Pylarea
As the slavering gnoll advanced the Nightmarian moth could think of nothing but, “This is it…” She sat there, petrified, as non-respondent limbs clutched desperately to the short spear in her miniscule hands. The beast was going to slay her, and there was nothing she could do about it, she was useless, what good was she if she was to fall in the first half-hour of battle? While all of these thoughts flickered through Pylarea’s mind, faster than she could even comprehend them, she closed her eyes. Not just closed, but she squinted them as if a vice clasped their lids, and she awaited her impending doom. The end had come, and this never would have happened in the safety of Ecclavaria, the great hive city, home…
Death rattles and shrieks to equal that of a banshee filled the arena, the sounds echoing off the walls to create a veritable cacophony of doom and despair. It became so difficult to distinguish which sounds belonged to whom. Whether it was the vicious, bestial gnolls glorying in their massacre, other poor initiates who were eviscerated and soon to become chow, or the more fortunate who had yet to fall victim to this cruel charade of a test. The tiny insectoid did not even notice the yelp of her assailant, slain by some quasi-righteous Drow warrior, a giant compared to her diminutive frame, who bodily lifted Pylarea to place on her feet.
"Be more careful."
Just as quickly as he had appeared the massive being rushed off to combat some other foe, but with whom or what Pylarea was uncertain for his powerful words had left her speechless. Such a perilous situation in which she had placed herself was summarized in three little words. The actions of her fellow initiates seemed to make complete sense now, such as the human who had been dressed in that tin can earlier standing back-to-back with an elf warrior, the duo making short work of individuals and small groups of the savage gnolls, and even managing to keep a pack of five at bay. There were harpies soaring above the melee below, plucking unfortunate targets here and there while spell-casters lobbed damage from a distance. Everyone seemed to understand what they needed to do to survive, and those who didn’t…well didn’t.
This epiphany triggered some random memories from the recesses of the Nightmarian’s mind, leading to ideas and assumptions over what she could do. For years she had practised moving objects with her powers, sometimes even throwing them with a vengeance when having a tantrum, halting servants in their steps and holding them captive to her mind, and even doing simple things like snapping her bread without even lifting a finger. If she was capable of accomplishing such feats with unconscious ease, then how much harder could it be to apply such principles to a fight? All of this took only an instant for Pylarea to digest, and it was time to get busy.
Okay, here we go!
She was Pylarea, a moth born to the illustrious Kal’Tizzmet Brood, and she was definitely not going to die like this. It seemed a nearby gnoll, who had just finished hacking off a fellow initiates head with a rudimentary knife made of bone, had somehow taken noticed and understood the change in her demeanour, and begged to differ from her new opinion. The sight nearly made her gag, but the fury with which is instilled in her being conquered and repressed the detrimental feeling. Using this anger as a launching point, she concentrated the rage as a blacksmith would a blazing inferno to craft remarkable weapons, but this weapon was not made of steel.
The amethyst cores of the moth’s antennae began to glow furiously, and the startled screams of the gnoll resounded gleefully in Pylarea’s ears, the creature’s left limb had snapped in three locations, forcing the beast to drop the head. As much as she enjoyed the sound of the beast it would attract too much attention, and her gaze focused upon the beast’s weapon, without any abilities to overcome the powerful psionics directed towards it the gnoll’s eyes dizzyingly rolled in fright as the weapon slashed towards its throat, opening a river of blood from ear to ear. Its body went limp with a rapidity that was near sickening, and crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll dropped like a child seeing a brand new toy.
This smile planted across the Nightmarian’s face was a terrifying sight to behold, it conveyed a feeling of both amusement and disappointment that such things would be so easy, but then again she was of a noble Brood. Her senses tingled as another of the beasts tried to assail the miniscule target from behind, and had it not been completely ravenous it might have known of a Nightmarian’s innate tremor sense and could have succeeded in the simple trick. It was not though, and much to its dismay the creature found itself frozen in mid-air, a prime target for a lucky harpy to scoop up and toss back to the ground.
Despite the glee which Pylarea derived from this gruesome sport it was short-lived as a powerful force whisked her away through a large doorway into a cavernous hallway to set her down amidst another group of initiates. Oddly enough there were several such groups being formed and joined throughout the corridor until roughly over one-hundred of the initiates remained. They all seemed somewhat dazed by the event, and unfortunately the adrenaline coursing through the moth’s veins began to wane. The previous wave of sickness washed over the poor woman, and she found it impossible to prevent the bile to rise and exit her body. Luckily the discharge did not land on her or any of the initiates nearby, yet several did seem disgusted by the act and cautiously moved away from her.
“Open-field combat is one thing, but our enemies are many, their tactics varied, and you will not always have the luxury of direct confrontation. Nor will it always be clear to you what the enemy’s true objective might be. Here, you will be divided into groups, and your opponents will be each other.”
The announcement had mixed effects upon the remaining initiates, startling some while others seemed nonplussed. Pylarea nearly felt like crying from frustration, why was any of this necessary? How many more of them must die to prove their worth? It seemed these questions were of little import to the Children, and all she could do was acquiesce to their requests. The prices one pays for freedom.
“Memorize the faces of your comrades. They may be the only things that keep you alive. Also, as is only fitting, if any one of you kills the captain, you have his place in the ranks.”
Captain Tao seemed nonplussed at the announcement, but that did not seem altogether implausible considering his composure earlier in the morning, during their bout with the gnolls, and now. She heeded the female’s words, the same woman who had done much of the speaking since they arrived at the spire. One of the Drow, the filth who had sacrificed one of the other initiates originally, began spouting off about trust and marking themselves. He did make a point on the marks, but the trust she was not quite sure about, unfortunately they did not have much choice in the matter for the moment. The still somewhat sickly moth stood up from her half-seated, half-prostrated position and spoke up loud enough for the rest to hear her words.
“Uhm…I think I can help with markings…just wait a second.”
The previous efforts with her psionic abilities had drained the moth of much needed energy, something that their stroll this morning had not helped, but she could still manage to use them for a little while longer, if she conserved her energy that was. The shy Nightmarian let her robe slide down over the sides of her shoulders, letting in down so her wings could emerge completely and flap freely, but still being careful to conceal certain areas of her form. Her wings began to flutter slowly while her antennae yet again began to glow brightly. The air around the particles was gently caressed into moving the now orange-colored dust towards her new comrades, attaching itself to all of their robes and dying the white cloth.
It was of a hue very dissimilar to the dust of the arena or glow of the light in the hallway, so mistaking it for anything else would only be possible for the color-blind, or those who simply did not care. The effort needed to manufacture this marking had taxed Pylarea more heavily than she had assumed it would, and her form began swaying slightly from dizziness. If it had not been for the tin can human standing nearby to whom she was able to place out a hand to steady herself she would have collapsed, after a moment the wave of exhaustion passed and the moth was able to regain her composure. Her quick, gentle hands quickly replaced the robe back around her weary form.
“I’m sorry about that sir… Hopefully that will help with what is to come…”