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The Balrog's hand tightens upon his whip, and his eyes narrow to fiery slits. His nostrils flare. and when he inhales sharply, the air is full of the dragon's stench. Curling his lips back, he exposes a molten mouth of flame. "Yes," he hisses, "You are right, dragon." He turns his torso to gaze at the dragon, his gaze pointedly going in the direction of the blind eye. "I should take the lead. After all, the hunter in the field knows when to pull back the dogs and when to set the pack upon the prey. You have scattered them well." As he speaks, his voice fills the walls of the tunnel like a flow of lava, hot and thick and enveloping. "You have flushed them out, and now we will see if they have any courage or shall continue to fly before us now. " He stretches out a hand, palm up, fingers curled as though he would scratch the dragon under the chin, and then he shrugs, drops the hand and turns his back upon Súraumo. "Time to get you your reward, dragon. The meat awaits." Without a backward glance, he moves forward, his whip flicking back in forth like a living thing.
Súraumo stands and stares after the Balrog for a moment. It requires all the discipline he has learned over his long lifetime not to bring his jaws crunching shut upon the arrogant creature's back. He savours for a moment the thought of the feel and sound of bones snapping within his maw. In his mind he hears the creature's cry of surprise and outrage and pain. Patience, he counsels himself. Patience. Still, he cannot suppress a growl of annoyance rumbling deeply in his throat as he cautiously follows the Balrog down the tunnel. With each step, spurts of grit rise in small puffs as his talons scrape the oxidized rock.
The confines of the tunnel do not permit his habitual sweep from side to side of his head, so he walks with it tilted slightly, his good eye gleaming in the smoke and dust their passing leaves as he warily watches the Balrog. He could sense the beast's eagerness, feel the quiver of its excitement as they drew deeper into the Dark Skins' lair. "Let the beast have its last pleasures," he thinks to himself as he watches it stride boldly forward. "Who knows what benefits those pleasure may bring an old dragon?" But one thing Súraumo wanted with all his old and bitter heart; one way or another the beast of flame and darkness would not be leaving this lair today.
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Downward tilts the flooring of the tunnel. The Balrog could fee the gentle sloping downward of the stone flooring. Behind them the smell of burnt and roasted flesh mingled with soot and ash. The Balrog took a deep breath, relishing the heavy smell of fire and death, but mingled in that smell is also the corrupted odor of the flesh of the dragon, the stench of his breath, the smell of smoke and burnt charred debris trapped in his scales. The Balrog exhales nosily as he strides forward and down. The tunnel becomes warmer again as they descend, and he catches now and again the faint, murmuring of a mass of people somewhere in the distance and coming closer. He pushes ahead of the crippled dragon, sniffing the air, cocking his head to listen. There are the cries of babies, the low drone of males, the excited higher pitch jabbering of females, scurrying, scrabbling sounds.
His pace quickens as he looks up and catches sight of a cobweb bobbing to and fro, swayed by a faint breeze. As he continues, his eyes can make out a faint, faint light off ahead of them. The sounds of a mass of people in movement clearer now. He licks his lips and opens his mouth to taste the air.
Súraumo's low growl flares into a snarl of annoyance as the Balrog pushes ahead. Unable to restrain himself this time, his long muscular neck snakes forward in the dank gloom of the tunnel, his maw opens, hot saliva dripping only to steam into nothingness before it can hit the rock floor. His teeth slam together just above the Balrog's head. This time, this time, he has managed to hold onto one last shred of constraint, but as his eye gleamed malevolently at the ever retreating back of the creature of Fire and Shadow, Súraumo knew he would not be able to endure many more indignities at the Balrog's hands. A lessening of the darkness ahead draws his attention away from his fixation with the Balrog. His leathery old ears twitch forward and upright as he catches the sounds of movement. More Dark Skins are ahead! His step becomes eager, and he is uncaring that he jostles the Balrog as he hastens forward.
His feet slap against the stone floor, his body propelled by legs reformed and sculpted for power and speed, designed for endurance. His head leans forward, extended, nostrils flaring as he snorts and breathes in the air ahead. The cries and clashes of a people alerted to danger is louder now, clearer. As the tunnel comes to an end, the Balrog is jostled by the eager dragon. The Balrog gives a rumbling growl of displeasure and cracks his whip just ahead of the dragon's nose while the Balrog keeps his balance. The fear of the puny dark mortals, the panic, the confusion fills him like a heady sweet wine, fills him, refreshes him. A wild and dizzying elation sweeps him up, tumbles over him, and in that moment, he narrows his gaze upon Súraumo, flashes of possible scenarios of murdering this foul and antiquated creature blind him with the temptation. He shakes his head. He needs this blind, stumbling creature, for his strength, yes, but also for the animal cunning, for the knack to assess the situation and strike unerringly precise. He needs the hunger of the dragon, and its anger, it petty anger. For now it lives. He butts his shoulder against the dragon as the exit of the tunnel looms large and dark and full of the noise of mortals.
Súraumo raises his long neck at last as he follows the Balrog into a more cavernous chamber. Swiftly he snakes his head around, taking in the room and its occupants. Here the walls seem to be literally clothed in webs. Not the delicate gossamer weavings one sees in the forest, but thick, heavy makings, these were. They gleam dully in the gloom of the chamber, and Súraumo can smell their acrid mustiness upon the air, mixed with the sharp tang of the Dark Skins' fear and the more loathsome heaviness of the Balrog's blood lust. Used to the dimness, for precious seconds the Dark Skins stand dazzled by the bright flare of flame from the Balrog. All eyes are drawn to him. They do not see the living shadow behind him or expect the sudden flash of fiery dragon breath that Súraumo unleashes upon them. With a roar that makes the entire cavern shake, the old dragon leaps forward, again bumping the Balrog in his haste to attack.
The Balrog roars, first in a savage glee, when he steps out into what must be a main passage in this lower level of the underdark. On the walls fluorescent lichen glitter and sparkle with light reflected from his flaming body. He stands there, eyes living fire as his body was living fire, allowing them to glimpse the creature that would snuff out their lives, quench his need for destruction in the boiling of their blood. Just as he raises his arm to bring about his whip, the fiery breath of the dragon snakes out and creates living torches out of the Drow nearest to then. A great scream arises from the Drow, an awareness of their mortality, music to the Balrog, but it does little to assuage his anger at the dragon. Great, lumbering beast, he thinks to himself, stupid and clumsy. He looks up at the ceiling and the support columns that line the passageway, No, he discards the idea that dances in his head with the fiery glee that dances now in his gaze. Too much trouble and too much a distraction. Time enough to feast upon the roasted carcass of the dragon later, when he has done what he needs to do.
He turns around and wades in amongst the throng of puny mortal bodies. He sees some males rush forward to meet he and the dragon, armed with their weapons, their shields, and their obedience to the Drow Matron. They rush to their death.
The small scales around Súraumo's snout crinkle in pleasure as he inhales. Blood. Fear. Death. His spiked tongue flicks out. The very air tastes of it! The old dragon's blood races in his veins as he is lost in the moment of battle. All too soon though, the loyal guard of the Dark Skin lie strewn dead around the chamber like the discarded playthings of a willful child. These warriors were skilled and well trained, but here in the confines of their beloved Underdark they were no match for the combined assault of a Balrog and Dragon. Still with the boldness of battle upon him, Súraumo turns and butts the Balrog with his nose horn. "Is this the best you have to offer, Balrog? What sport is this for one such as I. It is naught but child's play."
A flick of the wrist, and he disentangles his whip from around the neck of a fleeing female Drow. He feels a bile of anger threatening to choke him as he hears the dragon's taunts. The creature is brave, he thinks, as the dragon butts him, and he whirls about, aiming a clenched fist to strike upon the top of the creature's muzzle, but he stops, as he hears off ahead the chattering of the puny dark skinned mortals. He instead gives a casual flick of his wrist, and his whip lashes out to strike the wounded foot. "Learn your place," he hisses, "and there will be more to feast upon, dragon." He starts to say more, but past his anger, past his raging, boiling desire to rend the dragon apart, the fear and the dying of the mortal creatures seem to blister and pop like a suppurating wound, and he senses and smells the one who summoned him. She who holds him leashed, just like the dragon had described. He gives a screech of triumph, whirls around, the offense of the dragon forgotten, and sniffs the air, again catching the scent of the Matron. Ahead of them, about three-quarters of the way down, stood a temple, all in black stone and marble.
Once he is there, once he beholds her, he can reach out with strong, burning hands and smell her flesh as it blisters and melts. He can look into her taunting eyes, see the fear and the sense of hopelessness as she realizes she will die, Slowly, she will die, inch by inch, her body burned. He will make sure she takes days to die, days to beg for her life, then for her life's end. At the end, she will be bereft of all reason, a misshapen burnt thing. He smacks his lips again, feeling his mouth water for his revenge. "Come, " he roars, "the suckling beasts are in the temple." And as he watches, he sees his words bear out, for the high ranking priestesses were rushing toward the building.
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The Balrog's hand tightens upon his whip, and his eyes narrow to fiery slits. His nostrils flare. and when he inhales sharply, the air is full of the dragon's stench. Curling his lips back, he exposes a molten mouth of flame. "Yes," he hisses, "You are right, dragon." He turns his torso to gaze at the dragon, his gaze pointedly going in the direction of the blind eye. "I should take the lead. After all, the hunter in the field knows when to pull back the dogs and when to set the pack upon the prey. You have scattered them well." As he speaks, his voice fills the walls of the tunnel like a flow of lava, hot and thick and enveloping. "You have flushed them out, and now we will see if they have any courage or shall continue to fly before us now. " He stretches out a hand, palm up, fingers curled as though he would scratch the dragon under the chin, and then he shrugs, drops the hand and turns his back upon Súraumo. "Time to get you your reward, dragon. The meat awaits." Without a backward glance, he moves forward, his whip flicking back in forth like a living thing.
Súraumo stands and stares after the Balrog for a moment. It requires all the discipline he has learned over his long lifetime not to bring his jaws crunching shut upon the arrogant creature's back. He savours for a moment the thought of the feel and sound of bones snapping within his maw. In his mind he hears the creature's cry of surprise and outrage and pain. Patience, he counsels himself. Patience. Still, he cannot suppress a growl of annoyance rumbling deeply in his throat as he cautiously follows the Balrog down the tunnel. With each step, spurts of grit rise in small puffs as his talons scrape the oxidized rock.
The confines of the tunnel do not permit his habitual sweep from side to side of his head, so he walks with it tilted slightly, his good eye gleaming in the smoke and dust their passing leaves as he warily watches the Balrog. He could sense the beast's eagerness, feel the quiver of its excitement as they drew deeper into the Dark Skins' lair. "Let the beast have its last pleasures," he thinks to himself as he watches it stride boldly forward. "Who knows what benefits those pleasure may bring an old dragon?" But one thing Súraumo wanted with all his old and bitter heart; one way or another the beast of flame and darkness would not be leaving this lair today.
��
Downward tilts the flooring of the tunnel. The Balrog could fee the gentle sloping downward of the stone flooring. Behind them the smell of burnt and roasted flesh mingled with soot and ash. The Balrog took a deep breath, relishing the heavy smell of fire and death, but mingled in that smell is also the corrupted odor of the flesh of the dragon, the stench of his breath, the smell of smoke and burnt charred debris trapped in his scales. The Balrog exhales nosily as he strides forward and down. The tunnel becomes warmer again as they descend, and he catches now and again the faint, murmuring of a mass of people somewhere in the distance and coming closer. He pushes ahead of the crippled dragon, sniffing the air, cocking his head to listen. There are the cries of babies, the low drone of males, the excited higher pitch jabbering of females, scurrying, scrabbling sounds.
His pace quickens as he looks up and catches sight of a cobweb bobbing to and fro, swayed by a faint breeze. As he continues, his eyes can make out a faint, faint light off ahead of them. The sounds of a mass of people in movement clearer now. He licks his lips and opens his mouth to taste the air.
Súraumo's low growl flares into a snarl of annoyance as the Balrog pushes ahead. Unable to restrain himself this time, his long muscular neck snakes forward in the dank gloom of the tunnel, his maw opens, hot saliva dripping only to steam into nothingness before it can hit the rock floor. His teeth slam together just above the Balrog's head. This time, this time, he has managed to hold onto one last shred of constraint, but as his eye gleamed malevolently at the ever retreating back of the creature of Fire and Shadow, Súraumo knew he would not be able to endure many more indignities at the Balrog's hands. A lessening of the darkness ahead draws his attention away from his fixation with the Balrog. His leathery old ears twitch forward and upright as he catches the sounds of movement. More Dark Skins are ahead! His step becomes eager, and he is uncaring that he jostles the Balrog as he hastens forward.
His feet slap against the stone floor, his body propelled by legs reformed and sculpted for power and speed, designed for endurance. His head leans forward, extended, nostrils flaring as he snorts and breathes in the air ahead. The cries and clashes of a people alerted to danger is louder now, clearer. As the tunnel comes to an end, the Balrog is jostled by the eager dragon. The Balrog gives a rumbling growl of displeasure and cracks his whip just ahead of the dragon's nose while the Balrog keeps his balance. The fear of the puny dark mortals, the panic, the confusion fills him like a heady sweet wine, fills him, refreshes him. A wild and dizzying elation sweeps him up, tumbles over him, and in that moment, he narrows his gaze upon Súraumo, flashes of possible scenarios of murdering this foul and antiquated creature blind him with the temptation. He shakes his head. He needs this blind, stumbling creature, for his strength, yes, but also for the animal cunning, for the knack to assess the situation and strike unerringly precise. He needs the hunger of the dragon, and its anger, it petty anger. For now it lives. He butts his shoulder against the dragon as the exit of the tunnel looms large and dark and full of the noise of mortals.
Súraumo raises his long neck at last as he follows the Balrog into a more cavernous chamber. Swiftly he snakes his head around, taking in the room and its occupants. Here the walls seem to be literally clothed in webs. Not the delicate gossamer weavings one sees in the forest, but thick, heavy makings, these were. They gleam dully in the gloom of the chamber, and Súraumo can smell their acrid mustiness upon the air, mixed with the sharp tang of the Dark Skins' fear and the more loathsome heaviness of the Balrog's blood lust. Used to the dimness, for precious seconds the Dark Skins stand dazzled by the bright flare of flame from the Balrog. All eyes are drawn to him. They do not see the living shadow behind him or expect the sudden flash of fiery dragon breath that Súraumo unleashes upon them. With a roar that makes the entire cavern shake, the old dragon leaps forward, again bumping the Balrog in his haste to attack.
The Balrog roars, first in a savage glee, when he steps out into what must be a main passage in this lower level of the underdark. On the walls fluorescent lichen glitter and sparkle with light reflected from his flaming body. He stands there, eyes living fire as his body was living fire, allowing them to glimpse the creature that would snuff out their lives, quench his need for destruction in the boiling of their blood. Just as he raises his arm to bring about his whip, the fiery breath of the dragon snakes out and creates living torches out of the Drow nearest to then. A great scream arises from the Drow, an awareness of their mortality, music to the Balrog, but it does little to assuage his anger at the dragon. Great, lumbering beast, he thinks to himself, stupid and clumsy. He looks up at the ceiling and the support columns that line the passageway, No, he discards the idea that dances in his head with the fiery glee that dances now in his gaze. Too much trouble and too much a distraction. Time enough to feast upon the roasted carcass of the dragon later, when he has done what he needs to do.
He turns around and wades in amongst the throng of puny mortal bodies. He sees some males rush forward to meet he and the dragon, armed with their weapons, their shields, and their obedience to the Drow Matron. They rush to their death.
The small scales around Súraumo's snout crinkle in pleasure as he inhales. Blood. Fear. Death. His spiked tongue flicks out. The very air tastes of it! The old dragon's blood races in his veins as he is lost in the moment of battle. All too soon though, the loyal guard of the Dark Skin lie strewn dead around the chamber like the discarded playthings of a willful child. These warriors were skilled and well trained, but here in the confines of their beloved Underdark they were no match for the combined assault of a Balrog and Dragon. Still with the boldness of battle upon him, Súraumo turns and butts the Balrog with his nose horn. "Is this the best you have to offer, Balrog? What sport is this for one such as I. It is naught but child's play."
A flick of the wrist, and he disentangles his whip from around the neck of a fleeing female Drow. He feels a bile of anger threatening to choke him as he hears the dragon's taunts. The creature is brave, he thinks, as the dragon butts him, and he whirls about, aiming a clenched fist to strike upon the top of the creature's muzzle, but he stops, as he hears off ahead the chattering of the puny dark skinned mortals. He instead gives a casual flick of his wrist, and his whip lashes out to strike the wounded foot. "Learn your place," he hisses, "and there will be more to feast upon, dragon." He starts to say more, but past his anger, past his raging, boiling desire to rend the dragon apart, the fear and the dying of the mortal creatures seem to blister and pop like a suppurating wound, and he senses and smells the one who summoned him. She who holds him leashed, just like the dragon had described. He gives a screech of triumph, whirls around, the offense of the dragon forgotten, and sniffs the air, again catching the scent of the Matron. Ahead of them, about three-quarters of the way down, stood a temple, all in black stone and marble.
Once he is there, once he beholds her, he can reach out with strong, burning hands and smell her flesh as it blisters and melts. He can look into her taunting eyes, see the fear and the sense of hopelessness as she realizes she will die, Slowly, she will die, inch by inch, her body burned. He will make sure she takes days to die, days to beg for her life, then for her life's end. At the end, she will be bereft of all reason, a misshapen burnt thing. He smacks his lips again, feeling his mouth water for his revenge. "Come, " he roars, "the suckling beasts are in the temple." And as he watches, he sees his words bear out, for the high ranking priestesses were rushing toward the building.
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