# An Assassin's Tale: The Return of Grummok  - A taste of things to come =]



## BLACKDIRGE

Howdy all,

Some of you may remember a character I did a while back by the name of Grummok. A gargoyle assassin in a drow city, I detailed Grummoks career from simple cut throat to guild master. I never really felt that I was finished writing about Grummok so I have decided to give it another try in a story hour format and present his continuing adventures. Those of you new to Grummok can check out his history here:

http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=36075

Creamsteak was kind enough to remove all the reader comments for me, so its a pretty fast and easy read.

I will try to update the original Grummok thread with stats for this new story, but don't quote me in that.   

And to my other readers, don't worry, I will continue to update my other story hour thread, and give you your fill of demons and devils.  

Dirge

P.S. 

For those of you who would like to catch up on the story so far, here are the first 7 installments in a word document.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Here we go, first installment.

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*Part I*

Deep beneath the earth, secluded in the myriad and labyrinthine passages of Erelhei Cinlu, an assassin remembered.

Grummok sat behind his huge black desk toying idly with a medallion of burnished silver. The gargoyles gaze shifted around the small and secluded space of his personal office, noting the things that filled it. Objects that lent comfort and familiarity hung from the walls and littered the many bookshelves. Weapons and other tools of the trade were evident, but a softer, more cultured touch existed along side these instruments of pain. There were carefully selected works of art, hundreds of books from Grummok’s own collection, and a few pieces of tasteful furniture for the rare guest allowed into the assassin’s inner sanctum. The room was unlit; befitting the lightless haunts of Erelhei-Cinlu, the cavernous drow city in which Grummok plied his trade. 

It had been twenty years since Grummok’s bloody ascension to guild master, but the gargoyle had changed little in outward appearance in those two decades. Short for his kind, Grummok stood a shade less than six feet in height, with a good eight inches of this stature owing to the curling horns that jutted from his brow. His face was all teeth and horns, leering and bestial, but behind Grummok’s luminous red eyes there lurked a keen mind, unmatched by most of his drow contemporaries. A great pair of bat-like wings, which were currently folded neatly behind his back, completed Grummok’s rather demonic appearance. 

Grummok had learned much of culture and civility since his fledgling days hunting the Ghetto of the Dead, and had taken to wearing fine, but simple clothing, instead of nothing but his battle harness. Today, he wore a simple black tunic, cinched at the waist with a wide, mithral-studded belt. The gargoyle’s own personal insignia was sewn in platinum thread just above his right breast: two crossed daggers, one aflame, the other dark and jagged. The gargoyle was unarmed save for a single dagger at his belt, but it was widely known that even lightly armed, the master assassin was far from helpless.

The days were often hectic for the guild master, for his lofty position was demanding in the extreme. Each day brought a host of requisitions to his desk to which he assigned the appropriate assassin for the job. In addition, the more important nobles in the city would often visit him to request his personal attention on a wide variety of shadowy endeavors. Grummok managed to steer the majority of these esteemed guests to a capable underling, but some nobles, such as the matron mothers of the various ruling houses, simply could not be denied. 

Today was yet another busy day, and although Grummok knew that there was much that needed his attention, he had not stirred from his office. Instead, he sat and pondered a flat disc of polished silver as it spun and flipped through his supernaturally deft fingers. Grummok’s mind had been captured by the past and moreover by the stylized fly head that adorned the poor-quality silver amulet. Thoughts that had had lain dormant for over two decades had suddenly come screaming to the surface, and they weighed heavily on the assassin’s mind. Memories of a time that still pained him greatly; memories that Grummok’s own unwitting hand had brought to light. 

Today a team of slaves had carried the huge black desk and its accompanying chair from his home to the assassin’s guildhall. The desk and chair had been collecting dust in an unused portion of Grummok’s manse, and had belonged to the former owner, a sorcerer slain nearly twenty years earlier. Grummok, who often entertained influential members of Erelhei-Cinlu’s elite society, had thought the desk would make a bold impression of wealth and importance that his noble guests could appreciate. So a pair of ogre thralls had made the arduous journey from his manse to the guildhall, the mammoth desk strapped to their backs. After they had positioned the desk to Grummok’s liking, he had dismissed the slaves and set about cleaning the dust and grime that had accumulated from decades of disuse. 

In the midst of his cleaning, the gargoyle had inadvertently thumbed the catch of a small hidden compartment, concealed neatly in the desk’s polished surface. He had simply forgotten about this secret hidey-hole and what it contained: an unimpressive amulet of tarnished silver. The amulet had once been worn by someone close to Grummok; in fact it had been owned by the only living creature the assassin had ever been bold enough to call friend. The relationship had ended as most do for those involved in the Grummok’s trade, with death and misery. The pain of this loss came flooding back in a torrent, and a single word had escaped Grummok’s lips as he lifted the amulet from the dust of its tiny tomb: Hek.

Hekendale Oakheart, had been a human slave that had eventually become Grummok’s apprentice, and the only person he had ever trusted beyond himself. Hek had fallen under the sway of a secretive cult that worshiped the arch devil Beelzebub, and had been slain by Grummok’s own hand for his forbidden allegiance. Such was the way of Erelhei-Cinlu; those that angered the matron mothers soon found their lives dwindling on the point of an assassin’s blade. 

These aching memories had captured Grummok completely, and he had cancelled his few appointments for the day, all with relatively unimportant minor nobles, and sought the seclusion of his office to reflect. So here he sat, as he had for the past three hours, the silver amulet dancing along his fingers as he indulged in memory shrouded in both pain and pleasure. The lightless confines of his office closed in around him like a comforting cloak, and Grummok thought of his friend for the first time in years. But such personal time is scant and ill favored for those of Grummok’s rank, and soon the weight of his responsibilities came crashing down. 

In the years he had been guild master twenty-seven attempts had been made upon his life, all of them by members of his own guild. Each had ended in failure, and the death of the would-be assassin of assassin’s; but these failed attempts all served as a reminder that his prestige and power was as tenuous as a lucky dagger thrust. It had been nearly a year since the last attempt, and Grummok was long overdue for another chance to prove his right to rule.

Grummok did not hear his assailant enter his office, and he still did not hear the assassin as he maneuvered in for the kill. He was good; the gargoyle had to admit, but had made a very simple mistake. The assassin had chosen to use an invisibility spell to conceal himself rather than rely upon mundane methods to remain unseen, and this was his undoing. To the untrained eye an invisibility spell was a perfect means of remaining hidden, but to one of Grummok’s experience it was completely useless. A faint shimmering was visible around the assassin’s body as the magic of his invisibility spell bent the light away from him. The shimmering was very faint, but to Grummok it was as obvious as a lantern in the dark.

Grummok watched the assassin thread his way around the pair of high backed chairs before the guildmaster’s desk, noting the height of the figure and guessing him to be drow. He allowed the assassin to draw within ten feet, never moving, never giving any hint that he had detected the intruder’s presence. The barely audible click of a crossbow bolt settling into the firing groove prompted Grummok to action. In one blurred motion the gargoyle snatched the dagger from his belt and hurled it, almost casually, at the approaching shape. A shriek of agony told Grummok that his dagger had found its mark. Before the solid thump of a body collapsing to the floor even reached his ears, the guildmaster had nimbly vaulted over his desk to inspect his victim. 

“Heruush!” Grummok cried, as his taloned feet landed on the opposite side of his desk. The simple arcane word released a light spell, and the room was bathed in a fiery yellow luminance. The light elicited another shriek from the would-be assassin, as Grummok knew it would. Drow unlike gargoyles had an aversion to bright light, and Grummok often used this simple fact to his advantage. 

The assassin’s invisibility spell had faded, leaving Grummok the spectacle of a young drow noble writhing at his feet. The gargoyle bent over his foe, mouth agape to end the fool’s struggles, when a flash of recognition turned his blood to ice, and closed his mouth with an audible click. The drow had pulled his body into a fetal position, cradled around the protruding dagger in his gut. Blood was slowly leaking from the wound, and a low whimpering arose from the stricken assassin. Grummok had caught a look at the drow’s face in his agony-wracked contortions, confirming a terrible suspicion, and he stepped away, fanged mouth twisted in a snarl of frustration.

“Oh, you little fool!” Grummok spat. “Three weeks! Three weeks and you make an attempt on the guildmaster? You are truly an idiot, Vedreshar.” Grummok’s frustration was well deserved, for the young drow bleeding his life away on the floor of his office was none other than Vedreshar Tormtor, favored grandson of Kezekia Tormtor, the ruling matron mother of Erelhei-Cinlu. 

The young noble had arrived at the guildhall less than a month ago, with instruction from Kezekia herself regarding his tutelage. Grummok had known the desperately handsome Vedreshar would be nothing but trouble the moment he laid eyes on him. In his first week alone he had killed two of his fellow apprentices, both while asleep in their bunks. He had slit the throat of each, simply for the pleasure it gave him, and to test the limits of Grummok’s authority. Such killings were not uncommon among the lower ranks of assassins, and the attrition rate for yearlings was nearly fifty percent. So, Grummok had said nothing to Vedreshar regarding the slayings, refusing to acknowledge the young noble by name or deed 

In truth, Vedreshar did have a gift for assassination, and Grummok had hoped to cool the fire in the young noble’s blood, and mold him into something useful. So far, all attempts to do so had failed. Vedreshar was uninterested in anything Grummok, or anyone for that matter, had to teach him, and wantonly slew any other pupil who so much as glanced at him. When the impetuous apprentice made an attempt on the life of one of Grummok’s senior instructors, the guildmaster had had enough. Vedreshar was thrown into the deepest, darkest cell Grummok could find, and left there to rot until he could figure out what to do with the murderous young drow. 

Despite that fact that Vedreshar had just attempted to kill him, the young noble’s ingenuity impressed Grummok. He had both found his way out of his cell, and gained access to the guildmaster’s inner sanctum. Vedreshar had done all this without raising the alarm, and had managed to get within a dagger’s throw of Grummok himself. 

Grummok stared down at Vedreshar, noting the spreading puddle of crimson pooling beneath the young drow. Unfortunately, he could not let Vedreshar die, and be rid of the troublesome young drow for good. Kezekia Tormtor would be less than pleased at the untimely death of her favorite grandson, regardless of who had dealt the fatal blow, or for what reason. With a heavy sigh, Grummok stooped and picked up Vadreshar’s crossbow, which he had dropped after the surprise impact of Grummok’s dagger with his gut. The gargoyle noted the sticky sheen of poison coating the gleaming head of the loaded bolt, and placed the fearsome weapon on his desk. He then moved to one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls of his office, ignoring the faint moans of pain from Vedreshar. He removed a large leather bound volume from the topmost shelf, and placed a probing hand into the dark space left by the vacant tome. Grummok found what he was looking for immediately, and withdrew a small glass vial with a cork stopper. 

Grummok’s back was to Vedreshar as he replaced the leather bound book in its rightful spot, and incredibly he heard the soft scuffling of the drow noble getting to his feet. The guildmaster turned, bemused at the sight of Vedreshar, now gripping the dagger that had only seconds before been buried in his gut, shambling forward in a vain attempt to complete his assassination. Grummok let him come, marveling at how even the dark skin of a drow could become pasty and drawn with bloodloss.

Vedreshar made a clumsy overhand lunge with Grummok’s dagger as he closed the distance between himself and the guild master. The guildmaster simply sidestepped the half-hearted strike, and raked the talons of his left hand across the drow nobles face as he stumbled by. Vedreshar shrieked in pain and outrage as the gargoyles needle-like talons dug furrows into his handsome features, and spun to make another attack. 

Grummok knew that the longer Vedreshar was on his feet, the less likely the healing potion he held would be of any use. He needed to put the drow noble down. Now.

Vedreshar came at Grummok again, slashing with the dagger and snarling in psychotic rage. Grummok nimbly avoided the first few strikes, giving ground to the advancing drow, waiting for the perfect opening. Vedreshar was weak from lack of blood and half blinded from the bright illumination, making it painfully easy for Grummok to step inside his defenses, catch the wrist that held the drow’s weapon, and drive his knee like a piston into Vedreshar’s crotch. The effect was everything Grummok had hoped for, Vedreshar’s sucked in a great gulp of air, and his eyes flew wide with the pain that only a male can know intimately. Helpless as a babe, the young drow slid bonelessly to the ground in a shuddering heap.

“Vedreshar, if you keep up this foolishness, I will have to kill you, regardless of your grandmother,” Grummok scolded; as he bent down to pluck his dagger from Vedreshar’s nerveless fingers. “Now roll over and open your mouth.”

Vedreshar was incompliant, he had lapsed into unconsciousness from shock and loss of blood, forcing Grummok to roll him over and pour his potion down the drow’s throat. The drow noble spluttered as the thick golden liquid splashed into his open mouth, but managed to gulp down most of the healing concoction. The effect was instantaneous; as the powerful curative worked its way through the young drow’s body, mending his flesh and erasing all trace of the recent trauma he had suffered.

Grummok stepped back, and motioned for Vedreshar to get to his feet. The young drow stood, rage and suspicion creasing his noble features. “You are fool not to kill me, gargoyle,” he hissed, still defiant even after his total defeat.

“Spare me your insolence boy, I could have killed you ten times over in the time it took you to utter that garbage.” It was truth, and Vedreshar knew it. “Now, you are going to listen to me, and you are going to listen well.” Grummok motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk, as he moved to sit behind the great onyx workstation.

Vedreshar sat, but the defiant sneer never faded from his lips, or the suspicion from his eyes.

“You are a talented assassin, Vedreshar,” Grummok began, taking pleasure in the surprise that registered on Vadreshar’s face at the compliment. “But you will wind up nothing but a corpse if you do not cease these ridiculous rampages. I have tolerated your indiscretions mainly out of the respect I hold for your grandmother, but no longer. The idiocy you have shown here today is more than enough to warrant your execution.” A lie; Grummok knew those of Vedreshar’s lineage were well above any law. “I will allow you to live and resume your studies, but I warn you, one more mishap and I will remove that pretty face of yours along with your balls, and sell you as a eunuch.”

Vadreshar’s jaw fell open at the blatant threat, but he wisely held his tongue.

“Do I have your vow on this, or do I need to start sharpening my flensing knives?”

Vedreshar stared hard at Grummok, and the gargoyle waited for the unpredictable young drow to either spring across the desk in a rage or simple leave in a sulk. 

“I will do as you ask, guildmaster, but on one condition.” Vadreshar’s voice was as cultured and smooth as his actions were savage and unpredictable.

“Very well, name your condition,” Grummok said with an exasperated wave of his hand.

“I want to be your apprentice. That is my condition, either accept or kill me now.” Vedreshar’s face was a mask of stubbornness, leaving little doubt that he would not budge from his ludicrous request. 

Grummok was taken aback, he had not had an apprentice since Hek, and in the twenty years since Hek’s death, he had no desire to take one. But there was something of Hek’s fire and determination in this young drow, a willingness to better oneself no matter what the cost. In truth, it was the best way for Grummok to keep an eye on the rogue drow, and possibly reshape him into a valued member of the guild. Grummok betrayed none of the roiling emotion that had arise from Vadreshar’s offer as he answered. “Very well, that is an interesting proposal. Meet me in the weapon sparring room tomorrow, and we shall further discuss your continued tutelage.”

A very uncharacteristic smile arose on Vadreshar’s finely chiseled face – a face Grummok was glad to see his talons had not scarred – and he seemed almost child like in his glee. “Yes, guildmaster, I will be there. I will not disappoint you.”

“Good, now take your crossbow and get the hell out of my office.”

Vedreshar responded to Grummok’s order with an almost obsequious alacrity, soon leaving the guild master to reflect on his decision. Grummok sat silent for a few moments before picking up Hek’s amulet, smiling in spite of himself as he remembered the human’s stolid determination and unyielding resilience to adversity. He wondered if his new apprentice had any inkling of the boon he was granting. Many had sought to learn directly from the guild master, but Grummok had turned them all away, directing them to more willing underlings.

With a sigh, Grummok replaced Hek’s amulet in the secret niche in his desk. He then closed his eyes and let himself again indulge in ancient memories.


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## pogre

Very cool! Grummok was one of my favorites in your stories. I look forward to reading future updates.


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## Allanon

Nice! If the above is anything to go by I would really consider selling you're stories to a publisher. I'd pay for stories like this.


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## Nasma

Yahoo!!  It's great to see your greatest creation (IMHO) continue his adventures BLACKDIRGE.  Grummok is the best kind of evil, the kind that you can identify with, the kind that you find yourself cheering for, even though you know that they're the bad guy.  

Anyone who has not read Grummok's story, please click on BLACKDIRGE's link.  I'm going to read it all again myself, right now.


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## Thomas Hobbes

Awaiting the book deal and clone PC's.


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## gloomymarshes

Bump.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Stats for this version of Grummok have been posted in the rogue's gallery.

Check it out.

Dirge


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## BLACKDIRGE

*Part II*

Grummok peeled away the dense muscle tissue that filled the bugbear’s chest cavity with the precision of an experienced butcher. The exposed ribs were a near solid mass of bone with little to no gap between each rib. “As you can see the bugbear has formidable protection against attacks to the upper torso. This thick shield of bone” – Grummok tapped the osseous wall – “will turn aside all but the most powerful thrust from a sharp blade.” 

Grummok stood in a large square room with a white tiled floor and ample lighting from a magical globe suspended from the ceiling. Four stone tables, complete with wrist and ankle manacles, dominated the center of the room. The corpse of a bugbear currently occupied one of the tables, its vivisected remains spread open for all to view. Grummok hovered over the table, a thin bladed scalpel in hand while a group of six dark elves, wincing at the bright light, huddled around with an air of hushed awe. 

The drow elves, assassins in training, were being treated to a rare spectacle, their legendary guildmaster had deigned to spend a few hours imparting a portion of his vast knowledge in the killing arts to a few eager pupils. All the drow where promising students, the very best of the young recruits, for Grummok had no time to waste on mediocrity. Normally all portions of the guildhall were unlit, but Grummok often subjected his pupils to varying degrees of illumination. He did this so his students would slowly become accustomed to the unnatural brightness, as drow light sensitivity was a weakness oft exploited by non-drow. 

Grummok held these classes once every week, sometimes working on combat training, sometimes on techniques of stealth and subterfuge. Today he had decided to give his pupils something a bit more visceral.

“The bugbear is a powerful opponent, but certainly not invulnerable.” Grummok continued to lecture. “If you can get behind one—no simple matter, their hearing is very acute—you can strike at a weak spot at the base of the skull. Vedren. Mezekar. If you would.” The gargoyle motioned to two of his students who eagerly came to the head of the table and lifted the bugbear’s head up. “You see here?” Grummok tapped the base of the bugbear’s skull while his students crowded around for a closer look. “Just below the neck joint is a weak spot. A dagger thrust here will almost certainly sever the spinal cord, killing or at least paralyzing the beast.” Grummok watched the eyes of his students as they assimilated the information he had just given them. He knew that each one of them was storing _that_ little fact away for later use. 

“How many have you slain personally, master?” The students whirled around in shock at one of their number who had dared speak to the guildmaster.

Grummok detected no disrespect in the question, merely curiosity, as he regarded the slim handsome young drow who had spoken. “I don’t recall, Vedreshar. Bugbears are commonly employed as bodyguards and I have killed a fair number in order to reach a mark.” The drow, Vedreshar Tormtor, was the grandson of Matron Mother Kezekia Tormtor and had recently become Grummok’s own personal apprentice, the first he had taken in two decades. Vedreshar’s recent improprieties, namely attempting to assassinate the guild master himself a scant two weeks ago, had all been forgotten and the young drow had taken to his studies with a will, eager to please his master. 

Vedreshar made no remark to Grummok’s reply and seemed satisfied with the answer he had been given. The other students glared at the young drow noble with unabashed jealousy and hatred. Grummok had no doubt that at least a few of them would die beneath Vedreshar’s blade before the year was out.

“Any other questions?” Grummok asked his small class with a needle-toothed grin. There were no takers. “Very well, let us continue. Now the abdomen of the bugbear…” Grummok’s voice was suddenly drowned out by a loud and determined rapping at the iron bound door that served as the vivisection room’s only entrance. The gargoyle looked up in annoyance. “Come!” he barked. 

The door creaked open to reveal the odious form of one the guildhall’s many slaves, a half-ogre called Tergot, in this case. The half-ogre had to stoop to fit his eight-foot frame through the door as he shuffled forward into the vivisection laboratory. The large humanoid kept his head down, his bestial features pinched with fear, as no one wanted to disturb the guildmaster if at all possible.

“Sir, woman is here, she want talk you.” The half ogre muttered in broken undercommon, shuffling his feet nervously as he awaited Grummok’s reply.

“What are you talking about? Who is here?” Grummok demanded, laying his scalpel down on the vivisection table and stepping towards the cowering half-ogre. 

“Drow women. Agvak say very important. Send Tergot to tell Grummok.” Tergot labored to recall his entire message, speaking slowly and carefully.

Grummok had moved to stand before the half ogre, who towered a full two-feet above the gargoyle assassin, and placed a clawed hand on Tergot’s forearm. “Think carefully, Tergot,” Grummok whispered, digging his long talons into the half-ogre’s flesh and drawing tiny pin pricks of blood. “What drow woman did Agvak send you to tell me about?” Grummok hissed, his eyes burning with impatience. Agvak was Grummok’s major domo and handled all of the day-to-day affairs that kept the guild running, the veteran drow assassin also had sadistic sense of humor, which had most likely prompted him to send the slow-witted Tergot with such an important message. 

The drow students watched with a mixture of fear and mocking superiority, secretly hoping that the half-ogre would further annoy the gargoyle assassin, and give them first hand knowledge of the guildmaster’s killing expertise. 

Tergot swallowed audibly, his eyes growing wide as his dull mind began to grasp the danger of his situation if he failed to remember the name that had been given him by Agvak. “Please…Tergot not remember name.” The half-ogre mewled pathetically as Grummok’s talons sank deeper into his the dense muscle of his forearm. 

Grummok was less than pleased with the cowering half ogre and with a growl of pure aggravation yanked down savagely on Tergot’s forearm, dragging the Half-ogre to his knees with a yelp. Now eye-to-eye with his quarry, Grummok leaned forward pushing his terrible horned visage into the Tergot’s face. “You _will_ remember, Tergot.” Grummok hissed. “Or I will strap you down on to one of these tables and have your skin off one strip at a time.”

Cruel smirks marked the face of each of the young drow standing behind Grummok, all save for Vedreshar, who observed the unfolding drama with stoic reservation. 

Tergot’s cheeks were now streaked with tears as Grummok hissed all manner of foul curses and promises inches away from the half-ogre’s contorted face. Grummok’s patience was running thin and his left hand was casually reaching towards his belt and the dagger that hung there, when Tergot’s eyes suddenly lit up with a jolt of mental victory.

“Tormtor!” The half-ogre bellowed. “Kezek… Keza…” Tergot struggled to pronounce the first name of the most powerful drow in all of Erelhei-Cinlu.

Grummok released his grip on Tergot’s arm, allowing the half-ogre to collapse in a sobbing heap at the gargoyle’s feet. “Kezekia Tormtor is here?” Grummok asked quietly.

“Yes! Kezekia Tormtor. Here, want talk you. She in study” Tergot mewled up from the floor.

“Very well, Tergot you may go.” Grummok dismissed the half-ogre casually as if the brutality he had shown moments earlier simply had not happened. Grateful beyond expression, Tergot climbed to his feet and fled into the hallway beyond the vivisection lab. 

“Well lads, it seems that I have a very important visitor. If you will excuse me.” Grummok did not wait for his pupil’s response and hurried from the lab. He made his way to his office with great alacrity, no one kept a matron mother waiting, especially one as important and dangerous as Kezekia Tormtor.

Grummok burst into his office to find the matron Mother seated behind his desk, feet propped up on its polished surface. She flashed a brilliant smile that was all teeth, and motioned for Grummok to take one of the guest chairs directly in front of the desk.

Kezekia Tormtor was rumored to be over five hundred year old, but her lithe form and delicate features betrayed none of this advanced age. Always the most warlike of the matron mothers, she wore a formfitting suit of fine mithral links, and knee-high boots of black leather. Her twin maces hung casually from a wide belt, and a scarlet cape was flung over her left shoulder, adding a dash of color to the steel and leather of her attire. Her hair had been short, cut close to her scalp, when last Grummok had seen her, nearly twenty years earlier. But now her silken lockes cascaded down past her shoulder, and were held in place by a simple platinum headband. She was breathtakingly beautiful and without doubt the most dangerous living creature in all of Erelhei-Cinlu

“Matron Mother, I am deeply honored by your presence.” Grummok began as he settled into the chair she had indicated.

“Yes, well I do have that effect on people.” Kezekia said softly, the smile never leaving her face. “How are you, Grummok?” She said, taking her feet of the desk, and presenting her stunning visage to the gargoyle. “It has been too long since last we spoke. I fear you do your job so well, that I have little reason to call upon you personally, unlike your predecessor.” 

Grummok did not miss the ominous implications carried by the mention of the former guildmaster. Jen Kedar Everhate, the son of Matron Mother Ganevra Everhate, had been revealed to be the leader of a secretive cult devoted to the worship of the archdevil Baalzebul. Grummok had confronted, and tricked Jen Kedar into confessing his allegiance to the archdevil, nearly losing his life in the process. It was rumored that Jen Kedar lived still, locked away in some lightless cell beneath house Tormtor, tortured to the brink of death every day, only to be magically revived to face an eternity of pain. “Yes, one can learn much from the mistakes of others.” Grummok said quietly, a woeful suspicion slowly kindling in his mind.

Kezekia flashed Grummok another smile, warmer this time. “Don’t look so suspicious, I have no doubt of your loyalty.”

Grummok took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Then if I may be so bold, Matron Mother. Why have you come?”

“Simple. I need someone assassinated. That is what you do, correct?” The smile had not left Kezekia’s face, and her words carried only fond mockery.

Grummok finally returned the matron mother’s smile, a predatory gape unchanged by his lightening mood. “Yes, well that is the rumor.”

“Good. Then here is the information you will need to begin.” Kezekia took a deep breath before launching into her briefing, and Grummok caught something in the matron mother’s face. There was fear behind her mask of powerful indifference, an emotion Grummok thought Kezekia Tormtor incapable of.

“It appears that your guild has some competition.” Kezekia began. “A rogue assassin has appeared in our fine city, and has selected a very powerful group of targets.” Anger began to harden the lines of the matron mother’s face as she continued. “Two sons of house Despana have fallen under this rogue’s knife, including the elder boy Nebever. Although as shocking as this is, it is nothing compared to what I must say next. Matron Mother Mevremas Aleval was found slain in her bed, only last night. There were no signs of intrusion, or even a struggle, Mevremas had apparently died in her sleep from a dagger thrust to the heart.”

Grummok jaw fell open, and he could not hide his disbelief at the sheer magnitude of skill and audacity it would take to slay a matron mother in her own home. Mevremas Aleval was the second ranking drow matron in the city, directly below Kezekia Tormtor herself. In addition Matron Aleval was the most powerful sorcerer in Erelhei-Cinlu, it boggled the mind she that had died in her bed without a fight.

“I fear that this is only the beginning.” Kezekia said. “There is no doubt that this assassin will continue killing our nobles if he is not stopped.”

The matron mother’s fear was quite evident now. She feared not only for her life, but her dignity as well. Kezekia Tormtor had been victorious in literally hundreds of battles with rival nobles, and even invading armies. Each time she had stood defiant of her own death, resolute in her faith in the spider queen. But this was entirely different; to face the ignoble death of an assassin’s blade was reserved for the lower ranks of nobility. No one had attempted an assassination of a matron mother, much less succeeded, in nearly three hundred years. It was simply unheard of; Lolth would not recognize the ascension of a daughter who slew her mother with anything beyond her own skill. Direct confrontation was required for those who wished to displace the rulers of Erelhei-Cinlu, and the very idea of anything else was considered the height of political treason and outrage.

“Do not worry Matron Mother, I will put my best to work on this immediately.” Grummok offered quietly.

“No!” Kezekia slammed her fists down on Grummok’s desk, her fear and rage finally breaking through her calm exterior. “No, you will handle this personally. I will not allow this outrage to continue. There can be no failure in this, do you understand, Grummok.” There was venom in her voice.

“Yes, Matron Mother, of course. Please excuse my error in judgment.” Grummok said quickly, bowing his head in acquiescence.

Kezekia’s features suddenly softened, giving way to haggard frustration. Grummok doubted that the matron mother had seen much rest in recent days. “Oh, Grummok, forgive me.” She said. “I should not abuse such a loyal servant.” An awkward apology from one not used to giving them.

“There is nothing to forgive, Matron Mother. It is obvious that you have been under much strain.” Grummok said softly. “I will do everything within my power to see that this menace is eradicated. You have my vow on that.” Grummok’s words brought the smile to Kezekia’s face again, and the brilliance of her dark beauty shown full upon the gargoyle assassin.

“Thank you, Grummok. I knew you would not fail me.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about these slaying, my lady.” Grummok asked.

“No, and that is without doubt the most maddening thing about this whole affair.” Kezekia seethed. “All of my efforts have yielded nothing, it as if this assassin does not exist, or is invisible to magical divinations.”

This was very surprising to Grummok, for Kezekia Tormtor was the most powerful cleric of Lolth in the city, and her magical resources were nearly unlimited. If Kezekia could not find this assassin through magical means, then no one could.

“Has Mevremas’s body or her room been disturbed greatly?” Grummok asked, thoughtfully.

“No, I left it untouched and ordered that no one enter the room.” Kezekia smiled mischievously. “Henevra is having fits. She cannot take her mothers power until the body has been given to Lolth.”

“That is good, very good.” Grummok said, tapping his chin with one taloned finger. There were often mundane, physical clues left at the scene of a murder that were missed by those too reliant on magic. Grummok hoped Mevremas’s body would yield some information as to the identity of her killer. “Henevra will not hinder me in my investigations?” Grummok asked. The sole Aleval daughter was most likely going mad with desire to take her mother’s place, something she could not do until Kezekia released Mevremas’s body to her.

“If Henevra even glances at you in a way you do not like, I will flay the flesh from her bones. She has been made aware of my wishes in this matter.” This was not idle chatter, Kezekia would be more than happy to enforce such a threat, given sufficient reason.

“Very well, I will begin at once.” Grummok stood and prepared to make his goodbyes.

“Sit down Grummok. There is another matter I would discuss with you.” Kezekia’s eyes remained neutral as she issued her order. Grummok sat without a word and awaited the matron mother to speak.

“How does my grandson fare? I hear he tried to kill you.” Kezekia’s eyes gleamed with mirth at the obviously shock that overtook the gargoyle’s features.

“Uh…well.” Grummok stammered. “He is well, my lady. I was not injured, in fact I have accepted him as my personal apprentice.” The guildmaster marveled at how easily information, even very secret information, reached the matron mother’s ears. “He is one of our brightest students and I have no doubt that one day he will make a formidable assassin.” 

“Good, good. I consider it a personal favor that you have taken Vedreshar under your wing. It will not be forgotten.” Kezekia rose from behind the desk and moved towards the door, her standing was an obvious signal that the meeting was at an end.

Grummok breathed an inner sigh of relief as he stood to escort the matron mother to the guild house’s main gate. It was always a risky venture when dealing with the volatile and unpredictable matron mothers. He felt he had done well by merely surviving.

Grummok walked along side Kezekia through the winding hall’s of the guild house, glaring menacingly at the few gawkers who had the courage to remain in the open to get a look at the matron mother. They reached the main gate in a few moments, and at Kezekia’s request, Grummok dismissed the two guards who stood beside the massive iron bound doors.

Grummok turned to make the proper obeisances to the matron mother, only to find that she had quietly moved up very close to him. The heavy female scent of her perfume filled his head with its intoxicating aroma, and she smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“It is unfortunate that we must meet after so long, beneath such evil tidings.” Kezekia purred, reaching up to trace the length of Grummok’s jaw with the delicate tip of one long finger. “Perhaps when this business has been put to rest we can come together under more…pleasant circumstances.” Her breath was heavy in his face, smelling of mint and honey.

Grummok fought against the tide of desire that rose within him. It had been a very long time indeed since he had experienced any fleshly pleasures. There were no female gargoyles in Erelhei-Cinlu, and he could not bring himself to visit any of the brothels that infested the city like plague. There were too many memories there.

Before Grummok could speak or react to Kezekia’s advance, she pulled away from him, her eyes turning to steel in a heartbeat. “I want this assassin found, Grummok. Do not fail me.” She then threw open the wide double doors of the main gate and strode through to meet her personal guard, which awaited her outside. 

Grummok watched her go, his mind aflame with the richness of her smell, and the soft and steel contradiction that was Kezekia Tormtor. Once she had left, he returned to his study, his mind already racing with the blood and pain that would certainly follow the matron mother’s visit.


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

"The moment the dame walked into my office, I knew she was trouble...."


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Thomas Hobbes said:
			
		

> "The moment the dame walked into my office, I knew she was trouble...."




LOL

I kind of like the idea of Grummok PI. Do you think we could get Tom Selleck to reprise his role?

 

Dirge


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## ConnorSB

Whoa! New Grummuk update! So good. I wonder what the assassin is. I'm thinking a Xorn, but thats just a gut feeling...


----------



## John Q. Mayhem

Awesome, 'Dirge. Great job. Keep it up


----------



## Zarthon

Grummuk's back   

This makes me very happy!!!!


----------



## elvnsword

Blackdirge, 
 Brillant as always... I look forward to seeing more of the Gargoyle assassian's attitude. I can't wait to see what happens... (of course I will wait, but I won't enjoy it lol)
 sincerely
  elvnsword


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## blackshirt5

Damn you to the darkest torture pits of Hell BLACKDIRGE.  You've got me on another leash.  I just finished the first Grummok Story Hour and now I'm waiting on updates to this and Metamorphosis.


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## elvnsword

B 
 U
  M 
   P 
so 
 please
   U
    P 
     D
      A 
       T
        E

Good luck on the writing Dirge...

   Elvnsword


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## DmQ

bumping


----------



## ledded

Niiiiice.


This one just hit my radar (where the heck have *I* been?) and I'm pleased it did.

Dirge, you are one fine writer.


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## Thomas Hobbes

You've probably been reading stories that updated in the last two months. 

[/snide comment]

We love you, BLACKDIRGE, really we do.  Which just goes to show that "you only hurt the ones you have power over you sadistic bas...."  Oh.  Sorry.  Wrong adage.


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## Nasma

BLACKDIRGE, please update.  I know that there is nothing in it for you, but it woudl be much appreciated.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Nasma said:
			
		

> BLACKDIRGE, please update.  I know that there is nothing in it for you, but it woudl be much appreciated.




The next installment's almost done, another thousand words or so...

Dirge


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Quick question for you guys...

Do you think Grummok would make a good comic book/graphic novel? Just an idea I have been kicking around.

Thanks,

Dirge


----------



## Fimmtiu

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Do you think Grummok would make a good comic book/graphic novel? Just an idea I have been kicking around.




It's got a ton of potential. What that means, in realistic terms, is that it could be either really awesomely great or terribly laughable, depending on the script, artwork, etc. Fantasy is hard to make mainstream, and Story Hour readers alone aren't a big enough audience to justify a printing. The biggest worry I'd have, however, is about the intellectual property issues of publishing D&D-derived works. I'm no lawyer, but that seems like an obvious enough tar-pit.


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

My thoughts were about the same as Fimmtiu's.  You're a great prose writer- the question is, will your style translate well into comic script form?  Here's hoping... a Grummok comic book would be pretty cool.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Hi all, sorry for the long delay between updates. Here is the next installment. Oh and thanks for the input on the Grummok comic book idea.

******************************************************
*Part III*

The nobles of Erelhei-Cinlu exist apart from their common brethren, occupying massive walled compounds, which rest precariously upon a gargantuan shelf of rock jutting from the soaring wall of their subterranean vault. Each of the nine noble houses has its own fortress-like palace, and each one is more extravagantly constructed than the next. Commoners from the city below are not allowed in this area, which is simply called the “Upper Vault”, unless expressly invited by a matron mother. The penalty for violating this law is a long and lingering death upon the sacrificial altar. 

The most common means of accessing the Upper Vault is by a single well-guarded path that winds upwards from the city through the rock of the Upper Vault itself. Magical flight is also a possibility, but can be a dangerous proposition for the uninvited, as the air space around the noble compounds is rigorously patrolled by all manner of flying horrors. This relative isolation affords the drow nobles a modicum of safety from the hordes of thieves, murderers and other villainy that live in the city below. But drow, especially powerful drow, go to great lengths to ensure their own personal safety, and each noble house employs a small army of guards, spies, and even assassins to protect them at all times. 

Visiting the upper vault is always a dubious proposition, whether one has been invited or not. For even those who are summoned under the protection of the matron mothers, often do not return. This very thing occupied Grummok’s mind as he stood outside the gates of his guild house, reluctantly awaiting the arrival of an entourage from house Aleval. The master assassin had not been to the Upper Vault in over twenty years, and he was not looking forward to a return visit. But there was no denying Kezekia Tormtor, especially under the dark auspices of recent events. The death of Matron Aleval had the entire city abuzz with fearful speculation, and Grummok had been shoved directly into the middle of the whole frightful affair. Mere hours after his meeting with Matron Tormtor, the gargoyle had received a summons from house Aleval, complete with the ruling matron mother’s personal seal. So, dressed in his best tunic and sporting the twin daggers that had ended the life of countless drow, Grummok once again placed his life in the hands of those he trusted least, and waited for his escort to arrive.

Grummok’s escort arrived in due course and consisted of six house guards and a well-groomed drow male that Grummok recognized as Nerrod Aleval, the eldest son of the recently slain Mevremas. The guards were all dressed in fine mithral chain, their royal blue tabards sporting the rearing spider crest of house Aleval. They were armed in similar fashion, with short sturdy swords at their hips, and finely crafted crossbows slung across their backs. Nerrod was clad in a knee-length coat of black scalemail, cinched at his waist with a broad leather belt. A cloak of deep purple trailed behind the young noble, and a warhammer hung upon above his right hip. Upon his left arm Nerrod carried a large round shield bearing his family’s colors and crest. 

Grummok watched Nerrod as he moved at the head of his small troop along the Way of Artisans, towards the guild house and the assassin himself. There was an air of quiet confidence about the young noble, and the crowds that thronged the Way of Artisans parted almost reverently as he and his guards moved along. Grummok noted Nerrod’s conspicuous choice of armor and weaponry, as it was nearly unheard of for a drow warrior to wield a warhammer, or wear such heavy armor. Such armament was thought uncouth by drow society, and considered the domain of lesser races, such as dwarves and humans.

Nerrod and his troop stopped just before the guild house gates where Grummok waited, and the young noble bowed deeply to the master assassin.

“Lord Grummok, I bid you welcome from house Aleval.” Nerrod’s voice was deep and smooth. “I am to escort you to our compound where my sister eagerly awaits your arrival.”

Grummok smiled in spite of himself, he was amused by the honorific Nerrod had used. Erelhei-Cinlu was completely matriarchal, and hence had no “Lords”. But the title had been used in relation to Grummok before, as his unique status and powerful reputation had gained him no few admirers among the oppressed males of the city. 

“Very well, Nerrod. I am ready.” Grummok said and stepped forward to join the small party of drow. 

The guards enclosed Nerrod and Grummok as they made their way from the guild house, two in front, two in back and one on either side. The small party made their way west, down the Way of Artisans towards the main thoroughfare of Nightdelve Street, turning north and proceeding to the heart of the city. Grummok said nothing at first, studying the young Aleval noble with a well practiced eye. He was tall for a drow, almost as tall as Grummok, and solidly built. Nerrod went helmetless, and Grummok could see that his long hair, tied back in a single braid, was a milky blue, a rare color for drow. He was not, however, handsome, his features were coarse and blunt, as all the Alevals were, but there was a quiet strength in his visage, a deep and abiding solidness that Grummok found reassuring.

“I was grieved to here of the loss of your mother.” Grummok said suddenly, finally tiring of silence. “She was a valuable member of this community, and will not be easily replaced.”

The gargoyle’s voice caught Nerrod off guard and he gave a slight start. “I thank you for your kind words, Lord Grummok.” He said hesitantly. “She was the core of our house, and I fear that my sister may no be able to live up to such lofty standards.”

Grummok’s scaly brow rose in surprise. “You doubt your sister’s ability then?”

Nerrod seemed unfazed by the assassin’s direct question, and simply smiled. “Lord Grummok, do not think me un-loyal to my house or to Henevra, I only speak aloud that which all my house is thinking. No one will contest Henevra’s right to rule - none have the power - but my sister does not have half the guile or grace my mother had.” The young drow’s smile evaporated, leaving a thick line of worry and doubt. “I fear that I shall live to see the downfall of my house, assassin.”

Grummok did not reply to Nerrod’s dark omen as he and his escort followed Nightdelve Way to the heart of the city, a huge circular intersection where all the main roads and avenues of Erelhei-Cinlu met. Dominating this concourse was a looming statue of Lolth, towering thirty feet into the air and sheltering all beneath her dark majesty. Countless makeshift huts and stall filled the area beneath Lolth’s statue, as merchants from beyond the city plied their wares in the only place they were permitted. Throngs of slaves and indentured servants crowded the small spaces between the merchant’s huts as they went about whatever errand their master had demanded of them.

Grummok and his party cut directly through the heart of this humanoid morass, ignoring the pleading calls of merchants as they enthusiastically hawked their wares to the obviously wealthy group. The crowds parted easily enough, none wished to gain the attention of the master assassin and his party. Grummok was well known throughout the city, as he was –to his knowledge anyway- the only gargoyle in Erelhei-Cinlu. This level of notoriety worked against him in his chosen profession, and he was often forced to appear in public under the magical guise of a common drow soldier. But here, in the middle of the concourse, he was as conspicuous as a fish on dry land, and many of the common drow stopped to watch him. 

“You have many admirers, Lord Grummok.” Nerrod said with a grin, as they moved through the dense sea of merchant tents.

“Yes, admirers.” Grummok said sarcastically. He saw more fear on the faces of those thronging the concourse than anything resembling admiration. Grummok had killed more drow, and enemies of drow, than could easily be counted, and that was what he was best known for. 

“So, Nerrod,” Grummok said quickly, eager to pull the conversation back to a more useful topic, “tell me all you can about the night your mother was killed.” 

“Unfortunately, I was not present” Nerrod, sighed. “The night my mother was slain, I was patrolling the outer vault.”

“A drow noble on patrol?” Grummok asked, mildly surprised. “I thought that was the lot of the common soldier, not a highborn warrior such as yourself.”

“Highborn!? Hah!” Nerrod snorted. “To the matron mothers, I am just as useless as any other male. Fit for mating and cannon fodder, and little else.” The venom in Nerrod voice was plain, and his guards shifted nervously to hear their leader speak such blasphemy in public. “If you must know, Henevra sent me out to collect some shadowwort for one of her experiments. It grows in the upper vault, so I gathered some of the men in hopes of hunting some wild rothe while I played errand boy to my sister.”

Grummok was familiar with shadowwort; it was a rare lichen that grew in certain parts of the vault, harvested mainly for its hallucinogenic properties. Many drow found the chaotic dreams and visions caused by inhaling the fumes of burnt shadowwort to be very pleasurable. 

“What of the guards outside her room that night, surely they saw or heard something.” Grummok asked, his mind jumping to the next logical source of information. 

Nerrod smiled thinly, and cast his eyes to the ground. “That may be true, but I doubt they are in any condition to tell you anything. Both have been under the ministrations of our house torturer since my mother’s death.”

Grummok grimaced in disappointment. The cruelty of drow society was often counterproductive. Drow reacted to stressful situations with malice and violence, conditioned by a lifetime of oppression and the unpredictable and often brutal rule of the matron mothers. 

“That is unfortunate. Your sister may have removed our most important source of information.” 

“Yes, but the guards were lax in their duties, they must be punished, and made an example of. My mother died from their lack of vigilance.” Nerrod said, his tone even and matter of fact. The hideous torment of the two guards meant little to the jaded drow noble.

Grummok chuckled acidly. “Do you truly think two guards could have halted the progress of something powerful enough to slay your mother, Nerrod?”

The young drow grimaced, his brows creasing with the difficult concept of mercy, even for practical reasons. “I see your point, assassin.” He conceded. “Perhaps my sister has been too hasty. When we reach the compound, I will see what can be salvaged from the two guards, before they are put to death.”

They had reached the northern end of the concourse and the crowds were thinning. Nightdelve Street stretched ahead of them, ultimately to terminate at the Noble Gate, the first bulwark between the nobles and their city. The houses as well as the shops of local merchants began to grow in both stature and luxuriousness as Grummok and his party neared their destination. In addition, because Nightdelve Street ran along the eastern edge of the ghetto of performers, some of the most popular theatres and inns in the city could be found here. Wealth was in evidence, as successful merchants and artisans flaunted their largess with displays of fine clothing, jewelry or troops of expensive bodyguards. All gave Grummok’s band a wide berth.

Grummok had largely ignored Nerrod’s guards as they walked, although he had noticed their general state of anxiousness. The death of their matriarch was a monumental blow to their power base, and the doubts regarding Henevra’s ability to replace her mother trickled down the ranks to even the lowliest guard of house Aleval. The guards closed in tight around Grummok and Nerrod, as the looming bulk of the Noble Gate came into view.

Bolstered by the adamantine wall that surrounded Erelhei-Cinlu, the Noble Gate was even more imposing than the Great Gate, which served as the main entrance to the city. Two soaring towers of blackened metal held between them a double gate of truly staggering proportions. Eighty feet high, and nearly twice that in length, the Noble Gate was nearly four feet thick, and its crenellated heights supported the heavily armed ranks of an elite guard pulled from each noble house. Two large buildings, barracks for more troops, lined the terminus of Nightdelve Street where it met the gate. And if this was not enough to deter those wishing to gain illicit entrance to the noble dwellings beyond, the troop of drow wizards and clerics that resided in the two towers, usually did. 

Grummok and his group had been expected and the massive gate swung silently open, propelled by some unseen mechanism deep within its inner workings. Beyond was only blackness, and the unmistakable sound of rushing water. 

“Just a bit further.” Nerrod said, as they passed through the yawning aperture of the Noble Gate.  “I have always hated this part.” He added with a nervous grin. Grummok could understand why. Beyond the Noble Gate, not more than a hundred yards from the gate itself, a wide impassible chasm stretched into the darkness. It plummeted into untold depths, finally ending in the ebon flow of the Blackshine River, a rushing current of dark water that was said to empty into a vast subterranean sea, miles below the vault.   

To cross the chasm, visitors to the upper vault used a narrow bridge of rope and planks, which hung suspended over the rushing chaos of the river below. Although well maintained, the bridge was notoriously treacherous, and had cast more than a few unlucky travelers into the depths. Gifted with the ability of flight, Grummok had little to fear, but the nervous demeanor of Nerrod and his guard, all terrestrial bound, as they approached the bridge was understandable.

It was necessary to travel in single file to cross the chasm, and two of the Aleval house guards boldly led the way, stepping on to the swaying bridge with no hesitation. Nerrod followed after, with Grummok close behind, while the four remaining guards brought up the rear. Shields, crossbows and weapons were all slung to allow the hands complete freedom for balance. Drow were naturally dexterous, and the small party was making excellent pace before Grummok’s much tested danger sense thrummed to life in the fore of his mind.

The gargoyle had been studying the soaring wall of the upper vault as he walked along, his darkvision failing him well before he could make out the looming shadow of the giant rock shelf that held the noble compounds. The river was loud beneath his feet, echoing off the cavern wall in a tumultuous aural assault; and still the ominous click of a crossbow releasing its quarrel cut through the noise like a clarion bell. 

The lead guard took the first bolt in the throat, just above his gorget. He crumpled and slid bonelessly into the depths. Before the unseen archer could reload, Grummok leapt from the bridge, his wings flaring out to carrying him aloft. Nerrod had unslung his shield, completely unaware that Grummok was no longer behind him, and was shouting orders to his men. Beating his wings in powerful down strokes, Grummok climbed, halting his upward momentum nearly one hundred feet above the bridge. Nerrod and his guards were now beyond the limit of the gargoyle’s darkvision, but he heard them clearly enough. Nerrod’s voice rang out as he shouted for his guards to return fire against their unseen opponent.

Grummok circled for a few moments, the occasional scream as one of Nerrod’s guards was picked off, drifting up to him through the din of the river below. He waited, there in the darkness for one sound, and one sound only. It came soon after the last of the Aleval guards had tumbled from the bridge. The inglorious clang of a crossbow bolt bouncing off of Nerrod’s shield was the assassin’s cue, and he folded his wings and fell into a dive. 

Darkness rushed by Grummok as he dove, instantly giving way to the ignoble scene of Nerrod cowering beneath his shield, alone on the bridge. The gargoyle aligned his plummeting body to pass just over Nerrod, and as he hurled past, both taloned hands shot forward to gain sound purchase upon the armored shoulders of the drow noble. Nerrod was yanked unceremoniously off his feet, and over the side of the bridge as Grummok's momentum carried them both into the waiting darkness below. 

Fully armored, Nerrod was a heavy burden, and it took all of Grummok’s magically bolstered strength to halt their descent into the Blackshine River. There was nowhere to land, so Grummok simply hovered, Nerrod dangling from his grasp like a fish on a hook. 

“Did you see him!?” Grummok shouted. They were only a few dozen meters from the river, and the noise was all but impenetrable.

“No! The bolts came from above!” Nerrod shouted back, his black face upturned.

Grummok considered his options. He lacked the strength to simply hover here and wait for their attacker to leave and he was quite interested to find out who would shoot at a drow noble less than a stones throw from the Noble Gate. The assassin doubted there was any coincidence in the timing of this attack, and his summons to the Aleval household. 

Grummok made up his mind in an instant, and relayed his decision to Nerrod. “ I am going to climb now!” He shouted. “I promise that I will deliver you safely to your home, but in the meantime you must trust me! No matter how odd my actions will seem in the next few moments, you have my vow that you will live beyond this day! Agreed!?”

With little choice, Nerrod nodded, his eyes betraying the suspicion that must be running rampant through his brain. Grummok was little concerned with the young nobles apprehension, and began to climb, his powerful wings beating in great, air churning strokes. 

Grummok stayed close to the cliff wall, climbing steadily, eyes searching the crags and crevices for any sign of their attacker. The sound of their ascent was well masked by the noise of the river, for they stumbled upon their attacker clinging to the cliff wall, all but oblivious of their approach. The sight of it drew a hiss of surprise and disgust from Nerrod, for the assassin’s six limbed, spider-like body was the object of scorn and hatred in drow society. A bizarre mixture of spider and humanoid, the chitine warrior was no larger than a drow child, and was held secure to the sheer rock face by four of its spindly, many jointed limbs. The remaining two held an oddly shaped crossbow, loaded and ready. 

The assassin had never seen one of the elusive spider folk, but he was well versed in the myths surrounding their creation. Purportedly a failed experiment in an unknown drow city, the chitine race had been banished to the deepest trenches and caverns of the subterranean world. There they had embraced the teachings of Lolth, and had flourished. Chitines were despised by drow, considered no better than driders, and were killed on sight. 

The chitine was completely surprised, as Grummok sped upward, not more than a few feet from where it clung. The gargoyle grinned as he heard the snap of the chitine's crossbow as an errant shot sped off into the darkness. Grummok climbed another thirty feet, and then stopped suddenly, hovering again. “Nerrod, I am going to drop you. You will pass very close to him, I want you to knock him off the wall.”

“What…!?” Nerrod cried, dumbstruck with horror at the gargoyle’s plan. Grummok did not give the young noble time to argue, simply releasing his grip, turning his cargo over to the forces of gravity. 

Soundlessly, Nerrod dropped into the blackness, and, as Grummok had said, passed very close to the chitine assassin. Nerrod had taken hold of his hammer before Grummok had dropped him, possibly to threaten the gargoyle into changing tactics, and lashed out with it as he sped past the stunned chitine warrior. With a resounding thud, the hammer struck the spider-like creature just below its right shoulder. The force of the blow, and the momentum of Nerrod’s descent was more than enough to dislodge the chitine from its perch, and it tumbled after the plummeting drow, chittering madly. 

Pleased that his plan had worked so well, Grummok folded his wings and dove after Nerrod. Passing the chitine on his way down, Grummok slashed at the little beast with one claw, connecting solidly and sending it into a wild spinning, midair cartwheel that carried it into the cliff face with bone crushing force. 

Grummok caught Nerrod not more than ten feet from the surface of the river, latching on to him again, and pulling him safely into controlled flight, The chitine splashed into the river mere seconds after, already dead from its impact with the cliff wall.

“Well done, Nerrod.” Grummok said, as he again began the laborious scent upward. 

“Rot in hell, assassin.” The clenched jawed reply brought a grin to Grummok’s lips, and he decided then and there that Nerrod Aleval was _his_ kind of drow.


----------



## shilsen

He's baaaaaack!


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## Thomas Hobbes

Huah.


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## pogre

Talk about new standards in gated-communities!
Great update as usual.


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## Korgan26

*Love it!!*

Once again BlackDirge, beautifully done.
You catch the assassin personality wonderfully. I look forward to each update.
Keep them coming.


Z


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## blackshirt5

I love it.

And the next time I play ANYTHING with wings, I'm so using that tactic.


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## pogre

Final Bump of the night goes to my favorite gargoyle!


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## BLACKDIRGE

pogre said:
			
		

> Final Bump of the night goes to my favorite gargoyle!




Thank you kindly.

The next installment is about half done, I hope to post it this weekend.

Dirge


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## DmQ

Still waiting....


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## BLACKDIRGE

*Part !V*

Battered and weary, Grummok and Nerrod found themselves at last at the Everstair, a narrow, steeply ascending tunnel, complete with a set of stone steps, that bored directly through the great shelf of rock that housed the noble residences of Erelhei-Cinlu. There were no guards on this end of the stair, but a contingent of the city’s finest troops waited at the top behind another fortified gate.

After the ordeal at the chasm with the chitine assassin, both gargoyle and drow were not anticipating the backbreaking climb that stood before them. The Everstair rose some one thousand feet and the tight, confining walls had been magically imbued by long dead nobles to thwart any arcane support to those wishing to ascend to the top. It seemed that even those invited to the upper vault were severely challenged, if not outright hampered by the xenophobic defenses of Erelhei-Cinlu’s noble realm.

With little choice but to proceed, Grummok and Nerrod mounted the steps and began the laborious climb up. Nerrod led the way, and although nearly breathless from his physical exertions, kept up a steady stream of dialogue. 

“I have not seen a chitine since I was a child.” Nerrod said over his shoulder as he climbed. “My mother found a small village of the vile little bastards, living on the edge of the vault. They had been stealing rothe and attacking the occasional merchant traveling to the city. I was with my mother and my sisters when they wiped out the whole nest.”

“How many were killed?” Grummok asked, keeping pace with the slower moving drow.

“Fifty. Maybe sixty.” Nerrod answered. “Mostly warriors, similar to the one at the chasm, although there was a choldrith in their number.”

“Choldrith?” Grummok carefully pronounced the foreign word.

“Yes, the choldrith are the ruling caste of the chitine. All female, they resemble driders somewhat, and cast spells as our clerics do.” There was slight hesitation in Nerrod’s voice. Grummok picked it up immediately, the drow noble was uncomfortable with this subject. Perhaps the mention of driders, those drow cursed by as failures by Lolth, and transformed into monstrous half-spider abominations, had unsettled him. Either way Grummok pressed for more information.

“The choldrith are clerics?” Grummok asked. “What god do they worship?”

Nerrod stopped climbing, and turned to face Grummok. The drow noble’s mouth was set into a hard line. “That is a question best left for my sister, or one of the matron mothers.” He said, anger creeping into his tone. 

Grummok did not attempt to hide his amusement at Nerrod discomfort. “They worship Lolth, don’t they?” The gargoyle said with a grin. “That must pose quite a conundrum for the matron mothers. Why would Lolth support their enemies?”

“Perhaps you should focus that inquisitive mind of yours on finding my mother’s killer, assassin. And not on issues which do not concern you.” There was acid in Nerrod’s words, and his hand crept down to the hilt of his hammer, which hung from his belt.

“If you take that weapon from your belt, Nerrod, I will deliver your remains to your sister in a very small bag.” Grummok’s tone was icy calm, and his body, perfectly still, radiated imminent violence.

The anger drained away from the drow noble’s face, and suddenly he looked very young, and very frightened. “My apologies lord Grummok, I… let my anger get the best of me.” Nerrod’s hand rose to his face, away from his weapon and most certain death. “Please forgive me, your questions are legitimate, they should not have angered me so.”

“Of course, Nerrod.” Grummok said, relaxing his body in such a way that the young drow could see the threat had passed. “If I have given offense, then I too offer my most humble apologies.” The gargoyle bowed low. 

“Yes, well…we have quite a ways to travel, let us continue.” Nerrod turned around, visibly relieved, and resumed his climb.

Grummok followed, and the two continued their ascent in silence.

********************************************************

The Aleval compound contrasted sharply with the other noble manses in the area, it lacked grace or complication, and was simply a squat three-story tower of unremarkable gray metal. Clustered around the central structure were a number of smaller buildings: barracks, servant quarters, and other utilitarian structures, all constructed in the same lackluster fashion as the main tower. The entire compound was ringed with two walls of adamantium. The outer wall was roughly ten feet in height completely smooth and topped with razor sharp spikes. The inner wall was five feet higher than the outer and sat back nearly twenty feet. This wall was much broader allowing the guards that patrolled its length an excellent vantage point to snipe at anything that made it over the first wall. 

Grummok rarely visited drow nobility in their own homes, due in part to his busy schedule, and the fact that master assassins are rarely invited to social functions, even in a city of murderers and thieves. 

The gate of the Aleval compound was shut tight, its iron gray bulk rising before Grummok and Nerrod in an implacable display of drow security. The gate was solid adamantium, and had a unique operating mechanism. Instead of twin doors that swung open to the left and right, the Aleval gate was a single gargantuan piece of metal with a pivot in its center. Grummok wondered how the guards on the other side managed to open such a ponderously huge and heavy thing. 

Nerrod strode up to the entrance of his home, and called out in a loud clear voice. “It is I, Nerrod, son of Mevremas! I have returned! Open the gate!”

In response to Nerrod’s plea, a deep grinding rumbled out from beneath the gate, followed by a series of muffled metallic clangs. Grummok surmised that there must be a series of clamps, below the ground, that held the gate in place against any illicit entry. The rattle of heavy chains preceded the achingly slow ascent of the bottom half of the gate as it flipped back on its pivot. The gate rose to a height of ten feet, at this height the gate itself was completely horizontal with the ground, and Grummok could see how the drow of house Aleval managed to open their impossibly heavy front door. 

Grunting with exertion, ten minotaurs, each harnessed to a massive chain that in turn was connected with the top of the Aleval gate, strained mightily with every ounce of strength they possessed to keep the gate from crashing down. Two house guards stood behind the minotaurs, shouting and cursing, and occasionally licking the broad backs of the bull-headed humanoids with an iron studded whip. 

Nerrod and Grummok hurried through the gate, into the killing ground that existed between the two walls of the Aleval compound. Grummok could see over a dozen Aleval troops atop the second wall ahead, all armed with heavy crossbows, each casually pointed in the direction of the new arrivals. 

With a single barked command from the drow task masters, the minotaurs slowly let the weight of the outer gate pull them backwards, letting the chains slacken and thereby closing the massive pivoting door. A final heavy thud followed by the staccato clanging of the hidden clamps sealed the gate. Their task done for the moment, the minotaurs collapsed where they stood, utterly spent. 

Grummok and Nerrod moved forward to the inner gate, which consisted of a relatively small door cut into the adamantium of the inner wall. A pair of ogre slaves flanked this second entrance, each armored in thick scale mail and equipped with a truly massive halberd. The two ogres kept their eyes straight ahead as Grummok and Nerrod approached, and the inner gate swung open to admit them into the main Aleval compound. 

The main yard was as spartan as the rest of the Aleval estate. There were no fountains, sculptures or even the fungal gardens that drow nobility often decorated their homes with. There was simply dry earth, beaten flat by the boots of the training Aleval soldiers. In fact, all Grummok could see were soldiers, clumps of them, training, sparring, drilling, every where he looked. 

Nerrod and Grummok moved past the clustered groups of soldiers, past the barracks and slave huts, finally reaching the main tower. Here an effete male drow, dressed in gaudy finery awaited them outside the tower gates. He was not of Aleval descent, this much was obvious, he was far too pretty to be of that less than comely line. “Master Nerrod, your sister has been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation.” The drow dandy said, fluttering about Nerrod and Grummok with exaggerated urgency.

“Yes, Lyrus, I know. We encountered some …difficulty at the bridge.” Nerrod said, allowing the Aleval major domo to usher he and Grummok into the tower.

“I hope you and Master Grummok came to no harm.” Lyrus lisped, his voice dripping with the practiced sympathy of a professional boot licker. “Your lady sister would be crushed if anything ever happened to her favorite brother.”

“Yes, I’m sure she would.” Nerrod did little to hide the sarcasm in his tone.

Lyrus led his two charges through a short hall that ended in the ground floor of the tower. There was little to be seen on this bottom story, just a simple spiral staircase climbing up through the ceiling. 

As they climbed the stairs, Nerrod pointed out the structure of his family’s tower. “The bottom floor is barren, used only as place to muster troops in times of war.” He said. “The second floor holds the chapel of Lolth, and my mother’s throne room. We will find Henevra there.”

The stairs opened into a small round room with a door to the north and south. The northern door was ornately decorated with carvings of leering demons and spiders, and was the first sign of artistry Grummok had seen in the Aleval compound. The spiral staircase continued upward to what Grummok guessed were the personal chambers of the Aleval family.

Lyrus pushed open the northern door and stood beside it, beckoning Nerrod and Grummok to enter. The darkness that yawned from the open doorway was so thick that Grummok had trouble piercing it even with his darkvision, and from out that darkness floated the grating invitation of Henevra Aleval. “Please, enter.” 

Grummok followed Nerrod into the throne room of house Aleval, the door closing behind them with an ominous thud. The chamber was a semi-circle, forming one half of the second floor of the main tower, and had little to fill it beside two ornate thrones at its northern end. The floor was of polished onyx and the ceiling bore a carved bass-relief of Lolth, resplendent in her drow maiden form. There was no light, and Grummok saw the room through the stark and colorless detail of his darkvision.

Of the two thrones that occupied the chamber, one was obviously of more import than the second. This first throne was empty, and it rested upon a raised dais, its barrenness made all the more glaring by the occupied second throne that sat beside it. Henevra Aleval sat stiff and uneasy in the second seat of power, her glance flickering longingly to the empty seat to her left. She could not claim her mother’s power _or_ her throne until Mevremas’ body had been given to Lolth, a fact that Grummok knew caused her no end of frustration.

Grummok and Nerrod stopped ten paces from Henevra, Nerrod dropping into a low bow, while Grummok merely inclined his head to the matron mother in waiting. “My sister, please forgive our tardiness, we were attacked on the bridge.”

Henevra Aleval, was not a comely drow, in fact she was only a step away from actual ugliness. Thick featured, with a square jaw and a wide flat nose, her femininity was even further hampered by the fact that she wore her hair cropped close to her scalp in the fashion of drow warriors. Her eyes were set close together and her lips, which held naught but grimaces and frowns, were thin and hard, lacking any trace of warmth or humor. She wore scale mail like her brother, and even seated, Grummok could see the almost masculine breadth of her shoulders and the strength they contained. She too bore a warhammer, and it rested casually in her lap as she regarded her brother and his guest. 

“Well, I figured that you would have some reason for keeping me waiting.” Henevra growled. “Tell me what happened.”

Nerrod straightened from his bow and took a deep breath; Grummok noted that his hands shook ever so slightly as he prepared to make his report. _He is afraid of her,_ Grummok realized. “As I said we were attacked on the bridge that crosses the Blackshine. An assassin upon the cliff wall killed my guards and would have slain me as well, were it not for Grummok.”

“You lost _six_ guards!” Henevra suddenly thundered, her lips quivering with anger. “I have no need to remind you that our house is in a precarious position, _brother._ We could be attacked at any moment and your carelessness with our resources is _intolerable!_”

 “We…we were ambushed, we could not see our attacker.” Nerrod stammered, backing away from his sister. “Sister, please…”

“No, I have had my fill of your incompetence, Nerrod!” Henevra bellowed, rising to her feet. “Our mother lies dead, and you run about on fool’s errands, casting away our men like dice in a gambling hall. I will not tolerate…”

“Sit down!” Grummok’s words cut through Henevra’s tirade, turning her face into an almost comical expression of shock and outrage. “I have seen my fill of hardship this day and I have no intention of listening to your foolish blustering.”

Nerrod turned to look at Grummok, his mouth hanging open in mute horror.

“You dare command _me_, assassin.” Henevra seethed. “You are not fit to lick the dirt from my boots!” The drow matron was literally gnashing her teeth with rage, a state that Grummok thought was probably quite common for her. “ I will teach you the lesson that all males must learn!”  With this final admonition, thick guttural words began to pour from Henevra’s mouth and her hands tore at the air in frenzied arcane patterns.

Nerrod did not see Grummok’s hand move, did not see him pull one of his daggers from his belt, but he knew these actions had occurred, at a speed impossible for the eye to follow. The outcome of these invisible actions Nerrod _did_ see. One moment Henevra was intoning the words to a spell, the next she was on her knees trying to scream through a gurgle of blood and escaping breathe. Grummok’s dagger jutted from under Henevra’s jaw, buried in the soft flesh of her throat. Her hands fluttered spasmodically around the hilt of the protruding dagger, her eyes filled with the dawning horror of one whose death is utterly imminent.

Grummok approached his mark casually, watching the strength drain from her body as the blood poured from the awful wound in her throat. When he reached her, the assassin bent down and grabbed up both of Henevra’s wrists in his left hand as her fists ascended to batter feebly about his head and shoulders. With his right hand Grummok took hold of his dagger and ripped it loose with a single savage yank. The gargoyle’s ungentle removal of his weapon stretched the wound into a gaping horizontal slash and blood jetted from the huge tear in great black gouts. 

Nerrod watched the last vestiges of life leave his sister’s eyes as she kneeled before her killer. He did not rush to her aid or take up his hammer to confront her murderer. He simply watched her die. And when Grummok casually pushed Henevra over with one spade clawed foot to lie still in a massive pool of her own congealing blood, Nerrod smiled thinly and said, “Well assassin, what of me? Am I to follow my sister?”

Grummok ignored the young drow, and returned his dagger to his belt, its blade still a gory crimson. He then reached beneath his tunic and withdrew a small sealed envelope, he held it for a moment, and then looked up at Nerrod, his eerie green eyes holding the drow’s own. “I like you Nerrod, I do not want to kill you if I don’t have to. So I am pleased to be able to offer you a choice.”

“What are you talking about?” Nerrod asked, his voice cracking under the strain of his very evident fear.

“I came here for two reasons.” Grummok continued. “One you know about, I am here to investigate the death of your mother. The second was to ensure that your sister never claimed leadership of house Aleval.”

“Why” Nerrod asked. “Lolth forbids this kind of assassination, Kezekia Tormtor must know this.” The young drow named the impetus behind his sister’s murder with no reluctance.

“No, the law forbids a matron mother to strike at another _matron mother_ in this manner.” Grummok said, smiling. “Henevra was not a matron mother, her ascension hung upon the proper disposal of her mother’s body.” 

Grummok had received his orders to kill Henevra Aleval within the same summons that brought him to the Aleval compound. The loophole could not be ignored, and Kezekia Tormtor had no use for the quick tempered and irrational Henevra Aleval. The murder had been a secondary concern to the investigation of Mervramas’ death, but Henevra’s outburst was as good an opportunity as any other and Grummok was satisfied with the assassination.

“This makes no sense, who will lead our house?” Nerrod’s face was ashen as he realized that his entire family line might be coming to an end.

“You will.” Grummok answered. “If you accept the proposal that is contained in this envelope.” The gargoyle held out the envelope with its wax seal to Nerrod. “This is your choice, accept it or join your sister.”

Nerrod stepped forward and carefully took the envelope from Grummok’s hand. The young drow broke the seal and withdrew a single piece of parchment, he held it up to his eyes and read what was written there. 

“Do you know what this says?” Nerrod asked when he had finished reading.

“Yes, it is an offer that no other male drow has ever seen.” Grummok said. “To lead your own mercenary house, to be one of Erelhei-Cinlu’s first lords.”

“But loyal to house Tormtor, of course.” Nerrod replied acidly.

“So what of it?” Grummok shot back. “You will train your own men, and those provided by house Tormtor. You may sell your services to any who desire it, and enjoy the full backing of the most powerful house in Erelhei-Cinlu. All you must do is provide troops when needed, and remain loyal.”

“And if I do not accept?”

“The I will kill you, and your house will be overrun with Tormtor troops within the hour.” Grummok said coldly. “But I hope that is not the path you would choose.”

Nerrod was silent for a moment, and then his homely features lit up in a grin of pure delight. “Matron Tormtor is most generous, please convey my thanks when next you see her.”

“I see wisdom numbers among your many virtues, _Lord_ Aleval.” Grummok said with a bow. “Now, to the other matter that has brought me here. Take me to your mother.”


----------



## Korgan26

As always the wait is well worth the installment.



> “If you take that weapon from your belt, Nerrod, I will deliver your remains to your sister in a very small bag.”



By far my favorite quote from any of your stories yet.

Keep up the wonderful work.

Z


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## ConnorSB

So cool! great job, Dirge!


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## Nasma

great update.  Grummok is an amzing character.


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## Paxr0mana

Blackdirge, I love the way that you are able to actually get inside the head of each of your characters. It adds to the story in so many ways. The drow, although often overused/overplayed, are cleanly presented, and fit in nicely with everything.

Grummok's tale is definitely a favorite of mine among all of the Story Hours I have read.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> Blackdirge, I love the way that you are able to actually get inside the head of each of your characters. It adds to the story in so many ways. The drow, although often overused/overplayed, are cleanly presented, and fit in nicely with everything.
> 
> Grummok's tale is definitely a favorite of mine among all of the Story Hours I have read.




Thank you kindly.   

I try my best to give each character some depth, and it means a lot to me when someone thinks I have succeeded in doing so.

Oh, and a big thanks to all of you who have stuck with Grummok since the first thread in the rogue's gallery, and to all of you who have taken the time to check him out now.

Thanks for reading.

Dirge


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## JDragon

Blackdirge,  some how I had missed this and the orig even though I have been reading your other story hour for a while.

I have caught up over the last two day and look forward to more assassin fun.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Its gargoyle time.   

*******************************************************

*Part V*

Grummok watched dispassionately as two Aleval guards dragged the pale, bloodless corpse of Henevra Aleval from the throne room. The grim carcass of the drow maiden, and the gory aftermath of her demise, had little effect on the veteran assassin. Death had long ceased to stir him, it no longer held any mystery, it was simply the end product of what he was, a killer. It had been his blade that had ended the life of Henevra Aleval, and although it had been a brash killing, Grummok feared no reprisal. There were simply none that would dare challenge him, save one, and this murder had been of her own design.  

Henevra’s murder had been slated the very moment her mother’s death had been made public. Brash and ineffectual, the sole Aleval daughter would have certainly lead her house to ruin, and Kezekia Tormtor hated to see valuable resources squandered. 

The command to kill Henevra had arrived in the same sealed summons that had brought Grummok to house Aleval to investigate Mevremas Aleval’s death. Kezekia’s own handwriting had spelled out the Henevra’s doom, and in addition, had detailed the annexing of house Aleval as a mercenary training ground under the rule of Mevremas’s only son, Nerrod. Grummok had to admire Kezekia Tormtor’s efficiency; she had removed a troublesome rival _and_ gained the loyalty of a small army of drow warriors in a single move. It was no wonder that Matron Tormtor had held her position for centuries.

In truth, Grummok preferred not to be involved in political maneuvering of this magnitude, but one did not deny Kezekia Tormtor, not if one wished to remain breathing. So, just like that, Henevra Aleval ended up on the wrong side of Grummok’s dagger, and the most powerful noble house in Erelhei-Cinlu grew in strength. Such was the ebb and flow of power within Erelhei-Cinlu.

The dour faced guards dragged Henevra past her brother Nerrod, and if the drow noble felt any grief for his slain sister he did not show it. In fact, Nerrod Aleval was literally shaking with pleasure and excitement. The death of his mother and now his only sibling, had vaulted Nerrod into a position of profound opportunity. He had been given control of his house, even granted the title of _Lord_, and all for the small asking price of absolute loyalty to house Tormtor. Nerrod’s eyes were alight with the flames of possibility, and Grummok had no doubt that his head was full of fantasies enticing only to those who had never truly experienced power. .

Grummok watched the last remaining child of Mevremas Aleval and felt the smallest pangs of regret. He too had once been given control of a powerful organization when he had slain Jen Kedar Everhate and took his place as the guild master of assassins. He too had rejoiced in his newfound prestige and influence, but he soon learned the ephemeral nature of power presented on the silver platter. Kezekia Tormtor had engineered Grummok’s ascension just as she had masterminded Nerrod Aleval’s, and the matron mother was not shy about collecting on past favors. 

“Lord Aleval.” Grummok said, shaking the young drow from his reverie. “I must see your mother’s body.”

Nerrod did not answer immediately, staring blankly at the assassin for a moment, he then grinned sheepishly and nodded his head. “I’m sorry, it will take me some time to get used to the sound of _Lord Aleval_. Please, follow me.” 

Grummok followed Nerrod from the throne room, and up the stairs to the final level of the Aleval main tower, where Mevremas had kept her quarters. Like the level below it, the top most level of the tower was built around the small chamber that housed the central staircase. The tiny circular room contained three doors, two to the south and one to the north. With a wave of his hand Nerrod indicated the northern door as the one once belonging to his mother. “Her body has remained untouched since her death, save for a few spells to keep the corpse from decomposing.” Nerrod said stoically. The woman who had given him life lay murdered in the room beyond, but Nerrod’s voice held no trace of grief. Grummok knew that this was simply because Nerrod did not _feel_ any grief; all emotional attachments were shunned by drow; even the primal connection between a mother and her children was tenuous at best. Mercy, pity, and even love were seen as potentially dangerous states of mind that could be used to gain by one’s enemies to gain advantage.

“I will leave you to your investigation, I must inform the rest of the household of the recent turn of events.” Satisfied that he was finished with Grummok, Nerrod turned to go, but found his progress halted by a pair of taloned hands upon his shoulders. Grummok slowly pulled the drow noble to him, pressing his body close to Nerrod’s back and folding his wings about both of them. Grummok felt Nerrod’s entire frame stiffen against the awkward embrace, but held him fast, squeezing the drow’s shoulder hard enough so that he could feel the gargoyle’s talons even through his armor. “Do not make the mistakes your sister made, Nerrod.” The assassin breathed through a forest of needle teeth, just behind Nerrod’s right ear. “If Kezekia doubts your loyalty for an instant, I will return under less… _pleasant_ circumstances.” 

“Release me!” Nerrod hissed, but did not struggle or attempt to pull away. 

“Not until you have heard me, and heard me well, young pup.” Grummok whispered back. “You have a whole household of men who will chafe beneath the rule of one so young, and if your head is filled with delusions of power and glory, you will not live out the week.”

“No, the warriors respect me.” Nerrod said flatly, and without much enthusiasm.

Grummok suddenly flared his wings, spreading them wide, and then spun Nerrod around to stare directly into his ebon face. Doubt filled the young drow’s eyes, and the assassin could smell the fear coming off of him in waves. _Good._ Grummok thought. _Fear will serve him well in the days to come. It will keep him alert._ 

“Your men will not respect you until you have proved yourself their better.” Grummok said. “ I suggest that when you leave here, you go directly down to the barracks and pick a fight with one of your most skilled veterans. Make sure it someone who is well respected, and make sure you kill him. Do you understand?”

Nerrod’s white brows furrowed in anger and he shook himself away from Grummok’s grip. “That is ludicrous, I will need every man I have if I am to serve Matron Tormtor effectively.”

“Then tell me, my young friend. How effective will be when your dead?” Grummok asked pointedly. “If your men do not fear you, then they will kill you. It is that simple. You no longer have your mother or even your sister to frighten them, so you had best prove that you are just as fearsome as any rampaging matron mother.”

Grummok watched with pleasure as Nerrod suddenly realized the awesome weight of responsibility that had been laid upon his shoulders. “They will not rebel if I kill one of them?” He asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

The assassin smiled. _At last he is thinking clearly._ “No, they will not rebel. If I am not mistaken, your skill at arms is more the twice that of any under your command. Is this not so?”

“Yes, there are none that could stand against me in a fair fight.” Nerrod confirmed, the slightest touch of arrogance creeping into his words.

“Good, then make a show of it.” Grummok said. “Make it last, don’t kill your man outright, let him suffer a bit.”

“And then?” Nerrod prompted.

“And then, you will have planted the seeds of doubt within the hearts of each and every one of them. They will never be certain just how strong you are, and that uncertainty will keep them from unifying.” 

Nerrod shook his head and grinned. “I was a fool to doubt your wisdom, Lord Grummok. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, do what you must, and you will live to see your house grow great and powerful.” Grummok said. “ No go, and leave me to what I must do.

Nerrod bowed in compliance. “And please tell matron Tormtor that Nerrod Aleval shall ever be her most trusted servant.” 

_That position has long been filled, my naïve young friend,_ Grummok thought. “Prove your loyalty with actions, Nerrod. Your words will mean nothing to the matron mother.”

Nerrod nodded, frowning slightly, and then turned and disappeared down the staircase. Grummok listened for the Nerrod’s footfalls on the stairs to fade into silence before turning to the door that led to Matron Mevremas’s living quarters. The door was carved in similar fashion to the one that led into the Aleval throne room, but contained the symbol of house Aleval, a nine pointed star on a round, black field, amid the leering demonic faces and cavorting spiders. 

Grummok found the door unlocked and slowly pushed it open. The door swung silently inward, and the assassin was struck blind by the dazzling burst of light the poured forth from the room beyond. Grummok’s light aversion was no where near as severe as the infamous drow handicap, but still, Erelhei-Cinlu was for the most part unlit, and Grummok had learned to rely primarily on his darkvision. He had not seen light of this magnitude in years.

The sudden flash of light had startled him, and both of his daggers had found their way into his eager hands long before his vision cleared, but no enemy materialized to confront him. Cursing, Grummok returned his daggers to his belt, and chided himself for falling victim to something as innocuous as a well-lit room. He well knew the dangers of being unprepared, _for anything_, and he also knew that in those few seconds of blindness he could have been killed a dozen times over.  

Still squinting against the unaccustomed glare, Grummok stepped forward into the inner sanctum of the slain Mevremas Aleval. He turned and closed the door behind him, using the surprisingly simple latch and grove lock to secure the room from unwanted intrusion. 

If the rest of the Aleval tower was spartan, them Mevremas had made up for all of it in her own living quarters. Like the throne room below, Mevremas’s chamber was a semicircle in shape, taking up half of the top floor, but its ceiling was far lower, and the floors were covered in soft carpets. The illumination that flooded the room was obviously magical in nature, shining brightly from a globe of yellow crystal that hung suspended from the ceiling. Its presence was certainly out of place in the private chambers of drow matron, and Grummok found himself more than a little puzzled by it.

Mevremas had been a sorcerer of no small skill and she had possessed a keen mind, so it was of little surprise to Grummok to find bookshelves of every description lining the walls from floor to ceiling, each cleverly carved to match the curvature of the room’s shape. The shelves were laden with books of all sizes, and the assassin noted that each tome had been arranged according to color and size, creating the feeling of a well-ordered library. Furnishings consisted of a large desk with accompanying chair, placed precisely in the center of the room, two plush, high-backed guest chairs, placed at identical angles in front of the desk, and finally the massive wrought iron bed, which held the still body of Mevremas herself. 

Grummok did not approach the bed where the corpse of matron Aleval awaited him; instead he continued to explore the chambers she had left behind. It was obvious that the former matron had had an affinity for art, for in the few places that were not covered by book shelves there hung exquisite paintings of remarkable skill. These paintings, like the globe of light hanging from the ceiling, also brought many questions to Grummok’s mind. Drow, like surface elves, appreciated the artistic endeavor, but there was naught but darkness and cruelty in the minds of drow, and their art reflected this. Grummok recalled a sculptor that had risen to great fame in the city a few years ago. This sculptor, one Vynash Larzyan, had used as his medium the living flesh of elven slaves, brought at great price and effort to the slave markets of Erelhei-Cinlu. Vynash carved his subjects into ghoulish masterpieces with a wide variety of scalpels and gouges before an audience of noble and wealthy patrons. He was exceptionally skilled at keeping his subject alive during this process, and even possessed the ability to turn his victim’s screams into a form of musical accompaniment. Vynash’s career was abruptly ended by an assassin’s blade, namely Grummok’s own, as his main rival was Matron Fadarra Noquar, ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu’s fourth house and an aspiring artist. 

Vynash Laryzan’s work had been typical of what drow appreciated as art, so Grummok’s puzzlement over Matron Aleval’s collection of paintings was hardly misplaced. What he saw were not images of torture and death, but breathtaking landscapes of sun drenched splendor. All were of a surface world Grummok had never seen, but he recognized them for what they were. A golden field at sunset, a towering forest stretching into emerald brilliance, a many towered city reaching up into the everlasting glory of an open sky, and finally the azure majesty of the ocean, all captured in vivid and stunning detail. This forbidden beauty enraptured the assassin, all images of the surface were strictly forbidden, and the owning of such a thing would endure a swift and certain death, but Grummok could not look away. He slowly approached the nearest painting, that of the city, coming close enough to see the whorls and spirals of the paint itself. The assassin extended one spade clawed hand and gingerly touched the canvas, marveling at the rough texture of the paint beneath his fingers. _Why is this here?_ He wondered.

Grummok stared at the painting of the city and let his mind drift into that foreign realm of light and open space. He wondered what it would be like to walk through those streets and smell the strange scents of a world he had only dreamed of. The assassin saw himself there, walking in anonymity among the throngs of humans, unburdened by the weight of responsibility and the ever-present darkness of Erelhei-Cinlu. These were, of course fool’s dreams, for even if he did leave the lightless caverns of the drow for the surface, the human lands above would be less than hospitable to a gargoyle, and a former assassin at that. But still, he felt the draw nonetheless, and as he stared longingly into the depths of canvas and paint he thought of Hek. 

Grummok’s former apprentice rarely entered his mind these days, mostly because he would not allow it, but he suddenly found the human’s face looming large in his mind, and the old feelings of guilt and loss came rushing back in a torrent. He wondered if Hek had come from a city like the one in the painting and Grummok could not help envisioning his friend, strolling down the wide avenues of this bustling city, a slender girl on one arm, smiling with the simple pleasure of being young and alive. The gargoyle smiled at the fantasy, and felt the emptiness of his loss yawn all the wider. Hek had never had the chance to experience anything resembling a normal life. He had been abandoned in the depths of Erelhei-Cinlu, when his merchant parents had been slain by a vindictive drow priestess. Hek grew to manhood in the Ghetto of Foreigners, a crumbling ruin of desolate buildings and the cast off dregs of drow society, hiding from patrols and learning to be a killer. 

Grummok could still hear Hek’s last words, as he lay on the floor of the assassin’s trophy room, impaled on the gargoyle’s own blade. Let it end, Hek had said, wishing for Grummok to perform one last act of friendship and allow him to die. The assassin had granted this final request, and that decision had haunted him for twenty years.

Grummok shook his head savagely, trying in vain to dislodge the terrible memories. _You are an assassin!_ He screamed to himself silently. _You had a job to do; if it had not been done it would have been your life ending on that cold stone floor._ This was nothing but truth, but it did not comfort him.

Refusing to let his emotions run rampant, Grummok brought his right hand up to his mouth and bit down hard. The pain lanced through his mind like a clarion bell, and he tasted the acrid tang of his own blood. The pain soothed him. Pain he understood, pain he could cope with. Grummok continued to bite until his mind was a white-hot blur of agony, a gushing torrent of torment that washed away all before it. Seconds passed and finally his emotions resumed their place within the dark and seldom visited recesses of his brain. The assassin removed his hand from his mouth, noting the crescent shaped wound on either side, and hoped the scar that it left would remind him not to pick at old wounds

Grummok forced himself to turn away from the painting and focus on the task at hand. He was still uncertain why Matron Mevremas had kept her private chambers in such an un-drow like fashion, and suddenly realized that he knew almost nothing about her. 

There were eight ruling houses in Erelhei-Cinlu, each controlled by a powerful and territorial matron mother. Of the eight, seven had used Grummok’s services, most more than once. Only Mevremas Aleval, of all the matron mothers, had never darkened his door, had never once filed a contract with the assassin’s guild. Assassins were an integral part of drow politics, especially among the power hungry matron mothers. They were not permitted to take contracts out on each other, such was forbidden by Lolth, but important members of rival noble houses were fair game. To think that Mevremas had never once used an assassin was mind boggling, she would have been severely handicapped in the deadly games of intrigue played by all matron mothers. And yet, she had managed to claim and hold the second highest rank in the city, just below Kezekia Tormtor. 

Grummok felt the first stirrings of serious unease unfurl within his gut. He had already been less than enthused with this assignment and the volatile ramifications of what he might find. The assassin glanced over at the wrought iron bed and its silent occupant and sighed heavily. He had not even examined the body of Mevremas Aleval yet, but he was certain that it would reveal anything but an easy solution to this whole affair.

Still not ready to tackle Mevremas’s body, Grummok turned instead to her desk. It had obviously been brought from the surface, as it was carved from a single piece of dark, rich wood that was wholly unavailable here in Erelhei-Cinlu. There were two drawers, neither locked, which contained nothing more than a few sketches and half finished writings on a dozen diverse subjects. Grummok gave these drawers little more than a cursory examination, what he was really looking for would not be so easily found. 

Grummok began to slide his hands over the surface of the desk, running his highly sensitive fingers along every groove, corner and notch of the wood. His eyes were closed, for he trusted his hands far more than his sight for this delicate operation. The wood unfolded beneath his fingertips, slowly transmitting information to his brain that his eyes could never duplicate. He felt every change in texture, every imperfection, and soon his unerring hands found what they were looking for. A tiny lever, so small that only the most skilled would ever find it, rose up like a mountain beneath his eager fingers. He worked the tiny mechanism and was rewarded with a barely audible pop and a tiny gust of stale air, as the hidden lid of a small hidden compartment sprang open in the very center of the desk. The secret compartment was roughly six-inches wide and only half that in depth. It contained only one item, and its appearance made all the paintings and the bright light normal by comparison. 

Grummok reached into Mevremas’s hidden cache, and removed a small, delicately carved figurine. The idol was carved of white jade and depicted a nude drow woman, with long flowing hair, and clutching a naked bastard sword. Grummok breath caught in his throat, he recognized the figure immediately. It was the goddess Eilistraee, patron of all drow who had turned away from the darkness and cruelty of Lolth and returned to the surface. The mere mention of her name was enough to ensure a slow and painful death, and those caught worshipping her were subjected to the most horrendous torments imaginable.

Grummok sat the figurine of Eilistraee down upon the desk and collapsed into one of the two high-backed guest chairs with a shudder. He cast a long and weary glance at the body of Mevremas Aleval and sighed deeply. “Oh Mevremas, _what_ have you been up to?”


----------



## pogre

Man, this is good stuff. I look forward to the next episode with eagerness!


----------



## DmQ

Great work, as always!


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## Ghostknight

Excellent stuff BlackDirge.  Makes me want to copy you and start my own story thread instead of story hour based on a game.

Poor ol' Grummok- not nice to learn that all the neat little compartments just ain't that neat after all!


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Ghostknight said:
			
		

> Excellent stuff BlackDirge.  Makes me want to copy you and start my own story thread instead of story hour based on a game.




Please, copy away.  

There is always room on the boards for another good tale. 

Thanks for reading

Dirge


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

pogre said:
			
		

> Man, this is good stuff. I look forward to the next episode with eagerness!




Hey pogre, 

Did you know that you have the very first reply on both my story hours? I just wanted to say thanks for getting the ball rolling, and sticking around after.

Dirge


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## pogre

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Hey pogre,
> 
> Did you know that you have the very first reply on both my story hours? I just wanted to say thanks for getting the ball rolling, and sticking around after.
> 
> Dirge




I actually had no idea. I'm just a geeky fanboy who checks the Story Hour section of ENWorld 1st 

[edit] Actually, I'm 2nd in Metamorphosis - only a fanboy like me would actually go check [/edit]

I'm working on a gargoyle miniature very much inspired by the fearless head of the assassin's guild! Your knowledge of the rules astounds me in the rogues' gallery, but your writing skill here is what really inspires. Thanks for your efforts once again!


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

pogre said:
			
		

> I actually had no idea. I'm just a geeky fanboy who checks the Story Hour section of ENWorld 1st
> 
> [edit] Actually, I'm 2nd in Metamorphosis - only a fanboy like me would actually go check [/edit]
> 
> I'm working on a gargoyle miniature very much inspired by the fearless head of the assassin's guild! Your knowledge of the rules astounds me in the rogues' gallery, but your writing skill here is what really inspires. Thanks for your efforts once again!




Right you are (sorry Nifft), second on Metamorphosis. Oh well, I appreciate it anyway.

I can't wait to see that miniature. Will you post it here when it's finished?

Dirge


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## pogre

Grummok my old friend, you deserve a bump for training fiendish reptilian pixies!

BTW - I will absolutely post a picture of the mini when I'm finished. Still sculpting a couple of things.


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

*Bumpy.*

Hi again, BLACKDIRGE. 

I had stumbled over Grummok, and as stunned as with Metamorphosis ...
You really have gift for fleshing out characters. No one the less. Even dead
ones as in case of Matron Mother being subject of assasin's investigation.

I guess that she rejected ressurect spell.


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## gloomymarshes

bump


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## Bryin

Whens the next post Dirge?


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## BLACKDIRGE

Bryin said:
			
		

> Whens the next post Dirge?



 Very soon. In fact, I have been working on the next installment tonight.

Dirge


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## gloomymarshes

Awesome. I can hardly wait


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## Rikandur Azebol

Really, Reaally, REALLY ???

Juppi ! Finally my sacrifices for dark gods started to pay off. In meanwhile, I think that some torture might show them how much I despise their slow and lazy working over You, BLACKDIRGE. Any sugestions ?


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Hey all, please forgive the length of time between updates. I really appreciate the suppot you guys have shown my storyhours. I have a lot of stuff going on right now, and my writing time has been focused on other projects that are of a more professional nature.    But that said, I enjoy doing these story hours, and I will do my damndest to update as often as humanly possible. I am currently working on an update to Metamophosis, so hopefull this will tide you over until I finish it. 

Thanks again for reading.

Blackdirge.

*_________________________________________________________________*​
*Part VI*

Grummok stared at the small, carved figure of the goddess Eilistraee, which sat upon the desk of the recently slain Mevremas Aleval, and wondered flippantly if his present situation could grow any dimmer. The statuette, delicately carved and beautiful, was a guaranteed death sentence to anyone who owned it. Worship of Eileastree was one of the most heinous crimes a drow elf could commit. It meant forsaking everything that Lolth had worked for millennia to instill in her people. It meant forsaking darkness for light, cruelty for mercy, and hatred for love and acceptance. In short it meant turning away from everything that the drow stood for.

Grummok’s eyed traveled around Mevremas’s chambers, and what he saw only offered further proof that the statuette was not some idle curiosity for the late Matron Mother, but a full blown passion. The room was filled with things from the surface; furniture, paintings, and even the brightly lit atmosphere, all spoke of the world above. It was obvious that Mevremas had turned away from her drow heritage; Grummok wondered how no one had noticed. But then again, the gargoyle glanced over at the silent corpse of the matron mother, maybe someone had. 

With little more to do than inspect the body itself, Grummok eased himself out of Mevremas’s cushioned chair, and moved slowly toward the bed. As he neared, he noticed that Mevremas’s body was on its back, and that the matron mother had obviously preferred to sleep naked. Like the rest of her clan, Mevremas Aleval was thick featured and homely, her body lacking the gentle voluptuousness of most drow women. Grummok moved to the side of the bed and stood, peering down at the late matron mother.

Mevremas’s eyes were open, staring up and wide, the inert glaze of death clouding the milky blue of her pupils. The matron mother’s mouth was a hard line of clenched teeth, her lips pulled back in a rictus snarl. It was obvious to Grummok that Mevremas had seen whoever had murdered her, and was in the process of responding to that threat when death had seized her. The wound that had ended matron Aleval’s life was above her left breast, a single short puckered line, the leavings of narrow blade pushed deep. The force in which the weapon had penetrated the body was considerable and Grummok noticed that the hilt of the assassin’s dagger had left a deep bruise around the wound. 

Grummok bent over the body, bringing his face close to still flesh of matron Aleval, and peered closely at the wound that had killed her. There was no blood; her body had been cleaned, probably by Henevra, before the spells that kept Mevremas from decomposing were cast. There was blood in evidence upon the bed itself, and a wide maroon stain surrounded the inert body, having leaked from the exit wound on the drow matron’s back. 

Grummok pushed his face closer, a scant few inches from the wound itself, and sniffed. He was rewarded with the faint scent of oil and steel, but nothing more. The assassin straightened and cast his eyes toward the ceiling noting how the curving walls slid up to meet a central point above the floor, but they were unblemished and smooth. There did not seem to be any means by which an assassin could have entered that way, but still, something nagged him, something about the matron’s eyes and the frozen surprise and horror on her face. Grummok was certain that the attack had come from above her bed, and that the assassin had not been standing on the floor when the fatal blow was delivered.

Grummok carefully turned the body of Mevremas Aleval onto her stomach, the blood beneath the body had soaked into the mattress and it was still damp to the touch. As Grummok had expected the exit wound on Mevremas’ back was the same width as the entry wound, this clearly illustrated that the blade had been pushed in with such force that it had pierced the matron mother completely, and a great deal of the weapon had exited her back, not just the tapered point. This fact was further supported by the deep gouge in the mattress itself, exactly where the dagger would have exited the body. 

Grummok rolled Mevremas back to her original position, his mind hammering away at the killer’s mode of attack. Suddenly an idea struck him, and his ghoulish face split into a dagger-toothed grin. Quickly Grummok mouthed the words to a spell, one of the more utilitarian enchantments that he had learned long ago. A quickly fading nimbus of blue light around Grummok’s hands and feet announced the spell’s completion and the assassin moved to the wall directly behind Mevremas's bed. 

Like a great winged spider, Grummok began to climb the wall, his hands and feet sticking to the smooth stone and propelling him upwards. When he had reached the ceiling, the gargoyle positioned himself directly above Mevremas’s body, twisting around so that his back was to the ceiling. He then plucked a dagger from his belt and with a single barked word, dispelled the enchantment that kept him clinging to the stone. It was a ten-foot fall, and as Grummok plummeted towards the still corpse of Mevremas, he pushed his dagger out in front of him, holding it in a two handed grip. 

Grummok struck the bed and its occupant with bone jarring force, his dagger driving deep into the cold flesh of the slain matron mother by his considerable weight. Rattled but not injured, Grummok rolled off Mevremas’s body and stood to view his handiwork. The gargoyle’s dagger stood straight up from the matron mother’s breast like a coffin nail, the blade of the weapon could not be seen, only the hilt was visible above the drow matron’s ebony flesh. Smiling, Grummok reached out and grasped the hilt of his dagger, then with a mighty tug, ripped it free from its fleshy prison. 

The wound Grummok had created was nearly identical to the wound that had killed Mevremas. His dagger had been pushed clean through the matron mother’s body, and its hilt had left the same bruised impression around its entry point. Again Grummok rolled the corpse onto its back, noting that the exit wound was much the same as the first, and his dagger, like the assassin’s, had punctured the bed. Satisfied that he had at least ascertained how Mevremas had been killed, Grummok turned once again to the corpse in hopes of finding some indication of _who_ had slain matron Aleval.

Grummok began to search every square inch of matron Aleval’s body, starting at her feet and working his way up the corpse. His keen eyes and probing fingers traced every detail of her body, seeking something, anything the killer may have left as evidence of his or her identity. The assassin found what he was looking for behind Mevremas’s right earlobe. A faint but indelible mark had been etched into her ebony flesh, a tiny symbol of a spider surrounded by a circle of stars. The mark had been made by a very fine point, likely the same dagger that had killed the matron mother, and its detail was near flawless despite its diminutive size.

The gargoyle sighed deeply, and returned to the matron mother’s desk upon which sat the damning idol of Eilistraee. Grummok sat down heavily and plucked the statuette of the forbidden goddess from the desktop. The symbol carved into the flesh of the matron mother was not idle butchery, its maker had been sure of its eventual discovery, and had meant it to be found. In all his years as guildmaster he had seen this symbol only once, nearly ten years ago, it had been carved into the chest of matron Olkasha, the ruler of a minor noble house that had been judged by Lolth and found wanting. Junna Olkasha had been found with her two eldest daughters in the modest chapel they kept on their compound. The bodies had been severely mangled, but the mark of Lolth’s ire had been plain, an unmistakable warning to the remaining matron mothers that the spider goddess was always watching. 

Matron Olkasha’s crime was soon discovered; she had turned away from the worship of Lolth, turned away from the complicated brutality of drow life. For whatever reason the doomed matron mother had found succor in the worship of Lolth’s most dire enemy, the elven patriarch Corellon Larethian. A crime of this magnitude was beyond comprehension, and Lolth’s justice had been meted out with swift and unerring savagery. Grummok had learned soon after the discovery of Matron Olkasha’s body that the mark carved on her chest was the sigil of Lolth’s proxy, the goddess’s own divine assassin. This mark was the same mark he had found on Matron Aleval.

There was no doubt that Lolth had learned of the matron’s devotion to Eilistraee, and like matron Olkasha, Mevremas Aleval had paid for her misplaced devotion. Grummok stared at the delicately carved idol in his hands, knowing full well that his discoveries would send the entire city would into a state of panic and bedlam. It had happened when Matron Olkasha had been killed, as the remaining matron mothers, so fearful for their lives, had sought to please their goddess as never before. The casual cruelty the rulers of Erelhei-Cinlu so commonly exhibited became full blown psychotic brutality, as each matron mother attempted to appease Lolth and prove her loyalty by offering up hundreds of slaves and infidels upon the sacrificial altar. The slave markets had been quickly emptied, and when their were no more slaves the frantic matron mothers began to falsely accuse drow citizens of all manner of fabricated crimes, sentencing them to a sacrificial death. 

It had taken nearly a year for the city to return to its normal state after Matron Olkasha’s death, and once the panic had ended, the death toll was catastrophic. Nearly a tenth of the entire population of Erelhei-Cinlu had ended their lives upon Lolth’s altar, and only the threat of wide scale revolt by the general populace stemmed the tide of murder. Lolth had been appeased and life in the city returned to its normal rhythms, but ten years is no great span of time to a dark elf, and Grummok feared that his discoveries might set of a chain reaction that would bring Erelhei-Cinlu crashing down. 

The assassin quietly stood, placing the idol of Eilistraee in his belt pouch, and frowned deeply at the still corpse of matron Aleval. _What a fool_, he thought. How could she have not known that her heresy would be discovered? There was no mercy for such acts of betrayal and Grummok found himself mildly surprised that the matron mother had died so quickly, so easily. There was evidence that the Olkasha’s had been tortured for days for _their_ crimes. Perhaps Eilistraee had intervened, but in the end it hadn’t mattered, Mevremas Aleval was just as dead as matron Olkasha. 

Grummok left matron Aleval’s chambers with a heavily burdened mind, the truth of the matron’s death was not something he could conceal, regardless of the chaos it would cause. His own life would be forfeit if he held anything back from matron Tormtor, and she would be expecting him in a matter of hours. _Gods! How I miss simply being an assassin_, Grummok thought sardonically. The gargoyle’s rise to guildmaster has seen him embroiled in more political nonsense than he cared to remember. But his prestige and influence had a price, and that price was the combined will of the matron mothers, and their will was done without question.

When Grummok reached the main of the Aleval compound his mind was well occupied with how he would present his evidence to Kezekia Tormtor. A ringing chorus of shouts near the barracks broke his reverie, and as he turned towards the direction of the noise he saw a large group of Aleval soldiers clustered around two wildly moving shapes. Intrigued, the gargoyle made his way over to the gathered soldiers, who warily made room for him in the circle they had formed around a most startling event. Even before the bodies blocking his view cleared out, Grummok knew what he would see and he could not help but smile as the first ringing crash of steel on steel echoed over the din of cheering drow.

Nerrod Aleval had taken Grummok’s advice to heart and he stood, fully armed and armored in the middle of nearly one hundred drow soldiers confronting one of the largest drow males Grummok had ever seen. The assassin had advised the young drow noble to cement his rule by killing the strongest and most respected of his soldiers, and by the chatter emanating from the assembled barracks, Grummok guessed he had was attempting to do just that.

Nerrod’s opponent stood nearly six feet tall and his massive frame was heavy with slabs of muscle. The drow soldier was armored in a chainmail hauberk, cinched at his waste with simple black leather belt. A crested helmet complete with cheek flaps and a nasal guard protected his head, and the blunt features staring out from under all that steel were fixed in a mask of hatred and rage. The hulking drow warrior was armed with a heavy two-handed blade, single edged and curved, like an oversized scimitar. The great weapon would have been far too heavy for the common soldier but Nerrod’s foe wielded it as if it were made of feathers. 

The two combatants had already made one pass at each other, and Nerrod’s shield bore a large dent as a result. The drow noble was armored in his scale hauberk, and bore his warhammer in one gloved hand. 

It was obvious were the favor lay with the crowd, and Grummok quickly learned the large drow’s name through a chorus if shouted encouragement such as, “Kill him, Hedrag!” or “Bring us that sniveling noble’s head!”

Nerrod and Hedrag circled each other warily, each fully aware of the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Nerrod had the advantage of heavier armor and a shield, but he could not match Hedrag’s reach. In addition the great strength of the drow soldier allowed him to move his weapon with an alacrity that his opponent could not match.

Grummok watched Hedrag move, noting the fluidity of his stance and the obvious skill with which he held his weapon. Nerrod too was an experienced fighter, but the assassin had seen many veteran warriors lose their lives to lesser combatants, for luck as much as skill favored the victor in many battles. 

The crowd had was getting anxious as the two foes circled, urging them to attack, to spill blood. Drow were notoriously fond of blood sports, and the spectacle of a noble fighting a commoner was pure ambrosia to their bloodlusting hearts. Grummok knew that the battle would be decided quickly and he turned out to be right.

Tired of circling, Hedrag suddenly rushed forward, juking towards Nerrod’s shielded side and then suddenly shifting his momentum the opposite direction. Nerrod had been momentarily fooled and had committed his weight to Hedrag's first movement. The change in his opponents attack vector threw him off balance for a split second, and Hedrag grinned beneath his helmet as his massive blade swept in beneath Nerrod's weapon and crashed into his ribs.

The crowd gasped, and then cheered as Nerrod stumbled away from the blow. The crowd believed him mortally wounded, but Grummok knew better. Nerrod had twisted his body away from the impact of Hedrag’s blade, and the brunt of the blow had been borne by his armor. But still, Hedrag had likely cracked a rib or two, and now certainly had the advantage.

Nerrod had managed to keep his feet, and had stumbled a few paces away from his foe. Hedrag, sensing victory was close at hand pressed his opponent furiously, raining a fusillade of vicious cuts down upon Nerrod. The drow noble managed to catch these blows upon his shield, but the crushing weight of each powerhouse slash was weakening him bit by bit. Finally, Nerrod ducked a wide overhand slash, and rolled away from the brutal pounding he was receiving, springing to his feet behind Hedrag.

Hedrag whirled around expecting an attack, but Nerrod had not pressed his advantage and was moving slowly backward, grimacing in pain and favoring his right side, where his opponent’s blade had struck home. Seeing his foe in such a weakened state, Hedrag made his one and only mistake, a mistake that Nerrod had been waiting for.

With a savage howl, Hedrag rushed forward not bothering with any deception, simply seeking to end the battle with one mammoth cut. The blow was aimed at high and certainly would have removed Nerrod’s head had it landed, but the drow noble had been awaiting just such a reckless attack. As Hedrag’s blade came thundering in, Nerrod swept his warhammer out wide, turning his wrist so that the spiked back of the weapon met his opponent’s sword. The blade caught in the junction between spike and haft, and Nerrod wrenched his foe’s blade out wide with a powerful twist of his hips and shoulders. This maneuver tangled Hedrag’s feet and his own momentum caused him to trip and tumble to the ground. Nerrod granted his opponent no respite, and pounced on him while he struggled to rise. Hedrag made it to his knees, trying to bring his weapon up to meet Nerrod’s warhammer, but the blow was too quick and the meaty thud of the hammer connecting with Hedrag’s unarmored face resounded through the crowd.

Hedrag fell backwards, blood spouting from his shattered face, but Nerrod was not done with him. Tossing his shield away, the drow noble took his hammer in a two handed grip and straddled the unconscious body of his foe. Nerrod’s hammed flashed up and down three times, driven by every ounce of strength he possessed, blood splattered the noble and the assembled crowd as Hedrag’s skull was reduced to red ruin. 

Gasping and gore spattered, Nerrod rose to his feet, his hammer dripping crimson. He cast a withering glare at the assembled drow, his milky blue eyes burning with unquenchable ire. “Now you have witnessed my wrath!” He called out. “Are there any others who wish to challenge my sovereignty?!” The drow crowd stared back quietly, their silence an unmistakable indication of their answer. “Good! The return to your barracks at once!” Nerrod shouted, shaking the blood and congealing gore from his weapon. 

Grummok smiled as the drow soldiers dispersed, noting the scattered responses of, “Yes, Lord Aleval”, with great pleasure. When the field had cleared, Grummok approached Nerrod. “Well done, Lord Aleval.” He said with a bow.

Nerrod smiled through a blood-spattered face and returned the bow. “Thank you, Lord Grummok, as ever your wisdom has proved invaluable.” The drow noble turned to look at the crumbled body of Hedrag, and sighed deeply. “It is a pity we had to waste such a fine soldier, he will not be easy to replace.”

“But you have earned the respect of your men, and more importantly, you have earned their fear.” Grummok said, placing a taloned hand on Nerrod’s shoulder.

“Did you find anything regarding my mother’s killer?” Nerrod said, quickly changing the subject and pulling away from the gargoyle.

“I am sorry Nerrod, but I was unable to find anything of value.” The lie came easily, for what he had discovered was for matron Tormtor’s ears only. 

Nerrod eyed Grummok suspiciously, but the assassin knew he would not challenge him on this matter. “Well, we are thankful for your assistance nonetheless. I will have an escort arranged to return you to the city.”

“Very well, I will inform matron Tormtor that Lord Aleval is as gracious as he is unyielding.” Grummok pandered.

Nerrod did not reply and began walking back towards the main tower. Grummok watched him go, his hand sliding into his pouch to touch the forbidden idol of Eilistraee. _Be careful, young one. Lolth’s eyes are everywhere_.


----------



## gloomymarshes

Awesome. The waiting has payed off 

Also be sure to mention here or in metamorphosis if/when you get published, and what it is. I would love to read more BLACKDIRGE, hehe.


----------



## Look_a_Unicorn

Enthralling reading as always, thanks Blackdirge.


----------



## Korgan26

Always worth the wait!!

Z


----------



## shilsen

Hoo-yeah


----------



## pogre

Have not been around much, but I am glad I checked in - GREAT UPDATE!


----------



## Pyurx

Dirge,

In one of the earlier chapters it says that Matron Aleval hired Grummock to kill her house's former weapon master, yet in one of the later chapters it says that Aleval, alone of all Matron Mothers in the city, had never hired an assassin (including Grummock).

What gives?


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Pyurx said:
			
		

> Dirge,
> 
> In one of the earlier chapters it says that Matron Aleval hired Grummock to kill her house's former weapon master, yet in one of the later chapters it says that Aleval, alone of all Matron Mothers in the city, had never hired an assassin (including Grummock).
> 
> What gives?




Kezakia Tomtor hired Grummock then. Because he is discreet person. 
(Not to mention that as lesser creature would never dare to mock her.)

Drows rock, and Drizz't is a weak minded fool, thinking that he's "diffrent".

His body count is that big that even Grummock might get jealous.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Pyurx said:
			
		

> Dirge,
> 
> In one of the earlier chapters it says that Matron Aleval hired Grummock to kill her house's former weapon master, yet in one of the later chapters it says that Aleval, alone of all Matron Mothers in the city, had never hired an assassin (including Grummock).
> 
> What gives?




That, my friend, is called a continuity problem. It's why writers pay lots of money to have their books professionally edited. 

Nice catch, thanks for pointing it out. I have removed the offending paragraph which fixes the continuity problem. 

Oh, and thanks for delurking and posting.   

Dirge


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> That, my friend, is called a continuity problem. It's why writers pay lots of money to have their books professionally edited.
> 
> Nice catch, thanks for pointing it out. I have removed the offending paragraph which fixes the continuity problem.
> 
> Oh, and thanks for delurking and posting.
> 
> Dirge




Oops ! My mistake then.   

Apologises for everyone, and a bootle of rat pois ... pack of cookies.    

Except Blackdirge, he owes me some more updates.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

It's too simple.  Is it?  is this just a diversion from the real story?  or is the Assassin being misled by what someone wants him to see?

GW


----------



## pogre

Must work on a certain assassin miniature in the near future...

oh and BUMP!


----------



## Dr. NRG

Nice work, 'Dirge.  

Just so you know, people, that title "professional PC wrecker" isn't just braggadocio.  If you haven't done so, go see his article link to see a little sample of the bad-assness. 

NRG


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Time for a little more drow mayhem.   

_____________________________________________________________________________​
*Part XII*


Matron Fadarra Noquar knelt in silent supplication before the stone image of a great rearing spider. The matron mother’s mouth moved with quiet benedictions, prayers offered up to her goddess, prayers of mercy and forgiveness destined to go unheard by a deity possessed with naught but cruelty and evil. Fadarra Noquar was considered the fairest of all the matron mothers, tall and graceful, with high cheekbones and full sensual lips. She was attired in a black tunic of finely woven spider silk, a garment both stylish and utilitarian, as the specially prepared spider mesh would turn aside a blade like hardened leather. Her hair, long and creamy white, fell in one long braid to the middle of her slender back. The matron mother was armed only with a short curved sword, hung from her belt in a mithral scabbard.

House Noquar, like the other noble houses of Erelhei-Cinlu, had felt the brunt of Matron Aleval’s death at the hands of a mysterious assassin. Fadarra Noquar had fought hard to attain her position as the fourth ruling house in the city, and the prospect of losing Lolth’s favor could mean only one thing: losing one’s life. So Fadarra had spent these last few days since the discovery of Matron Aleval's body in the modest chapel to Lolth contained within the center of the Noquar compound. Even now as she knelt in prayer, Fadarra silently cursed herself for not constructing a more grandiose place of worship. Her chapel was small by the standards of Erelhei-Cinlu’s nobility, a simple square room, fifteen feet to a side, adorned only by a stone statue of Lolth. The Noquar house had chosen to construct their idol in the image of a huge rearing spider, an older, but not forgotten depiction of Lolth, uncommon now against the more popular representations of the spider goddess. 

Every matron mother knew that Lolth had somehow become displeased with the rulers of Erelhei-Cinlu, but none knew why. Fadarra herself could conjure a hundred reasons as to why the spider queen might strike out at her faithful, but the fickle and unpredictable goddess was just as likely to act out of pure spite than any legitimate reason. Such was the peril of those who ruled beneath the ever-watchful gaze of Lolth. The spider queen offered power, but at the very real and constant threat of becoming just another victim to the goddess’s chaotic whims and rages. 

Matron Noquar knew that the matron mothers were being judged, no one entered into the domain of a matron mother, murdered her without a struggle, and then disappeared. Only divine intervention would allow for such an assassination. The matron mothers, locked away in their walled compounds were simply too well guarded for a mundane assassin to attempt such a killing. _Well, that’s not entirely true_, Matron Fadarra thought. There was one who might be able to complete such a mission, but he was the pet of Matron Tormtor, and would certainly not jeopardize his position on such a reckless endeavor. 

Grummok, the guildmaster of assassins, was the most skilled murderer Eerelhei-Cinlu had ever seen, and there was more than a little speculation that it was his blade that had ended Matron Aleval’s life. Fadarra doubted this, for she had used the assassin on several occasions and found him a most agreeable servant. The power he held as guildmaster was far more than most males could even dream of, and the murder of a matron mother would do nothing but bring down the inescapable wrath of Lolth upon any who dared such an affront to the spider queen. 

Of course, there was another rumor that had begun to circulate through the remaining matron mothers. Some believed that Matron Tormtor herself had hired Grummok to slay Matron Aleval, her most ardent rival. Again, Fadarra dismissed this as idle speculation, for Lolth’s laws forbade such an assassination. A matron mother who sought to kill another, must perform the deed herself, and in a highly ritualized, and public duel. It had been hundreds of years since such a duel had taken place, as very few matron mothers were willing to risk their station as well as their life on such a conflict. Any who broke this law were subject to the immediate and furious retribution of Lolth herself, so any thought of Matron Tormtor’s involvement in Mevremas Aleval’s death was utter nonsense.

Fadarra let these thoughts sift through the mantra-like tones of her prayers, knowing that she, or any of the matron mothers, would likely know nothing until Lolth wished them to. Perhaps it had been only Matron Aleval that had sinned against the spider queen, and Lolth’s judgment had already been meted out in its entirety. This was a vain hope, but hope nonetheless, and Matron Noquar allowed herself to indulge in its soothing caress for the tiniest moment before dismissing it away as foolishness. 

Her prayers went on, sliding about the spartan chapel, whispering off the stone legs of Lolth’s idol. Fadarra’s knees began to ache, her neck cramped with the weight of her head dangling between her shoulder blades, but still she droned on. If Lolth saw her devotion, it might be enough to sway the spider queen’s favor back to her house, might be enough to keep her among the living for at least a few more decades. 

A sudden chitinous scraping at the rear of the chapel brought Fadarra’s prayers to a halt. She raised her head, her right hand sliding down to grasp the hilt of her scimitar where it hung at her belt. Slowly she stood, wincing at the twin blasts of her knees popping, and drew the scimitar from its sheathe in one single, fluid motion. The metallic rasp of the blade clearing its scabbard was followed by another soft scrape behind her, this time not more than a few feet away. 

“Does she answer you, Matron Noquar?” A soft feminine voice purred from the silent darkness of the chapel. 

Fadarra turned slowly, her delicate hands bringing her blade before her in a fighting stance. Her breath left her in a single gasp at the completion of her turn, sucked away by the sight of the hateful apparition that confronted her. “_Lolth have mercy!_” She cried, retreating so that her back was pushed up against the stone idol of Lolth. 

“Why Matron Noquar, have I grown so hideous that you do not remember me?” The soft scraping of many chitin-sheathed appendages echoed through the chapel as the drider scuttled forward. A blasphemous blending of drow and monstrous spider, the drider was an abomination, the penalty for any drow who did not meet Lolth’s exacting standards.

“Nyssanna…” Matron Noquar stammered, “You were banished, cast out, you profane this holy place with your presence!”

“Illume!” The drider spat suddenly, and the chapel was flooded in the brilliant glare of magical illumination. The light caught upon the glimmering carapace of the aberrant creature, highlighting every awful detail of its nefarious form. A smooth bulbous abdomen, supported by eight segmented legs, truncated into the slim waist of a drow maiden, naked but for a leather belt encircling the intersection of drow and spider. The drider’s face was elegant, regal even, possessing a cold beauty that was not unfamiliar to Fadarra Noquar. She was a perfect blending of the monstrous and the refined, a walking contradiction of bodily forms. The drider carried all of her rage and hatred for her horrid state in her eyes, red pupils floating on a field of jaundiced yellow, aching with malice and retribution. 

The sudden light had blinded matron Noquar, and she hissed in pain as her seared corneas struggled to cope with the unfamiliar illumination. Fadarra slashed blindly with her scimitar at the air in front of her, but her blade met no resistance.

“Calm yourself, Matron Noquar.” The drider whispered. Close now, almost within striking distance. “I wont kill you while you flail about blindly, that would be…_unfair_.”

“Why have you returned, Nyssanna?” Fadarra asked, lowering her blade, and covering her aching eyes with her left hand. “You violate Lolth’s edict of banishment for your kind.”

The drider, which Matron Noquar had named Nyssanna, laughed, the musical tones of her voice echoing mockingly through the chapel. “On the contrary matron Noquar, I am here at the behest of our beloved spider queen. I have come to root out the weakness that has infected this city, a task that has proved far easier than I had expected.”

“Then Matron Aleval’s blood stains _your_ hands.” Fadarra accused.

“Yes, and that of those two puling sons of house Despana.” Nyssanna admitted. “There sins were great and Lolth demanded their blood.”

“And how is it that you have been elected the dispenser of the spider queen’s justice. As you are, in fact, the product of that justice, a failure in the eyes of Lolth.” The question was biting, for drow made the transition to drider only after failing one of the spider queens many rigorous tests, designed to weed out the weak and imperfect. It was a fate worse than death for most drow, as their own body was an eternal testament to their own personal failures. 

Fadarra’s eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the light that pervaded her chapel, and she saw the blurred outline of Nyssanna, squatting, huge and bloated, not more than five paces away. The drider was positioned so that her insectile bulk blocked the room’s only egress. 

Nyssanna wasted no time in answering Fadarra’s question, smiling wide, showcasing the splendor of her fine aristocratic features. “It is true that I was once deemed a failure in the eyes of our beloved goddess.” Nyssanna began. “I had not seen the truth of her wisdom and sought only to better my own position in Erelhei-Cinlu. This foolishness led to my present state, but unlike others so cursed, I knew that the path to salvation had not been closed, Lolth merely awaited the opening of my eyes, and the realization that my life served _her_, and nothing else.”

“You sound like the nothing more than a blind zealot, Nyssanna.” Fadarra scoffed. “Before your failure, I believed you had the potential to be a great ruler, like your mother. You have forsaken all that she worked to instill in you, forsaken your individuality, that is why you failed.”

The smile faded from Nyssanna’s face, evaporating like smoke and leaving only a clenched snarl of hatred behind. The drider shot forward, rising up on her eight legs to tower above matron Noquar. To her credit, Fadarra did no flinch, or even raise her blade in defense. She merely met the burning glare of her assailant with the cold resolve of the damned.

“My mother is _why_ I failed!” Nyssanna howled. “Her teachings contradict those of Lolth! Had I but turned aside from her heresy, I would be ruling in her stead!” 

The drider’s fury beat down upon Fadarra like the waves of angry sea, and she prepared herself for the deathblow that would surely follow Nyssanna’s outburst. But it did not fall.

“No.” Nyssanna whispered. “You will not goad me.” Her rage melted away, and she scuttled back to her original position in front of the chapel’s doorway. “I knew that my mother and her allies would conjure up demon’s from the past, but my faith in Lolth shall shield me from such distractions.” 

“Very well, we will not discuss the past.” Matron Noquar acquiesced. “Let us instead focus on the future, my future to be exact.”

“You have no future.” Nyssanna stated matter-of-factly. “But, I will grant you a swift death if you answer my questions without hesitation.”

“If you slew Matron Aleval in her own bed chamber than I have little hope of defeating you in open combat. Mevremas was a mightier drow than I.” Fadarra conceded. “So then, my fate is sealed, but before I answer your questions, you will answer one of mine. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Ask your question.” Nyssanna replied, bowing in mock reverence to the matron mother.

“What is my crime?” The question was simple, but Fadarra knew the answer would likely be far more complicated. 

Nyssanna smiled, a cruel glee had sprung to life at the corners of her mouth and in the unchecked malice of her eyes. “_Your_ crime is one best demonstrated rather than merely spoken aloud.” The drider turned her body to the side to allow a small gap between herself and the chapel’s doorway. “_Uvesh, noc sadaa!_” Nyssanna called out in a language Fadarra had never heard. In answer, a twin staccato bark in the same odd tongue floated out from the hall beyond the chapel.

Fadarra watched as two small shapes squeezed themselves through the aperture created between Nyssanna’s body and the door. The matron mother gasped in horror at the multi-limbed monstrosities that scuttled into her chapel. Chitines, an abomination hated and feared even above driders. The spider folk were reviled not only for their hideous appearance, but also for their odd connection to the spider queen, a mystery that the matron mothers of Erelhei-Cinlu were more than a little fearful to plumb too deeply. 

The appearance of the Chitines was unsettling, as their involvement with Nyssanna hinted at layers of intrigue that Fadarra could not begin to understand. But what the two horrid little beasts carried with them exposed emotions that Fadarra had carefully hidden for decades. 

“Vennush!” Fadarra cried out the name of her consort, as the chitines dumped the inert body of a male drow at her feet. Matron Noquar sank to her knees, her hands reaching out to touch the still flesh of her lover.

“There!” Nyssanna cried out in triumph. “That is your sin. _Quelaa_!” The drider spat the last word with as much venom as she could muster; for it was a word in the tongue of the surface elves, a word that had no equivalent in the drow language, a word that simply meant, love.

“Why?” Fadarra sobbed, her ebon features stained with grief. “He did nothing, your business was with me! With me!” She pounded her chest with the hilt of her sword; the dull thump of metal striking flesh a rhythmic cadence of loss and anguish.

“His sin was the same as yours.” Nyssanna announced. “Your weakness infected him, just as it has corrupted you.”

Vennush had been Fadarra’s consort for fifty years; the handsome drow warrior had served in her house guard for years and had eventually caught her eye after she had tired of her previous consort. Their dalliances began as nothing more than physical pleasure, but Vennush’s keen mind and unusual philosophical bent intrigued the matron mother, and their relationship had grown into something far more than she had expected. Vennush was a worshiper of Vhaeraun, the patron god of drow males, and although this allegiance was not illegal, it was stilled frowned upon by the ruling matriarchy of Erelhei-Cinlu. 

Vennush had believed firmly in the teachings of Vhaeraun, believing that a unified society rather than the oppressive rule of a few individuals was the key to unlocking the potential of the drow race as a whole. Fadarra had scoffed at these ideas, considering them little more than a male’s idle ponderings, but after years of intimate association with Vennush, she began to see the merits of his ideals. But, regardless of her illicit feelings towards her consort, feelings she could neither name nor resist, she could not allow her passion to influence her rule as matron mother. So she had kept her relationship with Vennush a secret, admitting freely that he was her consort in public, were she would debase and scorn him, behavior expected of a matron mother towards her inferior male consort. But alone, in her chambers, there was equality; there was tenderness, and an abiding commitment that went beyond anything she had ever experienced.

Now looking down into the empty eyes of her mate, Fadarra cursed herself for a fool. Her indiscretions had cost her something far more dear that even her own life. She took Vennush’s lifeless hand into her own, pressing it against her cheek to let the final warmth of her tears wash over his cold, inert flesh. Fadarra then leaned forward, brushing her lips against Vennush’s ear. “_En nol daha veh, ni quelaa_.”  She whispered in elvish, words that brought a snort of disgust from Nyssanna. _I will see you soon, my love_.

“Look how pathetic you have become, matron Noquar. Reduced to a sobbing wreck by a _male_.” Nyssanna spat.

Fadarra placed Vennush’s hand upon his chest and rose to her feet, her eyes dead calm behind a mask of grief. “Ask your questions, Nyssanna. I would be done with this.”

“Very well, I have but one inquiry I must make before you join your lover in the abyss.” The drider said.

“Then ask, and be done with it.” 

“Tell me what you know of the guildmaster of assassin’s, this Grummok. I hear that his services have been retained to investigate the death of matron Aleval.”

“He is an assassin, skilled at his work, and possessed of a keen mind. It is hardly surprising that Matron Tormtor would hire an assassin to find an assassin.” Fadarra said, her face was passive, but inside her heart pounded with fear and excitement. If there was anyone in the city that might put a hiccup in the plans of Lolth and her proxy, it was Grummok. Many of the matron mothers feared the gargoyle assassin, as his skill and expertise at his chosen profession was without rival. His services were, of course, far to valuable to elicit any thought of disposing of him, and Matron Tormtor seemed to command his loyalty well enough. 

“You say he is skilled. How skilled?” Nyssanna pressed.

“I have used his services on more than one occasion, he has always been quick and discreet. To my knowledge he has never failed to execute a contract.” Fadarra downplayed Grummok’s skill as much as she dared, for if Nyssanna suspected that Grummok might be a danger to her, it could force a confrontation the assassin might not be ready for.

“He has quite a pit of power for a male, although this hardly surprises me after your pitiful display.” Nyssanna declared acidly.

“That is all I know.” Fadarra said with a shrug. “If you desire more information, then ask your mother. I am sure she will be more than happy to provide you with all the answers you seek.”

“Oh yes, I will being seeing mother soon enough.” Nyssanna said, ignoring Fadarra’s barb. “But now there is unfinished business between you and I.” The drider drew a long wavy bladed dagger from where it hung in a sheath on her belt. 

Fadarra brought her scimitar up before her, and suddenly her mouth creased in a grin.

“What are you smiling at, fool?” Nyssanna asked as she moved forward slowly, weaving her dagger before her body in wide intricate patterns. “Know you not that death is upon you?”

“Yes, death is upon me.” Fadarra agreed. “But my end shall not be in accordance to the will of Lolth!” The matron mother cried, and reversed the point of her sword, angling it towards her own abdomen. 

“No! Stop!” Nyssanna bellowed, surging forward, dagger cocked back to retrieve her murder from the uncooperative matron Noquar. But Fadarra was faster, and with one massive heave drove her scimitar completely through her own body. She fell to her knees; both hands still wrapped around the hilt of her weapon, and ripped the keen edge of the scimitar through her gut, spilling a hot gush of entrails across her lap. 

The smile faded from Fadarra Noquar’s face as the light faded from her eyes. She toppled over, collapsing across the corpse of Vennush, a wide pool of crimson spreading to encompass the bodies of both lovers. 

“I’ll grant you this, bitch.” Nyssanna said as she stared down at the still bodies of Fadarra and Vennush. “You surprised me there at the end. But it wont make much of a difference when the Yochlol are devouring your souls in the demon web.” The drider sheathed her dagger, and turned to her chitine servants. “Let her bleed to death, it wont take long.”

Fadarra clung to life, holding her final breath in reserve for one more task. Through the darkness of her fading life, she heard the chitinous scuttling of Nyssanna and her chitines leaving the chapel. When she was sure that she was alone, the matron mother moved her left hand to brush the skin of Vennush’s neck, and then with the point of one painted, finely manicure nail, carved three letters into his flesh, N Y S. Fadarra had planned to leave more, but the darkness of eternity rose up to swallow her, and as she spiraled down into oblivion, matron Noquar silently blessed the blades of a gargoyle assassin, that they might find the black heart of Nyssanna Tormtor.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

The assassins revealed to us, and in a suitably dramatic fashion.

Thank you for the update.
GW


----------



## pogre

I fear for my favorite Gargoyle!

Beautiful update - only a Drow would be irate that their enemy committed suicide eh!?


----------



## Krafus

Wow. Of your two story hours, this is the one I prefer. Nyssanna must be very powerful... Sounds like a suitable challenge for Grummok. I wonder how he'll react when he realizes Nyssanna is enacting the Spider Queen's will?


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Great story, as ever ! 

What would be Grummok's reaction ? It depends on pressure that would be enforced on him. He don't seem to be sheep, who would lie in wait for the wolf. From the other point of view, Gargoyle assasin is my favorite of these two formidable slayers. First Drider is a living failure, unstable mentally and fanatical, and having huge ego problems. Very bad traits for assasin wishing long career. Grummock, on the other hand despite being little introvertical, have keen mind and calm personality ... for a gargoyle. He seems to live his life as best as he could without complaining, if before breakfast he would hear that his favorite Matron Mother wishes his death, he would kill her swiftly, eat breakfast and discreetly "dissaprear". At least that is my impression of his personality. 

More praise for Blackdirge for excellent work !


----------



## shilsen

pogre said:
			
		

> I fear for my favorite Gargoyle!
> 
> Beautiful update - only a Drow would be irate that their enemy committed suicide eh!?



 And only a drow would commit suicide to piss off her killer-to-be


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Krafus said:
			
		

> Wow. Of your two story hours, this is the one I prefer. Nyssanna must be very powerful... Sounds like a suitable challenge for Grummok. I wonder how he'll react when he realizes Nyssanna is enacting the Spider Queen's will?




Well, of my two story hours this one is _easiest_ to write, but I have to admit, I do have a soft spot for the scaly little bastard.  

Nyssanna is indeed powerful, I plan to post her stats and history in my suped up monster column as soon as I can find the time.

As far as Grummok's reaction, I myself am not sure which of his loylaties will be the most compelling for him. I don't think that Grummok has ever shown any love for the spider queen, but his connection to his guild and possibly Kezekia Tormtor might motivate him to do something rash.   Just have to see what shakes loose in the next couple of installments.

Oh, and thanks for delurking and posting here and in Metamorphosis. It is much appreciated.

Dirge


----------



## pogre

Bump - because the story hour is the _easiest_ to write


----------



## Twinswords

Great storyhour Blackdirge. You really capture drow society. Something you might find useful. http://www.grey-company.org/Maerdyn/resources/translator/index.cgi This is de best drow language translator i know off. 

Keep up the good work,

Twinswords


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Twinswords said:
			
		

> Great storyhour Blackdirge. You really capture drow society. Something you might find useful. http://www.grey-company.org/Maerdyn/resources/translator/index.cgi This is de best drow language translator i know off.
> 
> Keep up the good work,
> 
> Twinswords




Wow. That is damn nifty.  

Thanks for posting that, I will definitely use it in upcoming installments. 

Dirge


----------



## pogre

Congrats on your new publication! Why don't you pimp it up a little bit here and tell us what it's all about. I'm sure Ed won't mind


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

pogre said:
			
		

> Congrats on your new publication! Why don't you pimp it up a little bit here and tell us what it's all about. I'm sure Ed won't mind




Well, if you insist.   

SkeletonKey Games has just released the first in a series entitled Blackdyrge's Bestiary, penned by yours truly, and illustrated by Ed Bourelle. Those DMs who use the critters in my mionster column or my suped-up monster threads should find lots more to terrorize their players with, all done up pretty-like with illustrations and other goodies. You can check out the first in the serires, which is realy just a preview on what's to come, here at RPG Now: [url="http://www.rpgnow.com/product_info.php?products_id=4176&]Blackdyrge's Bestiary: About the Author[/url]

Also look for story hour updates in the next week.

Dirge


----------



## pogre

I plan on buying it as soon as you have enough stuff to go over the rpgnow minimum. This is exactly the kind of stuff pdfs are perfect for - that and adventures.

Here's a fixed link for Black Dirge's new product's background.


----------



## TuDogz

BlackDirge,

Went looking for From Dretch to Demonlord and didn't see it on the story hour list.  I must have all my evil story hour bookmarks back and I am missing a certain Wizard/Vrock.

GrovelGrovelGrovel, TuDogz


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

TuDogz said:
			
		

> BlackDirge,
> 
> Went looking for From Dretch to Demonlord and didn't see it on the story hour list.  I must have all my evil story hour bookmarks back and I am missing a certain Wizard/Vrock.
> 
> GrovelGrovelGrovel, TuDogz




Here it is.


----------



## pogre

TuDogz said:
			
		

> BlackDirge,
> 
> Went looking for From Dretch to Demonlord and didn't see it on the story hour list.  I must have all my evil story hour bookmarks back and I am missing a certain Wizard/Vrock.
> 
> GrovelGrovelGrovel, TuDogz




It's here.


----------



## pogre

No lurking on page three for you my favorite Gargoyle!

edit: Dirge - the link in your sig to your new series is broken - I think you have an extra http://


----------



## Hackenslash

*Superb! Brilliant! Excellent!*

Hiya Dirge!

Glad to be back after my log absence and equally glad to see that you have done another Grummok story. This was amazing. Very well written and characterized. I will now go and read from dretch to demon lord and will eagerly wait for the next Grummok installment. Also congrats on your publication, and I think that Grummok would be well received as a Graphic Novel just as it is with a good illustrator of course. Some graphic novels I have read have been no where near as good or as action packed as your story and combined with a good artist to fully capture the grimm, dark drow underworld along with a suitible ratings warning so you could include all the gory bits,then I think you would be on to a winner!!!! Good Luck anyway.....Cheers !!!!1


----------



## pogre

This third page of the thread is certainly lonely without an update.


----------



## Tarkus

I finished reading _Metamorphosis_ and I needed something to read until the next update. I thought to myself "Why not read BLACKDIRGE's other story hour?" and boy am I glad that I did! _Metamophosis_ was good, but  _Assassin's Tale_ is awesome, stunning, great to put it lightly.

The only problem is, what should I read now!? I guess I'm gonna have to start the suped up monster thread to slake my thirst for bad guy deliciousness.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Tarkus said:
			
		

> I finished reading _Metamorphosis_ and I needed something to read until the next update. I thought to myself "Why not read BLACKDIRGE's other story hour?" and boy am I glad that I did! _Metamophosis_ was good, but  _Assassin's Tale_ is awesome, stunning, great to put it lightly.
> 
> The only problem is, what should I read now!? I guess I'm gonna have to start the suped up monster thread to slake my thirst for bad guy deliciousness.




Thank you kindly, I aim to please. 

Have you read the initial Grummok story? It presented in a slightly different format, but details the gargoyle's rise to power. You can find it through a link on the first post in this thread.

Look for an update for this thread and Metamorphosis in April.

Thanks for reading

Dirge


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## Graywolf-ELM

I didn't realize that was in the first post, it has been so long since I read this story.  Excellent.  No need to bump it again for a while.

GW


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## pogre

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Look for an update for this thread and Metamorphosis in April.
> 
> Dirge




_Looking_...


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## OurManMute

*checks calender* *clears throat* 

But to be fair, Blackdirge didn't specify _which_ April. 

  - A patient fanboy


----------



## Riggs

Blackdirge,  I'll add another kudo to your ever-growing pile of them.  I have just finished reading Metamorphosis and both Grummoks and have really enjoyed them.  I think it's your quick development of character that really stands out the most.  I feel I know the minor characters as well as the major ones, and I can feel the emotions of the personalities.  I also really like how you write to describe and not to please.  I guess what I am getting at here is how you describe the evils of the city without writing in a judgement of it.  

I hope you continue both tales, and congratulations on stories well done!


And I hope Grummok never turns "candy" on me like _some_ famous Drow!


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## pogre

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Thank you kindly, I aim to please.




How about aiming for this? ------------------>UPDATE


----------



## howandwhy99

Wow!

Just finished reading Grummok's original rise to power and am now fortunate enough to read about his return.  This is great stuff.  Thanks for all the work you put in.


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## Bryon_Soulweaver

So BlackDirge, how about an update?


----------



## Lazybones

Read this today during a slow stretch at work. A great story, sad to see that the thread appears to be dead.


----------



## The Axe

*Nah!*



			
				Lazybones said:
			
		

> Read this today during a slow stretch at work. A great story, sad to see that the thread appears to be dead.





Nah, 's not dead; Blackdirge is just a busy guy...


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

With writing as good as his, I can see why he's getting paid for writing.

GW


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## BLACKDIRGE

Howdy all, since I went ahead and updated Metamorphosis, I though it was about time this stroy hour got an update as well. In addition. I have put the first seven installments into one document, so those of you that wish can catch up on the story. You will find the document in the frist post in this thread. 

Dirge

_____________________________________________________________________________

*Part VIII*

Grummok stared down at the silent corpse of Fadarra Noquar; the beautiful drow matron lay atop her consort, an insignificant guard named Vennush. Vennush had died of a single dagger thrust to the heart, while Fadarra’s end was far more extravagant. The Matron Mother had eviscerated herself with her own blade, ripping the enchanted steel across her abdomen in grisly suicide. Her blood covered the floor of the Noquar chapel where she had died, coating the stone in a sticky film of congealing gore.

The assassin was not alone, Matron Tormtor stood but a few paces behind him, her delicate features creased with doubt and outrage. This was the second Matron mother to die at the hands of a mysterious assassin, although this murder was far more brazen than the first.

The drow matron and the gargoyle were alone in the Noquar chapel, a modest place of worship by drow standards. The chapel held a disturbing statue of a huge rearing spider, an all but forgotten image of Lolth that Grummok found to be a crude representation of the rapacious drow goddess. It was strangely fitting that the savage death of Fadarra and her consort had played out beneath the unsubtle rendering of the Lolth-spider’s splayed legs. 

The entire Noquar household, including Fadarra’s eldest daughter and heir, waited outside the chapel. Matron Tormtor had ordered everyone beyond herself and Grummok from the scene of the murder, threatening all manner of grisly torture and death for any who disobeyed her. The matron mother had no desire to let the circumstances of Fadarra Noquar’s murder spread, the fewer details known to the general populace the better. The notion that two of the rulers of Erelhei-Cinlu could be dispatched in their own homes was a serious threat to Kezekia Tormtor’s personal power, as it could well encourage her enemies into believing that her own death was not beyond their reach. As it stood now, only Grummok knew anything substantial about the murders, and he had yet to report on his investigation of Matron Aleval’s demise. The assassin had been on his way to the Tormtor compound when news of Fadarra Noquar’s death had surfaced, and at Kezekia’s order, he had met the matron mother at the scene of the crime.

Grummok had not disturbed the bodies yet, he was still drinking in the murder, absorbing its lingering aura into his keen mind, and slowly distilling the crucial information he would need. He was calm and quiet, letting his senses wash over the room to pick out every scrap of detail that might offer some clue to the identity of the murderer. As fate would have it, his work would be far simpler than ever he imagined, although this would do little to assuage the growing alarm he had felt since first observing the murdered corpse of Matron Aleval.

“This is not a death meant for a Matron Mother.” Kezekia Tormtor spat acidly as she moved up to stand next to Grummok. “Whatever her crimes, Fadarra deserved more than to spill her own guts over the useless corpse of this insignificant male.” The matron mother prodded the cold dead hand of Vennush with the toe of her boot as she spoke.

“She loved him.” Grummok said simply in reply.

“What!” Kezekia hissed, turning on Grummok with a snarl.” What was that word you used?!”

Grummok stood his ground and answered the matron mother calmly. “Quelaa.” Grummok said again, using the surface elven word for love, a word that had no equivalent in drow. The closest drow came to such an idea was “shixxaa”, a word meaning fawning obedience.

“You dare to insinuate that Fadarra Noquar held some emotion for this guard?” Kezekia recoiled at the very idea of such devotion to another creature, especially a male

“I insinuate nothing, look at them.” Grummok pointed to the two tangled bodies. “See how her right hand has found his, and the left brushes his cheek.”

“What of it? I see nothing but limbs splayed randomly in the throes of death.” Kezekia said in response, although Grummok could hear the doubt in her words.

 “Look closer Matron mother.” Grummok said, kneeling down beside the two corpses. “Before you is Fadarra Noquar’s crime, her selfless devotion to this male. An abomination in the eyes of Lolth.”

Matron Tormtor said nothing, but the fiery glare she fixed upon Grummok said that she could not discount the evidence that lay before her.

“Did Matron Noquar have any enemies?” Grummok asked as he pulled one of the daggers from his belt, and began using its keen point to lift folds of clothing or the occasional lock of hair in his examination of the two bodies.

“Of course she had _enemies_.” Kezekia scoffed, not attempting to hide her obviously low opinion of Grummok’s question. “We all have enemies, although I certainly see one that shall move to the top of the list for all Matron Mothers.”

“I meant enemies capable of something like this.” Grummok corrected himself. “An enemy that could kill a matron mother in her own home.”

Kezekia smiled, her full lips drawing pack to reveal the perfect ivory of her teeth. There was no joy or compassion in this smile, only a jagged precursor to the barb she was about to hurl Grummok’s way. “Why Grummok, the only being in this city capable of that kind of stealth and precision is…you.”

Grummok snorted laughter, knowing that Kezekia only meant to goad him. “Perhaps, but I currently have no desire to rouse the ire of your spider goddess with such a bold and blasphemous act.” He said, turning his head so that Kezekia could see the needle-fanged gash of his own smile. “Besides, I would have started with you.”

“You go to far, gargoyle.” Kezekia hissed, but there was no bite in her warning, and her eyes betrayed her enjoyment of such rare candor from one of her servants.

Grummok turned back to his work, using his dagger to gently push the blood soaked mop of Fadarra Noquar’s hair away from Vennush’s upper body. He then followed the line of the slain matron mother’s left arm, to where her finely manicured hand brushed the side of her lover’s face. Something in the way Fadarra’s hand lay caught his attention, and as he peered closer he saw that there was dried blood beneath the long polished nail of her index finger. He made a pleased grunt of surprise as he gently moved matron Noquar’s hand away from the face of her lover.

“Have you found something?” Kezekia asked hopefully, moving to stand over Grummok’s crouching form.

“See for yourself.” The assassin invited, sliding over to make room for the matron mother.

Kezekia dropped to her hams most inelegantly and peered closely where Grummok indicated. Her eyes widened at the sight, but she said nothing. Fadarra Noquar had carved three letters into the flesh of her lover’s neck, N Y S. “What does it mean?” the matron mother asked, turning to Grummok.

The gargoyle stared at Kezekia, his eyes narrowed as he took in her reaction to what he had found. _She is lying_, he thought, _and poorly for a matron mother_. 

“I do not know what it means.” Grummok replied, letting Kezekia have her lie. “Perhaps it is an acronym, or the beginnings of a name. It doesn’t look like she had the time to compose an epic poem, what with her guts getting a bit of fresh air.”

“It is likely nothing. Some delusional whim that took Fadarra in her death throes, perhaps a pet name for this male here.” The matron mother dismissed Grummok’s find and stood.

_She is spinning now. Trying to throw me off whatever these letters mean_. “I am sure you’re correct matron mother, but if you will permit, might I look into this a bit more? One never knows what might be important in situations like this.” The assassin smiled up at Kezekia, knowing full well that she knew he had caught the scent of whatever it was she was trying to hide.

“Very well, do what you will.” She answered curtly. “ But do not waste too much time on this, I want this killer caught, and I want him caught soon.”

“As you wish, matron mother.” Grummok said. “I would also like to take the body of Vennush there, “ the assassin gestured toward the matron Noquar’s lover, “back the guild hall for a more thorough examination.”

“Do it, but make sure no one knows who it is you are examining.” Kezekia replied. “The body of Matron Noquar must, however, stay here. Her eldest, Jycarra, must be allowed to give the body to Lolth. I want her to assume her mother’s mantle a soon as possible.

Jycarra Noquar was nowhere near as formidable as her mother, and would be easily manipulated by house Tormtor. Although the circumstances were less than ideal, Grummok noted that Matron Tormtor had certainly turned them to her advantage. With Nerrod installed as the leader of house Aleval and now Jycarra poised to lead house Noquar, Kezekia Tormtor had created to weak and easily controlled allies among the city’s rulers.

“You may count on my discretion as always, matron mother.” Grummok said. “I will have Vennush’s body picked up as soon as I return to the guild hall. I will of course, dispose of the slaves used to haul the corpse.”

Kezekia nodded. “Then, if you are done here, I require your report on matron the death of Matron Aleval. You shall accompany me to the Tormtor compound at once.”

_Oh, my dear Kezekia, you shall not be pleased what with I must tell you_. Grummok slipped his hand into his belt pouch and fingered the smooth contours of statuette he had found in Matron Aleval’s personal quarters. “Of course, matron mother. I would be pleased to be your guest once again.”

“Then let us go, I can abide the stench of this offal no more.” Kezekia said, grimacing and casting one last lingering glance at the butchered corpse of her compatriot, before turning and pushing through the doors of the Noquar chapel to the outer fane beyond.

Grummok was alone, his hand still caressing the statuette of Eilistraee, his mind heavy with the possible consequences of what he had to tell matron Tormtor. The fact that Matron Aleval had been a traitor to bother her faith and her race would likely not sit well with the beleaguered Kezekia. And although she was not as prone to the brutal rages that defined her earlier centuries, the assassin feared that his news might provoke a lethal response nonetheless. _Lethal for one us anyway_.

Grummok had long wondered how a confrontation between he and the ruling Matron Mother might play out. She was without doubt the most gifted cleric in Erelhei-Cinlu and a murderous combatant with her maces to boot. He on the other hand had been slaying powerful drow for decades, and was well aware of their strengths and weaknesses. The gargoyle mentally catalogued the weapons he carried, which was far less than he would have liked. He had his two daggers, both heavily enchanted, tucked into his belt, and a wire garrote looped about his waist beneath his tunic. He had not donned any armor for this excursion to the upper vault, although he wore a ring and an amulet that functioned in much the same manner, providing a magical envelope of force around his entire body. It was not exactly how he would have chosen to arm himself in order to face the most powerful drow in the city.

_But perhaps it will not come to tha_t. Grummok thought. Kezekia obviously favored him, and the weapons that were most likely to prevail here would not be made of enchanted steel. Although the most skilled murderer in the city, Grummok was also an accomplished diplomat, his position as guild master meant that he must deal with a wide variety of clientele, from alien races to vaunted nobles, and all had to be coddled to some degree in order to shake the largest fees from tight laced purses. He could very probably dissuade Kezekia from any rash action, but if it came to violence he was prepared to call upon every ounce of skill he possessed to deal with the matron mother.

The statuette in his pouch, which he still fondled idly, brought a perverse thought to his mind. _Well, that bitch Lolth certainly wont go out of her way to help me, how about you Eilistraee? Help me with Kezekia and I promise I will not hunt down you followers with the fervor I retain for most of my marks_. The prayer was crude, put Grummok was not accustomed to beseeching aid from the divine, and he doubted a goddess such as Eilistraee would hear his plea in the first place.

Grummok moved his hand from the Eilistraee’s statuette to the hilt of his favorite dagger, the fiery blade that had once belonged to Hek. He stared at the closed doors of the Noquar chapel where Kezekia had just exited, and suddenly realized that the two items, the statuette and the dagger were inexorably linked. If he did not find succor with the former he would find salvation with the latter. 


***​
Nysanna Tormtor, reviled and outcast of her people, watched her mother, escorted by a troop of Tormtor guards, exit the main tower of the Noquar compound. The drider clung to the upper reaches of the tower like a great bloated insect, her presence masked by magical invisibility. 

The pangs of exile rose up fiercely at the sight of her mother, proud and regal, walking in quiet conversation with the scaly assassin, Grummok. She hissed silently at the pain that was indelibly etched into her heart and soul. Her mother had disowned her, her goddess considered her a failure, and now only the desperate murders of those she had once considered sisters in the faith was all that remained. 

Nysanna’s disfigurement was not as total as some of the driders she had encountered in her exile. Her upper torso, that which was still drow, had not changed since her transformation. She was still beautiful from the waist up, with unblemished ebony skin, high full breasts, and the visage so easily recognizable as Tormtor, aristocratic and breathtaking. But, below the waist she was a monster, a blasphemous spider-like mockery that stood as the unmistakable mark of failure in drow society.

But in the end, as it turned out, Nysanna had not lost the patronage of Lolth, and in fact the goddess had bestowed her blessings upon the drider, tasking her with rooting out the decadence and weakness that infected Erelhei-Cinlu. The two matron mothers she had slain had committed almost unthinkable crimes in the eyes of Lolth, Matron Aleval’s worship of the hated Eilistraee and matron Noquar’s fawning devotion to her male lover could only be expunged by their deaths. Nysanna hoped their souls were writhing in torment somewhere in the demon web pits.

The rest of the matron mothers would undoubtedly be rattled by the deaths of their compatriots, and certainly would not fail to recognize Lolth’s displeasure. Their petty crimes had not demanded death, but an example was being made of the worst offenders, and Nysanna still had one murder left, and she anticipated it eagerly. Matron Kezekia Tormtor must fall beneath her knife, and then the promise Lolth had made to her, that whispered reward that filled her dreams, would be hers to claim. The spider goddess would restore her to her normal body, and she would occupy her mother’s vacant seat as ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu.

The drider smiled, just the though of having two legs instead of eight was enough to fill her with joy. And to see her mother, writhing on the end of her dagger, the matron mother’s life leaking out with the ebbing tide of her blood was a sweetness she could scarcely imagine. But, one thing stood in the way of her restoration, the one random element about which Lolth had been mysteriously silent, the assassin Grummok.

Nysanna watched the gargoyle from her lofty vantage point. To her he did not appear to be so threatening. Gargoyles were base creatures of weak intellect and little in the way of sophistication, and the fact that Grummok had risen so high in Erelhei-Cinlu was certainly a testament to his superiority among his kind, but she doubted he could be as dangerous as rumor asserted. But Nysanna could not afford to underestimate a foe as notorious as this, and she would take every precaution necessary to ensure her victory of the assassin.

Nysanna noted that her mother was keeping Grummok close, an indication that she had faith in both his skills and his loyalty. The drider had no desire to face the two of them together, and would need to confront Grummok alone to neutralize him. She knew that the Kezekia could not keep the assassin by her side indefinitely, or it would arouse suspicion among the other matron mothers. All Nysanna had to do was wait and follow her mark. When the gargoyle made the perilous journey back to the lower vault, it would present her with ample opportunity to slay him. Her chitines had been unsuccessful at just such an attempt earlier, when the assassin was in the escort of Nerrod Aleval, but she was not about to leave such a delicate slaying in the hands of her underlings again. 

If Lolth was with her, then Grummok would fall to her blade, and Kezekia Tomtor would be alone. Then she would be free to drink her fill from the bitter cup of vengeance and reclaim what was taken from her. Filled with the excitement of a long endeavor about to come to fruition, Nysanna crept down from her perch to silently follow Matron Tormtor and her entourage.


----------



## pogre

Excellent! Thanks.


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## shilsen

Woohoo!


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## Fimmtiu

Nice one, BD! What a pleasant surprise.


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## Imruphel

Excellent writing, Blackdirge!


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## Look_a_Unicorn

Thanks for the update!


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## Graywolf-ELM

Why do they always do that?  I'll go after the more dangerous foe first, not the one that I am really after.   She might die in the attempt, and not finish her come-uppance to her mother.  Not that I sympathize with her, I just see her dieing at the hands of Grummok.

GW


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## BLACKDIRGE

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Why do they always do that?  I'll go after the more dangerous foe first, not the one that I am really after.   She might die in the attempt, and not finish her come-uppance to her mother.  Not that I sympathize with her, I just see her dieing at the hands of Grummok.
> 
> GW




I wouldn't say that Grummok is necessarily the more dangerous foe. Matron Tormtor has been the ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu for a centuries, and like all drow rulers, she didn't claim the title by peaceful democratic process. I just havn't gone into much detail on Kezekia's combat prowess...yet. 

Nysanna's reasoning, or the reasoning I was trying to convey, was that she did not want to face Grummok and Kezekia together, acknowledging the fact that the two of them together would be an insurmountable force. So, kill Grummok to make it easier to kill her mother. 

Thanks for reading.

Dirge


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## Graywolf-ELM

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> I wouldn't say that Grummok is necessarily the more dangerous foe. Matron Tormtor has been the ruler of Erelhei-Cinlu for a centuries, and like all drow rulers, she didn't claim the title by peaceful democratic process. I just havn't gone into much detail on Kezekia's combat prowess...yet.
> 
> Nysanna's reasoning, or the reasoning I was trying to convey, was that she did not want to face Grummok and Kezekia together, acknowledging the fact that the two of them together would be an insurmountable force. So, kill Grummok to make it easier to kill her mother.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Dirge





Thank you for the response.  I did get your conveyance.  I guess I just figure, if you can get him alone, you should be able to get her alone, and won't be possibly weakened by the experience with Grummok.  

Sorry.  I am not putting it down at all.  I very much enjoy the story.  Thank you for taking the time to update.  It's just me thinking too much.  I consider this one of my favorite Stories.

GW


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## BLACKDIRGE

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Sorry.  I am not putting it down at all.  I very much enjoy the story.  Thank you for taking the time to update.  It's just me thinking too much.  I consider this one of my favorite Stories.
> 
> GW




Oh, I didn't think you were trying to insinuate anything negative about the story. Not at all, I just thought you were analyzing the motives of Nysanna Tormtor. That's a good thing, I want my readers to wonder about the motivations of the characters, it shows that they are involved in the story, which is definetley what I want. 

Hey and thanks for putting up with my infrequent updates. You are always one of the first to reply (or bump) and I just wanted to say that I realy appreicate the supprt, from you and all the readers that have stuck with me.  

Dirge


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## Funeris

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> I realy appreicate the supprt, from (Greywolf-ELM) and all the readers that have stuck with me.




Your writing is so magnificent...we'll put up with infrequent updates as long as they keep coming   Great update BlackDirge.

~Fune


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## Rikandur Azebol

We would slaughter anyone claiming that Blackdirge's stories aren't of the higest quality. I and my clones.  

Dear Co-Readers ... I'm really curious how Grummok would surviwe confrontation with Nysanna. I bet she'll attack when he'll be at his most vurnerable ... for example distracted by his student. Because I belive that gargoyle, given time to prepare would have upper hand against careless and desperate drideress. To belive in Llolth's promises ...


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## Graywolf-ELM

A few posts missing, but just to let you know we are still around.

GW


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## recentcoin

I always thought that gargoyles were just something to kill...I find that I'm quite intrigued by having one as the main character.

RC


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## javcs

Bump.

When're you going to get around to updating this one and Dretch to Demonlord, 'DIRGE?


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## rathlighthands

*Keep it coming*

Keep it coming, this is a great stóry. I never thought of a gargoyle in such a role, but it is a great read.


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## rathlighthands

*Bump*

Post an update now..... or or or or....... I will have to hire a gargoyle to track you down  

Don`t forget us dude, this is a great story.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Update Time!

_____________________________________________________________________________

*Part IX*


The private chambers of Matron Mother Kezekia Tormtor were not what Grummok expected. He certainly would not have been surprised by gross opulence, as most drow nobility considered garish audacity to be the height of style and statement. But the simple, almost Spartan stone chamber in the center of the vast Tormtor compound was certainly not what one would expect of the most powerful drow in Erelhei-Cinlu. The chamber was thirty feet square, and contained only a simple divan, a low wooden table with two chairs, two large chests, a stand for the Matron Mother’s armor, and a wall-mounted rack for her weapons. 

There were no guards, no glyph-covered walls spelling out a dire, arcane warning to all who entered; there was not even a simple, mundane lock to be found on any of the Matron Mother’s possessions. Taken out of the lavish compound that contained it, Kezekia Tormtor’s personal chambers could belong to any common soldier or free laborer. 

But Kezekia Tormtor was not without her treasures. A short hallway led from the Matron Mother’s personal chambers to what was likely one of the most complete arcane and theological libraries in the known world. This massive, high-ceilinged chamber was protected by a portcullis in the adjoining hallway, constructed of adamantine and brazenly scribed with no less than a dozen powerful wards and glyphs. It was here that Grummok was led, by Kezekia herself, once the Matron’s Mother’s party had reached the Tormtor compound.

The library, although huge, was as plain and workman-like as the Matron Mother’s chambers. The walls were covered in stout, stone bookshelves, each stuffed with every imaginable size and type of book or scroll. The top shelf was an easy thirty feet from the floor, and since there were no ladders, it was only assessable by those with the ability to reach such heights with magical or mundane flight. A single rough stone table with two low benches sat in the center of the library, dwarfed by the cyclopean size of the room. Beyond this, the library’s only notable feature was the two gigantic, iron statues of armed drow warriors that flanked the stone table. Each was ten feet tall and gripped a massive, and very real, adamantine short sword in one iron fist. 

Grummok sat alone at the stone table, studying one of the iron statues from a respectable distance. He was quite certain that each statue was some kind of formidable automaton tasked with guarding the room, but he had no desire to awaken the dire golems, and sat quietly awaiting the return of his host. Kezekia had led him here, bade him to sit, and then had left without a word. 

Although he still found them strange, Grummok had grown quite used to the eccentricities of drow nobility, and Matron Tormtor’s abrupt leave-taking did not worry him overmuch. Still, he was glad that his weapons were not confiscated, as was usual for those entering the presence of the Matron Mother, and one taloned hand crept down to the hilt of his dagger, the cold steel of the weapon as reassuring as anything in the chaotic drow city.

Grummok did not have to wait long for the Matron Mother’s return, and she entered the library from the adjoining hallway not more than fifteen minutes after leaving her guest, bearing a small silver ewer and two crystal goblets. In addition, a scabbarded, basket-hilted sword dangled from one hip, an odd weapon for the Matron Mother, as it was widely known that she favored the mace for up-close-and-personal work. 

Kezekia Tormtor was dressed in the same garb she had worn at the Noquar compound: a hauberk and leggings of fine mithral links. The silvery metal composed a full suit of armor as hard as dragon scales, but as light as spider-silk. The Matron Mother was alone, unguarded, and unconcerned. Only a fool would attack her here, surrounded by the strength of her entire house.

Kezekia moved to the stone table where Grummok sat and placed the ewer and glasses on the table. She then unbelted the sword from around her waist and laid that upon the table as well. “Slyph nectar,” she named the contents of the ewer, and sat down opposite the gargoyle assassin.

Grummok raised one scaled brow in surprise at the mention of the slyph nectar. The slyph were an elusive race of subterranean fey, and any product made by their hands was rare indeed. Slyph nectar was reputed to be fermented lichen, although its sweetness and heady alcoholic content seem to refute that assertion. Grummok owned a small cask of the liquor himself, having accepted the incredibly expensive libation as payment on a contract.

“You did well with Henevra,” Matron Tormtor said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar and pouring herself and her guest a glass of the viscous, amber fluid. 

“Thank you, mistress,” Grummok said, taking the offered glass of liquor. “She was far too volatile to leave alive, despite her considerable talents.”

“Yes, Lolth once favored that one, although the Spider Queen’s favor has been rather fickle of late,” Kezekia said, sipping thoughtfully at her own glass of slyph nectar. “But the control I now have over Nerrod and house Aleval is well worth the loss of Henevra. And for that, I have you to thank.” 

“I am always pleased to serve you, Kezekia.” Grummok lifted his glass towards the Matron Mother and then downed the contents in a single large gulp. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Kezekia Tormtor smiled, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “But let it not be said that house Tormtor is niggardly with its servants.” She reached out and pushed the scabbarded sword on the table towards Grummok.

“For me?” Grummok asked, grasping the sword by the hilt and drawing the blade from the scabbard. It was a saber, a curved, single edged blade, with an enclosed basket hilt of the same silvery metal as the blade. The weapon was vaguely familiar, but before Grummok could chase down the elusive thread of memory, the room was suddenly filled with the torturous sound of metal grating on metal.

Both of the massive iron statues flanking the table suddenly turned toward Grummok, who was within easy reach of the giant automatons, and brought their massive weapons to bear upon the assassin.

Grummok vaulted from a sitting position into a graceful back flip, showering the golems with slyph nectar from his discarded glass as their blades came crashing down in the exact spot he had just vacated. The stone bench exploded in a shower of dust and fragments as the golem’s massive swords all but obliterated it. The assassin still had the Matron Mother’s gift in hand, and he struck out on reflex, aiming at one of the golem’s outstretched arms but knowing full well that even the best enchanted blades were all but useless against golems. To his surprise, the silvery metal passed through the construct’s limb without the slightest hint of resistance, and the severed member crashed to the ground with a clatter.

“Yvish!” Kezekia screamed, eyes wide with surprise, her voice carrying the unmistakable power of magic. The command word had an instantaneous effect, and the two golems ceased their attack and ponderously returned to their original position flanking the table.

Grummok tensed, awaiting another attack. He had been surprised by the golems, but if the Matron Mother had more in store for him, she would not find him an easy target. He raised the sword and stared hard at the drow noble.

Kezekia Tormtor suddenly began to chuckle. Not the mirthless cackle she reserved for her enemies, but a true laugh. Her face darkened, the effects of a flush on drow skin, and she covered her mouth like an embarrassed schoolgirl. “Oh, Grummok. I am so sorry,” She said, stifling a giggle. “You must realize that there was nothing intentional about that.”

Grummok’s just stared in mute confusion. He had always prided himself in the ability to spot a liar, but every bit of the Matron Mother’s body language said she was telling the truth. 

“Truly, Grummok, I beg your forgiveness.” The Matron Mother stood and held out her arms, palms up in the drow sign for peaceful negotiation.  “The golems have been ordered to attack anyone drawing a weapon in the library. And since you are the first guest I have had here in almost one-hundred and fifty years, I had simply forgotten.”

Grummok found himself smiling, and his heart rate, which had been thundering a scant moment ago, was returning to normal. “Ye gods, Kezekia!” He breathed out explosively. “I had already counted the chinks in your armor, and was deciding the best place to push a blade. It is not wise to jangle the nerves of a master assassin, my dear.”

“Chinks?” Kezekia said, and began looking down the length of her armored body. “Are you sure?”

Grummok walked the few paces back to the table, picked up the scabbard that still rested there and sheathed his new saber. “Of course I’m sure,” He said, wiping the stone fragments off of the only section of bench that remained and sitting down. “Six weak links above your left breast, three weak links below your right, two weak links just above your right knee, and a single weak link at the base of your throat. The last one would be an excellent spot for a crossbow bolt. You really should speak with your armorer.”

“All that in what…under five seconds?” Kezekia asked, the smile fading from her face. “Would you have killed me?” 

“No, “ Grummok said, reaching for the ewer of slyph nectar, and taking a draught. “Killing you would lead the other Matron Mothers to believe that I had murdered Matrons Aleval and Noquar, and would unite them against me. Plus I am not even sure I could kill you. You are hardly defenseless.”

“I find myself forgetting that you are not drow,” Kezekia said. “Your mind is as complex and duplicitous as the most power-hungry noble.”

“One picks up a few thing here and there,” Grummok said, taking another sip from the ewer of slyph nectar. “Plus, I have had the advantage of watching and learning from one of the best.” He raised the ewer towards the Matron Mother.

“You flatter me, assassin,” Kezekia said, retrieving and raising her own glass. “Tell me, does the sword please you?”

Grummok lifted the sword from the table again, being very careful not to let the blade slip from its scabbard. “It is a beautiful weapon, and I know I have seen it before. I just cannot remember where.”

“You have seen it before,” the Matron Mother said, her voice suddenly somber. “It belonged to my son, Azakai.”

“Truly?” Grummok breathed. “This cannot be _Bitterbite_? I heard it was lost after Azakai’s…death.” Azakai had died by Grummok’s own hand, his death ordered by his mother for heresy against the church of Lolth. This is damned peculiar, Grummok thought. _Rewarding me with her son’s own blade; what is she up to?_

“Yes it was lost, but an agent of mine managed to recover it a few years ago.” Kezekia leaned over the table and stared directly into the gargoyle’s eyes. “Believe me when I say, I bear you no ill will for Azakai’s demise. It was Lolth’s will.”

There was a hitch in the Matron Mother’s voice when she spoke her son’s name aloud, heralding something Grummok had rarely encountered in a drow noble: grief.
“He was a fine weapon master, my lady,” Grummok said, setting the sword back upon the table. 

“The finest,” she replied. “There was no one in the city that could best with a blade.” There was pride in the Matron Mother’s voice, and she looked away from Grummok as she spoke. “At least, when he was sober.”

“He fought like a demon when we came for him, despite his inebriation,” Grummok said. “I have no doubt he would have slain us all if he had had his wits about him.” 

Grummok remembered Azakai’s death clearly. He had hired a group of orcs and a powerful bugbear named Thagmot to help him slay the weapon master. The orcs and the bugbear were meant to simply occupy Azakai so that Grummok could get into position for the killing blow. They had confronted the drow weapon master at his favorite drinking hole, well after he was good and drunk. The assassination was not one of Grummok’s smoothest, and Azakai still managed to slay all of the orcs and severely wound the bugbear before the gargoyle put a dagger through his eye.

“I pleaded with the goddess for a fortnight, begging her to spare his life,” Kezekia whispered. Her face had lost some if its youthful vigor, and she appeared simply tired and world-weary. “But she would not listen.”

“But he was only a male,” Grummok said, tossing out a barb he knew was sure to land. 

“No, he was more than that,” She said. “He was beautiful, intelligent, and so very skilled. I have never felt anything for any of my offspring, but he, he was different. I was proud of him.” The last words came out choked and Grummok could see tears welling up in the Matron Mother’s eyes. 

“Why do you tell me this, Matron?” Grummok asked, knowing that Kezekia was inviting the Spider Queen’s wrath with her grief. Lolth forbade such emotions, especially among her priestesses. 

“It does not matter.” Kezekia answered suddenly, wiping her eyes with the back of one mailed sleeve. The vulnerability fell from her face and was instantly replaced by the stoic mask of the Matron Mother. “What did you find at the Aleval compound?”

Grummok decided not to press the Matron Mother and reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the statuette of Eilistraee. He placed the small ebony figure upon the table. “I found this.”

Kezekia sucked in a breath, here eyes wide with shock and terror. “You dare bring this…abomination into my house?” She hissed. “Do you know what the penalty is for owning such a thing?”

“Death, slow and torturous,” Grummok replied calmly. “I know it quite well. And I am sure Matron Aleval knew it as well, for this depiction of Eilis…

“DO NOT SPEAK HER NAME!” Kezekia broke in thunderously. “Do you wish to bring the handmaidens of Lolth swarming down upon us?!”

“My apologies, Matron Mother,” Grummok said, bowing his head. “But we must speak of this. It is almost assuredly the reason for Matron Aleval’s death.”

“Put it away then,” Kezekia said, the rancor in her voice fading. “It is painful to look upon.”

_Painful because you fear its implications, my dear Matron Mother_, Grummok thought acidly. “Of course,” he said, and returned the statuette to his pouch. 

“So, Matron Aleval was a worshipper of the false one.” Kezekia said, naming Eilistraee as she was known among Lolth-worshiping drow. “Then the reason for her death is clear.”

“Yes, but I find it odd that none in her house had any knowledge of her illicit faith,” Grummok said. “And there was much more in her chambers that made it very clear that the Matron Mother had many improper tastes and interests for a ruling member of Erelhei-Cinlu.”

“I will request that a cadre of the Sisters of Eight be sent to house Aleval. They will root out any other worshippers of the false one.”

Grummok shuddered inwardly at the mention of the fanatical group of priestesses tasked with routing out forbidden faiths. They operated independently of the ruling Matron Mothers by command of the Spider Queen herself, and were feared by all. 

“I am sure Nerrod will give his full cooperation to the Sisters of Eight,” Grummok said. 

“He’d better. Not even I can protect him from their wrath,” Kezekia said flatly. 

“So, the crimes of our two slain Matron Mothers have been laid before us,” Grummok said. “Heresy for Matron Aleval, and improper affection for Matron Noquar.”

“Then you believe the murders will stop? Lolth having punished the guilty.” 

“No,” Grummok replied, his eyes finding and holding the Matron mother’s own. “You are their next target.”

“What? Me?” The Matron Mother asked incredulously. “What is my crime?”

“Grief for your lost son,” Grummok answered. “Your crime is the same as Matron Noquar’s.”

Kezekia stared silently, her mouth an impassive line. There was no denying her guilt; she had laid her emotions bare for Grummok to see.

“You are right, assassin. I grieved for my son. I still grieve for him.” The Matron Mother stood and stared down at the master assassin sitting across from her. 

“Then Lolth’s assassin will come for you, and soon,” Grummok said.

“I cannot avoid it, and I cannot escape this grief that claws at my soul each day,” Kezekia said, her mouth quivering. “How can it be wrong to grieve for your own child?” She pleaded. “He could have been a great servant of Lolth, if she would have spared him.”

“There is not mercy in the Spider Queen. No compassion or sympathy. You know this. You have known it all your life.” Grummok stood and watched the carefully constructed mask Kezekia had worn all her life crumble away, revealing the centuries old pain beneath.

“ I have not had Lolth’s blessing for some time now,” Kezekia said, her whole body trembling with emotions long contained. “The Spider Queen has surely abandoned me, and when the assassin comes, I will be left defenseless. For who will stand with a broken priestess without the power to summon a simple orison?”

Grummok stared silently as the Matron Mother, watching her pain unfurl like a great pair of wings, finally unbound after being held immobile for so long. Her face reminded him of Hek’s, pain-stricken as it was. The human’s face had not looked so different on the night he had bled out his life on the cold floor of Grummok’s trophy room. She is nothing to me, he thought, knowing it to be a lie. There was a heat within him now, a lone spark in the cold emptiness of his assassin’s soul. And what Kezekia Tormtor truly meant to him didn’t matter, because he felt _something_ for another living creature for the first time in decades. 

Like the frost melting away in the spring thaw, Grummok felt compassion gnawing at the hardened integument of his heart and mind. It clawed and scraped against the withered husk of his soul, and finally, after decades of his own struggles with loss and grief, found purchase. 

Grummok walked slowly over to the Matron Mother, and to her credit she did not shrink away, even though she expected his bestial, horned visage to be the last things she saw in this world. She did not even struggle when he took her hand, cradling it gently in his own taloned digits. Grummok looked into the Matron Mother’s eyes, letting her grief and pain wash over him, letting her emotions kindle and fan the flames of his own. 

“_I_ will stand with you.”


----------



## javcs

W00t UPDATE!

I like it.

Is Grummok falling in love with Kezekia? That would be hilarious.

Now we've gotta wonder when Metamorphosis gets updated (not so subtle hint there, Blackdirge).


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## BLACKDIRGE

javcs said:
			
		

> W00t UPDATE!
> 
> I like it.
> 
> Is Grummok falling in love with Kezekia? That would be hilarious.
> 
> Now we've gotta wonder when Metamorphosis gets updated (not so subtle hint there, Blackdirge).




I don't know about love. I don't think creature's like Grummok or Kezekia are capable of that kind of emotion. But it would give me an excuse to make a half-gargoyle template.   

I'm working on Metamorphosis. It will get the next update.

BD


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## javcs

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> I don't know about love. I don't think creature's like Grummok or Kezekia are capable of that kind of emotion. But it would give me an excuse to make a half-gargoyle template.
> 
> I'm working on Metamorphosis. It will get the next update.
> 
> BD



Well, perhaps not love but affection? It seems, to me at least, that they are both capable of affection, Grummok showed affection (of a sort) to Hek, and Kezekia just spectacularly showed affection for her son, _and_ she has to have had a reason to give her son's former blade to Grummok.


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Cunning Kezakia is. *Nods to himself*

She used her real weaknessess, subcousiounously, to win over a bit of more loyalty from Grummok. Not to mention that she is perhaps his only client that compliments him. I dare to say that she deserves to get a fighting chance. 

If her martial training was good enough, as all priests of Llolth should have, and her mind remainds as sharp as should it be as Matron Mother. It will be delicious to read, BLACKDIRGE.

You are a true master of the word.

P.S. And if Kezakia ever tried to cross Grummok ... well, we know that he is knowing that forgivness is ten letter word in the dictionary of foreign words. 

P.S.2. Half-gargoyle template ? Neat, can't wait to see it. Even if breeding between gargoyle and non-gargoyle would create obvious difficulties.   

I can foresee a lot of magic here used.


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## Graywolf-ELM

Yes.  And it all works out, if she survives, then Lolth's will is done, if with her weakness, she is able to overcome, she can gain favor back.  No matter how she overcomes the adversity of the assassin, without support from the Goddess, the result is a more powerful servant of the goddess.

GW


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## BLACKDIRGE

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Yes.  And it all works out, if she survives, then Lolth's will is done, if with her weakness, she is able to overcome, she can gain favor back.  No matter how she overcomes the adversity of the assassin, without support from the Goddess, the result is a more powerful servant of the goddess.
> 
> GW




Oh, those tricksy, tricksy drow. You never know what they might do.   

BD


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## Ghostknight

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Oh, those tricksy, tricksy drow. You never know what they might do.
> 
> BD




Hmm- like taking on the worship of the false one perhaps?  Nothing like staring death in face and needing support to make you change your mind!...

Imagine it, the ruling house of a drow city worshipin elistraee


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## Rikandur Azebol

Scary Ghostknight. Fanatics to goddess of Good ? I foresee that such city would be gone faster than You count to ten. All would went on crusade and get themselves killed. Then ex-slaves would revolt and ...


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## karianna

*More More*

Just found this after reading the fiend SH, yay for BD!  More please!


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## Salthorae

All I have to say is   ...

I'm up to date...   

Thanks for this other great story BlackDirge!@!


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## Balathustrius

This is brilliant writing.  You're a natural storyteller, Blackdirge.

Thanks for sharing this.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Balathustrius said:
			
		

> This is brilliant writing.  You're a natural storyteller, Blackdirge.
> 
> Thanks for sharing this.




Thanks. 

And thanks for making my humble thread the home of your very first post.   

BD


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## rathlighthands

*Great Story*

Dude, if you don`t post again soon I may be forced to send my army of flying apes to drag you to your keyboard.


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## rathlighthands

*Bump*

Okay, I guess I am gonna have to let the army of flying monkeys loose.


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## BLACKDIRGE

rathlighthands said:
			
		

> Okay, I guess I am gonna have to let the army of flying monkeys loose.




Unfortunately, Goodman Games has an entire flock of half-fiend dire flying apes that have beaten you to the punch.   

My plate is kind of full right now, but I promise at least one update this month.

BD


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## Salthorae

Take your time BD... Better a quality update we have to wait months for than something rushed!  We appreciate that you update at all...!


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## rathlighthands

*No Problem*

No problem man, it is a great story. Not a lot of people can write Drow, you have that knack without a doubt. No sweat, just didn`t want ya to forget us


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## BLACKDIRGE

rathlighthands said:
			
		

> No problem man, it is a great story. Not a lot of people can write Drow, you have that knack without a doubt. No sweat, just didn`t want ya to forget us




No worries. I won't forget you guys. If it weren't for people like yourself reading and digging my stuff, I woudn't have the freelance career that keeps me from updating in the first place. Kind of a vicious circle, ain't it?   

BD


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## justinsluder

Yes, and we love every minute of it!


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## Shadowmind64

Both this and Metamorphosis are great! Keep up the amazing work!


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## Ximix

Bumpage


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## BLACKDIRGE

Ximix said:
			
		

> Bumpage




Thanks for the bump.

Unfortunately, with what’s going on with Dretch to Demon Lord, I am not going to have time to update this story hour in the near future.

However, I do have plans for Grummok and the gang.   

BD


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## Balathustrius

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Unfortunately, with what’s going on with Dretch to Demon Lord, I am not going to have time to update this story hour in the near future.
> 
> BD




Hmph.  Alwaysthe same.  A writer gets a story published, he forgets the freeloaders who... um... harangued him to update more?

Ok, that needs some rephrasing.  But still!!

Also, bump.


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## BLACKDIRGE

Balathustrius said:
			
		

> Hmph.  Alwaysthe same.  A writer gets a story published, he forgets the freeloaders who... um... harangued him to update more?
> 
> Ok, that needs some rephrasing.  But still!!
> 
> Also, bump.




I know. I know. I'm really sorry.   

Fact is, Metamorphosis is now taking up all of my fiction writing time, but I promise you, I will not let our favorite gargoyle assassin fade quietly into the Underdark. 

As I mentioned earlier, I have plans for Grummok.   

BD


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## Rikandur Azebol

I keep You to Your word, dah'ling.  

And remember that I got G. cellphone.


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## rathlighthands

*Looks left, looks right*

Bump


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## Stegger

Bump! Any news on this?


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## BLACKDIRGE

Stegger said:
			
		

> Bump! Any news on this?




Well, I'm working on a Grummok novella, which should be finished in a couple of months. I'm not sure if I will release it all at once or serialize it. As for distribution, I'm not sure on that front either. If a publisher is interested in it, then I could go that route, or I might simply release it through Blackdirge Publishing. There's a lot of ifs. =]

The novella is a reboot of the entire Grummok storyline, but it still has all of the old familiar characters. I'm having to change a few things to make it OGL compliant.

The working title for the novella is: Scourge of the Pain God.

I'll keep you all posted as things progress.

BD


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## Stegger

Thank you for the information! I will definetly buy it if you should ever publish it


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

*Grummok is coming...*

Here's a little taste of things to come. I can't say much at this point, but I'm pretty excited about the direction our favorite gargoyle assassin is headed in.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Ok, now when can we buy any of these?  I mean really, this is torture, after we've been so faithful.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Ok, now when can we buy any of these?  I mean really, this is torture, after we've been so faithful.




I'm not trying to torture you, just wet your appetite a little.   

Truthfully, I can't say much about the Grummok project right now since I'm still working out some of the details. But that said, I'm really excited about it, and I think you guys are really going to dig it. 

BD


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Tease.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> I'm not trying to torture you, just wet your appetite a little.
> 
> Truthfully, I can't say much about the Grummok project right now since I'm still working out some of the details. But that said, I'm really excited about it, and I think you guys are really going to dig it.
> 
> BD




**looks back over the last 3 pages here, and the previous thread** Um ok, that wasn't already done?   

GW


----------



## Shadowmind64

i miss grummok


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

Shadowmind64 said:
			
		

> i miss grummok




Don't worry, Grummok is coming back. As soon as I finish the last Metamorphosis novel, I am going to begin working on a new Grummok project.

So hang in there, our favorite gargoyle assassin is going to get his due.   

BD


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

**Does the Happy Dance**


----------



## ahorton12

*whats going on*



			
				Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> **Does the Happy Dance**




can u link to some of your other projects or update this one?
i just started reading last night and have read everything up to this point, i stumbled in by the luck of a google draw and became immediatly entranced, now im looking at the last update being  8 months ago.

well just hoping you havnt forgotten about grummok and we will see something new soon,  i love this story....


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

ahorton12 said:
			
		

> can u link to some of your other projects or update this one?
> i just started reading last night and have read everything up to this point, i stumbled in by the luck of a google draw and became immediatly entranced, now im looking at the last update being  8 months ago.
> 
> well just hoping you havnt forgotten about grummok and we will see something new soon,  i love this story....




Hi there, 

If you're looking for more to read, you can read what is essentially a rough draft of the 1st Metamorphosis novel right here in the story hour forum; there are links all over the place. 

As for Grummok, something is in the works, and as soon as I can get a break from what is developing into a truly staggering freelance workload, we'll be moving forward on that. =]

BD


----------



## ahorton12

*i read it!!!*

awesome rough draft,  as soon as i can get outta the low money slump i seem to be in ill be buying copys,  now i will just wait until another assasain update happens,  till then my days will be very boring,  thanks
great job you are a very good writer.


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

ahorton12 said:
			
		

> awesome rough draft,  as soon as i can get outta the low money slump i seem to be in ill be buying copys,  now i will just wait until another assasain update happens,  till then my days will be very boring,  thanks
> great job you are a very good writer.




Cool. Glad you liked it.

Unfortunately, there won't be any more Grummok updates, at least not in the form of a story hour. 

I'd love to start another stroy hour, but I know I just don't have the time to commit to it. And the last thing this forum needs is another unfinished story hour filled with pages and pages of bumps. =]

But hey, if you'd like to read some more of my writing, and you don't have any cash to spend, I have three *free* PDF products you can download. One of them is nothing but narrative fiction. Here are the links:

Blackdyrge's Bestiary: About the Author
Blackdyrge's Templates: Blackdyrge Speaks
Animal Archives Sampler

BD


----------



## ahorton12

*thank you*

also my wife has just written a book,  in the fantasy genre,  it doesnt follow any of the d & d rules,  she created her own world spells ect. but she has no idea how to even begin trying to get it published,  from what i can tell you have already tackeled that challenge and may know how i might steer her into the right direction towards publication,  its a good book and was a fun read,  let me know if you have any info on getting the book out there so others can enjoy it.


----------



## pogre

BLACKDIRGE said:
			
		

> Unfortunately, there won't be any more Grummok updates, at least not in the form of a story hour.
> BD




Alas! Farewell Grummok! You were always the best anti-hero of the lot!


----------



## BLACKDIRGE

ahorton12 said:
			
		

> also my wife has just written a book,  in the fantasy genre,  it doesnt follow any of the d & d rules,  she created her own world spells ect. but she has no idea how to even begin trying to get it published,  from what i can tell you have already tackeled that challenge and may know how i might steer her into the right direction towards publication,  its a good book and was a fun read,  let me know if you have any info on getting the book out there so others can enjoy it.




Sorry, man, I meant to get back to you on this the other day, and then got a bit distracted with GSL and whatnot. =]

As for your wife, the only advice I can give is that gleaned from my own limited experience and research. Breaking into the RPG industry seems to be a bit easier than breaking into the literary world, but it appears your wife is looking to get into mainstream genre fiction. If that’s the case, I would recommend that she get an agent. I’m writing a mainstream novel myself, and as soon as it’s finished, that will be my first step. 

From what I’ve learned through research and other established authors, an agent is the best way to get your manuscript read by publishers. Having an agent doesn’t guarantee publication (you still gotta write a good book), but it can increase your chances. Finding an agent, however, can be almost as difficult as getting published, and there are a lot of scam artists out there looking to take advantage of naïve amateur authors. 

Here are two great websites for writers to get your wife started. Have her take a look at the listing for literary agents on both sites. 

Predators & Editors
Writer Beware

Hope this helps.

BD


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Alas poor Grummok we hardly knew ye.

GW


----------

