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It began with an Empire, the Old Empire of the Tier'Dal, to
be precise. Sigh. So much of the past has become lost to us, my colleague. I
know not how much you know of the Elder Days, so let me tell you of them: Know
that several millennia ago, when the dragon monarchs slipped silently from the
forefront of Norrath, the Elder Races come forth to fill the void of rule they
left behind.
From beneath the disappearing shadow of their mighty wings,
the Dwarves began to toil under the mountains, the Giants began to roam the
world with their ravishing strides, and the Elven people were born. Crafted by
Father Innoruuk, the Teir'Dal marched proudly from the Underfoot to forge a vast
Empire of Blood and Hate, reigning almost unchallenged by the Races of Light.
Our warriors were mighty on the field of war, our elite
shadowknights fighting savagely at the forefront of every battle. The dread
power of our magicks crushed our enemies like grapes in a winepress, and the
strength and depth of our learning brought us to the very apex of the world. So
great was the size of the Empire, that the need for such as us was inevitable.
Under the iron hand of RilufecThex (better known to us as
Rilufec the Conqueror), Eighteenth Imperator of the Undying Dynasty, the grasp
of the Old Empire stretched forth to encompass nearly the whole of what is now
the continent of Faydwer, with several small outposts on the vasty continent of
Tunaria (which the humans now call Antonica). The Imperator was wise enough to
know that the size of the Empire now required a finer hand than even the most
skilled armies could provide.
Enemies from without had become few and far between.
Individuals, rather than hosts of foes, had to be dealt with to maintain the
peace. Moreover, the Imperator knew that the greatest danger to his power came
from within the Empire itself. Superior abilities give rise to superior
ambitions. In an Empire of Teir'Dal, there were ambitions aplenty simmering
warmly at the Imperator's feet.
A new elite was needed. A small, shadowy force at the
Imperator's personal command to swiftly and silently eliminate his enemies. It
would serve as a chirugeon's scalpel, deftly cutting away the infectious tissue
of dissent and treachery from the body of the Empire. A Teir'Dal noble was
chosen for this task, the imperator's cousin and companion from his boyhood
days. He was the great Nogras V'ree, the First of Us All.
V'ree was a fell warrior in his own right, a particular
favorite of the Imperator. Though smallish, sickly looking and quiet, Nogras
V'ree was nevertheless greatly feared and hated throughout the Empire. His
remarkable ability to cause pain and death were developed through the experience
gained from almost constant personal combat since childhood. The private
histories show that V'ree was born with a speech impediment which was often a
source of great amusement to his fellows.
V'ree paid back their derision by spilling their blood and
breaking their bones. At the tender age of but two and twenty winters, Nogras
V'ree had fought and won the unheard of total of three hundred and thirty-eight
personal duels. Those who were not killed were permanently broken in body or
spirit, affectionately referred to by V'ree as the walking dead. The Art of
Revenge became his one true joy, and V'ree lavished great care on the poetic
redress of every wrong, even if the time of revenge took years. It was not for
nothing that he became known as "Nogras the Unforgiving."
Only one childhood tormentor was spared, and we shall deal
with her later. Nogras V'ree had but one supporter, one person who ever refused
to stain Nogras V'ree with mocking laughter when he struggled painfully with
speech. This was his imperial cousin Rilufec. Only Rilufec knew the brilliance
of the mind of Nogras V'ree, and only Rilufec treated him with respect.
Therefore, Imperator Rilufec Thex possessed Nogras V'ree's undying loyalty, as
he was the only person on Norrath who was worthy of such a precious gift. Such a
bond made V'ree the perfect candidate for the Imperator's endeavor.
V'ree was the perfect choice in another way, as well. The
Imperator was canny enough to know that every weapon required a flaw, a weakness
that could be exploited lest it be used against him. Since the beginning of the
line, The House of V'ree had been magickless. No glimmer of mana had ever
manifested in any of its children, nor in Nogras himself. His remarkable
abilities were due solely to his uncanny speed, devious intellect and
indomitable will to win. If need be, the combined efforts of several sorcerers
could protect the Imperator should Nogras V'ree turn (if you will pardon the
expression) rogue.
Thus heartened, the Imperator met with Nogras V'ree on the
night of the hidden moon, and in the Temple of Innoruuk they sealed their
destinies together in the Bond of Flaming Iron. House V'ree and all who came
from it thus became the personal executioners of the Imperator, and was often
called the House of the Imperator's Ire.
House V'ree fulfilled the Imperator's desires to perfection.
For threescore and ten winters every assignment given to Nogras V'ree was
carried out with panache and finality. It came to pass that his silent presence
at the Imperator's left side became cause for unease among the courtiers
(especially those who had the misfortune to merit his all-seeing gaze), and that
his absence from the court became reason for absolute dread, for it meant that
the Great V'ree was pursuing a Blood Hunt at the Imperator's command.
His sons and daughters, while lesser lights than their
illustrious sire, became fell assassins in their own right and were soon known
and feared throughout the Empire as well. House V'ree was at its first apex.
Ashebhesba N'omed, the Lord High Necromanceress, was perhaps the second most
powerful individual in the Empire at this time. Great was her power and great
was her dark beauty. If she possessed a flaw, it was in the form of her equally
magnificent arrogance.
She felt herself drawn to Nogras V'ree as a Tier'Dal is drawn
to darkness itself. But V'ree remembered her all too well as one of his
tormentors from childhood, the only one who had ever escaped from his burning
vengeance. Why Nogras V'ree had never sought revenge upon her has been a matter
of speculation for several centuries. The most common hypothesis for this
anomaly is that V'ree desired her and, as a result, did not wish her harm. This
theory, however, does not explain the fact that V'ree ended up rejecting her.
Publicly. It would be the source of his undoing, as well as that of his greatest
triumph.
To call Ashebhesba N'omed incensed would be to call Solusek's
Eye slightly tepid. Her enormous pride pumped raw venom into her veins, and
darkened her heart to a color blacker than the deepest black. Even Father
Innoruuk would have admired the majesty of the hate she manifested towards
Nogras V'ree, his House, his position at court, and the bond between him and the
Imperator.
All would fall, even the mighty Imperator, the Lord High
Necromanceress had ultimately decided. All would pay for her wounded pride. She
would then take command of the Empire and receive the homage she richly
deserved. Over a period of seven winters she gathered allies among her
necromancers, slowly subverting power from the Imperator to herself. The
Imperator was no fool (would to Innoruuk that another such as he come among us
again!), having discovered the plot by use of an informer planted in the Dark
Tower of the necromancers in the capital city of Caerthiel.
He immediately summoned V'ree to his side. The Imperator's
elite guard, the Shadowknights, would be dispatched to the various problem areas
to deal with the traitors. Ashebhesba, however, had to be eliminated first;
without her, the rest would be child's play. However, to publicly arrest her
would be folly; it could possibly result in a revolution and, moreover, even
shadowknights might not be able to overpower her if the arrest were attempted.
No, her elimination was vital and it required an infallible touch. The touch of
one who had never failed.
Nogras V'ree set forth to the citadel of the Necromancer Lord
that very evening. A Cleric in the service of the Imperator had blessed him with
the most powerful might and shielding spells available. Thus enhanced, he passed
wraithlike through the arcane corridors of the Dark Tower. His instincts all but
cried out that there were too few guards for a stronghold of this sort,
especially when this was lair of a traitress. Pausing by the door to her private
chamber, Nogras V'ree considered the nature of his target and how he had gotten
this far without incident. It had been too easy.
Abandoning his idea to gain entrance through a window, V'ree
merely opened the door. Inside, he beheld the achingly beautiful necromanceress
sprawled enticingly upon her sleeping silks. She transfixed him with her
glittering eyes and smiled lazily. "I expected you earlier than this," she told
him. He nodded in reply. "The fact that the Imperator knows matters not," she
purred. "It will save neither him ... nor you." Nogras V'ree shrugged, as if to
say, "We shall see."
Ashebhesba N'omed slipped to her feet in an effortlessly
fluid movement and spread her slim arms towards V'ree. She bared her perfect
white teeth in a cruel grin and her laughter rang throughout her chamber. "Poor,
doomed, stuttering lifetaker," she chuckled. "You wonder where my necromancers
are? They are even now at my various strongholds, beginning the revolution which
will end your cousin's reign. They are even now at your precious House ...
killing your family."
V'ree hissed, his weapons suddenly appearing in his hands, as
if by magic. "Yes," she preened. "Your family. Your sons, your daughters, your
cousins, uncles and aunts. All who share the slightest taste of blood with the
mighty Nogras V'ree will die and be erased from the world. Innoruuk is with me,
Imperial lapdog! He revels in my hate and will grant me victory!" She paused,
her bosom heaving and her exquisite eyes shining with savage joy. "Is not my
revenge worthy of you, o Nogras the U-U-U-Unforgiving?" she sneered.
Nogras V'ree's howl of rage was answer enough. Before he
could reach her, a towering skeleton rose from a pile of blackened bones set
before her. A huge scimitar swung at the neck of Nogras V'ree. He did not stay
to meet it. Ducking and whirling, his blades sang a song of ensorcerelled steel
against the power of Ashebhesba's undead pet. It fell to pieces, and another
rose in its place. Then another. And yet another. Seven pets did Nogras V'ree
dispatch, and a score of spells of a most terrible nature hurled by the
hate-maddened necromanceress did he endure.
Battered, weakened and dying, he still found power within him
to seize the throat of the necromanceress with a grip that would put iron to
shame. He slowly lifted his dirk to strike her down. At that precise moment, the
door to the chamber shattered into pieces, and Nogras V'ree spun to watch his
youngest son Kard (he who was called the Crafty) and the Imperator Rilufec Thex
himself burst into the room, their well-used weapons at the ready. Nogras V'ree
looked at his son, bloodied but whole, and his eyes narrowed in an unspoken
question.
Kard, well-versed in his father's gesture-speech, understood
immediately. "Many have fallen, father," he told him quietly, "But House V'ree
yet stands, as does the Empire. I know you told us to remain within the House
until you had dispatched the necromanceress, but I feared further treachery on
her part. Therefore did I persuade my brothers and sisters to go forth to help
the Imperial Shadowknights in silencing the necromancer traitors. I myself went
to provide protection to the Imperator. Our presence provided victory over the
witches, albeit at a high cost. As soon as the situation was secure, we rushed
here to provide you with aid. Please forgive my disobedience to your orders, o
my noble father."
Nogras V'ree nodded grimly, his eyes gleaming with fierce
pride for his most excellent and worthy son, and then turned to Ashebhesba
N'omed. The necromanceress was frozen with terror, not only due to his
unyielding grasp, but also from the hard gazes of hate which burned from the
countenances of the Imperator and young Kard V'ree.
In a low, well-modulated and flawless voice, a voice no one
had heard in decades, Nogras V'ree said to her, "And this is the Line you
thought to exterminate, Ashebhesba N'omed? Look well upon us and despair." "What
magic is this?" he murmured pleasantly at the look of shock which twisted her
delicate features. "No little japes at my speech? I remember them well enough
from my youth. Take your laughter and your failure to the Abyss, necromanceress,
for with you I have at last revenged myself upon all who have ever done me
harm." With that, Nogras V'ree plunged his dirk deep within the perfect form of
Ashebhesba N'omed. They both fell heavily to the ground, Nogras V'ree watching
her closely until the last glimmer of life faded from her sapphire eyes.
Then the mighty heart of Nogras V'ree stopped, nevermore to
beat anew. It is written the the Imperator knelt before the body of Nogras V'ree
and gently took from his hand his bloodstained dirk. He carried it all of his
life in memory of his most loyal and matchless subject ... and friend. Praise be
to the memory of Nogras V'ree, the First of Us All. Praise be to the memory of
Nogras the Unforgiving who, even at the cost of his own life, never failed.
After the death of Nogras V'ree, Imperator Rilufec Thex was
forced to face a grim reality: House V'ree had been all but eradicated. Only
three remained and, while formidable, they were nowhere near as magnificent as
their illustrious sire. They would eventually fall in the service of the
Imperator and, as children are slow to come among the long-lived Teir'Dal, this
would in effect doom House V'ree to extinction.
The solution came from the brain of that youngest son of
Nogras V'ree (the one known as Kard the Crafty), he who had engineered the
destruction of the traitors of Ashebhesba N'omed and who had personally saved
the life of the Imperator from assassination in his very Throne Room. And it was
with this solution that our present Great Order was birthed: House V'ree would
adopt talented individuals from outside the House, and train them to the service
of the Imperator. This would serve to insure the continuation of the House. The
Imperator eagerly agreed, and Kard V'ree set off to work immediately.
Two winters later, Kard V'ree arrived at court flanked by two
young Teir'Dal wearing the livery of House V'ree. They were cause for much
interest from the courtiers, not only because of their lean and dangerous
elegance, but because they both wore black leather faceguards which concealed
their features. The imperator dismissed the court and held a private audience
with Kard and his associates within his secret chambers.
Kard introduced his new recruits to the Imperator, and had
them unmask before him. He explained to the Imperator that the identities of
those who would be recruited within House V'ree would remain secret, the better
to permit these operatives to carry out their duties, which would now include
espionage (so as to ferret out future treachery against the Crown). Outside of
the House itself, only the Imperator would be privy to their identities. It
written that the Imperator actually smiled, so impressed was he with the cunning
of Kard the Crafty.
Indeed, Kard's idea surpassed itself in brilliance, for while
the faceguards served to conceal both face and voice, they also imbued their
wearers with an aura of mystery and menace which served to enhance the already
dread reputation of House V'ree. As in the days of Nogras V'ree, many indeed
found themselves unsettled when in the presence of these "Ebon Masks". Praise be
to the memory of Kard V'ree, the First Guildmaster. Praise be to the memory of
Kard the Crafty, crafter of the Ebon Mask.
The reign of Onnilct Thex (whom history calls the Dissolute),
26th Imperator of the Undying Dynasty, was the beginning of the End. Over the
millenia, the Empire had grown fat upon the swell of its own near-limitless
prosperity. Decay had emerged silently within its unassailable borders and was
eating inexorably away at the once mighty roots of the Great Houses. Our nobles
had become wastrels of power and only the pursuit of excess fueled the blood in
their veins and set their misguided hearts to pound. Our warriors and
shadowknights, bored from a lack of enemies, fell to preying upon each other in
pointless duels. Our dread sorcerers sank into the dark pit of blasphemous
rituals and drank deeply of the cup of sweet corruption.
We saw this. We saw all of this. The courts themselves had
become elegant battlefields. Competition for power and position was all, leading
to a marked increase in the number of fatal skirmishes. Life itself had become a
macabre dance of eloquent insults and well-poisoned daggers. Death was
commonplace, crime was happenstance, and more and more did the Teir’Dal turn
their wine-soaked faces away from Father Innoruuk. And we saw this. We saw all
of this.
The Imperator was a fool, content to live in debauchery and
pleasure, blind to the proper care of the Empire. In the fiftieth winter of his
reign, an oddity occurred. More and more deaths bore an aspect which brought
House V’ree to the fullest of alerts: the immistakable mark of professionalism.
Other assassins now prowled in the shadows of the Empire, assassins of which we
had been previously unaware. We so informed the Imperator, who dismissed us with
a feeble wave of his pudgy, overindulged hand. "We are the mightiest nation on
Norrath," he belched at us contentedly. "For millennia have we stood, and for
millennia we shall remain. Let the nobles play at what they will. Only the
strongest and most cunning will survive and we shall be the better for it."
Trembling with barely suppressed rage, we ground our teeth
and returned to the safety of our House to prepare for War. For we saw this. We
saw all of this. House V’ree had but a single true ally outside of its
membership: the Imperator’s daughter, the scholarly Zhelebati. Her eyes were
clear and wise and remembered well what the Empire and her citizenry had once
been.
Indeed, the blood of this noble descendant of Rilufec Thex
the Conqueror had remained unspoiled throughout the decay of the times. It was
she who met with Guildmaster Arceas V’ree during those terrible time. The two
realized that the use of assassins outside of the purview of House V’ree was
nothing less than a display of open treason against the Bloodstone Throne. That
it was also a formal declaration of war against House V’ree we realized when the
body of one of our own was discovered upon our doorstep.
The victim had been new to House V’ree. We had recruited him
from the lesser nobility, a third son with no hope for inheritance, but born
with the gift of speed and intelligence, making him valuable to us. Now he lay
dead, his potential sadly unfulfilled.
The finest investigator within House V’ree at that time was
Dencarja, known affectionately among her peers as "the Huntress". She was tall
for a Teir’Dal, as slim as a rapier and three times as sharp. Her wits were as
swift as the strike of a serpent, and her gleaming amber eyes missed little. She
and her two aides were immediately assigned to this matter. Her careful
examination of the dead operative revealed no sign of magickal assault; death
appeared to have been instantaneous, the result of a single stab wound from a
medium length stiletto up under the breastbone and into the heart.
Considering carefully the angle of the stroke, Dencarja
determined that the assassin had been right-handed, of medium height, and not
considered to have been a threat by his target. Nothing else could have
explained how the assassin could have gotten close enough to the deceased
without a struggle; the body showed no sign of exertion, laceration or even
mussing of hair.
This was not to say that the assassination was ordinary, by
professional standards. Dencarja noted two mutilations, both (following forensic
examination) to have been performed post mortem: the youngling’s right hand had
been severed and removed, and his chest had been branded with the symbol of a
Hand. Written in blood (the youngling’s in fact) upon the marble flagstones was
the following:
THE HAND OF DESTINY DID THIS. YOUR TIME IN SHADOW IS OVER.
This killing was a message, a challenge ... and Dencarja the
Huntress vowed to seek out this Hand of Destiny, and present to it a destiny
most unpleasant. The following night, another operative of House V’ree was found
dead in the private rooms of one of the local taverns. A journeyman of no mean
ability, he had successfully engineered sixteen removals in his professional
career.
His demise meant that the Hand of Destiny was better than the
House had originally surmised. Again, death had been the result of that perfect,
single stoke up under the breastbone and neatly cleaving the heart. Again, the
victim had been branded with the sign of the hand, his right hand severed at the
wrist and removed. The duplication was so exact, that Dencarja was certain that
this killing had been made by the same assassin. A dangerous man, to be sure,
and clever.
A new, jeering legend was written in the blood of the
deceased upon the wall next to the body: YOUR ADEPTS ARE NOTHING TO US. And
Dencarja grit her teeth in anger and snarled to herself: We shall see. The third
death, two nights later, sent a ripple of unease throughout all of House V’ree.
This one had been the most skilled and experienced of the three. Dencarja had
known Master Efkin A’dalb since her earliest days of training. The man had been
a positive genius with edged weaponry and had sent more targets to the Abyss
than many could count. Now he was no more, assassinated at his own apartments
near the theatre district.
That one such as he could be taken down was a source of
considerable distress. There had been a struggle this time. A slim, yet ragged
tear in Master Efkin’s doublet told the tale of how the assassin (for it must
surely again have been he) had gotten close enough to attempt the same
professional stroke, but had failed. Most likely, Master Efkin had twisted out
its path, the tip of the stiletto catching onto the cloth as he turned. A bruise
upon the victim’s jaw was probably the result of a glancing blow by the
assassin, enough to stun Master Efkin for the assassin to glide alongside and
behind him, so as to bury the stiletto into Master Efkin’s left kidney. Shock
followed surely, then death.
The brand was present upon master Efkin’s chest, and his hand
was missing. His left hand. That had been interesting indeed, mused Dencarja.
Master Efkin was left-handed, but took great pains to hide this fact by
utilizing his right hand in public. The assassin was either remarkably receptive
or he had been intimately acquainted with Master Efkin. The coldness that then
seized her stomach told Dencarja of a new perception: Perhaps the assassin had
been well acquainted with all three of his victims. It explained much. And the
newest bloody taunt did mock her as it dried upon the wall: NOW WE SHALL TAKE
HEADS.
Was there a connection between the increased assassinations
of late among the nobility and the House V’ree killings? Dencarja had not enough
data to determine a connection. Still, assassins required a patron, and only a
powerful patron indeed could field so skilled an operative as the assassin
preying upon House V’ree. Zhelebati was, of course, consulted. She confirmed our
concerns of members of the nobility doing more than merely craving the power of
the Bloodstone Throne.
She gladly gave Dencarja all the information at her disposal,
and provided her with the names of others loyal to the Empire who might be able
to offer aid to the investigations of House V’ree. Later that evening, Zhelebati
and her son of twelve winters walked the great corridors of the Imperial Palace,
her bodyguards at her side. They were two of the finest House V’ree could
provide, loyal beyond question and swift as thought. Zhelebati never failed to
feel safe in their presence.
As she passed the huge golden door to her left, her nose
wrinkled in distaste. The door led to the Imperator’s pleasure chambers, where
all matter of deviancy and debauchery was practiced by Onnilct Thex the
Dissolute. She felt a wave of sympathy for the ebon masked stalwart who stood
guard before the door to the Golden Room. How sad, she had thought, for such a
fine professional as he to have the misfortune of guarding so loathsome a place.
That thought lasted but a single moment, for Zhelebati’s eyes
were quick and clear and marked an anomaly in the guard at the door. As with all
operatives of House V’ree (with the exception of those who carried that most
noble blood in their veins) , the identity of the guard was unknown, his only
distinguishing feature being his fearsome black leather faceguard.
Since childhood, Zhelebati had noticed that each faceguard
was subtly different from every other, a tiny concession of individuality by
these nameless marvels. The guard who stood at the door to the Golden Room wore
the same mask as ever ... but he was not the same man, of that she was certain.
With a strength of will that did honor to her ancestors, Zhelebati calmly
continued her walk to the Imperial Libraries and shut the door immediately
behind her and her party.
Her bodyguards knew and respected her enough over the years
they had served not to dismiss her observations out of hand. Indeed, they
alerted the shadowknights on duty to accompany them to the Golden Room. When
they arrived, they found the guard gone, his ebon mask lying broken upon the
floor. A full alert was sounded within the palace, and a courier was sent to
summon Dencarja the Huntress.
The Imperator was nowhere to be found. Dread in his heart,
one of Zhelebati’s bodyguards ventured to force open the door to the Golden Room
and enter. He returned, trembling for perhaps the first time in his harsh and
danger-ridden life, shaking off all questions as to what he had seen. He and his
partner then placed themselves before the door and told the shadowknights to
secure the Palace.
When Dencarja arrived with her ever-present aides, she was
immediately ushered by the commander of the shadowknights to the door to the
Golden Room. She took in the unease of the bodyguard who had passed within the
chamber and asked of him what he had seen. He looked at her with tortured eyes
from behind his ebon mask and whispered thusly unto her: "Our failure." And
Dencarja perceived the validity of his words when she walked into the Golden
Room and saw the body of Onnilct Thex, 26th Imperator of the Undying Dynasty,
lying in a pool of his own blood. In such a manner did Onnilct Thex the
Dissolute perish: tangled in his own sleeping silks, his weak throat slit from
ear to ear, naked and helpless amid the shame of his debauchery.
So was erased form Norrath this disgrace from birth to death
to the memory of his ancestors, his noble blood finally freed from their prison
within his unworthy flesh. Mourn him not, for none of us do. Mourn instead our
failure to keep him safe, despite himself. Dencarja examined the body carefully.
There were differences here which did not fit the previous patterns. The stink
of magickal assault was present. There was a massive burn mark in the shape of a
hand upon the Imperator which yet smoldered with eldritch residue. It was,
immistakably, the sign of a Harm Touch. A shadowknight had done this. A female,
Dencarja deduced, given the size of the handprint and the intimate nature of its
location upon which it situated itself. A fitting area from which one such as
the Imperator should find his demise, she thought wryly.
The rest of the body yielded little. No sign of struggle, no
other wounds or abrasions. Again a hand had been amputated, the left one, to be
precise. This troubled Dencarja. The Imperator had been right-handed. That the
Hand was clever and well-informed was obvious. Of the three operatives of the
House they had murdered (perhaps four now, Dencarja mused, counting the missing
guard who had once stood before the door to the Golden Room), two had been
right-handed men, the last left-handed.
The proper hands had been removed. Indeed, even though the
left-handed man had taken pains to use his right hand at all times, the assassin
of the Hand still knew enough to remove his left hand. Surely all within the
Empire knew the Imperator had been right-handed. Why then, should the Hand, so
exact and professional in their dealings, make so obvious a mistake? It defied
the pattern entirely for so clever an enemy, unless...
Dencarja bolted from the room in a panic, leaving her
bewildered aides behind. Bursting onto the streets from the Palace, she sped
across three avenues before catching a glimpse of a mage she knew lived but a
block away from House V’ree proper. With a snarl that would have set a pack of
shadow wolves to flight, she forced the mage at knifepoint to gate back to his
home with her alongside him. The lurch that struck her stomach as reality
shifted was nothing compared to icy fingers of dread which were seeking to
strangle her heart.
An instant later, they appeared within the shaken mage’s
apartments. Growling her thanks, she tore through the stairs and leaped back
onto the streets, legs pumping furiously, her heart a fierce pounding in her
ears. I have been a fool, she thought furiously. I have had the pieces and
failed to test their fit. The memories of her teachers echoed coldly within her
mind. Mark the patterns, they had instructed her, and collect the pieces to the
puzzle. The pictures will deceive you, so concern yourself not with them.
Concentrate instead upon the fit of the pieces. When they fit, the pattern will
be clear. Seek subtlety where subtlety is expected, foolishness where
foolishness abounds.
A clever enemy does not engage in folly. Instead, they either
seek to remain invisible or, in their arrogance, tempt their own discovery by
leaving what they consider clever clues as to their nature and actions. The
deaths of the operatives had been too perfect. She knew that now. The lack of
struggle did not so much reflect the assassin’s knowledge of the targets, but of
the targets’ familiarity with the assassin. As unimaginable as it seemed, a
traitor must needs live within House V’ree. A traitor who was taunting her with
clues she would have seen had she but realized this. This final clue had been
obscure to all but her.
Ever the historian, Dencarja had studied the life of the
First One, the incomparable Nogras V’ree. When at court, he would always be
present at the left side of his liegelord, Imperator Rilufec Thex the Conqueror.
The Imperator had been a magnificent warrior, right-handed, but his finest
weapon had ever been House V’ree. The Imperator’s left hand.
Upon reaching House V’ree, Dencarja all but ripped the
massive doors from their fastenings and shot through the hallways, bowling over
any Teir’Dal in her path as she flew up the stairways to the private chambers of
Guildmaster Arceas V’ree. The bloody legend above the last operative killed
before the Imperator had made it clear: NOW WE SHALL TAKE HEADS, it had said.
Not heads from their victims, but heads of state. The
Imperator had been first, and his particular mutilation had made manifest the
identity of the next target. The Imperator’s left hand, House V’ree: the
Guildmaster Arceas V’ree. He who was her father. And the color in the face of
Dencarja V’ree drained away when she took in the absence of the guard from his
post before her father’s chamber.
Kicking the door open, she beheld the body of Arceas V’ree
sprawled over his desk, the hilt of the dagger that took his life protruding
like a hideous horn at the base of his neck. She ran to him, knowing that she
was too late, running just the same. The whisper of a sleeve revealed to her
that her father’s assassin was still within the room, and she spun in time to
see a cloaked figure hurl an object to her and flee. Decades of training yet
ruled Dencarja’s body, and she shifted enough to escape instant death as the
knife struck her temple.
As darkness took her, she vowed the most terrible of
vengeances against the man who had done this, for she had seen within his cloak
before he fled. Terrible beyond measure would be fate of the man would had
betrayed all for which she cared. Damned would be this man who had, until this
moment, been her husband.
When Dencarja at last opened her eyes, the first face she
beheld was that of Zhelebati, the Imperator’s daughter (now the Imperatrix, she
reminded herself) looking down upon her, her face drawn but composed. "How long
have I been unconscious?" croaked a voice she realized had been her own. "Nine
days," replied a low voice to her left.
Sitting up in her cot and cursing at the wave of agony that
suddenly tore at the side of her head, Dencarja turned to the powerful figure of
Isumar V’ree, her older brother. He stood against the wall, arms folded, his
heavy brows drawn tightly together in thought. "I thought you were on a mission
in the Cauldron," Dencarja mumbled painfully. "I came back," he said quietly.
"The safety of House V’ree comes before all things."
"You must know ..." "I know," he then replied. Therefore did
Isumar V’ree explain that Dencarja’s abrupt arrival and race through the House
had set others in curiosity to follow her, in order to see what had been the
matter. They had reached the Guildmaster’s chambers in time to be knocked aside
by the Traitor, who was making his escape. Of course, Isumar told her, they did
not realize that was the case at the time, not until they entered the chamber
and saw what had in fact occurred. By then, naturally, the Traitor was gone.
"We are alive thanks solely to Master Gantinogus," Isumar
V’ree so informed Dencarja, "It was he who realized that the whole of House
V’ree was now in immediate danger. He mobilized the Masters and operatives
within the House and sent them away into hiding, into the secret boltholes every
operative must make and keep hidden from even his brethren."
Dencarja finally noted her surroundings. She and seven others
were in a large chamber of damp, musty walls of stone with crates of weaponry
and food piled high in a corner. One sturdy, well-guarded door (another surely
secreted somewhere in the room). There were no windows, and the flickering
lights of several candles caused the shadows to dance feebly along the walls.
"Where are we?" Dencarja asked of her brother. "Safe," Isumar
said unto her wryly, "For now." He then confided that they were within one of
his personal safehouses, roughly an entire city block underneath the Caerthiel
Museum. Twelve operatives were present, including himself and Dencarja. As for
the others, all who had been in House V’ree were scattered throughout the city.
Those operating outside of the capitol were being alerted and recalled in secret
by couriers.
"And Master Gantinogus?" Dencarja had asked. Isumar is said
to have heaved a ragged sigh of anger that shook his heavily-muscled shoulders.
Then did Isumar V’ree tell Dencarja how Master Gantinogus had sealed himself and
twelve journeymen within House V’ree proper, having so done in order to provide
the others time to escape. The old teaching-master had vowed to defend House
V’ree to the death, and had thus far withstood four days of open siege from
rebel troops under the command of one Curmsa T’rubus.
At the mention of that name, the scholarly Zhelebati turned,
her face a graven mask. Dencarja noted how much the Imperator’s daughter had
changed since last she saw her. She seemed taller somehow, with a hardness only
strife engenders to those it chooses to visit. Then did Zhelebati explain that
her distant cousin, the minor noble called Curmsa T’rubus, was in fact the
intelligence behind the Hand of Destiny. It had no doubt been he who had
corrupted the Traitor, and with him launched the spearhead of killing to
distract House V’ree in order to assassinate the Imperator.
The chaos that had followed had allowed him to declare
himself dictator by an ignorant citizenry, for the purpose of quelling the
rebellion that he himself had started. The streets, she told Dencarja, were
awash with soldiers. Several Great Houses had been arrested and extinguished
upon false charges of treason. She herself and her young son were all that was
left of the Imperial bloodline.
All others, including Curmsa’s own family, had been put to
the sword. If it had not been for Dencarja’s aides, who had taken Zhelebati and
her son to House V’ree when Dencarja had bolted from the Imperator’s body, the
Undying Dynasty of Thex would have fallen that day to the ambitions of Curmsa
T’rubus and his dark standards of the Hand.
And Dencarja stood, and let the last of her emotions slide
away from her soul as they were but a silken shawl shrugged gently off of her
delicate indigo shoulders. She let the Hatred of Innoruuk enter into her, felt
it give heat to the blood in her veins, clarity to her heart and power to her
voice. Calm came to her mind, such was the purity of the Hate. It was the
highest blessing a Teir’Dal can ever hope for: a touch of godhood from the
Father Himself . When next she spoke, her quiet toneless words filled the
chamber with the chill of the Abyss itself.
"We will attack," she said simply. Isumar V’ree cleared his
throat. "I am Guildmaster now, o my sister," he reminded her. "House V’ree is my
responsibility. Not yours." "No," Dencarja V’ree replied. "No?" Isumar V’ree
then asked of her. Therefore did Dencarja V’ree reply: "I have been blind, o my
brother. Such blindness has cost our House dearly. An Imperator has perished due
to my incompetence. The Line of Thex is endangered, mayhap the whole of the
Empire.
The dead cry for vengeance and Innoruuk has listened. I carry
his blessing in my soul. Leave me to my destiny of revenge, Isumar, for I will
not permit even you to keep me from it." Isumar V’ree did then look upon his
sister and he saw the changes which had transformed her from within. Her beauty
had become a terrible thing, and he saw in the controlled fury of her blazing
eyes the Hate of Innoruuk she now carried inside her soul. And he smiled upon
her in the manner of old when they had been children together and made the sign
of salute.
"What is your will," he spoke unto her, "My Guildmistress?"
And Dencarja laid her hand upon the strong, broad shoulder of Isumar V’ree and
drew strength from his ever dependable solidity and the power of his faith in
her. On that night she thanked Father Innoruuk for the blessing of having the
same blood in her veins as this marvellous rock of a man and she replied: "O my
matchless brother, my will is to destroy the filth who have harmed all that we
cherish.
Their victory has led them to uncloak themselves, thinking us
lost. Send what remain of our finest masters and mistresses of disguise into the
city; we shall catch some minnows in our nets which will lead us to their larger
masters. Then, when we perceive them truly, shall make their triumph but ashes
in their mouths." That following night, a noble of the warrior elite decided to
visit the Dark Pleasure, one of the finest brothels in Caerthiel.
His tongue loosened by wine, he let slip to the courtesan
sharing his bed of his future position in the New Order, given the close
relationship he had with the new dictator. The courtesan flushed with pleasure
at serving so important and man, and sent for a bottle of the finest wine the
brothel maintained in its cellars. Thus did they further celebrate the
warrior-noble’s good fortune until, sated beyond redemption, the warrior -noble
fell asleep in her slender arms.
He awoke to a gag being forced into his mouth, his arms
forced together and bound with silk cords. His eyes widened in fear as he looked
up at his captors, two lean men garbed in shadows and wearing black leather
masks. At the door to the pleasure chamber stood the courtesan, contempt and
loathing twisting the comeliness of her features, and next to her a tall
Teir’Dal who carried death itself in her amber eyes. A promise of menace lay
beneath the surface of the woman’s clear, emotionless voice, and this promise
raked at his ears as she spoke thusly to her two aides: "Take him to the
safehouse. I shall preside over his excruciations myself."
Then did they strike him from behind, and all went black. The
warrior-noble awoke thereafter in chains, in the largish chamber of flickering
lights and damp stone that had served as sanctuary to Dencarja and the others.
The operative at the Dark Pleasure had done well. She would be rewarded when
this would all end. Dencarja stood still as a statue before the helpless
warrior-noble, flanked as ever by her loyal ebon masked aides. A small table and
a chair stood aside in a corner.
There was nothing else for the warrior-noble to see but the
flames of their hatred for what he represented. His heavy cloth tabard, adorned
with the black hand symbol of the rebellion, had been torn from his livery and
now lay in a puddle of filth in a corner. And Dencarja drank in the unease of
the warrior-noble, as a connoisseur of wine would savor a priceless vintage, and
calmly intoned: "You will tell me what I wish to know, and you will tell it me
tonight."
The warrior-noble’s response was in the form of blood-tinged
gobbet of spit hawked at Dencarja’s feet. Dencarja nodded gravely and pulled the
chair close to the manacled warrior-noble. Twirling it around, she sat
gracefully down, resting her arms upon the back of the chair. For several
heartbeats did she sit in awful silence, her gleaming eyes probing deeply into
the wary eyes of the helpless Teir’Dal.
The sudden snap of her fingers to summon her aides shattered
the quiet like the crack of doom itself. Without taking her eyes from the
Warrior-Noble, Dencarja the Huntress then quietly stated: "I shall require a lit
candle, a pouch of salt, and a dull skinning knife." The warrior-noble is said
to have blanched the color of early twilight, the aides immediately saluting and
leaving to procure the desired items. Dencarja’s eyes narrowed, her piercing
gaze transfixing the rapidly panicking Teir’Dal. "We shall begin with you
telling me about the membership and defenses of the Hand of Destiny..."
The warrior-noble’s information led to the taking and
interrogation of others. Drained dry of intelligence, they were then killed,
their bodies hidden in the sewers of the city. Twenty of these rebels thus
disappeared, to the concern of their commanders, and then House V’ree struck.
Caerthiel had never known a time such as this. The chaos
following the death of the Imperator, which its arrests and executions and
seizure of power by Curmsa T’rubus was terrible indeed. This was worse. For two
sevendays were the nights rife with silent death and terror. The citizenry
locked themselves within their homes and listened to the cries of death. Every
morning, the streets were littered with the bodies of the rebellious Hand. It
was as if some gruesome plague struck during the night. And the leaders of the
Hand grew fearful, and knew.
House V’ree had returned, and it had brought the Abyss to
Caerthiel. From alleyways, from rooftops, from cunning disguises and stratagems
did House V’ree wage this silent, secret war upon the Hand of Destiny. We killed
and killed and killed. To mark our disdain, we took from them their standards,
their dark flags emblazoned with the black symbol of the Hand. Perhaps you have
seen them displayed here and there within the Hall. We keep them still to teach
us of the sin of our own arrogance, and to remind us of the need for eternal
vigilance.
By the end of this campaign, House V’ree had been diminished
by more than a third of its number, but the Hand had suffered such attrition so
as to cripple it beyond repair. Curmsa T’rubus and his followers, never securely
in power to begin with, now faced in opposition not only House V’ree but the
citizenry of the Empire as well. It is inherent in our people that we cannot
abide the sin of failure, not in ourselves and most certainly not in others.
Curmsa and his Hand reeked of this stench and the Teir’Dal
finally shook off the madness that had grown over the centuries and once more
donned the mantle of pride and nobility. Curmsa and what remained of the
conspirators fled the city of Caerthiel, the restored forces of the Empire
having slain their traitorous brethren and howling for their heads.
To the Mountains of Steam fled one Vlie G’Aicinam, a high
ranking Priest of Innoruuk and one of the chief conspirators, or ‘fingers’, of
the Hand. We found him and killed him. To the Cauldron fled two more ‘fingers’.
They were both shadowknights, one Derdom E’yalf and one Romgna Y’fael. Isumar
V’ree and his lieutenants dispatched both them and what remained of their
followers.
It is said that Romgna Y’fael boasted to Isumar V’ree that
she had in fact disguised herself as a courtesan and killed the Imperator,
having been brought to the Golden Room by the Traitor, how had murdered the man
who had so faithfully stood guard at its door. It is written that Isumar V’ree
much later in life remarked that never before and never since had he encountered
so beautiful a woman as Romgna Y’fael ... nor one so in need of killing.
Curmsa T’rubus was captured in the mountains of Butcherblock.
he was taken in chains back to Caerthiel and for trial and execution. It never
took place. On the eve of the trial, the prison was stormed by an angry mob led
by the surviving members of the Great Houses Curmsa had decimated, and by their
furious hands was Curmsa T’rubus torn to pieces and left to rot in the streets.
His stately mansion, House T’rubus, was looted and afterwards
burned to the ground. A witness to that destruction tells of a room within the
mansion, a terrible room which contained as trophies, three black leather
faceguards and four severed hands, one on a golden pillow. The flames took this
room as they took the rest of House T’rubus, so we cannot confirm this
statement. But it sets us to anger still, and always will.
As for the Traitor ... well. Dencarja knew his mind now, and
she new he had realized that there was no city, no village, no tent nor cave in
the Empire in which he could hide and be safe. You see, Curmsa T’rubus had been
caught by not thinking far enough, for Butcherblock was but the steppingstone to
escape, and not the place itself.
Dencarja knew that the Traitor would make all haste to the
docks operating at Butcherblock, in an effort to put an ocean between him and
his relentless pursuers, and seek life in the uncharted wilds of the continent
of Tunaria. Which is why Dencarja the Huntress left the hunting of the other
conspirators to the rest of House V’ree and set out with her ever-loyal aides to
run the Traitor to the ground.
Dencarja arrived at the docks as a ship was in preparation to
leave. She immediately boarded it and had it searched from top to bottom,
ordering all aboard to remain and be silent upon pain of death. This last order
was reaffirmed after two sailor attempted to leave. Both were killed quite
instantly. Another comrade immediately confessed that they had been bribed to by
the Traitor to smuggle him aboard. Cursing his fellows, who had disobeyed
Dencarja in order to warn the Traitor, the young sailor declared undying loyalty
to the Empire and told Dencarja where the Traitor could be found.
Dencarja V’ree therefore ordered the sailor to hold fast the
boat and all aboard her from leaving Butcherblock Dock until she returned. If he
so did, she would make of him a captain. If he did not ... well, the sailor
would not dare to disobey so fine and noble a lady, and he said so with great
tremors of fear tripping his voice.
They found the Traitor sitting at drink at a table in the
Port Authority. He sat, hooded and unobtrusive, blending in with the other
pilgrims and soldiers awaiting the boat. Not four paces into the hall did they
proceed, when the Traitor kicked the table before him and sent a throwing knife
at Dencarja V’ree. And one of Dencarja’s aides, the swifter of the two, brought
his body before that of Dencarja.
The knife struck home deep within his noble chest, and he
fell lifeless at Dencarja’s feet. His name had been Yalol U’ter, and we honor
him still for his fierce loyalty to Dencarja the Huntress and House V’ree.
Therefore did Dencarja stand as still as stone over the body of her most valiant
aide, and asked of the Traitor but a single word: "Why?"
And the Traitor grinned at Dencarja. "Curmsa promised to make
me a noble," the Traitor stated casually, "With the lands and wealth of a Great
House. What could House V’ree offer me, Dencarja? Surely nothing so lofty as
that." Therefore did Dencarja pause, and the eyes she directed at the Traitor
with blazed like hot coals, dispelling the darkness that shrouded them.
"Indeed, once my husband," she then said, in a voice low and
tight with cold loathing, "You are quite correct. House V’ree could only offer
you what we have always offered our children, both natural and adopted: Life,
Loyalty, and Service to the Throne." "Alas," she continued, the words growling
from the confines of her throat, "We cannot offer even that any more. Now we can
only promise you doom. And, unlike Curmsa T’rubus, we will keep our promises."
The Traitor then laughed harshly. "Perhaps," he admitted to
her grudgingly, "But not tonight." And the Traitor turned as if to flee. At the
last moment, he dropped to his knees and, with possibly the finest throw in a
career distinguished by his uncanny acumen with projectile weapons, he sent a
flat throwing knife whirring on an impossibly swift, unerringly perfect course
for Dencarja’s left eye.
If it had not actually been witnessed ... well. O my
colleague, there are many wonders in the world: some of which are seen and some
of which are not. One of the greatest of these is the neverending marvel of what
a manaless mortal body is capable of doing when it must act or die. Dencarja
stood in the path of the knife as a graven image, not moving, perhaps not even
breathing. Yet, when the blade came to perhaps a mere handsbreath away from her
eye, Dencarja’s arm ... just her arm, mind you ... blurred beyond mortal eyes to
follow, plucking the blade out of its intended path and returning it to its
master.
It sheathed itself in the warm stomach of the Traitor,
fouling his escape and tumbling him down in agony, his hands clutching at the
protruding hilt. Perhaps never in the history of Norrath had such a remarkable
move been made, and perhaps never again can it ever be repeated. Dencarja is
said to have then looked down her aquiline nose at this moaning, thrice-damnable
wretch and hissed two words to her surviving aide: "Take him."
Our records show that the Traitor died after nine sevendays
of torture, and that what remained of his body was left to rot at the foot of
the crypt of Guildmaster Arceas V’ree. When the scavengers had picked it clean
of flesh, House V’ree donated the whitened bones to the necromancers, that the
Traitor exist in eternal pain and servitude as a loathsome pet. My heart smiles
to think of the agony of the Traitor, bound by unimaginable pain to his bleached
skeletal remains ... awake, aware, but helpless to do anything but obey the
unspeakable whims of his terrible new masters.
Thus did House V’ree revenge itself upon the Traitor, and woe
to any who should emulate him. There is a rumor that one of the of the relics
saved during the Flight of Fury were the bone chips of the Traitor, and that the
necromancers still maintain him in pain-ridden, undead servitude. Whether this
is factual or otherwise I cannot say. Only the necromancers know and they
neither confirm nor deny the rumor. Personally, I like to believe it to be true.
What is it you ask? What of Dencarja (whom we now honor with
the sobriquet of "the Scourge")? She resigned the post of Guildmistress in favor
of her older brother Isumar V’ree, soon after the coronation of Imperatrix
Zhelebati Thex the Avenger. She became the personal bodyguard and confidant to
the Imperatrix, and served her well as both vassal and friend. Damned forever be
the soul of the Traitor, may his reward of pain be for Eternity and a sevenday.
Praise be to the memory of Dencarja the Scourge, who avenged our House, and
preserved an Empire.
Imperatrix Zhelebati Thex the Avenger sat upon the Bloodstone
Throne for but twoscore and eight winters, not half enough for the Empire to
regain its former glory. Upon a visit to the Tunarian outpost of Wielle, her
ship and all aboard her (including her bodyguard and friend Dencarja V'ree)
mysteriously vanished, never to be seen or heard from ever again. Our finest
sorcerors strove beyond the limits of their arcane arts, but could not find them
in the either the realms of the living or the unliving.
Of course, treachery was suspected. Treachery is ever
suspected among our kind. House V'ree especially cast a baleful eye towards her
young son, Kel'anthinstion, who seemed in his youth better molded by his
thrice-damnable grandsire than his noble mother. But House V'ree could prove
nothing, and we watched with unease as Kel'anthinstion became Imperator.
And yet it would be not Kel'anthinstion Thex who would sound
the death knell of the Empire, but the gods themselves. We could never have
dreamed that the gods would initiate what would lead to the destruction of the
Empire, and nearly our own extinction as well. Perhaps They themselves knew not
the repercussions of Their actions, perhaps They did. Either way, I doubt They
would have cared. Such is the nature of the gods, I fear.
This was the dawn of what is now known as the Lost Age. The
so-called elves of light and their treeloving wild brethren had long occupied
the huge forests of the southeastern quarter of the continent Tunaria, which the
Humans have since renamed Antonica. We knew they had cities built high into the
trees and a marble metropolis in the forest's clearings and meadows. Their white
towers stretched to the sky in pale imitation of our own majestic indigo spires.
But they found the curse of the gods upon them.
Solusek Ro, may Innoruuk quench His cursed Eternal Fires,
yawned and stretched within His burning lair in the Eye of Solusek, arching the
spine of the Serpent Mountains. Heat, long unknown, came to the ancient forests
of the Pale Ones. The rivers ran dry, and rain was felt less every season. The
druids of the Pale Ones fought mightily with magicks natural and arcane but they
could not halt the inevitable. They wept bitterly as their forest died and was
replaced by a vast desert of endless shifting sands. The newborn Desert of Ro
swept over their entire realm, and their once-tall city of Takish-Hiz became a
dead thing indeed, the capital city of a kingdom of dust.
The Pale Ones despaired over the loss of their homes, marked
well the might of the Ogres of the South, and then did the unthinkable. They
turned their desperate and greedy eyes to Faydwer. To the Empire.
Most of our operatives in Tunaria had long since returned to
Faydwer to assist in the rebuilding of the House following the War of Assassins.
Thus, a mere handful of us remained at our Tunarian outposts. It was in the
third summer of the reign of Imperator Kel'anthinstion Thex that our outpost of
Wielle, located where the city of Freeport stands today, was taken and destroyed
by the forces of the Pale Ones.
They were beating at our gates, having crossed the Ocean of
Tears in our own fleet of tall ships, before we were even aware of them. What
followed thereafter was war ... two centuries of entrenched battles, each
equally matched side capturing or yielding perhaps a yard or two of territory
every season. The very soil of the continent grew soaked in the precious
lifeblood of fallen Elves. Indeed, the mighty Faydark Forest is a result of this
vast bloodletting, for it blossomed and flourished upon such matchless
nourishment.
The War ended with the Battle of Aerignon. The province of
Aerignon was the site of the headquarters of the Pale Ones. The Imperator
Kel'anthinstion Thex targeted it for obliteration and gathered the best of the
imperial forces to carry out that desire. To his credit and his folly, he chose
to lead the attack itself, in the expectation of breaking the back of the Pale
Ones once and for all time. The Imperator, who during the two centuries of
warfare had shed his wastrel ways and had forged himself into a most noble and
capable leader, soon had the enemy forces completely encircled. Escape was
impossible and our necromancers fairly danced with bloodlust for the carnage
which was to come. After all, was not victory assured? Alas, it was not. Not in
the damnable least.
I know well that this all happened a very long time ago,
before even I was born. Nevertheless, our loss is still a source of great pain
to us, a source of shame, and fuel for our Hate. My grandsire was but a boy when
it all happened, and all the days of his life were spent in teaching his family
never to forget what we once were and what we would again be, once we became
strong enough to avenge ourselves. But I digress from our topic. Our undoing at
the Battle of Aerignon. Unknown to our forces that day, a group of the Pale
Ones' wild brethren, the so-called "wood elves" had that hour returned from a
scouting foray and found themselves behind the main imperial command group.
In an unheard of display of self-sacrifice, all but one
leaped into the camp, their warcries alerting all within. The last of them used
the distraction the others had provided to slip undisturbed into the Imperator's
tent. The Imperator was in the process of donning his battle armor and the wood
elf (may his treeworshipping soul be burned forever and a sevenday by the
terrible chill of the Abyss) plunged his cowardly dagger into the Imperator's
unprotected back. The tent shook with the bellow of rage which burst forth from
the lips of Kel'anthinstion Thex. The dagger in his back snapped like a dried
twig as he whirled to face his craven assassin. With both hands he grasped the
head of the wood elf and squeezed with the last of his strength. The awful crack
of the cursed elf's skull giving way to those powerful fingers heralded the
vengeance of Kel'anthinstion Thex and the doom of the Empire.
Thus fell Kel'anthinstion Thex, last of the royal house of
Thex. Thus died the Undying Dynasty. The howl of hatred fairly rent the
continent when the Imperator's body was discovered. Our forces were blinded by
their hate and were lost. Remember this lesson well, o my colleague, for it will
preserve your life and end that of your enemies: Hate is our legacy and the fuel
in our veins.
It is a beast we direct at others. It is also a very poor
leader. Never permit it to control you, for it will blind you to subtleties and
stratagems and lead only to your demise. Therefore did our forces, drunk on
their hate, surrender themselves to the bane we call the Killing Fury. The field
of Aerignon became a marsh of blood upon that fateful day, as our forces killed
many but perished to a man.
Except for one, that is: an operative of House V'ree attached
to the Imperial Command Group. He saw what was to come and knew he could do
nothing to prevent it, so he abandoned the battlefield to warn the capital.
Because of his wisdom we were able to mobilize what was left of our forces and
slow the advance of the Pale Ones for what would be the next ten winters.
Ultimately, the end did come. Caerthiel, our once-indomitable
capital, was all that remained of our shattered Empire. We held onto life behind
its battered walls, defiant to the end, and awaited the final assault which
would surely doom our people and wipe them from the face of Norrath forever. Or
so we thought.
I cannot tell you the name of our savior, for his name
changes with every telling of the history. All we know for certain is that he
was a very young priest of Innoruuk, scarcely in his fortieth winter. But
Innoruuk was with him, and he rallied the Teir'dal to his banner. For seven days
did he pray, his slender body trembling with rage, and seven times did he curse
the souls of the Pale Ones and their Wild Brethren. Finally, his indigo cheeks
streaked with tears of blood, the young priest drove his staff of office into
the earth.
And the earth opened before him, a huge chasm of darkness as
deep as the Abyss itself. "Behold our salvation!" the priest then thundered.
"Gather your belongings and follow me to sanctuary and life!" And we did, o my
colleague. In the span of a day we gathered all that we could, all that we
dared, and followed the priest into the chasm that Innoruuk gave unto him. All
of our knowledge, what remained of our magick and treasures did we take with us.
Only one thing could we not save: the Bloodstone Throne in the Imperial Palace.
Shaped by magick from a single, massive gemstone, it could
not neither be taken with us nor left behind for the Pale Ones to desecrate.
Therefore did we smash it to bits, and we wept tears of anger at our enemies as
we so did (a shard of the Throne remains in our keeping, fellow rogue. A
gleaming memory of a matchless, all but forgotten might). That done, we shook
our fists a final time at our ravening foes and entered the chasm, which closed
magickally behind us.
The city walls fell to the Pale Ones the next morning. I can
only magine their surprise at seeing the lifeless husk of the city they had won.
They razed it to the ground, you know. Utterly destroyed it in their impotent
fury. And they did build their marble city of Felwithe upon the very site where
Kel'anthinstion Thex was so foully murdered. Damned forever be the souls of the
Pale Ones and their Wild Brethren, who brought us Pain and Exile.
Praised be to the memory of our Nameless Savior, who
delivered us from Death. Of the Rebuilding And what of us, you ask? We walked
with our savior for what seemed to be an eternity within the endless stretch of
darkness of the chasm. The weak died, and many were born during this our Flight
of Fury, and they grew more and more attuned to the black depths which
surrounded us. We could soon see in it as others could see at twillight. Not
even the Dwarven people were better suited to living in blessed darkness as we
had now become. When Innoruuk felt we had suffered enough, He opened the chasm
once more and we found ourselves on the continent of Tunaria, in what we would
call our beloved Nektulos, the Forest of Eternal Night.
We had learned our lessons well in the chasm. We had to
insure our survival before all things, and rebuild our power until we could
revenge ourselves on the hated Pale Ones for driving us from Faydwer. Thus, our
new city had to be hidden from the prying eyes of others, and a stronghold
impervious to attack. We knew from our wretched experience that we could not
build upon open ground. Then we looked to the mountains on the rim of the Forest
... and we smiled. It took a century.
In darkness, in secret, did we who remained of the Teir'Dal
carve this city of Neriak, our "Dark Sanctuary." And know that we of House V'ree
toiled under the mountains alongside our people. At the direction of
Guildmistress Etacherni V'ree (who had become Guildmistress during the our
Flight in the chasm) did we set our clever hands, trained to quickness and
death, to become soiled and callused in the work of creation as we helped to hew
a great city into the honest rock beneath the grey mountains.
Therefore did the Teir'Dal carve this wondrous realm for
ourselves, strong and safe and such that the Dwarves themselves would weep with
pleasure if they could behold the dark beauty that is Neriak. And House V'ree
crafted in Neriak its new home, and called it the Hall of the Ebon Mask. We set
it into the most defensible part of the city, and adorned it with statues of the
matchless Nogras V'ree and his worthy son Kard the Crafty. All that Caerthiel
had been was rebuilt except for one thing: the Imperial Palace.
After all, the line of Thex was no more and the Bloodstone
Throne had been destroyed. Moreover, despite the wishes of the people, our
savior refused to be named king. Instead, the priest of Innoruuk prophesied
that, while an Empire would rise anew from the ashes of the old, he was not the
one to found such a reign. Still, as we desperately needed his guidance, he
allowed the Teir'Dal to name him Regent of Neriak.
The Regent was wise in the nature of his people. We were
weary from our toils and weakened by our great losses during the Flight. We
needed time to grow powerful and confident again. Therefore did the Regent set
the guilds to rebuild themselves to their earlier glories, providing advice and
inspiration but sparingly, lest they grow dependent upon him for all things. All
that we did, the Regent constantly reminded us, was in service to the Empire to
come, to the future Throne to be.
As he held the power of the Regency, so were all guilds
acting in the name of the ruler to come. We listened and learned and mourned
when, but three centuries later, the Regent died, his struggle to make the
Teir'Dal strong enough to survive having been completed. And we were.
We stood tall and proud on the night when we revealed our
presence to the world. The Teir'Dal had returned, we told the races of Norrath,
and let those foolish enough to still seek our demise despair of their immortal
souls.
Upon the death of the Regent, a strange thing happened. Three
centuries of independence had taken effect: the guilds, having governed
themselves for so long, were most content to remain so doing. Older guilds, to
be sure, maintained that they wielded power in trust for the Imperator to come,
but the result was the same: we had become rulers in our own right. And we did
create guarded alliances between ourselves and the other guilds, lest civil war
destroy what the Pale Ones did not. That is why we here in Neriak in fact govern
ourselves, with no king or queen to rule as sovereign over us.
What is it you ask of me? What of the pretenders? Ah, my
young colleague, that has become something ever more unknown these nights. You
know as well as I do that two Teir'Dal have in the past half century made claim
to the Throne of our People: Naythox and Cristianos. Both of them dare to usurp
the royal surname of Thex, and both have gathered several followers to their
banners. Few see them, however; certainly no one in the last decade or so.
Indeed, they have become the stuff of Teir'Dal legend, two
Dark Elves eternally at war with one another in a shadowy campaign, neither ever
winning. Many now doubt that they ever existed at all. So as to the future of
the Throne ... we shall see what we see when we see it. Praise be to Nektulos,
our blessed Forest of Eternal Night. Praise be to Neriak, the Dark Sanctuary,
our home.
I need not tell you that the hearts of our people were
affected by our Flight. Many felt that the fall of the Empire was nothing less
than the betrayal of the Teir'Dal by Father Innoruuk and rejected Him outright.
Some of these Teir'Dal chose other gods to worship. Many warriors, for example,
chose the Warlord Rallos Zek, believing that the power of War was stronger than
that of Hate. Others instead cast aside all gods entirely, holding that it were
better to rely on oneself alone than on the whims of very often fickle deities.
These self -styled agnostics we know as the Faithless. Yes, heresy had taken
root in the hearts of our people, and we watched with dread when even House
V'ree failed to prove itself immune to infection.
The terrible truth was, many of our brethren within the Hall
of the Ebon Mask had in fact abandoned Innoruuk. Several became Faithless, and a
small group deep within House V'ree chose to worship Fizzlethorpe Bristlebane,
sharing His hedonistic delight in complex schemes and larceny. Heresy abounded
and it troubled Guildmistress Etacherni V'ree, who saw with alarm dark clouds
again marking the eventual doom of House V'ree.
She pondered this dilemma for seven sevendays, seeking the
solution in the musty tomes of the archives, which contained the collected
wisdom of all of the previous guildmasters. In the end, it was in the ancient
words of Kard V'ree that Etacherni found the answer she had sought. Millennia
ago, Kard the Crafty had saved House V'ree from extinction by recruiting outside
the all but vanished V'ree bloodline. His argument had been simple: "What is
blood," he had asked of his detractors, "Compared to ability and fealty? The
House must do what it must to survive and prosper."
Etacherni had known many of the heretics since childhood.
They were no less talented and no less loyal to House V'ree, regardless of their
beliefs. As Guildmistress, she was charged with the life and success of the
House, a House greatly diminished after the Flight. Reality must needs win out
over ideology. Thus did Etacherni V'ree allow the heretics to remain and in fact
recruited others. Our ranks again swelled and House V'ree was saved yet a second
time.
Moreover, unforeseen benefits arose from the admission of the
heretics: The Faithless were matchless spies and couriers, their presence
actually tolerated in the many foreign cities we had begun to infiltrate. As for
the Mischievites, their propensities towards thievery brought a stream of riches
to flow into the House proper. At first, Etacherni V'ree merely tolerated the
benefits of this spearhead of crime. Soon, however, she marked well the benefits
of wealth and power which crime offered. Her acceptance led to open support, and
her support led to the organization of crime itself. In time, House V'ree became
more than the source of the finest assassins and spies Norrath had ever known;
we became an extralegal power the likes of which Norrath had never before seen.
The Hall of the Ebon Mask became not unlike a dark spider,
the strands of our webs reaching to the farthest shores of the world, not merely
providing us with useful intelligence, but also with a not insignificant degree
of actual control over several of the financial and political arenas in almost
every city on Norrath.
So remember this, o my colleague: While they are indeed lost
souls, the heretics are yet your brothers and sisters within the shadows of
V'ree. From Master Hekzin G'Zule to the impudent Szardos, they are our Eyes and
Ears and Hands, our equals in darkness. Praise be to the memory of Etacherni
V'ree, First Guildmistress of Neriak. Praise be to the memory of Etacherni the
Practical, she we call the Third Founder of House V'ree.
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