Out of the Abyss IC

[Amnestic]

Faedryl Melad Drow Hexblade/Evoker AC: 12 HP: 22/22 PP: 12 PIv: 14 PIs: 12 Sanity: 11 Conditions: Exhaustion (1) Concentrating: -- Sixth Day, Work Shift Her stomach was gnawing at her again, but their task today was at least one that didn't involve heavy labour. As she sits she takes up the spider silk and threads it around her fingers. Familiar and comforting, in a way that is both welcome and melancholic. Idle afternoons weaving with her sisters. Gone forever. Even when she succeeds - because she will succeed, there was no other option - she wouldn't get those days back. The material is deeply familiar to her though, and she finds it quite simple to return to rote memory. She pushes the distraction of her gnawing belly and its constant hunger pangs away, instead focusing on the task in front of her, letting her eyes unfocus as her hands twist and curl the silk around itself. She didn't need to look, and in fact it was easier if she didn't. Looking would make her critical, make her doubt. Times like this her brain could switch off, if only for a while. All the better to forget about her burning desire for food that smelled oh-so-good. Spoiler: OOC Show Even with disadvantage, she rolled a 20 (18+2), per discord. Seventh Day, Cell Faedryl finds herself torn by the new visitors - another half-elf, though this one without even the decency to have a drop of drow in them by her look. Probably less useful than the thinblood. And an orc who was apparently all bluster and little bite, going off his feeble smash against the door, though she wasn't exactly in top shape either. Assuming they didn't fall victim to the cell's madness, maybe they'd prove themselves more useful than her initial expectations. At the very least the orc had more spirit than the pathetic male they'd been saddled with. Of all the drow they could end up imprisoned with, it was one who had given up to despair. She darts her eyes across to Sarith, still in the throes of sleep, before back to the newcomers. She wasn't one for speaking for, or introductions, or welcoming, or niceties. She'd had people do all that for her, or never needed to at all. Something...light then. "Welcome to our home," she drawls at them, gesturing with one hand at the wonderful expanse of cave around them. "Planning on staying long?"

Sarith Kzerkarit Drow Fighter/Rogue AC: 14/16 HP: 23/23 PP: 14 PIv: 11 PIs: 10 Sanity: 8 Conditions: -- Concentrating: -- Sixth Day, Cell "Why bother? Want to look good for your execution?" Sarith retorts, full monotony in his voice. "The spiders won't eat you any faster if you've got a haircut." A fast death was all they could hope for. A swift exit from this plane, and then hopefully a better existence in the next. Maybe one where his failures would not be compounded upon. But then, likely not. As a failure he was not destined for any afterlife worth speaking of. No, he would be consumed in the pits by Lolth's servants, and then his spirit would descend to be consumed a second time, and likely not quickly. He lets out a deep sigh, realising just how pointless it all was all over again. Pointless piled upon pointless. Seventh Day, Cell Sarith wakes uncomfortably, unpleasantly, unhappily. But then that was his existence now. Uncomfortable, unpleasant, unhappy. Even while trying to trance he was denied proper rest, instead forced into some maddening dream. "Neverlight," he murmurs to himself, though when he says it aloud it doesn't quite have the same tone to it that it had in the nightmare. He rolls his tongue and flexes his throat, muttering the word over and over trying different intonations, mouth shapes, tongue movements, but none seem to fully grasp the way it was said. Whatever it was he is keenly aware once more that he is insufficient, now apparently unable to even properly communicate the things he had seen. All that education and he can't even put images and sounds into words. Pathetic. Truly so. He can't bare to look down at himself any longer, and finally raises his eyes, spotting two new faces, both of which the Melad was addressing. She had an angle - she was a female, of course she had an angle, though what it was he couldn't see. Surely she didn't plan to escape with this gang of misfits, rejects and deviants? To what end? She would be hunted. A phrase he found himself repeating, both to himself and to others, bubbles up once more in his mind. Why bother? What could she possibly see as worth the effort now? She had lost it all. More than he had lost, even, and yet she seemed to not at all concerned by it. Quietly ruminating on this, he realises something: He hates her a little for that.