nano 2018 project

[gumviolet]

PLOT CONTAINMENT! Dumbassery probably follows.

Plot:
part one: Kid gets captured by drow, is taken to Chanuk Chi'ath, is ""bought"" by a House that's about as weird and non-traditionally drow as it gets. Turns out they don't really want to be in Chanuk Chi'ath and propose escaping bc the Maiden Mother (not matron, no sprogs yet) keeps having funky visions.
Only reason kid was kidnapped is because three houses made a deal with the guy in charge at Castle Tanrock for slaves in exchange for drow magic bullshit knowhow.
part two: escape the underdark, cultural adjustment to the surface.
part three: tanarukk and orcs, oh no oh fuck, where did they come from?? hang on, this one has livery of tanrock guards. hm.
part four: return to castle tanrock - what do you mean kemuah has been brainwashed, why is Lord Amias Saloman acting like this-- oh he just. tried to kill us. shit.
part five: ??????

Locations:
- Mereweir. Delyth & Kemuah's home village. Burned down the night of the raid.
- Vanmere & Vanmere Forest. A large lake system and forest. Pretty backwoods.
- Gorreignville. The nearest city, about two day's ride from Tanrock Castle.
- Tanrock Castle. Originally built as a redoubt against orc and goblin raids for the local people, it has since expanded to a motte & bailey kind of situation.
- Chanuk Chi'ath. One of three major drow cities, with a population of roughly 10,000 drow and additional slaves.

Comments

[gumviolet]

This is the point upon which the world turns; destinies change and shift with a single choice.
Delyth Vanmere, a young lad of barely 14, sees the guards from Tamrock Castle driving a carriage filled with hooded figures one evening. But they come from the Vanmere forest, not from Gorreignville. He follows them as far as he can, and catches a guttural, unknown language. But he catches one word, repeatedly.
Rothe. He knows this word; if only from barkeep Irwin. It means cattle. It means slave. There are drow in that cart - not bound, not prisoners. Guests.
Delyth bolts back to Mereweir along the hunter's tracks, avoiding the road. His nightvision is a little better than most people, but he'd usually stick to the roads if possible. Not tonight, not with drow slavers lurking around every tree. His eyes flick rapidly back and forth, breath catching in gasps.
He has to warn them. Someone has betrayed them, and he doesn't know why.
--
Kemuah believes him, thankfully. So does Granny Bethin, but she cautions him against trying to rally the villagefolk, wisely pointing out that he's more likely to panic them than do anything helpful. But that night Delyth has trouble sleeping - he stares up at the roof of the burrow, listens to the pop and crackle of the fire, and runs his fingers back and forth over the patch of white scales that curves around his shoulder.
--
When the Tamrock bailiff comes to claim the monthly tithe, he makes extra sure to remind all the villagefolk that keeping any weapon but a dagger, staff, or sling is prohibited, unless one has a permit from the Fiefdom. Delyth narrows his eyes, and vows to finish carving the shortbow he's working on sooner rather than later.
--
It happens one night when Qani and Vriin are absent from the sky - there's a terrifying shriek from the forest, and then a horde of monsters are upon them.
Shaggy-furred things the size of man lope on all fours and leap from the trees, massive spiders chitter and spit poison, and then there are the drow - by Eldath's mercy, there are the drow.
Delyth clutches his new diamond focus in one hand and with the other reaches out, shrieking in a tongue he only half-knows, sending bolts of ice to wound and slow. Kemuah is elsewhere - but he knows she's alright, as the night briefly turns to day as she wreaths herself in flame.
The drow pull back from her, shielding their eyes from the firelight - but she pushes on, lighting the bonfires and torches they'd set a week ago, when Granny Bethin had convinced them that it wasn't any harm, at least.
--
He'd bolted into the forest, hoping that it would draw some of the attention from the now-burning village - and it works. He can barely see the drow as moving shapes around him, but he knows these forests like the back of his hand. They barely know the surface world at all. So he leads them down to the Vanmere, short legs pumping as he races downhill. They're faster than him, sure, but the path is uneven from the summer floods washing soil away from the roots.
He's exhausted by the time he reaches the banks of the Vanmere - but there's an island far enough out that they shouldn't bother trying to get to it. Delyth reaches into himself, reaches for that icy, empty feeling and shouts - freezing air rockets out from his hand and instantly freezes the water, creating a bridge just wide enough for a small quarter-elf boy to run across, if he's careful and quick about it.
There's a hissing from behind him, and then something wraps around his ankles, toppling him into the weedy edge of the mere. He looks down, and there's a snake curled around his legs binding them together. Delyth cries out, trying to kick free - but he's stuck fast. He reaches for the ice again, but before he can, there's a blur, then a painful weight.
A drow grabs his wrists and slams them back into the freezing marshy mud. One knee leans on his hip with what feels like all their cursed weight and it bloody hurts. The drow has a mean grin on their face, eyes slit.
Delyth breathes in, despite the pain, and spits a handful of frost into their face. The smirk falls away as ice crawls over their right eye and ear, and before he has time to think, one of the drow's hands switches from his wrist to his throat.
Delyth's last thought is to plead that Kemuah got away before the darkness creeps in, taking him down into the umbral depths.
--
That he wakes up is a surprise. That surprise rapidly fades into unwelcome nausea, and as he rolls over and retches, he's vaguely aware that they're moving, and that he's been blindfolded.
He can hear drow talking all around him, some of them jeering at him, others sounding bored. The movement stops, and he hears Irwin murmur (oh no, they got Irwin too?) 'just let them do it. fighting back isn't worth it'.
There's a metallic rattle, then a creak. A meaty thud, and Irwin groans, coughing.
--That's enough out of you, drunk.-- He can't understand what they're saying, but it doesn't matter. The cold fills up his whole body as the drow grabs him by his scruff and pulls him up out of the puddle of thin bile. A water skin is forced between his teeth, with water that tastes like dirt filling his mouth.
It's a nicer taste than vomit, but it feels even better to chill the water to where his teeth hurt, then spit it back at the drow.
Things get hazy from there, but when he next comes to, there's a thick gag in his mouth, and his arms have been bound to each other from elbow to fingers behind his back. Ow.

[gumviolet]

Kacha'bastenulle strolls down the street, whistling. One hand rests on the pommel of her longsword, the other idly combing through her rust-stained hair. Despite her carefree appearance, her eyes are sharp, looking for a human of a particular description. The Matron of House Melrret had been exquisitely descriptive of their wandering slave, and now it was up to 'Tenulle to track them down and return them.
Many of the vendors in the market won't meet her eyes, but that is to be expected. Even though she's merely Ken'me, not properly of House Kenmtor, she's still of a higher rank than just about everyone out on the streets of Chanuk Chi'ath at this hour.
That said, she'd been sent to track down a few of them for various Houses for various reasons - poor quality goods was a common one, even if most of the time 'Tenulle thought it was rotheshit.
A furtive movement catches her eye - but she keeps strolling casually. A duergar adjusts the folds of their rugs, but the shape is just uneven enough to suggest a limb, folded up. Hm.
'Tenulle wanders over, a cadre of svirfnebli scattering out of her path. The rug-seller freezes, then slumps minutely, and 'Tenulle allows herself an internal smile. Someone's hiding someone - and even if it isn't Matron Melrret's missing boy, there are plenty more AWOL slaves in Chanuk Chi'ath.
The duergar bows to her, and then speaks in rumbling undercommon. They keep their head bowed, which is honestly the safer bet. She's not in the habit of striking down traders where they sit - better to leave that to the firstboys of minor Houses, looking to take out the miserable rages on something that cannot fight back.
--How may I assist you, honored one?--Tenulle drops into a squat, putting herself on the duergar's level.
--No trouble for you, trader. Unless you're looking for trouble?-- They shake their head, thinning white hair beginning to dampen with sweat.
--Never, honored one. But perhaps you would be interested in my wares?-- 'Tenulle lets a smile grow across her face. It's not a nice smile. The duergar knows they've been caught.
--I am. You know you need a permit to take such fine goods out of Chanuk Chi'ath, yes?-- The rug shudders, and the duergar folds themself into the lowest bow they can manage. Around them, the market falls quiet. It's death or a lifetime of servitude for those found to be smuggling slaves out of the City.
Death is honestly the better option.
Quick as a striking phase spider, 'Tenulle kicks over the stack of rugs, then stomps down upon the hand that she can see. There's a wail from the rug, and as she kicks it open, 'Tenulle draws her longsword, pressing the adamantine point into the slaves' chest.
They stare up at her, eyes wide and panicked. She'd pity them if it wouldn't show on her face. Instead, she leaves her boot on their hand, and the blade just barely piercing their skin.
--Going somewhere, little slave?-- Their voice quavers, but they speak up. Brave, if foolish. They should honestly stay quiet. Kacha'bastenulle has a reputation for a reason.
--Nowhere, honoured one!-- She can see why Mother Malrret wants this one back. They're pleasant looking, for a human. Ears full of gold and gems, and exquisite pale skin.
--Telling lies, little slave?-- They shake their head, and as they open their mouth to reply, there's a glint of something metallic on the roof of their mouth.
--No, honored one!-- 'Tenulle sheaths the sword and pulls out her manacles. Smoothly, she drops so that she's astride their chest - but she keeps the manacles draped over her arm.
--Open your mouth.-- Then, without preamble (and before they can slam their jaws shut), she shoves in two folded fingers. They yelp and try to bite down, but the thick leather protects her. --Hm? What have we here?--
Her thumb brushes against the roof of their mouth - that's a coin. 'Tennulle pulls off her other glove with her teeth - they're too thick for this kind of work.Then, almost gently, she slides a finger back along the coin, to where the far edge rests up against their uvula.
It's honestly not a bad place to hide coins, she thinks as she hooks her fingertip against the edge of the slick, body-warm metal. There's just one problem, and that's the fact that removal hurts. 'Tenulle pulls down, and the slave shrieks as the metal grates against their gums and teeth.
It comes free, wet with blood and spit. A pella. Oh, you dumb little idiot. She turns the platinum coin over in her hand, leeting all the onlookers see exactly what it is that she's holding.
--Stealing coins, little slave?-- They close their eyes, their only reply a soft whimper. The manacles go on with no resistance, and as she ties the hobbles, the duergar shuffles out of the way.
A shadow falls over them. 'Tenulle doesn't have to look to know who it is. Nathaste Myrahel, secondboy of House Myrahel, unofficial Chief Guardsman of Chanuk Chi'ath.
--A thief and an escapee? My, you have been busy.-- Nathaste's tone is light, but 'Tenulle's hackles rise all the same. He is old for a secondboy, and an old male drow is not to be taken lightly.
--Matron Mother Malrret was precise in her instruction.-- She stands, hauling the bloody-mouthed slave with her. Nathaste has with him a group of Academy trainees, which is the last fucking thing she needs. Lowborn boys seeing her doing her job just makes them think they have something in common with her, which she very vehemently does not. --I must return this to her as soon as possible.--
Nathaste's eyes narrow, glancing down at the beltpouch where she has tucked the pilfered pella. She offers her most winning smile, shifting her posture to push her breasts closer together. Even a secondboy of a powerful House has weaknesses, and Nathaste's are well-known.
A faint twitch of his head is enough of a dismissal to get her moving, half-dragging the hobbled slave out into the market's street. As she passes, one of the boys opens their mouth to say something, but gets a swift kick in the shin from a yearmate before more than a syllable can pass their lips.
It's not enough to save the hapless boy from getting a cuff across the ear from Nathaste, and as she walks back down the street, she can hear his blistering tone eviscerate them where they stand.
For now, at least, she has a payment to collect.

[gumviolet]

2090 words for the first two parts