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Hollow Conquest	By : DrowDagger Category: A through F > Forgotten Realms Views: 4407 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Forgotten Realms series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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This dark story has a rating of NC-17. It contains scenes of violence and sexual acts.
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Chapter 1 “ Ascension
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The drow dwelled in the isolation of the endless darkness, oblivious to the oppression of having tons of earth suspended over their heads. The drow strived for the acquisition of profit and position. The drow thrived on conquest. The drow delighted in the elimination of the weaker races on the surface. The drow were the masters of the lawless Underdark, carving a magnificent city out of the stone.
Nestled in the basin of a cavern, amid ancient stalactites and stalagmites, the city glowed with the illumination of faerie fire. It limned every building and statue in hues of purple, appealing to their highly evolved sense of art, superficially disguising the savagery of their chaotic nature.
The intersecting avenues, lined with rows of common houses and noble castles, led to the temple exclusively dedicated to Lolth. It was masterfully constructed in the shape of a spider, dominating the lightless landscape as cruelly as the dark goddess dominated the drow.
Within the temple, two females were discussing who would ultimately rule the city.
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Princess Mira Everharth glared hostilely at the high priestess, whose smile alluded to her disdain for the eldest daughter of the First House. She barely resisted the temptation to slit the bloated sow‘s bejeweled throat, convinced the priestess was purposefully opposing her rightful ascension in favor of her sister.
The struggle had begun when the First Matron Mother had died from an incurable disease. Promotion among the drow usually involved assassination, eliminating rival and kin dispassionately.
“I am accepted as the heiress to the throne,â€? Mira hissed.
Imara mounted the steps, circling around the square slab of stone used to offer sacrifices to Lolth. She extended her arms imperially before sitting upon her chair of marble and plush velvet, draping her excessively long sleeves over the carved armrests.
“The common subjects accept you as their queen. I will not defer to popular opinion,“ she declared. “The rites must be observed.” She stared down upon the princess maliciously. “I will not allow you to ascend to the throne without first subjugating you to the trial of chaos.”
“I assent,” Mira interrupted.
The priestess raked the armrests with her nails. A witless male would have missed the warning.
Mira stood defiantly.
“When the moon is full in the Lands Above,” Imara announced, waving her hands at the shining crystal embedded in the ceiling, “I will lead you to the entrance of the Well of Woe. Beyond the blood pillars, you will venture forth and seek out the altar of the Sacred Matron Mother.” She reclined into the cushions haughtily, smoothing the emblazoned fabric of her robe. “You must return before the Black Death is upon the time tower. You must return with the Keeshe d'' Qos to prove you are the chosen queen.”
The Dagger of Dread had a decorated hilt, encrusted with scores of precious gems. The blade was four inches long, inscribed with arcane words. It was allegedly forged before the Crown Wars and the fall of the dark elven nation of Ilythiir. It was historically linked to Zarthara, who had founded the drow city. It was the legacy of her foremothers, directly connecting her to the fearless females who had overcome the perils of the Underdark after being driven from the surface of FaerÃ»n.
Imara smiled cruelly, dangling the irresistible bait in front of the ambitious princess.
“I will return,” Princess Mira said conceitedly.
The trial was not for the meek. Prior generations of females had sought the dagger and died. Treacherous traps and vile creatures lurked in the caverns beneath the temple.
“With the favor of Lolth,” Imara intoned.
Once the princess had departed from the inner sanctum of the temple, Imara brooded for hours, unable to decide who she should support in the coming war.
Miya was ruthless; the predatory female of the siblings, purely obsessed with obtaining power. Mira had the favor of Lolth, despite her flippant attitude toward her dark goddess.
Imara surrendered in a fit of boredom, deciding the Weaver of Chaos would choose the winner. She simply had to be prepared to profit from the loser’s eventual fall.
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Imara retired to her private bedchamber, planning to indulge one of her many vices. She was ambushed.
“Har''oloth zhah elghinyrrok xuileb natha abbil,” a shadow said.
Imara hastened to kneel before Miya, bowing her head to the youngest princess of the First House.
Miya Everharth reached to remove the priestess’ black veil and spider-shaped headdress. She brushed her mane of white hair sensuously. She slid her fingers down the slope of her forehead, tracing the bridge of her widely flared nostrils, gliding over her slightly parted lips to her quivering chin. Her feather-light caresses sent shivers through the panting priestess.
Miya reverted to violence without a change of facial expression. She grasped the nape of her neck, hoisting the priestess to her feet, drawing her into a hostile embrace. She pressed her scarlet-painted mouth to her ear, smearing the extract of a poisonous root onto her skin. It was a harmless threat. The drow had a natural resistance to most diseases and poisons, fostering their inclination to cuddle the deadliest vipers and arachnids companionably.
“I want Mira to suffer before she dies. I want the pain to be merciless and unending.”
“The guardian hungers for the taste of fresh prey,” Imara stammered, inhaling the scents of sandalwood incense and lust. “You will delight in the sounds of her death screams when she falls beneath its pincers.”
Miya struck her cheek, knocking her to the floor. “It is blind. It is missing legs. The First Matron Mother rendered the beast impotent during her trial.” She lowered her hand to the writhing whip attached to her belt.
Imara squealed, spider-crawling to her canopy bed.
“I will suffer no fools.” The six snake-heads responded to her touch immediately, hissing and rearing up around her head, glaring at the priestess with slanted eyes.
Imara obediently bent over the mattress stuffed with diatryma feathers.
“I will not surrender the throne to her.” Her eyes burned with hatred as she lashed the priestess. “I will not kneel before an inferior female sown from the loins of a light elf.”
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The First House stood alone on the highest shelf of the subterranean cavern. Its spires and towers loomed over the city, surpassing the magnificence of the temple. It was a monstrosity of stone and mortar, a combination of drow architecture and dwarven slave labor. It was divided between the princesses.
Miya held court in a suite of dungeon chambers. Mira occupied the eight furnished floors of the palace, and within one of those lavish rooms, she paced, oblivious to the advice of her manservant.
“Patience, my lady,” he said. “It is unnecessary to strike at ““
She shook her fist at the manservant. “I will lose my throne and my head if I do not slay my mother-sister.”
“Miya can be defeated. You do not have to slay her,” he warned.
“I cannot abide by your cowardice.”
He stared at her pityingly. “A bloodless victory is still a victory.”
Mira scoffed, resuming her frantic pacing. Her ebon legs slipped through the slit of her nearly transparent nightgown as she marched past him. Her arms thrashed the scented air, mimicking the thrust of her spear. The light elf was too squeamish about the tactics of her fey kin.
Caelathim Dwin’elrvis had been captured with Kethean Norrenddare, a noble of the northern forest realm, when drow warriors had raided an elven settlement. He had witnessed many merciless acts throughout the centuries of his captivity. His revenge would be to deposit the child-seed of his prince upon the drow throne.
“Miya will spare no lives once she is queen.”
“If you slay her, it will begin a frenzied cycle of war between the matrons of the ruling houses. No advantage can be gained from a war you cannot win,” he said in a tone of patience.
Her pacing slowed, a clear indication she was listening.
“Undermine her power,” he advised. “Convert her enemies into your allies. Cut the ties to her allies.”
“I could kill her allies before I kill her,” she said acidly.
“You cannot slay so many alone.”
“Perhaps the hunter would offer a discount if I contracted him for multiple kills?”
He sighed.
She laughed at his distress.
Caelathim tugged at the hem of his tattered tunic.
“Continue,” she said.
“Threats and forbidden pleasures bind Imara to your mother-sister. That bond can be broken with a bribe,” the manservant said. “Imara covets an enslaved male. Send the youth to her bedchamber tonight.”
“Who owns this male?” She sat down on the cushioned bench to her dressing table. Its black marble surface was covered with an assortment of perfume bottles, ceramic containers, wooden chests loaded with jewelry, and hair ornaments. She reached for her brush, gliding the coarse bristles over her white hair.
“Matron Keelin,” Caelathim answered.
“She will want a reward for parting with her favored male.”
“True. She wants Miya to die at her hand.”
“A male is hardly worth the risk. Imara could buy males in the slave market,” she said dubiously.
“He is a light elf. Such rare beauty is to be admired and owned by the strongest drow.”
She savored the simplicity of his scheme, smiling approvingly. He always kept her hands clean of blood.
“Your answer,” he said insistently.
She stared into the mirror, envisioning the fell queen she would soon become.
“I assent,” the princess replied.
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The doors of the Third House opened. Matron Keelin Kenarrahel released the golden-haired youth.
He strolled through the streets of the subterranean city, unaware of the lurking shadow he had acquired since leaving the protection of his former mistress.
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The youth awoke in the rear room of a tavern. He had no memory of the ambush. His head lolled to the side, affording him a tilted view of the floor. The muscles in his neck were stiff after hours of immobilization. A sharp stab of pain assaulted him between the eyes and his ribs ached. His pointed ears were ringing. He barely heard the baritone voice of his abductor. He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. A black hand flew out of the shadows, lashing his check with slap after slap. He moaned, gagging on the salty taste of blood.
The assassin laughed hollowly, leaning in to leer at the helpless elf.
He slowly became aware of his surroundings, flinching at the sight of a taunting face. He was slumped in a straight-backed, wooden chair. His forearms were tied to the armrests. The pallid skin of his wrists was chafed red and his ankles were similarly secured to the chair’s legs. He had little feeling in his lower limbs.
The door opened. The assassin retreated, bowing to a finely dressed female and her armed entourage.
Miya smiled evilly as she approached the captive. “So, this faerie is Imara’s price?”
His eyes widened, exposing the gold flecks in his green orbs to the light of a single candle.
“Shall I finish him, my lady?” he asked, lowering a hand to the hilt of his dagger.
Miya tossed a bag of coins at the cutthroat. “I will call for you when I want my message to be delivered.”
He slipped quietly out of the room, leaving the youth to a terrible demise.
The one-eyed priestess stepped forward, reaching for her slithering snake-headed whip.
The light elf screamed.
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Imara howled insanely, stumbling out of her bed.
The severed head of the youth rested on her musk-scented pillow, staining her curtains and sheets with his immortal blood. His lifeless eyes stared at her. His mouth was open, frozen in an unending scream of pain.
“Do not fail our true queen,” the assassin taunted.
Imar clasped a hand over her mouth, stifling a whispered oath of vengeance.
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Hollow Conquest