It's Not Black & White Ch. 01

Black and White - Chapter 1

Blooding

Twisting around the dagger was easy, and she felt a thrill at the sensation of scraping against bone when she pushed. Her victim tried to turn around, but she put her knee more firmly in the creature's back, forcing it to the cavern floor. A sticky wetness coated her fingers holding the weapon's hilt.

Such ease.

Pulling free, she plunged the blade in deep once more, this time missing bone and striking organs. A muffled scream against the cavern floor quickly cut off in a liquid gurgle.

It should have been...harder.

She giggled, withdrawing the blade and finishing the deed with a stab to the back of the neck, in her mind attempting to sever the elf's brainstem. One twitch, and it was over.

A wipe of her long dagger against the creature's leather armor, and she stood, looked around, ignoring the stab of pain in her side.

Was this really it?

She'd known that when the matron mother chose this to be her prey, that perhaps her skills had been insulted. Only slightly had she reconsidered when she'd found out the elf had been a warrior of some renown on the surface. Yet this little match had proven how incapable he'd been.

I've had sparring matches with more blood and more thrill.

Part of her - a large part - felt annoyance, and she drove a steel-tipped leather boot into the side of the corpse - though without effect.

With a sniff, she cinched her Piwafwi tighter and whirled around. Her quick feet took her back the familiar road towards the cave. She walked for perhaps half an hour, her feet navigating the dark with ease, and her vision showing the utter blackness of the cave in black-and-white. Picking out the three figures at the mouth of Mylthar'ara, the devourer cave in their tongue was easy.

"She yet lives! And returns." Fists on generous hips, Maela scrutinized her as only an elder sister could. With her long white hair and full lips, others might consider her beautiful, if not for the thick scar across her left cheek. "Though bloodied, it seems." She sneered.

"The task is done?" The second figure, a regal, though youthful-seeming drow in an obsidian-dark garment asked.

"You k-" She bit back her comment, swallowed. "It is done, Matron Mother. The vile spawn is dead."

"Excellent. Your blooding is complete, daughter."

"Quite literally. There is blood - a cut." Maela moved forward towards her side. "She allowed the surface elf to scar her." With an open hand, she indicated the deep gash by her side, reaching out as if to touch it.

"No. Keep your fingers to yourself. Sister."

Maela held up her hands, smiling, though there was no kindness in the gesture.

"He proved a capable prey then?"

"He was a jest, matron mother. A small cut, an accident." And a foolish one. She spat. "Setting me against one such was an insult! Why not set me to hunt something capable?" She glared at her sister, recalling the older drow's blooding where the opponent had been far more...dangerous, leaving Malea with the need to regrow an entire leg before it was over.

"You do not decide the prey, daughter. We do. And you passed your blooding." Her mother gestured. "Now come."

She opened her mouth to argue but quickly snapped it shut.

"Taraen - take us home."

"I serve, Matron mother" The wizard murmured and gestured, the silver shimmer of a portal opening in mid-air and bathing the cave in colour. Without looking back, her sister and mother stepped through.

Walking through the large corridors of their mansion, she caught her own reflection in one of the slave-polished mirror glasses that decorated the walls. She grimaced.

Cretin. Allow yourself to be bloodied like a fool. She touched the gash and compressed her teeth at the jolt of pain. The elf had actually managed to cut her, and deeper than she thought. Her black leathers had been split open by the blade but were otherwise undamaged.

"You will be expected in the grand hall, for the rest of the ceremony, Viara."

"Once I've changed and healed this, I'll be there.

"Don't dawdle. The Matron mother has only so much time to waste for her third child."

"You-" She broke off, baring her teeth at her sister. Indicating that she was considered third, after their male sibling.

"Yes, sister? What?" Maela smiled back, her teeth a pearly white.

She whirled and climbed the stairs to her chambers, slamming the doors behind her.

The cunt! May the spider queen lay eggs in her stomach!

Viara took a deep breath and drew open her largest armoire, laying out a new set of garments on her bed, freshly laundered. She stripped and walked to her own mirror, taking a jar of ointment from her nightstand. A quick inspection of the wound told her it was superficial - thank Lolth. A

few hours and a smear of the house cleric's healing remedy would do wonders. She dabbed at it, regarding herself to make certain nothing else had been cut.

Undoing her tight ponytail of snowy white hair, she let it fall back over her shoulders. A slim drow, perhaps shorter than average, gazed back at her from the mirror. Eyes like blood-red rubies mined in the lowerdark, with an inner intensity, and lips with a decidedly dark red tint as opposed to the purple of her family. Her otherwise hairless form held no scars the likes of which adorned her sister, and she'd not fallen into the insanity of her closest peers and pierced her already-sensitive flesh with bars or rings of gleaming metal. She touched her left breast - a handful of sensitive, silky-smooth obsidian tipped with a dusky, small nipple, in her cupped palm and shook her head.

Dressing quickly in thin breeches and a tight tunic, she strapped her belt to her waist, followed by her two daggers. Her Piwawfi remained, and she left to join her family.

***

"Matron Mother, she is late."

Melara chuckled. "I am well-aware you allowed her to change. Leave it. She is newly blooded, and nineteen. Your sister has earned some levity this night. Some."

Her eldest daughter snorted but subsided when Melara fixed her with a very steady gaze.

"Apologies, Matron Mother - but were you not too easy on her? An elf? A surface elf? Even she killed him with ease, as you saw.

"Oh? And what do you know of her prey?"

"Why...A slave, matron mother. No more."

She shook her head. "Tsk. No mere slave, daughter. One of three gladiators I bought from the ringmaster a tenday back. This one was a master with the blade - and he was equipped with the finest elven steel. "Mistwraith", the spectators of the ring called him. Prior to this, he had killed fifteen - some of them Drow. Truth be told, I did not expect your sister to survive - and certainly not with ease."

Her eldest daughter swallowed. "I...yes, matron mother."

"You underestimate your sister." She said sternly. "You remember a stripling clinging to your skirts, learning to levitate and learning to walk. She is no longer that. Your sister is grown - in both body and mind"

Maela sneered.

"Today your sister is bloodied and adult. She will be regarded as such by those outside house De'lar - and certainly by you as well. Rivalries are well, but remember, you are both of this house. Do I make myself clear, daughter?"

The sneer faded, and the younger drow inclined her head. "Perfectly, Matron Mother."

"Good. Bring in the slaves, and the feast. Quickly now."

And the delicacies that the Underdark could offer were put out on large tables in the hall, where they were quickly joined by soldiers of the house as well as the male members of the house - her current consort, as well as her single son.

***

Viara couldn't help halting for a moment when she entered the main hall. There it was, dozens of soldiers, servants, and members of her house, all organized by rank, and all sitting in front of well-filled tables with food and drink. She quickly spotted the empty chair by her mother's right side - the left already occupied with her sister.

When she entered, the hall fell silent, and the only sound that could be heard was the soft fall of her feet on the polished black marble floor. Having been schooled in the ritual until she could recite it while sleeping, Viara ignored the still-present twinge of pain in her side and knelt in front of the dais where her mother sat.

"Matron Mother."

"Daughter." Her mother's voice rang strong and clear, and she stood. There was a collective scraping of chairs as everyone stood - the servants and slaves had moved to the side.

"Tonight" her mother began in her grand-hall-voice, made to carry to the rafters "my youngest daughter, and second daughter of house De'lar has proved herself an adult, and worthy of recognition by her peers. Slaying a hated elf of the surface, she honoured Lolth, washing her weapon in the blood of her enemies. Praise Lolth!"

"Praise Lolth!" The crowd answered with varying levels of fervour.

"My daughter, Viandra De'lar, second daughter of house De'lar is welcomed. Show her respect worthy her station, or face her wrath. She will add strength to our house. Strength to house De'lar. Death to our enemies - and praise be the spider queen!"

"Death to our enemies - praise the Spider queen" The crowd of perhaps a hundred-and-fifty recited.

Viandra looked up, meeting her mother's eyes. Her mother gave her a curt nod, then sat back down. "Daughter. You may join me."

Despite knowing the outcome, and despite considering it all the height of ritualistic frippery, Viandra felt a slight tightness in her stomach as she climbed the stairs to the dais. She'd never been allowed to sit by her mother's side - not before now.

Upon reaching the cushioned chair, she was surprised to see Maela by the chair's back and inching it closer to the table once she'd sat down. Judging by her mother's expression, it must have been part of the ceremony - though one she'd not been told of.

"Welcome, sister." Meara's hands on her shoulders did, for once, not feel like a threat but as though she genuinely meant to welcome her.

They feasted on Rothé steak, freshly-baked sporebread, fine fungal wines, delectable fish in rich sauces with mushrooms and desserts from sugared and jellied underdark fruits and berries - her favorited. Neither her mother nor sister spoke to her much during the dinner. It was a ritual - and one they'd expected, as she expected it. Viara enjoyed the meal, and the air in the grand hall allowed her to relax. One the enjoyment began, in the form of slaves pitted against one another with basic weapons, she cheered and laughed as loudly as any of the common soldiers when one or another of the slaves went down in a particularly grisly manner.

It was as good a night with her family as she could recall.

"Come, daughter." Her mother motioned to her and rose. "There's still something else you are to be rewarded with this night."

"Oh?" She never said anything of this. What could it be? Could Maela.... no. There was no deception - not beyond the usual amount at least - in her sister's face. Perhaps a bit of annoyance and exasperation, but no more. She followed her mother.

"It has long been the tradition in our house that upon blooding, family members are to be gifted with their first slave - a symbol of their rise and dominance within the house, and over others."

Viara frowned. "I have slaves, matron mother."

Her mother chortled. "The house has slaves, daughter. This one is yours, not the House De'lar's. A bodyservant of your own. Someone to tend no ones needs but yours."

Viara pursed her lips. The thought was...pleasing. All too often her sister took perverse pleasure in taking the servants Viara had trained for her own, or made sure they were somehow killed. It was a nuisance, having to train fresh servants - and a nuisance, as she'd made it her business to reward her sister in kind.

"No one, matron mother? Just me?"

"As I said, daughter. Just you."

"I...I am honored, Matron mother. A house member of a lower house captured in a raid? An indebted commoner?" There were ways their kind could be indentured, or serve - at least males.

Her sister snorted. "As if someone would waste such a servant on you?"

"Come. See. I secured him a tenday ago." They crossed the courtyard of the fortress, down the stairs to the training areas, barracks and dungeons.

Curiosity overtook her and she followed, passing house guards back from the feast, busy sparring and practicing and doing menial tasks. She noted several of them inclining their heads at her - not just her mother - but her, and made note of it. Seems as though some things are bound to change after all.

They reached one of the lower cells. She could pick out prisoners in the cells - usually one or three in each. Yet the cell her mother lead them to held only a solitary creature, sitting in a corner and shrouded in a cloak, or some sort of cloth. The guard by the door was a male with a prominent crook to his seemingly oft-broken hook of a nose.

"Open it." Her mother gestured curtly.

"Matron mother." The guard bowed and unlocked the door with a heavy 'Clink'

Idly, Viara noticed why such a heavy chain and lock for a slave down here.

"Has he given trouble?"

"Yes, Matron Mother". The guard replied. "Yesterday, the....critter broke Basrin's arm when we watered him. Since then, he's received gruel and water only through the bars."

Her mother clicked her tongue in annoyance. "I gave specific instructions, guardsman. Need i repeat them to every male for them to be followed?"

A pause. "No, matron mother. A thousand apologies. I shall see to it at once."

"No, no matter. He is to be retrieved. But should i find out my instructions are not followed to the letter, i will...speak to your lieutenant. And to you. Understood?"

"My life is yours, Matron mother." The response was without hesitation, and the cell door swung open.

"You - slave. Rise." Her mother announced to the prisoner.

The form did not move.

"Matron mother, if i may-"

"You may not." Melara broke him off, gesturing. "Leave, male. Now."

The guard saluted, and left.

"What is this?" Viara frowned. "Will you give me an untrained slave, matron mother? What is this...thing?"

"You. I said 'rise'. I know well that you understand what I say. I spoke to your former master. Rise and present yourself - or I will have you flogged." Her mother's threat was delivered evenly and with absolute certainty.

Slowly, the form rose and walked towards the cell entrance. The cloth that shrouded his face fell back.

Viara blinked.

"Is this a joke, mother? If so, I am not amused."

Her sister gasped, glaring at her.

"No joke - and watch your tone, daughter. Your blooding only goes so far."

"I...my apologies, matron mother." She moderated her tone. "But surely you must be jesting. That is..." she gestured. "That is a Rivvil. A male Rivvil!" She scrunched her nose. "And he stinks."

"A few weeks in the dungeons will do that to any male, even a drow. This is your new slave. As I said, it is the tradition in this house that each bloodied member be given their first slave. I picked this one in the arena for you, daughter."

"The arena? What does he know of serving?" She couldn't help her tone.

"He knows what he knows - and what you will teach him."

"I am no hrasting slave master!"

"No." her mother's voice was cold, and she moved closer. "You are a daughter of house De'larn, second daughter. You are drow. And you are my offspring. If you cannot teach, dominate and control a simple Rivvil male, how are you ever to achieve or control anything?"

"....Yes, matron mother. Forgive me"

Viara swallowed. It's not fair! None of her peers had ever spoken of such...idiocy, and many of them had been through their own blooding. Her closest peer, Yhari, had received a new set of weapons as a gift for the blooding. Why not a new set of weapons?

"So" her mother stepped back, and gestured. "That is your slave."

Viara squinted and took a step closer. The male was big. Quite big, in fact. He was taller than her by a head, though height difference had never bothered her when she knew she could bring any male to his knees with a look - or her daggers. His face looked angular - and several purple marks, evidence of beating, stood out on his cheeks. She removed her gloves and frowned, grabbing his chin, grimacing. He's unshaven! Drow did not grow facial hair, and the sensation of his stubble was...odd. And, a glance at her fingers told her before she wiped them clean, he was dirty. Quick glances at his chest and legs told her he was strong - very strong. His muscles were well-defined, and scars told a story of a life lived with battle.

She could never put an age to Rivvil, but she estimated him well past his adolescence. She could not tell his eye colour in the light, only that he looked at her with a guarded, wary look.

"What...can he do?"

Her mother crossed arms beneath her breasts. "He was bought from the arena. I was told by the masters of the melee that he killed over a dozen men in single combat. He was taken on a raid - not from the surface, but during the return, in the Underdark. A warrior - though from where, i was not told."

Viara circled the slave.

"He speaks some of our tongue on his own - and his former master gave him the gift of a ring, infused with a dweomer that grants the ability to speak freely. He understands what we say."

"Truly, matron mother?" An oddity. Few primitives speak the civilized tongue. "Do you understand me, slave?"

The man regarded her, but did not move - or speak.

Viara compressed her lips. She itched to strike him - as she would any slave who disobeyed.

"Seems you have your work cut out for you, sister." Her sister quipped.

"Silence, daughter."

"Apologies, matron mother."

Her mother moved to her side. "He is yours, daughter. Do with him as you will, though he will spend his time in the slave rooms in your chambers."

Viara did the only thing she could - she inclined her head. "As you say, matron mother." Praise be to Lolth - An obstinate slave who does not speak.

"And - be careful, daughter. He has harmed several of the guards - I do not believe he has yet fully understood the consequences of such actions, should he attempt the same now."

Even her sister stared at Melara with open wonder at the needless caution. Viara kept herself from quipping something vile that might have earned real retribution, and inclined her head again.

"Let us leave your sister. She will take the slave back and see to things. Do not linger too long, daughter. Lest I miss my guess, you have lessons when the hour strikes twelfth, no?"

Her sister gave her the vilest sort of smirk. "Good luck, dear sister. I bid you a pleasant evening with your new...task." her voice held undertones of mirth.

Viara was left standing in the relative dark with a rag-clad, dirty and beaten, unshorn rivvil slave.

Fuck. Spider queen, what offense did I give? Have I stepped on one of your children without notice? Did I relieve myself outside one of your sites of worship?

"You."

The man looked at her but said nothing.

She blew air out her nose and stood on her toes to look into his eyes. "I don't know how things are done in your forsaken lands, Rivvil, but in civilized lands, we answer when spoken to by our betters Especially when 'we' are a lowly male.

The man's lips compressed, thinning.

So, he does understand, at least.

Whip-quick, she withdrew her left belt-dagger, placing it along his jugular, and drew a thin snake of blood. "Heed my words, male. You were given to me. My mother did not instruct me not to kill you, right here and now. Do you wish to listen, and obey?" She quirked one eyebrow. "If so, move, male. Walk".