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Keely giggled once more and blushed over the complimenting that was going on. Wasn't that just the most wonderful thing she had heard in a while. Hands reached up tp right her hair some from being ruffled. Though the smile died a little when Meilikki said she was ready. Though a rub at the back of her neck in that thinking fashion. "Are you going to wait till she comes back or will you leave before then and just leave her a note?"

"Yeah well I don’t have one for it so it's going to stay at the bottom of my 'I just don't need it in my life' list for a very long time." Arthur nodded a little bit to that and opened his hand again to let out not a flame, but a spark of electricity between his fingers; he wasn't doing this to impress the drow for all he knows Sevilin doesn't even care about what he is doing. Arthur was only 'showing off' just so he could get the feeling of magic running through his hand again.
Arthur closed his hand and gave a small shrug. "I just don't" was the simple reply he gave to the dark drown and sat back in his chair a little bit. "But yes I always had the feeling of wanting to use magic but I just had a strong feeling that I didn't need it too much so I pushed it aside. Also my family never took me outside of the walls of our home that much since it be hard to hide my ears and those mages that did came by had to be bought off or swore to never to say a word so we dropped the lessons."
Arthur opened his hand again to send another blot of electricity through his fingers again, yeah that’s another thing he needed to start doing was finding out more useful spells so he could use them against Sevilin if he ever challenged him one day again.

Onyx waved away the coffee. not his thing really.

"Of course. I know she sin't the best cook. but it gives her somethign to do and makes sure she's appeased and not question what things I did to get into this situation in the first place."

A slight smirk.

"Not to mention, I'm starved. I coudl eat anything right now."

"Good as can be, given present circumstance. you still have no idea what I was drugged with, and we don't know why it just all of the sudden decided not to bother me anymore. not to mention that Whirlwind hasn't answered any of my summons yet, either. Nor have my wisps found that Omega woman."

The drow walked down the dark coridor unnoticed by the brutish sentries, who probably were drunk or sleeping, one never could tell with orcs. Wearing his drow cloak of hiding, and his drow boots of silence, he probably could have snuck passed the most observent of beholders, the unpleasent of the place overpowered any other scent, so a very keen nose would never find the drow either. His dragon scaled armour was inked black to prevent the scales from reflecting light, the adamantium chainmail underneath was naturally dark in complection and never could shine under a drow smiths hands. His belt was lighter than normal, only two scabbards, and a single dagger were donned upon it. Upon the drow's head sat a black dwarven made cross helmet, short two eye holes. The drow was a picture of perfection for an assassin, but honestly, he was not part of that trade. Tarathiel was only a male drow fighter, invisibility kept him alive in his own home.

The door was wooden, probably about four inches thick, and constructed poorly. Gaping holes and imperfect fits marked the door as an inferrior product of inferrior worksmanship. It was probably used for a smaller entrance once, as the edges of he wood were angled towards the centre.

Sliding the two scimitars he wore into his hands was a mere fluid motion in one direction, bring them to bare upon the door was another. The wood shattered under the power of the strikes, as it would have if any creature had tried to open them in such a way. The other side of the entrance was crowed with routy orcs, who had been aptly listening to some high ranking religious figure of some god, probably the One Eye, when the drow so callously opened the door. The room errupted with noise as each creature scrambled to draw their weapons, mostly rock clubs or spears, to tare the drow to pieces. It could not have gone more poorly for the orcs.

Numbers are an advantage in an open space, but in a room that was not much larger than the crowd gathered, they could not move in any organized fachion. They could charge, the closest orcs to he doors first, and push the drow out by sheer weight, shourld their bodies prove a barrier to the drow made weapons. Thus, the mass of flesh and rock rolled onto the drow, or at least, tried to roll onto the drow.

The nearest of the beasts brought out their arms and flailed, trying to knock the drow down so they could simply trample him. Unfortunately for the orcs, the drow's weapons proved more devilish than any story of horror spoke, the blades cut through the orcish flesh with such speed and ease, most did not know they had been skewered or slashed until they felt a sudden chill run throughout their bodies. Heads rolled, arms flopped, torsos bent under the pressure of their own wieght. The twelve or so orcs closest to the drow felt the first swipe of his sword, and not the second.

Marking the size of the room, there was maybe ten feet from the head of the tallest orc, and the ceiling above. This proved to be a misfortune for the grunts. The drow swung his swords in a few graceful strikes, severing all that tht blade touched, throats were slight and bowls were released, orc spears and javilins flew at him, but found that the drow flesh was harder than the rocks in the walls. Stone spear heads shattered under the stress caused by the shear strength of orcish musle, and the density of the mail the drow wore. It was as though a demon was released upon them, a fiendish high elf god, spewing destruction onto the orcs as Corellon had done in the past to Grmsh. Had the orcs known that this fiend was a drow, they probably would have surrendered imidiately, guessing this type of fate would befall them.

The drow had merely begun a spin when he entered the room, turning several times, each causing more devistation to the orcs around him. Like a bully preying upon the weak, Tarathiel slaughtered the orcs viciously. The first few seconds were of panic, the follow few were full of fear, and death. The first move made by the drow enabled him to have the space he needed to determine the shape of the room, and figure out what his second move would be. The primary response of stone weapons was futile, as even steel armour could have stoped that. The drow continued to have the upper hand, even after being hopelessly outnumbered.

Using his inate drow powers, Tarathiel levitated straight up into the air, and flipped, deflecting missiles and stones, placing his feet firmly on the angled ceiling, somewhat domed in this portion of the cave. He pushed with his feet to give him direction, and released his power when he was in the mist of the crowd. This would give the orcs a chance to flee, to tell other orcs,of what happened here, as Tarathiel no longer blocked the door.

The orcs, scared as they were, tried to make the exit before they were helplessly cut down by the unknown assailent. The drow spun where he was, severing orcish limbs and ending pitiful lives in mere seconds. Perhaps ten orcs had fully fled the room by the time Tarathiel turned his attention to the central figure, and casually hacked and slashed his way to him in a very fluid and almost un-natural manner. The orcs seemed completely helpless before him, as they were when they did not possess even the most basic of metallurgy. The leader forsaw his doom, and cowered behind as many of his minions as he could, but that did not help. He watched the fiend cut his way past most of his elite guards in mere seconds, completely debasing the orcs source of security in such large gatherings. His tribesmen died by the dozens, and were crippled by the two dozen, as this fiend only hacked for vital orgins. If they should defeat this one, the wounded would die of their injuries, no matter how well treated.

The leader cried when the drow disembowelled the remaining meat shield, and he droped his head in prayer or something similar, or grovelling. The drow did not know, nor did he care. He looked about the room, shrugged, and dropped to one knee to lift the orc lord's head so he could intimidate him a little more.

Speaking in a language most mortals dare not learn, dare not listen to, dare never to be near, the drow told the orc that he was weak and powerless in his own tongue. The scimitar in the drow's right hand slashed a shallow wound over the orcs eye, scaring him but not damaging the orgin. Just as suddenly as the drow had appeared in the room, he had vanished,leaving a wake of destruction and chaos.

Perhaps seventy orcs had gathered in the room, perhaps twelve escaped un-bloodied. Twenty died from their first wound, and another fifteen from the second. The rest lay helplessly waiting for death, as they were merely critically wounded.

Gil-Hadriel Thefhand, self-proclaimed and acclaimed Defender of All, proudly sat on his riding Blink Dog, watching the soldier go through their exercises. Most of these men were fishermen or farmers who joined the military to fill the great number of open possitions left by the utter destruction and all-but complete annihilation of the old army under Dimitri. A job in the military was praised over farming because you had a better chance of surviving each day (Krakken and other sea monsters were more common than any serious military venture these days), and you got to stay dry and relitively clean.

At the moment, Sstrl, a volunteer from an unknown benefactor's regime, was helping the soldiers learn how to fight in one-on-one engagements. The minotaurs Vine and Axe, along with dwarven volunteers helped a second group with orginzied fighting and defencive verus offensive formations. A third group was being instructed on mounted combat by Gil, and a fourth group was being tought the 'officer' core by Tarathiel, but he was nowhere to be seen, nor were the 'officers'.

Still, it was a glorious day for the trainers, and a rather pro-active day for the soldiers. Many a human learned that thier prior racist attitudes were based on lies. They started this venture with harsh or neutral ideas about the demi-humans, but by the end of several training excercises and days, they felt that in an open battle, the human was the least likely creature to survive. At least, these humans would be toast.

After they are finished with melee and orginizations, a few elves from the Integrity are going to come an teach them some tricks with archery and ranged weaponry. By the end of a few weeks, this army should be in realitively good condition. At least, they will be able to battle an equal sized goblin force, or a tripple sized kobold force, or a half size orc force with relatively good casulty rates (1/10 dead, 3/5 wounded). In a few months, they might be given the usage of some seige weapons, and in a few years they could probably contend with a Dragnon force.

Gil was a happy halfling.

Indeed there was thunder outside, however distant. Strange couds had been collecting further North, and now seemed to be traveling south. Not a bad or violent storm persay, simply unusual. Most people knew when ti was going to rain, the signs hung around for weeks before hand. But this accumulation over only a few days was a rare if non-existant occurance before now.

Up further where the storm had started, it had not stopped raining for three days, causing small floods and wet feets. People especially had no means to cope with this. All off their clothes were damp from their ventilated houses, food was molding quicker, and good drinking water was now mixing with not so drinkable water.

"Yeah...I mean it's not that difficult to get clouds but I didn't think it could get hot enough for a storm. Magic...I suppose it could be that. A pretty devistating weapon. But I don't think this place is sophisticated enough for weather toys."

He looked at his brother with surprise. "Fly? In a thunderstorm? I don't think so." He gave a once over Onyx. "You feeling alright?"