...darkness gathers...

Lockh Manor

City of the Drow

Johass was worried.

This was not a particularly common state of mind for him. He was used to being the cause of worry in other people. Johass was large, had been since childhood, and he had few compunctions about hurting people who hadn't done anything wrong to him. This particular combination of attributes had ensured steady employment from the time he was old enough to knock down most grown men-- which had been the age of seventeen or so. A lifetime of delivering precision **** on request had given him a steady-on, easy-going manner, secure in the knowledge that if anyone did give him trouble he could return it fourfold.

But now he was worried. And the very fact that he did not often experience worry made it worse. Johass was not, despite appearances, a stupid man, but he preferred to let the boss do the thinking for him. And, right now, the boss did not seem to be doing well.

Johass's first sliver of discomfort had shown up when Lord Lockh announced his plan. He'd met with those two drow-- Johass had pegged them as gutter-trash from the start, and he knew whereof he spoke-- and that was where it had all started going wrong. Normally, Milord would never meet with such lowborn scum (Johass consciously excepted himself from this category). He wouldn't even look at them if he saw them in the street. About the best a mine rat drow like Korrio could expect, if he dared to directly address Milord, was contemptuous silence. The worst was a careful stare and, later, a visit from Johass to discuss protocol. But Milord had met with them, in his own office, at his own desk, and then had come to Johass and told him to assemble the house guard. He wouldn't say what they had discussed-- and Johass knew better than to ask-- but when the militia had been called up, Milord had opened his armory to them. He'd given a little speech about "protecting House Lockh's interests," but that hadn't done much to rile up the guards. So he'd switched to talk of plunder instead-- gold, gems, and women. "Think of those captives," he'd said. "Beautiful women with skin like obsidian and hair like spidersilk. Think of them hanging in the foul beasts' larders! We must rescue them!"

Johass was not much of a romantic, and he knew the militia well enough to know that they likely shared his lack of sophistication. He suspected that any beautiful drow women rescued by the Lockh house guard might soon regret it. But he knew better than to say anything. You didn't contradict Milord. The whole thing didn't sit right with him, though. He'd sat by while Milord bribed and lied. That was just what being a noble was. And he'd arranged more than a few "accidents" in the foundry and forges. Sometimes workers forgot their places. But this seemed like war, and not just against the driders. The Church had been pretty clear about the new rules. If this was war, it was war against the rest of the City. War was above Johass's pay grade.

He'd shut up and followed, though, because what else could he do? He didn't have any moral opposition to a light spot of pillage and plunder... but Johass always preferred soft targets, and the driders were about as hard as a target could get. Even so, it seemed to be going well at first. There were so few of them, and that creepy gutter-trash drow had done some magic or something. The militia had never fought so fiercely. Johass had stood loyally at Lord Lockh's side, and Milord had been having a grand day of it. He'd gotten his bow out and everything.

Then it had all gone wrong. That woman had shown up, the golden woman with the wings. What was she? And then she killed the creepy wizard, and that had been it. They'd been **** to retreat. Lord Lockh had fumed the whole way home, and not just metaphorically; a cloud of oily black smoke seemed to follow him around everywhere now. Johass had wisely remained silent-- his knowledge of when to do this was another trait that had endeared him to more than one employer-- but now he was getting worried. Since returning to the manor, Milord had locked himself in his study and had gone silent. Johass had had meals delivered through the dumbwaiter, but they always returned cold and uneaten. He didn't want to interrupt Milord's brooding, but he was growing concerned that something might be wrong. Besides, there was the matter of the messages. They had started arriving a day after their return-- official petitions from the Quorum and, more worryingly, the Church. They first requested, then demanded and audience with Lord Lockh and an explanation "for your shocking breach of treaty and protocol." If Milord wanted to ignore them, that was his prerogative, but if he kept doing so then pretty soon things were likely to get hairy. And Johass needed a plan for that.

So he stood in front of his boss's door, swallowed his nervousness, and rapped his knuckles against the dark wood. There was no answer; he hadn't expected one. He knocked again.

"Milord? It's Johass," he said, putting one ear to the door. "There are some matters that I think need your eye."

Nothing but silence answered him.

"Milord, please. Are you well in there? Should I send for a doctor?"

Still nothing. Johass sighed. He hadn't wanted to do this, but these were dire circumstances. He reached to his belt and brought out his master key. He had never had to use it on this room-- had never even imagined it. But that was how bad things were.

The lock clicked under his key and the door swung open. Johass gently pushed it with his fingertips, just far enough to allow him access. Inside, the study was dark; the windows had been shuttered and the lamps extinguished. The torchlight from the hall spilled in through the doorway and filled the room with flickering shadows.

At first Johass thought he had been wrong. The room was empty, after all. So where had Milord gone? As he took a step forward, something moved in the chair behind the desk. Johass's hand went to his swordbelt before he checked himself. He was being ludicrous. A drow, afraid of the dark? And yet there seemed to be something more to this darkness. It was clinging and greasy; even to Johass's excellent nightvision, the room was a blur of shifting shadows.

Lord Lockh sat in his chair. Johass rubbed his eyes. He was sure Milord hadn't been there when he opened the door, but there he sat. And he did not look well. His skin was drawn and covered in pale grey blotches. Much of his hair had fallen out. His eyes were glimmering pinpoints, sunken in their sockets, and his lips had peeled back from his teeth, giving him a permanent rictus.

"Johass?" he said, and there was a note of confusion in his voice. That wasn't good, either. Lord Lockh was never confused.

"Uh, yes, milord," Johass said. "Uh... I knocked..."

"I didn't hear you." Lockh waved a hand, as if to shoo away all that was unimportant. "Why are you bothering me?"

"Well, milord, I wouldn't, except... there's messages for you. Letters. From the Church, and the Quorum. They want--"

"Make them go away." Lord Lockh shook his head irritably and scowled. "I'm very busy, Johass. I don't have time for this. Isn't that why I pay you? To make things stop bothering me?"

"Milord, I really think--"

Lord Lockh's head snapped up and his eyes flashed. Smoke was beginning to leak from their corners like blackened tears. It curled upward and wreathed his head. "You think, do you?" he snapped. His voice was growing scratchier, and beneath it Johass could hear a second tone, low and buzzing. "You think? I don't pay you to think, Johass! I pay you to do as I say!"

Johass backed away. He was not consciously aware he was doing it, but terror-- another unfamiliar emotion-- had taken control of his limbs. He raised his hands in a warding gesture. "Please, milord!" he cried. "Please, I only meant to--"

Whatever he had meant, he never got a chance to say. Snarling, Lord Lockh jumped up onto his desk. He crouched there for a moment like a feral animal. His lips curled back even further, revealing a mouthful of fangs. He leapt forward, arms out. Somehow, he managed to vault across the ten feet between himself and Johass and brought his bodyguard down with a flying tackle. Johass overtopped Lockh by a head and was much broader about the shoulders, but he found himself borne down like a child. In his panic, he struck out blindly, not caring that laying hands on a noble was a ****-crime. The spitting, howling thing on top of him was no drow noble, he could tell that much. It wasn't even a drow anymore.

Lockh easily slapped Johass's hands out of the way. His fingers closed around the larger man's neck. He tightened his grip and began to throttle. His arms pumped up and down, slamming Johass's head into the tiles.

"I... don't... want... to... be... interrupted!" he growled. Johass's eyes were wide with panic. He tried to suck in breath and managed only a reedy squawk. His hands flailed at Lockh's, but there was no strength in them. Lockh hissed in triumph and dug his fingers in tighter. His nails pierced the flesh of Johass's neck and rivulets of blood spurted out, covering his fingertips. Gradually, Johass's struggles began to fade, and his arms fell to his sides. He let out a last rattling exhalation and slumped to the floor.

Only then did Lord Lockh climb off of him. The smoke was pouring off him now, surrounding him in a cloud of filthy darkness. He gave the corpse on his floor a last look, then tossed a hand dismissively. He raised his bloodied fingers in front of his face and stared at them. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean.

This done, he found that he felt much better. In fact, he felt great. He strutted out the door and down the corridor of his manor house. The house was dim and starting to grow dusty; his servants had left, he realized. That was fine. That was just fine. He could track them down if he needed them.

He leapt as he passed through a doorway, brushing his fingertips against the lintel, and giggled like a child when he landed. Yes, indeed. He was doing just fine. Poor old Johass had reminded him. There was a world out there, a whole hateful world that wasn't going to freeze in its tracks just so he could wallow in maudlin self-pity. He had things to do. And now, by the darkness below, he had the tools he needed to do them. Korrio? Well, he had been useful, but he was just not up to the challenge. If Lord Lockh wanted something done, he would have to do it himself.

And he had plans. Oh, yes. He had plans.

First, to the Quorum. He knew all about their petty and petulant little letters. They still labored under a misapprehension of independence. He would show them their master. Then that little whore-priestess. That vile, interfering lapdog! Her and her betrayer Goddess... they would have to be swept out of the way. And then the glorious work could begin.

Lord Lockh's arms crossed in front of Lord Lockh's chest, and one of Lord Lockh's hands tapped Lord Lockh's finger against Lord Lockh's chin. And Lord Lockh's mouth smiled, but there was nothing left of him behind that smile.