The Drow Continued

[Envin]

{ OOC: Just basically a chance to write an evil toon for a change, and also to possibly get into a fight with the inevitable good-doers who should feel morally obligated to respond to this atrocity. }


Núrutyáve had made his way from the woods of Angmar some few days past, afoot as was his wont, and eventually traced paths through the Ettinmoors and came nigh unto where lay the Last Homely House. He knew its location well, and though he had never walked through its corridors and rooms, we felt that he knew at least fairly well how at ease and peaceful its folk were. He smiled to himself as he noiselessly moved through the trees, low to the ground and hardly to be seen, for from his pack he had taken clothes of grey and green leather, and replaced his black with them. His shock-white hair was bound behind him with a thin strap of leather, and his daggers were drawn in his hands, held blade-downward, ready to strike.

As yet he had but little plan as to what they would strike. Indeed, he hardly ever planned his actions save for the broad intent, rather letting his luck and good instincts guide him to waiting prey. Such was the tale of this day. Stealthily through the undergrowth he crawled now, for he heard the sounds of water. Perhaps a small falls of some sort? There were always folk around waterfalls, he replied to himself. He continued forward. His hands carefully lifted from the ground and set themselves down again in silence, and his legs and feet hardly even rustled, even though he crawled through thickest bushes and over fallen leaves, red and gold in the evening.

Even so, he could hardly believe his good fortune when his eyes at least peirced through the foliage and fell upon the scene before him. There in front of him was a young Elven maiden, with a basket of clothing and linens, some of which were drifting in a net in the water, and others set to dry upon a large rock hard by. There for her daily laundering, it seemed. He paid that but little heed, for it would appear that while the washing was being done she took advantage of the secluded glade to bathe. He licked his lips. His first glance had been slightly incorrect, for a close scrutiny of her body revealed that she was not as young as he had supposed. No longer a girl, but not yet old by the reckoning of her people. He grinned broadly. Perfect. His foul eyes roved over her creamy skin. Her bosom was large and rounded, pleasing to the eye, and her shapely hips and long legs screamed to him. Her hair had been allowed to grow to her waist, just begging to be pulled. He licked his lips again and moved forward.

The rush of the falls was such that she heard naught until she felt the cool of his steel gently laid upon her throat, and then she gasped and began to turn. But his left hand held her fast. She whimpered, confused and frightened. "Make but a sound, my pretty, and I will take my oath that your death will be foul and uncouth, painful, and long. Be silent save for when a woman should make her noises to a man, and I will slay you swiftly and painlessly. Oh yes, my sweet, you shall die this even. How it is done is your choice." She swallowed and tried to calm herself, even though her heart was now racing away from her. "Will you make aught of a sound?" he asked again. She shook her head resignedly. He smiled, and bent down to kiss her neck. She shied away from his lips, and from his hands and fingers once they began to fondle her, but soon his touches became more forceful and she could not resist them. He climbed into the water with her.

Quite some time later, for it had been many a long day since last he touched a woman, he dragged her lifeless body through the woods, and deposited it upon a path in Rivendell, not so close to the House that he would be seen, but close enough to where she would be found ere long. He throat had been neatly cut from ear to ear, her face was contorted in terror, and she was naked. Other signs of what had been done to her were readily visible.

Núrutyáve stalked off into the forest to await the chase. He smiled, and licked her blood from his dagger. This should be fun.

[Cerridwen]

Cerridwen knew Imladris. Her twin had told her long ago, that Imladris was one of the safest places she could be in Middle Earth, at which she had glared at him, for she did not consider she needed to be protected. But the gesture had been there. Perhaps, somewhere in his darkness, Saeren did intent their father not to discover her. But his attitude was always more of possessiveness than care. nevertheless, she had a home in Imladris, and they knew her.
Only Elrond and Glorfindel had known who's daughter she was. At first she knew she had been observed, closely watched, but when she had spoken of her upbringing in Doriath, her love of Melian the Maia who had taught her so much, almost a mother to her, her eyes shone with internal light.
She had never shown any ... tendencies, she had been taught archery by the march-wardens of Doriath and would join patrols of Imladris elves as the centuries rolled on, and she spent much time in Elronds library. That was truly all they knew of her.

It was the smell of blood , which first alerted her, a sense of pain and terrible fear, then death as the fea fled the misused body. And when she saw the body, and recognized it - for Imladris was not large, one tended to know every-one, at least by sight, it spoke volumes for her truest fears, that she thought first of her brother.
She sent up the alarm, warriors of Imladris racing to scour the valley and beyond as the poor womans body was taken into the House .

Saeren! her mind cry was filled with fury and anguish Did you do this?

[Saeren]

Even had his spirit and body been somehow confined and locked within a steel box at the bottom of Belegaer, Saeren would have heard her, the words driven by her own powers and rage. More skilled at this than she , he leafed through he prominent thoughts like a book, reading there what she had found, felt, seen.

Do not be bloody stupid, Cerridwen, I have uses for ellyths which does not include tupping them, then cutting their throats, shocking waste. Dreadful. His voice assumed a lazy drawl Open your eyes, vanimelda, you think I am the only evil being in the world? Have you not heard of...ah well, time for a short lesson in realism. Pull yourself together. We must talk. Go to your home, I need you to concentrate!

[Envin]

Núrutyáve had by this time found himself a vantage point, and looked down upon the spreading scene of alarm about the body of the abused maiden, still rapturous to his eye even amid her tortured appearance. He sighed, and watched as they whom Imladris termed warriors came in search of him. They were stealthy, oh yes for they were Elven, but he was the craftier, and the hunters would soon find themselves being hunted. He saw as a small band slipped away from the main host, likely as a scout party, and they turned wide far to the right of the main force. Núrutyáve saw his chance.

Leaping from high upon a boulder where he had sat ensconced, he took to his nimble toes and sped after them. His daggers, which were in truth small short swords, slithered silently from their sheaths. Maladath the Black, encrusted with sable gold formed like dragon's wings and wyrm's maw, rode in his right hand, while Iblis the Runed, embossed and carved with symbols of power, was borne by his left. Such was the speed of Núrutyáve's feet that he arrived ahead of the party he chased, oddly enough waiting for them in the exact place where his evil deed had been done.

The group broke into the clearing. There were five of them. The Drow licked his lips. And smiled. The Elves stopped short upon beholding the sight before their eyes, for there were copious amounts of blood strewn about the rocks, and here and there the water still ran a slight crimson. One of the Elves retched. Then he knew no more.

For Núrutyáve had dropped from the trees directly above them, and as he fell dark Maladath cascaded into the rear of the fellow's neck, and he fell fountaining with blood. The other Elves turned, slightly disoriented by what they had just seen, and yelled in surprise. They drew weapons and one brandished a wicked polearm, but Núrutyáve laughed in their faces. Two came for him at once while the other two began to circle slowly behind him. He charged, first catching the Elf's sword in a wicked twist with Iblis and casting it far away. Then Maladath split him from hip to shoulder and he collapsed, his entrails spilling onto the rocks. Núrutyáve barely ducked, in the very nick of time, for the second Elf had thrust his sword at the Drow's neck, but as it was, he overextended as Núrutyáve crouched, and stumbled forward. Iblis took the glory this time, careering up through the air to piere the swordsman in the bottom of the mouth and continuing upwards clean through his brains and coming out of the top of his skull. Núrutyáve let the Elf fall with the blade still in his head, his throat vibrating as through he was screaming, though no sound came from his mouth, pinned shut as it was. Núrutyáve rolled over the top of his fallen form, jerking forth Iblis as he did so, and spewing blood and bits of bone and large chunks of brain from the fellow's mouth.

Just then the third Elf came up at him, and he was surprised to see small twin handaxes in his enemy's hands. He grinned. This was shaping into more fun than he had thought. He grunted when one of the handaxes flew from the fellow's hand and landed with a thud on his left shoulder. Fortunately, his studded leather had partly turned the blow, but steel made it slightly into his flesh nevertheless. He ran a finger under his clothes, brought it forth, and licked his blood from it. The Elf before him grimaced. He had thought to hit the Drow in the head. As it was, he was felled easily enough without his second blade. Occupying his attention with his swords, Núrutyáve on a sudden kicked the axe right from the Elf's hand, and by happy chance it went flying clean at the face of the fifth Elf, who was lifting his polearm to strike; he threw himself aside and landed in the water. The Elf before Núrutyáve, however, weaponless, was soon headless, as Núrutyáve laid his swords criss-cross on each other and forced them through his enemy's neck. The body slumped to the ground. The fifth Elf was swimming away as hard as he might, and was nearly out of reach, but luckily his polearm had fallen upon the ground rather than in the water, and Núrutyáve hefted it, took careful aim, and hurled. The spear caught the Elf square between the shoulders, and he plunged gurgling to the river bottom.

Soon after, upon the other side of the House, on another path, five mangled bodies of once-fair Elven warriors lay naked upon the ground. Their bodies had been marked and covered with foul words and scripts and runes, aside from their grievous wounds taken in combat. And Núrutyáve sped into the hills about Rivendell once more.