The hallways were alive with the sound of moans and pleas, gated pens lined each side, cobwebs were thick along the corners and ceiling. It gave Jysyl Everhtyl chills of pleasure. The pitiful calls for aid that she heard did little more than cause a sly grin to cross her face.
She stopped at one such reeking pen, a young man surged forward.
“Please,” he sputtered in common, “have mercy. I have a strong back, I can…”
She laughed, effectively cutting him off, and shook her head, “I care nothing about you, human. You are naught but a pet to the drow.”
Her high heeled boots echoed on the flagstone floors as she made her way to one of the many chambers of torture. Here she was met with a grueling sight. One of the eladrin males were strapped to a table, bare save for his smallclothes.
The mage had his back to her, but Vornatar Godeafin saw her enter; sheer delight turning his face into a horrible mask.
“What do you think?” Vornator asked, “Isn’t it brilliant,” he continued not waiting for an answer.
“Nobody said I’d have to look upon,” she wrinkled her, “one of those. Is it dead?” Jysyl queried.
“No, no,” the mage finally spoke, “this one is quite alive – unconscious, but alive. We don’t want them remembering what has happened to them while they are down here or the plan won’t work.”
She didn’t like the mage; there was something about the smug Leslochar Auvryzynge, other than the fact that he was male that she didn’t like.
“How many have you infected?” Vornator intoned, cutting into the preistess’ thoughts.
“Well, all of them,” Leslochar stated, matter-of-factly, “it just all depends on how many died in the trials or from the beatings or…”
“How many can go back to the Feywild?” Vornator interrupted.
Jysyl liked that he was getting upset with his mage-pet. She enjoyed it greatly when Vornator was angry; it was his passionate side that had drawn her to him.
As a mere priestess in the grand capital of Erelhei-Cinlu, the Vault of the Drow, her station could not rise any higher, unless the high priestess had died. Looking to Lolth for guidance, her Spider Queen showed her a vision of a male drow standing in power, which in the matriarchal theocracy was unheard of.
The male drow were usually mere drones, used for protection and pleasure, they couldn’t even serve as clergy. As was proper, they were merely secondclass citizens – but Vornator showed promise. He was feisty and had character, so when the opportunity arose to build this new great city she jumped at it – and pulled this male drow into power with her.
His visions matched hers and that of their goddess, Lolth, the god of shadow, lies and spiders. Their tenaments were simple, the Demon Queen of Spiders merely demanded that her followers did whatever it took to gain and hold power, to rely on stealth and slander in preference to outright confrontation, and to seek the death of elves and eladrin at every opportunity.
Before moving to the city of Szithlin, built in an ancient abandonned Dwarven stronghold, Jysyl made sure to do just that. She had the high priestess of Erelhei-Cinlu poisoned prior to her departure. It was better that way, the denizens of the Vault of the Drow then could not look to see what she had done in her new great city, raised a male drow to power as her equal.
She jumped, he never used her name, her mind had wandered again.
“Yes, my Dear,” she purred.
“We have done it,” Vornator grabbed both her shoulders and shook them, a madness in his eyes, “Lolth will be pleased.”