"Xun naut lor phor!"

The word was a whip crack in the shimmering autumn air, thick with the sounds of sleep, the business of the night when not so many insects croaked their little songs as they did in summer. Soon following the words came the sharpest crack of a hand against skin. It was sweet music to the long furl of ears listening, it was.

Pools of light from lanterns long ago lit flickered unsteady silhouettes of a wagon rolling ponderously weighted across cobblestone. Lone, wide, circular wheels bumped and skipped at a torturous pace. It was never allowed to skip forward too fast, nor was it allowed to completely stop. In fact, the pace was deliberate. The amount of strain it took to keep such control of a weighted thing must have been torturous.

Rickety shivering of the wagon echoed against establishments, shop front walls. A darkly splotched tarp was thrown carelessly across the top of it, yet from a corner here and there the distinct, different glitter of mithril (for it had such a shine compared to steel) threw the poor street lamps light like little mirrors in every direction. Pulling the wagon? Two, completely nude female drow chained together in the yoke across their shoulders meant for far greater, more powerful beasts of burdens.

Their backs bent nearly double, bodies’ forward alike little hounds pointing in the direction they struggled to pull the wagon too. The skin along their shoulders had long since blistered, worn away, blistered again, worn away, until their white hair was blackened, rivulets of liquid, sweat, tears, or blood, running down skin. And the woman who walked beside them took great joy in every sobbing breathe they took.

Suliss’urn did so enjoy a lovely walk in the evening.

"Stop." A single, whispered word, as the wagon lurched to a halting cease of movement in front of the forge. Both nude drow tried to collapse to the cool of cobblestone, the yoke, and the chains jerking them to remain upright as legs buckled. The two-drow females created an odd tableau of drow-scare-crows.

"Old man," not-so whispered to the shop. "Come, come. I bring you things long promised."

For better, or for worse, Suliss’urn Xukuth had returned. Her first stop, luckily for him, was at Jodiah’s forge.


Taken from live play, edited for grammar and spelling.

Jodiah Ayreg was hard at work, keeping his mind off the coming storm he was going to be facing soon. Bent over double as he examined the edge of a blade for straitness, the aged man released a huff of air through his teeth to blow away flakes of carbon dust that had gathered near the edge of what will, eventually, become the pommel. Satisfied, he straitened and moved over to the forge itself, easing the vaguely dagger-shaped piece of metal into the coals.

He was dressed as he always was when doing forge work: A leather vest with a heavier leather apron atop it, and fairly run-of-the-mill nondescript leggings and boots. He pulled down on the billows, twice, and then once more to get the fires stoked again before turning away and wiping his brow with his forearm to sweep away the gleam of sweat.

Elsewhere, the infamous little gnomes were hard at work doing.. whatever it was the forge owner paid them to do.

Just seems like another night in the Dragon's Breath Forge, yep.

But things were not so quiet or normal outside, were they? That bizarre scene drew more than one awed, shocked, dare we say - flabbergasted - look from windows with curtains pulled open. Juuust a bit. The clatter of large wheels over cobbles wasn't exactly the most stealthiest way to go, no, and the reflection of lamps and magelight over the curtains was enough to stir the usually-night crawler populace of Rhy'Din, even here in the Old Town. Nobody said anything, though, merely stared until the beasts of burden, wagon, and taskmistress were gone from sight having turned down the street or simply too far now to notice.

Then, more than one very likely muttered some uncomfortable curses about the Watch not doing their duties, and wondering why they pay taxes.

Not terribly long before it came to a stop in front of the Dragon's Breath, it was spied upon by one of the local residents there who was, at present, sitting outside on a small wooden box enjoying a round of pipe smoke. Wizened face squished together as he squinted to get a better look, then popping open wide as dinner plates no sooner than did the three drow females come closer, and into better view. He turned, hopping off the box and churning short, stubby little gnome legs to scamper inside, wailing and flinging his arms about. "I-Reg! I-Reg!"

As for the old man himself, he had just looked up from his place there on the bench as he waited for the dagger to begin changing color from the heat of the forge when the gnome began to shout. He blinked, once, wiping his face again - only this time with a bar rag that he pilfered from the Red Dragon - and muttered out a tired, "What is it, Bob?"

No sooner did this take place, however, than did the not-so-whispered yet-still-ruined-sounding voice pitch in through the windows and walls and doors. He rose to his feet. Old man? and moved around the counter toward the front door while the Gnomes huddled together, now being told the story of an army of flaming-sword-swinging undead drow, ten feet tall, and clad in full plate-and-mail, rampaging down the streets at this very moment!

They huddled, quivering behind the counter as the door was opened and Jodiah Ayreg, the old man himself, stepped through that threshold to see... this.

He blinked, once, but nodded as a certain realization came across him - it had been nearly a month or so now since she had left more than a few scars on him while in the 'testing' of the first batch of her sharp things.

"Ah... Suliss'urn." It was a simple greeting, but his manner was more controlled than his tone. While it would have been a stretch to say that he was happy to see her, her presence did not displease him. One of the first things he noticed, of course, were the two naked and broken female dark elves. He was a man, after all.

The next would be the reflection of light being cast away from the edgings of the tarp that covered the wagon. From his vantage point, he couldn't quite tell how full the thing was.

"Either you're making my darkest dreams come to fruition, or that's going to be one very large shipment of mithril."

Exactly how large, though, he couldn't even have begun to imagine.

((This post was written, and copied here for Jodiah Ayreg's player. Reposted with player's full permission.))

" Qualla...nau mzild...elgg udossa.." One of the females, the one closest to Suliss'urn croaked from split and bleeding lips.

Sulissin In All Her Mercy, and Glory, lifted a bare foot without removing molten, golden eyes from the man who appeared in the doorway, and smashed the flat side of tiny, delicate foot against the mouth of the woman who'd spoke. She was as always, as the force of her kick made the woman's head snap sharply to the left --completely calm.

"You will speak in common. You will die when I want you too. " Though she did not tell the woman, who spat out a few teeth to rattle and chink across the cobble stone, to stop begging of course. Every woman had vices. Shoes, shopping, shiny things. Suliss just wanted to hear some one beg for death every once and a while. Was that so hard to ask for?

"Jodiah." Ah. She remembered the name with the face. It was a good enough greeting, and her lip did not curl disdainfully upon him. She, also, remembered their test of sharp things. Which had, at least, heightened her opinion of him - but how far, really, and, how would anyone know?

"I bring you mithril." Just in case he didn't notice. "Xas." And then at the mentioning of darkest desires, she turned eyes back to the women shivering and mewling pitifully.

"Do you want them? You may have them. I did not have time to throw them in the slave pens before getting here." Suliss' voice was a beautiful, horrible, thing. One could almost hear the sweet tones that had vaulted her to bard of Eilistraee at one point, but those tones had been raped long ago by endless screaming. They two women did not even lift their head, as the drow flicked another considering gaze at the old man, toe to head.

"I did not think you would have interest in them. I hear tales of human men breaking when they age." Pointed, and blunt. Yes, yes she did say that. This evening's attire was marginally appropriate. Hanging low on hips some rather draw string to keep the long, A line flow of rich watery material that rippled with every little move to flair to ankles. Her feet were completely bare of course. The shirt may have been decent at some point, until she'd ripped it to shreds, and re wove it around herself for optimum movement, leaving the skin marred by hate to be licked with silvery light from the lamps. Moon pale hair was ever, ever in a braid thick as a man's wrist, sharp as a knife, and swinging to the very ankles where liquid silk flowed.

"It seemed fitting," she said after a bit of thought, she meant the drow women tied then chained to the yoke. "They would have stopped me from bringing you this metal,” a petulant, almost childish tone. As if she could not have believed anyone would have tried to stop her from taking what she wanted.

And, what a change a little time spent in the Underdark could do, no? It seemed she’d learned a few more, finer nuisances in the ability to speak in a manner more easily understood. For better or for worse, these occasions dawdled away had done something, something to change her tiniest bit.

The gnomes had made short work of the delivered Mithril, and Jodiah’s crisp, business like request that the drow follow him within the shop had piqued the woman’s curiosity.

Following him inward, past the counter tops of the main room, Ayreg lead her to the small silver workshop, not much more than a room itself. Brushing past him the drow commandeered the middle of the tiny room then claimed it for her self in round about steps.

Circling had soon stopped, to touch this or that, fluttering a fingertip to drag over here or there, fiddle with some thing, set it down. He could stand there all he wanted unimpressed with her pacing about; it was lost on her at the moment. Back turned somewhat, her spine, her shoulders a sinuous temple to muscle that slithered under scar-black skin (thrown blue, gray, mercury for the runes, white sheen in smooth places. Though there were little of those), her hair, though, when swinging still as she stopped in mid motion at his words, picked up every single color the flame of candle had. Such was the way of white that glistened, ruddy yellow orange, bright. (A mockery of sunlight in moon.)

Her hand had been reaching for something; it furled away in random, graceful, meaningless gesture. Jodiah Ayreg had asked her something. Had offered her something with a querulous tone that had caught the drow, even though she did her best to seem disinterested in whichever the old man had to say. Gray owl, green eyes. What do you see?

Even when she is still, however, thinking, she seemed to dance the blades. Her response at first, was some sort of mmmmm, from the back of throat, leaving it open for the man to continue. Though, she changed her mind and followed it with a quip to him, whispering tones a soft mocking of such things and a passing remark on human males as well as poetry.

She turned after she spoke, and it was a lovely thing. All in one motion, of a spiral, body following the careful point of her toes turned to him. But. But. Gold eyes where sharp upon him as she set aside her playful words to inquire sharply as to what he wanted. And then the delicate features which made artisan's weep where fixed toward him with a serpentine crane of neck. Alike he was making a deal with the devil, or a devil woman, either way. Sharp eyes just as lightening quick, turned lidded as Jodiah Ayreg frowned at her.

And he answered.