Age of Mystery: Measure of Being A Manipulative Drow Elf In A Fantasy World

A grin flashes on the buyer's face, as he takes away the chained slave with him. The idiot paid eleven pieces of gold for a bulky, but underfed human. You're on fire today, as other than this sale, you sold twenty-six other slaves, making a profit of total two-hundred twenty-three gold pieces.

You stand idly.

After a moment, you get bored and count your earnings mentally. You divide it by three and your profit is seventy-four gold pieces, which is still not that bad all things considered. You've truly shined and shown everyone who wears the top hat around here, and making a mint is never bad.

To your knowledge, a city-wide dispute began last night. House Teken'th's Mother Matron stands trial for terrorism, attempting to overthrow the clergy, and performing unauthorized necromancy. It's amazing how the priestesses don't care about enforcing the law when it is unadvantageous to them yet so eager to be concerned with it when there's a chance for a powerplay. The Matron of House Oussrett, the High-Priestess, has apparently had a fight with the rebellious Matron. The traitorous House is pretty much halfway to falling apart.

The filth of your civilization and the fact it is anything called as such is amazing, but you've always been more into the architecture and urban development than anything else. In fact, your investment into agriculture should yield some profit in a month or two, assuming the city is still standing by then and is not a smoldering pile of rocks.

And more surprisingly, your mother actually esteemed your words. You expected her to be incredulous, but she likely sniffed out a snippet of intrigue to abuse. Like running her fingers through a thin plot web, only to spin her own and interweave with it. She does like to take people's plans by the hair and make said plans her bitch, if you excuse my crude language.

The main market is as beautiful, dark, and free of murder as usual. A nice atmosphere, emptied of violence. The last fight here was months ago, and the perpetrators were flayed for eleven days and kept alive with healing spells, only to then be burned alive and have their lungs carefully punctured to release just enough air to make a full breath impossible, yet to make it possible to survive. And after that, they were thrown into a pit of multi-colored children's toys in the shape of little building bricks.

You take your time to chill here. After a moment, you tell the slave to lock up. Time to go visit that assassin.

---

"Prisoner!" The guard approaches in black, onyx armor. She brandishes her spear in her right hand and a big tower shield in the left; typical equipment for a prison guard. "You have a visitor."

You step into the cell, hands eloquently behind your back. You nod to the guard politely, "Thank you."

The guard nods, "Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, please. I have lunch in eight minutes."

"It won't take more than five, I assure you," you answer, your smile deepening. You nod again, to non-verbally pronounce your full willingness to cooperate with the guardswoman's lunchtime. Your head cocks in the prisoner's direction. "Hi, there."

The assassin quirks an eyebrow. A drow, as expected. She sits behind a wooden table, on a chair, cuffed. Not really how you like your women, but you can work with that. She decides to get feisty, "Piss off." She spits on the ground in front of you. For a drow woman, she lacks manners.

"Hey, hey, easy there." You show her the creepiest of sadistic grins. "I'm your friend."

The guardswoman behind you quietly says something to herself. That something may, or may not have been: "More like torturer." You give her a very curt glance, your face asking if you heard what she said right. The guardswoman is silent. You look at the assassin again.

"Let's get this over with quickly. Who do you work for?"

"Yo' momma," she insults.

Your eyes widen and your grin fades into a poorly-faked shock. You fake a gasp, looking at the guardswoman, then back at the assassin. You walk forward with that dumbfound expression, then stop at the edge of the table. You stare with that same, shocked face for seconds.

"Don't fuck with me!" You slam your hands on the table, making the assassin blink and flinch. "You want teeth, I want answers."

"I want you to fuck off!" she argues back.

This will be a tough nut to crack. Fortunately, you've received an upgrade. Right now, you classify as a multi-dimensional can opener. Let's pry this cylinder of walking information up, shall we?

"Tell me:"


"Who," you begin, putting a strong accent in the word, "do you work for?" Your glare turns red.

The assassin shivers, then, as if hypnotized, answers. "I was hired by the Matron Mother of House Teken'th."

So, this resolves the issue.

She is not related to last night's nightmare. (The Prodigal Son Quest, END.)

You smile. So, brother was right after all. You do suppose that magic gets an answer, and with him being a mage, he found out through scrying or other forms of magical spying above what anti-magical fields of the nobles can hold. You nod to the assassin smugly, "Thank you."

A shock appears on her face, in the realization of what she just said. An assassin who lets out the information of their client has no publicity. You turn to the guardswoman. "What's her verdict?"

"The solicitor said she will be sacrificed."

You smile. "Enjoy the Demonweb Pits." With a turn to the assassin, you show her the full expansion of your grin. The disgusting pleasure you take in the fear clearly visible on her face is better than any form of wine. You look at the guardswoman again and offer a bow, only thirty degrees in depth, more like a deep nod. "Thank you, that will be all."

---

"So, remind me, what is our job again?" Manwor asks. The group walks through a tunnel in the caves. Manwor and Mubar are at the back and front of the group respectively, torches in hands.

Gagrim groans and looks at the gnome with intense anger. "You weren't listening?! Again?!"

"Patience," Mubar interjects and turns his head to the left, trying to look at Manwor, even though one is at the front and other at the back. "We are to retrieve gems, guarded by a deep dragon that lives in these parts of the caves."

"What kinda gems?" Manwor adds to his question.

"Opals," Mubar says.

Gagrim smiles at that. "My favorite of all jewels. An opal is like the darkness of the cosmos, with bright lights of the astral plane glistening in it in a rainbow of colors." He seems to be captivated by the mere thought of the gems. It might sound stereotypical, but because he is a dwarf, it can be easily assumed he has knowledge of precious rocks and noble metals.

"A poet has awoken in you, Gagrim?" Olvia chuckles sweetly under her hood.

Gagrim's smile deepens, "I just have a way with words."

Kuzkan doesn't speak or interrupt the conversation between the group. He only remains silent, with his arms folded and looking forward with determination. Olvia looks at him, the smile on her face changing into worry. "Is everything alright?"

The orc shrugs lightly. Olvia is still worried, but looks forward as clearly Kuzkan doesn't want to talk about it.

Suddenly, Manwor finds a new question to ask: "What does a drow lady need opals for, though? She wants to redecorate 'er housing?"

"Why do you ask so many––––" Gagrim was about to annoyedly respond but was cut off by Mubar.

"That's a good question," the old man nods. "I've been wondering about that myself. She is a cleric, however, so she might want to make a magical weapon out of them. Gems are valued not only for their rarity and decorative value but for their application in magic. They are attuned to various types of magical energies differently. She might want to make a magical item out of them."

"A what?" Manwor asks, confused. He's probably new to the group, otherwise, he wouldn't ask such basic questions.

Gagrim groans again, deeper than ever. He looks at Manwor and stops. With him, the rest of the group stops and looks at him as he speaks: "Let me explain it t'ya plain and simple, just how one of these underground drow folks would; when mommy spider and daddy spider want to stab each other in the abdomen really bad, they make nasty stuff that causes shit to explode. We call that a magic item, because it's an item, but it's also magic."

"Makes sense," Manwor reasons, putting the terms together. The group resumes their walk.

---

The Matron of House Teken'th: Ivviyan Teken'th, is tied to a chair in tight chains. Her left eye is quite literally a bloody pulp and her right hand appears to be halfway chopped off and her body counts hundreds of other signs of torture. Despite the seemingly debilitating injuries, she isn't feeling any pain. She smirks at the High-Priestess. "You like to torture people, don't you?"

Angaless frowns, then replies sarcastically her frown swiftly transforming into a self-satisfied smirk, "Quite. It's a guilty pleasure of mine."

"Well, you're not doing much," she answers, spitting out blood to the floor.

Angaless' frown returns. "Everyone has a breaking point. Even if I have to ram a drill up your eye socket, eventually, you will yield the key to your vault."

"Sick bitch," Ivviyan insults. "I never liked you."

As a response, she receives a merciless punch to the face. Angaless motions to a slave, who hands her a whip with razor-blades woven into it. She smirks at Ivviyan. "Prepare. I'm just warming up."

The door slams open and Margretta walks in, with you following in her steps. After the visit with the assassin, you went to your mother to report your curious finding. "We have confirmed that the assassin who tried to kill my son was hired by the Teken'th."

Ivviyan groans. "Seriously? Do you have to tell lies at this point? I'm already dug deep. Not that I don't appreciate the effort, I'm just saying that it makes no differe–––"

"Shut!..." Angaless interrupts sharply, raising her whip-wielding hand. She finishes her sentence calmly, "Your mouth."

You kneel before Angaless for the briefest second. She's already told you long ago not to waste time with elaborate introductions or contriving yourself with long, overly respectful bowing, worshipping and groveling at her feet, or anything similar. In her own words 'a simple, curt show of respect will suffice, then get straight to business without wasting time.'

"High-Priestess," you nod, only as a way of saying hello.

"Ah," she exclaims, looking at you. She releases the whip, tossing it behind her back without looking. The handle hits Ivviyan in the face, making her release some air. Angaless approaches you and plants a kiss on your neck, which surprises you greatly, but you don't say anything. Doing so might either offend her, and returning the show of 'affection' might be grounds for execution. She pats you on the shoulder.

"Good to see you're alive, Cesimir. How would you like to help me with the tort––––––––––that is, interrogation?" she invites.

You really want to ask her; 'since when are we so close as to torture someone together' or to prompt a kiss on the neck, but, again. Doing that with the High-Priestess equals to asking her how much she'd like to roast your gonads on an open flame. "Very much," you answer, out of social necessity.

"That's my boy!" she squeals with glee. "Now, grab those tools over there and come join the fun while I talk with your mother, o-key-do-key?" She smiles at you in a way that is so adorable that it's almost disgusting. You nod and move over to the desk at the other end of the room, slaves getting out of your way as you walk.

You overhear the conversation between the priestesses behind you. Simple 'how have you been' and exchanges of late rumors. They don't mind the presence of the vict––––––––––that is, prisoner, at all. You haul the tools near the table and set them on a metal tray.

Ivviyan smiles at you. "She's planning something," she quietly whispers, looking at the High-Priestess. "The way she treated you? Not. Natural."

You know. You nod very slowly and lightly, so the two clergywomen behind you don't notice, but Ivviyan does. Honestly, she's done for and she's well-aware of it, so she probably doesn't care to hide her intrigues.

As soon as you're done, you turn to Angaless. "It's done."

She stops conversing with Margretta and her head jerks in your direction. A smile instantly plasters itself over her previously neutral face. "Excellent." She approaches the rack of torture devices and peruses which one of them to use. She decides for a scalpel, then hands you another, similar bladed implement. Margretta says goodbye to you and leaves the room. You remain alone with the High-Priestess.

She gives you a few commands, such as to 'cut here' and 'cut there.' From your limited knowledge of biology, she seems to be avoiding major arteries but focusing on nerves. It's clear to see from the fact that Ivviyan's fingers are covered in thousands of small, bleeding cuts. She doesn't seem to be in pain regardless.

Angaless seems pleased with your doings, constantly complimenting your efforts and making it clearer she's planning something. You're not sure whether she wants you to know she has a plan, or whether she thinks you're mentally slow and not catching on at all, or simply too incapable of going against her word to care.


After twenty minutes of torture, during which Ivviyan barely released several moans of mild discomfort, Angaless gets fed up. Her hands are covered in blood. "It was worth a shot," she says, wiping them with a rag. "She's numb to pain."

"No, she's not," you object. Angaless' eyes widen.

"She's not?" she mimics.

"I am a mage, my lady," you elaborate. "At least, since recently."

She processes the information, then slowly nods as a grin appears on her face. "Oooh... So you wish to use magic to extract information out of her? Excellent idea. That's my golden boy, Cesimir, for you."

"What am I exactly looking for?"

"The key to her vault. She keeps valuable spelltomes inside and I want them for my collection before she dies. I could just drill through the adamantine wall, but it'd take very much effort and time. It's better to get them now, isn't it?"

"Naturally."

You lay the palm of your hand on Ivviyan's angered face. You send a spark of psychic power, extending your mind into her own and penetrating her cognitive defenses. You try to look through her mind and memories to look for where the key is.


"She swallowed it."

"What?" Angaless asks, her head jerking at you.

"She swallowed the key." Before the High-Priestess can respond, you intervene. "Allow me."

You look Ivviyan in the eyes, then smirk in the most dickish of ways. "Vomit."


Ivviyan's body jerks as a whole, but she's unresponsive other than that. You frown and repeat the command,


"I said, vomit!" Ivviyan's body, once again, jerks. This time, she almost jumps. But still, her body refuses to regurgitate the key. Her mind manages to resist this.

"Don't bother, Cesimir," Angaless steps in. "You've done very well. I'll just have someone cut her stomach open and retrieve it after the sacrifice. You have been a great help to me. How can I reward you?"

[] Money.
[] Promote me.
[] Flumph Genocide. (+1 Evil.)
[] Surprise me.
[] Write-in.

---

The Prodigal Son Questline Ended!
+5,000 XP!
+2 Fate!
+1 to Dexterity!
+2 unspent Attribute Points!

[] Strength.
[] Constitution.
[] Dexterity.
[] Intelligence.
[] Wisdom.
[] Charisma.

FATE POINTS: 9

[] Don't spend any Fate.

Upgrade Attributes
[] Novice Strength. (+2 Strength, -1 Fate.)
[] Journeyman Constitution. (+4 Constitution, -2 Fate.)
[] Journeyman Dexterity. (+4 Dexterity, -2 Fate.)
[] Novice Intelligence. (+2 Intelligence, -1 Fate.)
[] Novice Wisdom. (+2 Wisdom, -1 Fate.)
[] Novice Charisma. (+2 Charisma, -1 Fate.)

Story Choices
[] Date with the High-Priestess!? *Spits out drink* She's like a hundred years older than you! *Inhale, exhale* Hooo, boy. (-1 Fate, +chance to smash, +chance to get mad influence.)
[] Attacked by a raging Drider on the way back home. (+1 Fate, gotta fight, +5,000 XP!)
[] As you are returned to active duty, Aunran becomes your partner again. (-2 Fate, +chance to smash, +chance to train mad skills.)
[] Teme-Napish is invaded by a rival city-state. Help defend it. (+2 Fate, gotta fight, +??? XP, +some other shit.)
[] Adventurers fleeing from a deep dragon end up bringing it back to the city. (+2 Fate, gotta fight, +7,500 XP for survival alone, +some other shit.)

Special Choices
[] Psychic powers go haywire. Learn the cause. Contains mystery egg. (+1 Fate.)
[] Traveling monk bestows the arts of ass-kicking upon you as payment instead of gold. (+++Unarmed combat, +practical life skills that will come in use later on.)
[] Shit hits the fan. (+10 Fate, -Will begin: 'The End?' Questline. Note: You're not prepared for 'The End?' Questline.) (Yeah, no. Get to Level 8 and I might consider it.)

Select Quest: (yes, I really do have eight quests prepared for you.)
[] In Strange Eons, Even Intrigue Gets Intrigued.
[] Slaves, Fresh Slaves, Straight From The Surface!
[] Hit Me With Your Best Pot!
[] Vapours & Reflections.
[] More Like A Private Investigator!
[] Labracadabrador.
[] Thanks For Nothing!
[] That's Mister Death To You!