( ooc: more histories of the Srys for that insane Keska fan, Spliff. ;P )
slowly, gently, peacefully
darkness falls comforting and quiet
so soft and gentle
its deafening, smothering hands
slowly, gently, peacfully
darkness pulls
with comforting claws
slowly tearing at black robes
slowly, gently, peacefully
darkness smothers
with acid breaths
burning, melting, suffocating
talons gently ripping through skin
blackened ravenous jaws crushing bones
quickly, painfully, chaotically
darkness falls
falling in...
falling in...
falling into fires and shredding blades
slowly, gently, peacefully
eating souls with a fork of endless pain
*oh Tryz, oh Tryz... please Drakkara, torture him no longer*
*a dark woman utters prayers of dark magic and healing*
*black magic soothes the soul*
slowly, gently, peacefully
darkness falls...
... again...
"Drazk!"
"Shhhh!"
Three young drow warriors slipped through the shadows of the North-western forests. Silently becoming shadows themselves as they gazed at their find.
Through the dark and twisted trees, a small camp was cleared, and three men sat about the fire there. Painted men, red and yellow pigments created designs on their tan skin, and a white circle centered on their foreheads. Two went bare chested, armored only with silver arm and leg guards, white loin cloths, and their war paint. The other wore a long white robe, decorated with silver bells that chimed strange chords as he moved.
"Srys!" Whispered one young drow. "We must go and warn the master."
"Only three," spoke the one called Drazk. A vicious grin formed on his lips and his dark eyes sparkled with mirth. "we can take them."
"Best not to risk it, Drazk," cautioned the first, "we were ordered to scout and report back."
"Trezlu, they will be gone by the time we report them," Drazk whispered anxiously, "this could be our big chance..."
"Yeah, to meet Drakkara." Muttered the quiet third, who glanced around nervously.
"Silence, coward. I say we gut the rangers and take the robed one back for questioning." Drazk proposed.
"Taking a kkutta hostage sounds unwise." Trezlu countered.
"Um, Trez, Draz?" The third glanced back at the woods behind them and tried to get the attention of his clan mates.
"Silence Muzly, quit your whining," snapped Drazk, and he turned back to Trezlu, "I swear Trezlu, you are becoming as cowardly as Muzly. Now, if you two don't help me, I'll kill the infidels myself."
Trezlu sighed, "Very well." and silently drew his blade, "I'll take the one on the..."
"Drazk! Trezlu! There is something in those trees behind me!"
Drazk stood in fury as Muzly blew the young warriors' cover. The Srys rangers stood, bows quickly drawn and ready, but not aimed at the young warrior. Instead the Srys stared with fear flickering in their eyes at the dark woods behind the drow.
Drazk spun around as a wave of darkness surged from the shadowy forest and knocked him and his clan mates off their feet. Crawling madly to back away from the misty, suffocating, inky blackness, Drazk dropped his sword, stood, and tried to run in the thick air. Looking back to see a skeletal form emerge from the shadow, and another, and another, till a small army of skeletal warriors stood in the pitch black forest.
One skeleton reached out with its icy bone fingers and grasped nearby Muzly's chest. The sound of ripping flesh and the sickening death scream of the young man echoed as the undead creature ripped out Muzly's twitching and terrified heart. Trezlu screamed an anguished cry that would have made the living tremble and raced forward, brandishing his sword and swinging madly at the creature. Paying little heed to Trezlu, its dead skeletal body barely noticing the sword's glancing blows, the creature's empty eyes glowed a deep, malevolent red.
Twitching and unsteadily, Muzly's corpse began to rise. In Muzly's eyes gleamed a new hate and rage that the young warrior had never displayed before in life. The possessed corpse reached over and with a wicked grin, strangled terrified Trezlu.
Drazk could not move, he could not scream, he was lost in the malevolence of Muzly's eyes. Hypnotized, he heard the corpse speak to him.
"Now you will get your chance to meet our mistress." Hissed Muzly's corpse in an almost kind and comforting parody of his voice in life.
Faintly Drazk heard the jangling of bells behind him and a chant rose through the air... then everything exploded into a blinding light.
Skeletal warriors were disintegrated with the words of the Srys cleric. As the kkutta raised his voice again, twin bolts of fire shot out from the rangers' bows incinerating Muzly's corpse in a fiery explosion centimeters from Drazk's face. Again the kkutta turned the undead with his chants and blinding sunlight. Turning the undead remains into gray dust; which floated silently away on the cool forest breeze.
Utter silence rang through the forest, and the smell of smoke blackened and smoldering plant life filled Drazk's lungs, making him choke and wretch miserably with it's thick sufury smell. He opened his eyes to see the Srys kkutta regarding him with a smug chuckle.
"It seems," the barbarian cleric spoke a twisted mixture of common, elvish, and sryswhatever. "Your tribe falls on its own blade."
Drazk stared up at the wild elf in confusion, terrified, his eyes fixed on the white circle on the cleric's forehead.
"Kkifk-drukkmai, you best report this incident to your kkut. He will find it very interesting... that is assuming darkness has not folded over on itself and taken him already. Go sikku!"
Drazk stood and ran. He did not look back, but he felt the cold grip of darkness swelling behind him.
Slowly, gently, peacefully
darkness falls
comforting and quiet
*Tryz... Tryzeler...*
so soft and gentle
*Drakkara, please let my brother be*
it's deafening, smothering hands
*Tryzeler Sakkam of the first house, you must wake!*
"Merinana?"
slowly, gently, peacefully
"Merinana, sister."
Tryzeler coughed and opened his eyes to a blinding light. No, his darkened room, only a small blue magic flame burned in a lamp, but from a ... night? ...week? ...month? of unending blackness, even this light was blinding. He closed his eyes again and let them adjust. He coughed, his lungs rattling emptily. How long ago did he leave the tower then?
"Merinana, dear sister, how are you?" He tried to sit up, but did not bother as pain and another fit of coughing raced through his sickened body.
"Somewhat better now, Tryz." She smiled, dark eyes and face still untouched by the passing of the many years he was away with his studies.
"Mother," a booming voice filled the room and the Weaponsmaster stepped from the shadowed corner. "I will speak with Arch-Mage Tryzeler now"
"Yes, of course." Merinana looked down and frowned, patting her brother gently the hand.
"Wait." Tryzeler raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at Merinana with a bemused grin on his face. "Mother?"
"Your sister is Matron Mother of the First House now, Tryzeler. I suggest you show her some respect." The dark Weaponsmaster snarled.
“Why? I doubt you do." Tryzeler muttered flippantly, and the master glared at him, resting his hand on his sheathed sword.
"I see your wonderful humor is returning, Tryzeler, I hope you can keep the up the fine spirits after I am done with you." Growled the Weaponsmaster; however, Tryzeler ignored him, and spoke softly to his sister.
"How, Merinana?" He inquired gently, wondering what tragedy had befallen his House, his city, and home that his youngest sister was now the eldest woman in the family.
"Srys." She whispered, trembling quietly. Much, much too young to lead a warring city, it was a job for gray haired vicious old witches.
"I have been gone too long." He leaned back and then smiled, "But, as you know, I have learned a new art that may end our worries of the Srys. Has the mages' academy have been studying my notes from the tower as I had asked?"
"Yes, brother, but.."
"Good, soon our dead will rise to fight our wars for us..." Tryzeler coughed and the Weaponsmaster interrupted.
"It is the armies of undead that we with to speak to you about."
"Oh? Have they mastered the Art so quickly?!" Tryzeler managed to sit up, excitement sparkling in his eyes.
"No, for about a month now skeletal creatures and the undead have roamed the woods. They arrived soon after you returned to us, and have been attacking any living soul they happen upon." Tryzeler’s sparkling eyes turned dark with dread as the Weaponsmaster related this information
"They have spread out and theaten all the woodland civilizations, but they seem to have concentrated their attacks on our city and citizens. We have had to destroy all above land grave sights and shrines of our ancestor's remains, for they use the corpses of the dead to make more warriors. None of us dare venture on the surface at night, and now they even threaten us during the day."
"The tower..." Tryzeler sighed and laid back in his bed.
"Why?"
"They view me as a renegade now, no doubt... I have taken Drakkara’s most sacred Art and given it to outsiders. Like Spellath the Dark of old." Tryzeler lay in his bed, whispering softly, as if afraid his dark former clanmates would hear. "The black robes will stop at nothing till I am destroyed, and any that I have shared the new Art with."
"There must be a way to turn these monsters away."
"Yes, of course... I will need to speak with our mages, but the black robes are just discovering this Art, it is still unpredictable." Tryzeler tried to get out of bed, and coughed, pain shooting through sore limbs, he sank back into the blankets.
"What if we just turn you over to them?" Growled the Weaponsmaster, Merinana shot him a disapproving look.
"No good, they will still want to destroy any who I have shared this Art with." Tryzeler coughed. "Besides, we must get through this, the Art will turn the tide in our long war with the Srys."
Merinana sighed and looked at the floor.
"What?" The mage looked inquisitively from his sister and the Weaponsmaster.
"It seems," spoke the weaponsmaster grimly. "It is the Srys who are the only ones who have been able to vanquish these undead creatures."
"What? No! Only the most holy warriors! The Srys have no real god! No real power! They cannot turn the undead, only feed them with their corpses..." Tryzeler babbled, panicky and in pain.
"I'm sorry, brother, it is true," Merinana spoke in a soothing voice and gently smoothed his trembling brow. "They can see the shadows even at night."
"No," whispered Tryzeler, pulling away from her touch. "The are godless, heretics, infidels, and forsaken."
"If there is no other way to stop the armies of the black robes, then the Srys are our only hope to preserve our city and people."
"Sell us," Tryzeler trembled, "To the Srys?!"
"There is no other way out." Merinana sighed.
"And once they defeat these monsters for us, they will turn on us and finish this city, our people."
"They will purify our city, and leave." She spoke quietly.
"You have already spoken to them!" Tryzeler fumed.
"Yes." Merinana spoke firmly.
"Do you have any idea what they mean by "purifying" our city?! Destroy us! That is their intent! Remember Cat-River, sister, remember our mother's tribe? That is what they intend to do to us." The renegade necromancer shook in terror, sadness, and frustration.
Merinana covered her eyes and turned away, 'Perhaps that is their intent, brother, but Drakkara will preserve us... somehow." She walked from the room, silently shutting the door behind her, with a hand marked by the dark moon.
Tryzeler turned to the Weaponsmaster. "You believe this too?"
"Your magic will not be enough to defeat all of the black robes of the conclave's tower, and my warriors are too weak now to stand against any invasion, undead or Srys. All we have left is faith."
"The dark moon is waxing, a good sign." Muttered a dark-robed druid.
"Yes, a lovely sign to die by." Grumbled Tryzeler.
"Faith, brother."
"I see no one, they will not come, but leave us to the twisted creatures of the necromancers." Snarled the Weaponsmaster.
"They have given their word, they will come."
"What good is the word of the Srys?"
"Brother, please."
"Hush, they come... don't you hear Zandreya crying?" Eyes turned to the dark druid.
A distant thunder.
"Zandreya cries as the move; they have shunned their heritage and pay no respect to the earth."
The rumbling thunder of hooves, tearing through the forest, digging up the ground.
The dark druid looked near tears, "They destroy and waste so much in their quest for light."
An arrow whistled through the forest, embedding itself into a tree nearby the druid. It slowly smoldered, the smell of sulfur drifted in the night air.
"Get away!" yelled Tryzeler, "Get down into the gates, close off the city tunnels."
Smoke gently rose from the arrow, and the thundering of hooves rumbled nearer, pounding out in time to the chiming of bells and the odd melodies of Srysmai chants.
The tree exploded, and its splintered remains buried themselves deep into the dark druid.
Then the forest exploded in a burst of light from the silver and white armors and spears of the Crusaders of the Sun, the chants of the Srysmai kkuttas, and the flaming arrows of their archers. Drow retreated in to their underground city, knowing that the raging Srys would not care to tell the difference between the living and the undead. All would be burnt by the wrath of their "High God".
Tryzeler and Merinana looked back to the thundering wall of Srys warriors before ducking into the safety of the underground city. Riding a dark stallion, at the head of the tidal wave of fire and light was a fair haired crusader, dressed in armors of silver, white robes, chiming bells, and the mark of the dark moon burnt into his sword arm. Covered with red and yellow war paint, it still seeped through with a deep inky blackness.
Tryzeler turned towards his sister with a questioning look... and then he laughed.
In the city of Tak'urta, underneath the surface of the earth, a people nervously made preparations for when their saviors turned on them. Except for the young matron mother of the first house, and her renegade black robe brother. They sat quietly in the cool underground regarding the other drow, dreading what would come. Knowing that the battle and death to the Crusaders of the Sun, may be more pleasant than what was the destiny their dark goddess seemed to be weaving for them.
"So, you sold your self to that barbarian for the protection of our city." Tryzeler sighed and sank into his black robes.
"I did not sell myself, Drakkara brought us together, She saw our binding as important, or She would not have granted it." The cleric of dark magic spoke to her brother.
"Interesting, so this Srys performs on cue?" Tryzeler inquired.
"Not mine, but he is Drakkara's now, and She will prevent him from harming our people and city."
"Truly? Sister, magic is my life, but it is a skill to be learned, not accepted on blind faith. I must see that we are safe." Tryzeler spoke sternly, trying to cover the fear in his voice with worldly wisdom.
"Magic or faith, either way Drakkara saves us, and tears down the Srys, directing them to a dark path, carved by Her." Merinana watched her people quietly and seemed assured of their safety. Tryzeler sighed, and waited. His mind racing of spells and a prayer to the waxing dark moon.
The next morning scouts reported the monsters vanquished, and the gates of Tak'urta were tenitivly opened to admit the wounded and weary Srys. Their white, silver armors, and bright war paints looked out of place in the dark halls of the underground city. Bringing their superstitious ways along with them. The kkuttas extinguished the magic blue lights that lit the tunnels, replacing them with the red-orange burning flames of old-fashioned torches.
They marched into the city streets, proud, battered, and ever surrounded by a fearless power. To Tryzeler's dismay, many of the commoners bowed and babbled words of blessing and thanks to the warriors as they paraded behind their leader-crusader.
The Srys leader's dark horse came to a stop before Tryzeler, Merinana, and a number of other nobles of the city.
"Who is leader of this city?" The crusader asked, speaking clipped elvish and common.
"I am, Merinana Sakam, Matron Mother of the First House of Tak'urta." Merinana strode out from the crowd and stood before the mounted Srys, unwavering, unafraid.
The crusader looked briefly taken aback an looked out about the crowd, looking for a way out of Merinana's glare and presence. "This woman is your leader?" He inquired.
The crowd exchanged glances, not entirely certain what the wild-elf crusader was getting at. There was no doubt that many of the nobles wished to be the First House, and many plotted for that power. However, none at this time wished to step forward, to do so would only hasten their own demise by the Srys lord, or another noble.
"Yes, barbarian, we allow our women to do things other than knit, pray for forgiveness of your sins, and bear more little boys for your false god to brainwash and corrupt." Tryzeler stepped forward beside his sister, eager to argue and prod at the Srys lord.
"Jikkui-rkkjis!" The Srys drew his blade at Tryzeler, the sword hummed and surged with an unnatural energy. "I would not think even a woman hikkkut would allow such insolence in her presence. Who is this drukkmai?"
"My brother, Tryzeler." Merinana shot Tryzeler a withering look, knowing that the mage would only work to anger the Hikkkut Srys, "He has been ill and away for awhile."
"Do not make excuses for me, sister," Tryzeler shot back at her, and turned on the Srys again, "Where did you barbarians get a hold of the magic dust used in cannons for your trickery?"
The crusader ignored him, and chose to speak to Merinana afterall. "Indeed, he shall be the first to burn then." Sitting tall in his saddle, the Hikkkut Srys addressed the assembled drow and wild elves. "This city and it's people have been liberated by the Crusaders of the Sun, and will submit to Srys' will, and be purged of their darkness and sin."
"Kinickkth, Kini.. you can't do this." Pleaded Merinana.
Tryzeler grinned at the crusader and spoke, "As your laikkt, I demand the right to choose Srys as my judge for my Srynik Davik."
"Do not twist our words, drukkmai, you have no rights." The crusader and horse fidgeted, betraying the truth.
"My dear, laikkt, I have such rights. I see you bear my sister's mark on your sword arm."
Kinickkth fumed and moved to strike the dark mage. The kkutta beside him held the fuming wild-elf's arm and whispered something in his ear. Sighing, Kinickkth glanced back at Merinana, and then turned to Tryzeler, "What is your wish then, makkkit?"
Tryzeler eyed the wild elves in the crowd, his mind calculating his words and next move. "We have heard of the various trials that your people must go through to prove their worth to Srys. Allow me to prove that I am Srysmai. My family is of the first house, and lead this city, surely under my family's guidance this town will grow in Srys' grace."
Tryzler smiled and continued, "Also, you will take my sister as your wife to insure the nobility and purity of the next generation that will rule these forests and homes." Tryzeler spoke strongly with conviction, yet every word somehow dripped of acidic sarcasm and seemed twisted with darkness. He smiled and gazed over the Srys battalion. His eyes falling on a young, dark haired warrior.
The kkutta again whispered into the Srysmai highlord's ear, and the mighty wild elf glanced sadly at Merinana for a moment. His gaze returned to Tryzeler, filled with hatred and darkness. "I must submit to your request for trial by the Sun; however, drukkmai, you only stall the inevitable. Before your ashes are done smoldering by Srys' hand, this city will be purified."
The crusader spoke to his mounted warriors, "A squad will accompany myself and Kkut Tryzeler back to the Temple, the rest shall stay in this city and see that none leave until Srys has spoken on the purity of this Kkut."
Tryzeler bowed to Kinickkth, and smirked at him, "I will collect a few items, and be ready to travel in an hour, thank you, laikkt."
The wild elf glared at Tryzeler, "You may address me as hikkkut, or not at all." Kinickkth and his men spurred their horses and loped off leaving a pair of dissaproving warriors and a kkutta behind to help Tryzeler.
Tryzeler smiled weakly at them.
"Have you any idea what you are getting into?" Merinana lectured her brother as he collected his books and charts and stuffed them into a travel bag. The Srys warriors watching them from the other side of the room didn't seem to understand elvish, and just ignored the conversation, probably wishing they had been assigned to some more interesting duty.
"I can guess, I've guessed well so far." Tryzeler grinned.
"Our city depends on you guessing right."
"Don't worry sister, you will soon be with your betrothed." He spoke in a flippant, mocking, tone.
"I'm more worried about you."
"Faith, sister, and magic." Tryzeler coughed, then grinned and summoned a small ball of blue flame in his hand.
Tryzeler chuckled and urged his horse to trot along side a young Srys warrior. The deep green woods deepened to the northwest, and the landscape was now rolling as they drew closer to the city of the Srys.
"What is it that you find so amusing, drukkmai?" Inquired the young warrior in a condescending tone.
"The predictability of primitive cultures such as yours."
"Primitive, perhaps; however I would not mock our way, it has already proven its superiority over yours"
Tryzeler chuckled again, "Do you think I actually know anything about your tribal rituals aside from a few words of your simple language? No, I played your highlord, hikkkut for the fool he is. I could only guess by looking at you."
"Me?" The young warrior raised an eyebrow and stared strait ahead at the trail, wishing the mage had not singled him out for conversation.
Tryzeler smiled and eyed the raven black hair and dark eyes of the young warrior. "Surely you aren't going to try to pass your coloration off to me as something that occurs normally among the Srys."
The young man kicked his horse a bit, urging him to move away from the pestering mage, who still kept up, along with his prodding questions.
"Surely a drow such as you must have under gone some sort of ritual of purification." The mage eyed the red and yellow war paint which decorated the arms of the warrior, covering up old burn scars.
"My trials are not subject for discussion." The young man said, coldly.
"Oh well then, let us speak of mine then. Tell me how, exactly, your highlord plans to kill me." Tryzeler smirked and changed the subject.
The young man's brow creased and his words shook of annoyance, "You will be placed on the altar in the temple of the Sun, where the heat of the Sun at its highest point of the sky will burn you when Srys deems you unworthy."
"Well, that certainly gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘Sunburnt’, eh?" Tryzeler smirked and remarked in a mocking tone at the young warrior.
The drow Srysmai spurred his horse into a gallop and headed off to the front of the group. Hooves and jangling bells trotted up behind Tryzeler. "Even your type makes fine crusaders when not brain washed and corrupted by your dark goddess." Remarked Kinickkth.
"Perhaps, but we shall see who has the strongest hold soon, won't we?" Tryzeler smiled at him wickedly.
"True, and it will be wise for you to remember that while I may be played like a fool, Srys is not so easily amused by your play acting.
Tryzeler smiled, and gazed up at the clear sky.
"You really needn't tie those bonds so tight." Tryzeler Sakam looked up and smiled his twisted grin at the lovely Srys kkutta who was tying his legs in a most undignified manner to a large circular slab of stone. Blackened burn marks covered the surface of the stone slab, foreshadowing the heat and fire that the black robe renegade would have to endure to prove to the Srys' high god that he was pure and righteous.
"What does it matter? Srys will burn you from your bonds soon enough." She grumbled wearily, sick of the offensive mage who was as masterful of the art of prodding at and annoying people as he was at the art of necromancy.
Tryzeler sighed and tried to relax. Staring up at the domed ceiling of the temple of the sun. Above him, surrounded by circles of yellow and red markings similar to the Srysmai writing and decorative warpaint designs, was a central sky light filled with a huge lens of glass. Like a giant magnifying lens from a pair of spectacles already it was amplifying the near noonday sun at an uncomfortable temperature.
Around him, strange chants rose through the air, on a strange scale new and unused by any elven tune or song before, yet somehow they seemed more ancient than even the oldest elven songs or chants. The words were harsh and bright like the light that slowly heated his platform still hotter. Sweat dripped from him, but the still temple air provided no relief from the heat. His vision began to blur, and he dared not look up at the light above him any longer.
Feeling as though he was drifting, rising like evaporated water, melting in the sun's heat, yet soaring ever still closer to the ball of heat and light.
*today, you have no choice, my mistress, today is the day*
*you must protect this servant... your magic is a constant*
A wave of darkness passed through the blinding heat and light. Shading and cooling the earth bound with its dark shadow. Tryzeler smiled and let the cool darkness take him in its comforting embrace. The shadow was a nexus of cool peacefulness and order from the sounds of horrified Srysmai kkuttas echoing around the chamber as the light of day was snuffed by the black moon.
As the sun and dark moon moved away from their meeting at the highest point of the heavens, a shadow of a man passed over Tryzeler and cut his bonds. Kinickkth Srys bent over and whispered harshly into the dazed necromancer's ear. "It seems your dark goddess' hold is strong, but personally I think Srys could not even deem you worthy of Hell."
The Crusader of the Sun, Hikkkut of the Srys, gathered his white cape around him tightly, and quickly left the temple.
Tryzeler Sakam smiled, resting peacefully and safely on the altar of the Sun.