Prologue

Blood splattered on his goblinoid armor: an armor that was more a collection of unpolished leather patches put together in an attempt to protect the young half drow. The armor barely covered him, and although he wasn't the biggest in the battlefield, he was studier than most and stood taller than his flat-faced goblin allies. Blood that was mostly not his own, matted his short white hair but disappeared along the strange black strands. The warm liquid alongside the ever pouring sweat that the rush of battle provoked bothered his vision as it fell on his gray scarred face.

He blinked away the bothersome mixture in the same moment it took him to dodge an attack and cut open a deep gash on the chest of his newest target. With regret being clear on his face, his dagger followed his short sword, digging deep and reaching into his victim’s heart. Glowing green eyes locked with ruby eyes, both of them stared at each other. His victim was a half drow as young as he was, perhaps even younger. The pain his target felt was reflected on his own face as if he could feel what the other was going through. He allowed the dead half drow to rest forever on the cruel landscape and winced as he pulled his weapons from the body. The half drow lay dead with opened eyes, horrified and confused while gray boy looked away, attempting to focus himself on his next target all the while trying to get his thoughts away from the apparent crime that his hands carried. Every act of murder that he had committed as he slaughtered goblinoid folk, and half drow alike, he could only explain by one simple primal need:

Survival.

This was also the reason why goblins, hobgoblins, orcs, ogres, kobold and half breeds from the two sides joined forces together against each other: the slave contingency of a merchant and ascending drow house and the poor lesser house that they were to destroy and step on. They were the foul races, the lesser ones, the scum of the realms and the abominations. They were the slaves and on they fought against all odds and for all odds without neither bravery nor honor. There was no choice left on the matter. Slaves had no choice. They served or died, and for all living things with the capacity to reason, dying was not taken very well.

Survival.

Sounds around the battlefield were varied and yet muffled as the gray half drow made his way across the field, sneaking like death towards his preselected targets. Much like in the Bazaar, spells of silence were placed around and even inside certain zones of the battlefield. This would give the fighters a supposed advantage, according to the drow. It would also make for a clean kill of the enemy house. Overthrowing houses if done stealthily was praised by the drow. If the attack was overly known and left witnesses, the invading house would surely suffer the consequences. But to fighters that depended on numbers and communication, these spells worked as just meanings of entertainment to the drow and as a way to keep their slaves under some type of cruel training. All the battles of the drow were silent, and as such, they needed their slaves to understand that.

It was a curious thing, though. As the young half drow moved in between the masses, the sounds behind him faded from whispers to silence. Weapons connected yet the sound – if there was any – was more akin to the fall of needle than the clash of metal against metal. Screams of the dying issued throughout the whole zone, yet they were muffled or silenced from the distance even if their anguish came from the top of their lungs. It was a battle of whispers and murmurs. A struggle to survive in which life was silenced before it ended.

Survival.

Yet this outside struggle was not the toughest test. As much as everything was silenced around him, the gray half drow's will was also silenced. Even if he wanted to, he could not stop his deadly dance. He danced for life and took it away as well. His blades moved in desperate attempts, putting enemy slaves to rest as he turned more red than gray. To be done with this that had been already started: that was all that he wanted. Beyond his own survival, he had been entrusted with the survival of his closest ones. If he ever stopped the murderous approach that he was being taught, he could rest assured that he was to find his mother with cuts that only drow swords could make. Her life was on his hands that now took other lives away. It was ironic. With every killing, with every drop of enemy blood that fell, the face of his mother appeared in his mind. She once protected him. Now he protected her. In the harsh world that he had been raised into, his mother was a treasure worth protecting and the drow had placed the price of blood on her head.

Survival.

It was not only the posing threat to his only family that kept him advancing. Like many other experiments as himself the drow priestesses with the job of turning the strongest slaves into possible warrior-breeding machines, chanted into his mind. Spells were turned into compelling orders and wishes that he could not help but to obey. Images of murder that he never committed, feelings of hatred that he did not understand and desire for power that he did not want. They constantly assaulted his mind as he groaned and roared in silent protest. And the cold. It was always the cold. He really did not know where that had come from, but said cold aided the mental assaults. It was as if his mind was being constantly stabbed by tiny pieces of frosted metal that dug like needles into his heart as well. Their commands were strong. His will, was fading into the Abyss.  

Survival.

Being so deep in the battlefield was of no help either, for to stop killing was to be killed. Being flanked on every side by enemy slaves, he fought like a cornered animal. As his blades turned, twisted, hit and slashed he could feel the ache of his arms. But he cared not. His wounds were getting worse. But he cared not. That part of him that was guilty of most of his appearance and his agility, praised him. That part of him that understood and embraced good, cursed him. Yet there was another part, a more versatile and more human part of him. That part of him did not judge him for his acts, but it fueled his instincts. Instincts: they had won over everything and nothing else mattered.

Survival.

From his distance, he spotted an ogre, its spiked club blasting small goblins that flew in all possible directions. His scarred hands gripped tightly onto the leather handles of his two weapons as he took position in front of the small group of goblins. The ogre sported wounds of their crude spears and short swords, but it was still standing. It had taken down five out of the ten goblins that were before. He made sure they could hear him in this part of the battlefield and issued a simple order in the croaking goblinoid tongue accompanied with a hand signal that they understood. The ogre swung its massive spiked club sideways attempting to take off their heads and they all crouched in unison at the half drow's order. His hand pointed forward and forward the goblins went under the shadow of the still swinging spiked club; a desperate tactic, indeed.

Survival.

The shade of gray followed close behind nearly disappearing in between them, climbing like a spider the ruins of the columns that were once the elegant entrance to the invaded house. Taken by surprise, the ogre felt once again the crude spears and swords poking into its skin and the hopeless goblins stared up at the massive club that was soon to smash them. When they looked up, though, their half drow ally was leaping from a nearly destroyed balcony behind the ogre, short sword drawn and awkwardly twisting forward, his eyes fixed on the spiked club. With his free hand, he reached tightly for the club, ignoring the wounds that the spikes were producing in his hand, and uncoiled himself using his own weight and powerful momentum to pull the club backwards until he was on the monster's back. Stunned, the stupid beast tried to attack the boy on his back and the half drow took that as an opportunity to dig his short sword on the back of its neck. The beast roared. The goblins cheered. It finally decided to bring the attacker forth to face him. It was the stronger. It knew it could do it and probably taste the flesh of the bothersome child. It was the stronger, but not the faster. The half drow noticed the movement of the club going up again, and not wasting time, he let go of the wedged short sword and drew his dagger, his eyes wide with desperation as he shouted a curse.

Survival.

The goblins noticed the hand coming up, but it had no club and no half drow. They  saw that the ogre had lost all of its fingers, a fact that the ogre took time to see. He roared in agony and surprise in the same moment that the giant club fell to the ground with the half drow pulling a wounded hand from it. He crouched, met the goblins’ eyes awaiting more orders to follow. Those green eyes glared and his mouth uttered a single word in the goblinoid tongue.

"Killss it!" The simple command sounded so common for the goblinoid tongue, for it was a usual one. The goblins didn't waste their time, as they assaulted the creature and brought it to its knees. It tried to escape. It growled for mercy. But it received none.

Survival.

On came the half drow, his quick movements dodging the blows as he made one or two cuts with his dagger from behind. He backpedalled, unsure of his next move. The chanting of commanding spells came back to his mind and he screamed in pain as he gripped on the sides of his head and glared at the ground.

"No! Shutss up! Shutss it!" Yet, there would be no silence. He looked up again at the ogre and saw the blood of it on his hands, on his face. He saw himself as the priestesses wanted him to see himself. At their command, he started running so fast that he felt his lungs would collapse. Then he jumped over the fallen formations that use to be part of the conical house, taking to the air again while ignoring the slower movements of the ogre. His eyes settled on the wedged short sword with an unreasonable hatred that neared insanity but was in truth desperation. He kicked the handle as hard as he could with both feet, falling to the side and to the ground before crouching and producing the dagger again. A stupid expression took over the beast's face and drool mixed itself with blood as it groaned. It seemed to go backwards and then forward until it fell dead. Out of panic and desperation, the goblins climbed on the beast's back and stabbed the beast repeatedly, an act that the young half drow had joined into once he had retrieved his short sword.

Survival.

As he crouched on top of his latest victim, the boy looked up to where his drow masters were standing overlooking the scenario with apparent amusement. He could care less about the intentions of the drow on attacking this lesser house. Whether it was a training exercise or a way to punish said house for whatever transgression Lolth had invented as of lately, he could care less about the voices in his head that congratulated him for such a blood bath. As he looked down on the battlefield, the bodies of many young half drow clouded all of this with regret and pain, for he had killed many of his own kin in that battle as well, kind that he knew of, that had been traded to this lesser house from the one he served. With that burden on his shoulders, the youth disappeared in between the mass as he lost himself in this struggle. The answer for all this lay on one simple primal need...

...The need to survive...