Mortavala Meridiani the Dai Sensei of the Miyama Ryu, Magistrate of Galadon

Title History

Role

Chapter 3

The young drow sobbed as she stumbled through the woods, naked except for a blood-soaked blanket wrapped hastily about her. Branches and thorns scraped and scratched as she fled for her life. From behind her came the baying of hounds.

Then came a shouted out prayer to the false idol Ignolmeer, immediately followed by a bright flash of light and a thunderous tumult. She heard her rescuer scream behind her as a bolt of 'holy' fire struck that shadowy avenger in the back.

The older woman stumbled, agony writ large on her face, but somehow she managed to regain her balance - to keep running. They ran and kept running, all through the night. Only when it started to rain heavily did the hounds finally start to lag.

Winded, the two drows stumbled and staggered through a shadowy grove. They were on their last legs, but it seemed as though they had also finally lost their pursuer. At last they happened upon the ruins of an old shrine to a false idol of Light.

"Merciful Avderlain...", the elder of the two mumbled, her eyes widening as she recognised a graven image upon one collapsed pillar. "We should be safe here." Together the two huddled, beneath a great tree whose roots had overtaken the ruins.

Days passed, and the girl's wounds began to heal and scab over. The woman who had sprung her free though? Her wound was ugly and black, a great crater across her back from which flowed pustulent tendrils. Such was the bite of a paladin's wrath.

On the morning of the sixth day, a daughter of Teth Azeleth breathed her last. As the girl laboured to bury her remains, the north wind brought the baying of hounds and hard men's shouts. "My wrath tracks the wicked!", screamed one man.

The girl trembled as she hastily rolled her rescuer's stiff body into a shallow grave. But not before prying a dagger from the woman's cold dead hand. "Yes, you have taught us wickedness...", she whispered in the direction of their pursuers.

Role

Chapter 2

The matron screamed as the glowing brand was pressed hard into her bosom. A loud hiss, the smell of charred flesh. In their aftermath an ugly, raw wound - a mark of the phoenix. She groaned, sobbing, as she surveyed the devastation about her.

It took alot to break a drow matron of Teth Azeleth, but this one was broken. Broken beyond repair. At her feet, her five daughters - slain. Even the youngest, barely a month old, who - just minutes ago - had been sucking at her teat.

Further afield, all about her, dead and dying attendants and soldiers. Not least among them her two consorts, each bearing such horrific wounds as only Maran blades could inflict. Silently, a servant girl watched - a plain dagger held close.

The tears on the girl's cheeks had dried. She could only continue to observe silently, from the shadows, as her mistress was taunted and tortured. By the time the humans and storm giants were done, there was no longer a drow matron there.

Only the shell, the husk of one. Stripped naked, her once-proud form glistening with blood and sweat, covered with bite, burn and scratch marks. The so-called Marans were done, gone from that place. But this once-matron? She too was done.

The girl crept out of hiding towards her mistress. Her face, once innocent, was now a mask of studied calm. Within her, emotions roiled - fury, grief, terror... pity. "Please... my baby...", the once-matron rasped, choking.

The girl's eyes turned to the broken form of the child at their feet. Eyes soft nevermore but henceforth hard, harder than the foundation stones of Teth Azeleth. Silently, she embraced a broken once-mother. Silently, her dagger found its mark.

"Yes, broken beyond repair...", she whispered to herself.

Role

Chapter 1

The lewd sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the dimly lit room. Grunts, groans - whimpering and pleading. The tiny flame of a lone candle flickered fitfully, causing shadows of tangled bodies to dance and writhe unnaturally.

The drow was almost still a child, her adolescent body had not yet blossomed. The so-called high elf was already old and grey, his decrepitude echoing the last Light fading from his twisted soul. "Korsgaard, Padwei, Einoh...", he chanted.

The old healer had convinced himself that this was no base act of lust, but a solemn ritual of purification. Surely those long years an Acolyte had to count for something. Even if he had been cast out following that accident in Ayr'Trinil.

Surely the Light yet flowed through him, and with his 'spear of Light' he could yet pound the red aura out of this young drow. Such thoughts flowed through his guilty mind as he forsook conscience and persisted in pleasuring himself upon her.

An hour passed, and the youngling had gone still - fallen silent. Minutes later, the candle burned out. At that very moment, there was a glint of steel. A soft sigh was followed by gurgling as the wretch keeled over, a dagger through his heart.

Her hard eyes softening, an older drow emerged from the shadows into moonlight. She smiled a sad smile beneath the alabaster death mask which concealed her features. With one callused hand, she caressed the still unconscious girl's cheek.

"Yes, you will do nicely...", she whispered to herself.

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