliance that he and the Balrog were most assuredly mortal enemies.
Lichen on the walls catches the dim flicker of torches set periodically as they begin their descent, but soon neither Balrog nor dragon need much light by now...Wave after wave of drow warriors throw their lives away, rushing to meet the enemy they could hear storming the upper levels of their underdark, but not a one of them escape to return below. Down as they make their way further into the bowels of the earth, the Balrog can smell the Matron who summoned him, taste her flesh upon his tongue, hear her heartbeat beginning to speed up. Has she been told her precious underdark is under attack? Has she felt the ceiling of her tunnels shift and groan under the dragon's weight and the crashing of stone pillars and other supports? Does she feel him coming ever close? He feels no sense of fear or alarm in her as he reaches out and grabs a male slave trying to run during the mayhem. The neck makes a satisfying crack, and he drops the body, lifeless. Turning his head to watch the body, he feels a soft breeze against his cheek, and is inclined to disregard it, but only for a moment until he registers that it comes from off to one side. Turning, he nears the inky blackness, his eyes widening as he catches the faint glimmer of something billowy. A spiderweb. He steps forward and is awarded by a stirring of wind that brings a completely new set of smells, danker, darker and deeper into the earth.
Súraumo becomes a shadow among shadows as they descend deeper into the lair of the Dark Skins. The ugly murky colour of his scales make him shapeless, formless in this darkness. Formless even to the sharp-eyed Dark Skins, until too late they hear the rushing snap of his jaws as they close upon their bones. Even against the fires that burn from the Balrog's whip and his own firebreath, Súraumo is a shifting shade, a deeper darkness, not quite believed, for who would imagine a dragon, creature of legend and myth, would be found here, in the precious safety of the Dark Skin lair? But the Balrog, always he must watch the Balrog and now he moves swiftly for one of his size as he sees the creature move and stand before a wall, apparently abandoning the battle and staring at a spiderweb. "I did not know you were one to study the smaller beings," he snorts derisively over the Balrog's shoulder, sending cinders and soot billowing around his head and cannot resist taunting, "Or has thou become lost?"
He does not turn as he answers the taunt. His voice deep as a fire snatching up dry timber to pop, crack and suck the life essence clinging to the wood is thick with scorn, and he applies it as skillfully as he does his whip. "The Dread Lord did say always your kind were thick of wit, that something deep inside you beasts addled as he tried to refine you creatures and make of you better stock." He shrugs his shoulders and plunges into the darkness, his burning body pushing back the darkness to reveal a smaller tunnel angling ever so slightly downward. Traveling further, he feels the temperature shift, the air feel more clinging, older.
Sniffing the air like a dog chuffing for a scent, he can smell the stale odor of drow bodies...male and female...some with the leather smell of warriors, others with the fear smell of slaves, and others...others withe smoky perfume of incense. Incense meant priestesses, and in a flash, the Balrog remembers the first moments after being summoned back to this plane of existence, blinking new skinned eyes as he flexed muscles and shook off confusion. The temple. And he knew then where he must go. "Come or go, dragon," he says, with far less apathy than he felt, for now a wariness creeps over him. "If your old bones cannot carry you to more meat, wait here, and perchance, I will send you the old, dried ones up, for you to suck sustenance from their brittle marrow." He pushes forward and downward.
Súraumo's impulse is to surge forward and destroy the creature of Darkness and Shadow there and then for the insults he has just spoken. Yet, something.. something stops him, even as he begins to open his maw. He narrows his eyes as he regards the Balrog, the one good eye gleaming thoughtfully in the darkness. There was something below of great interest to the foul creature, he could tell. The hideous thing seemed to almost quiver in excitement like a predator closing with prey.
Súraumo quietly closed his jaws as he watches the Balrog step boldly forward. There would be no harm biding his time until he discovers just what was of such interest to the creature. Biding his time had proven worth his while more than once in his long years of life. Still, such an insult could not go unanswered. "Thick of wit, am I?" He growls, his muzzle just behind the Balrog's ear, 'Yet who is it that has lived all these Ages free and alive, while another cooled his heels in the Abyss until summoned by a puny Dark Skin who dabbles in the magic arts? Who is it that still is chained to her by her will, like a mangy cur such as can be found in any village of this world? Lead on, oh great one, and we shall see who is thick of wit by the end of this day."
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