"You have been summoned to the Matrons chambers."
             So, he was hired by a hidden source to kill the Matron Mother and the first daughter of House Zauviir. He had gotten away from one of Zilvra's lackeys, left her wondering where in the world he disappeared to. Three days later. He had returned as he said he would. A satchel over his shoulder with various maps. Some of them fake, the others questionable.. but only to those already upon the surface. The male that had spoken to him was very near derisive in his words. He ignored it though, and could only guess that either he was one of the Matrons past lovers, current lover, or one that never had a chance to warm her bed. Serpent Sight caught easily of the mans white hot features, and it almost brought a smile to his face. Almost.
             Dipping his chin in an imperceptible nod he turned his gaze away from the male and returned to what he was doing. Zilvra had passed, giving him a glance over as his eyes lowered to the ground, then with a snort she passed. Garnet eyes slipped in the direction of her departing form, only to find his head snapping to the side harshly by a strike. Someone had caught the look. It was Zilvra's sister. "Impudent male. I saw you gaze upon her. You should be whipped." Her strong fingers grasped his chin, jerking his head up as he licked the corner of his mouth. No blood. Sometimes it was a wonder on why most of the females were taller and stronger then the men. He was tall as well, meeting, or surpassing, the height of some Drow females. He was also strong, but never tested that fact on if it was more than a females. Most women he had to kill was done in silence. Not face to face battle. Her fingertips and nails pressed harshly against the ebony skin as she looked upon his face, noting his features. The Matron wasn't the only one he had interested, he could tell. She leaned close, and he could smell the poison upon her lips, and gave the appropriate response of flinching backward. She laughed, a cruel sound, and shoved his head back with the release of her grip. 'So high and mighty,' he thought. 'How I will be ecstatic when your blood is on my blade. Enjoy your life within the little time you have, female. Your death comes soon.'
             He could have dodged the strike, yes. But then that would have roused too many questions, as well as tempted her to use that snake whip that was writhing and twisting at her side. That was something he didn't want to meet any time soon. Lifting a hand he rubbed his jaw slowly once they were out of sight then roamed off to the chambers that were allowed to him while they prepared for Zilvra to head to the surface. He remembered his first time there, his blooding. Him along side of twelve other Drow warriors took to the surface at night. He recalled how enthralled he was of the beauty that was the tiny sliver of moon within its crescent shape. His kind always did admire beauty in several forms. Everything was so different there. So bright. The scents were luring to the nose, the sounds a cacophony of music from the chirp of night birds to the song of crickets. The surface world was alive where in Underdark one was lucky to break the silence with a solitary drop of water. The task was to be easy. Catch the surface Elves off guard and slaughter every single one of them. The task was easy. He had a few kills beneath his belt that night. They weren't the first to fall to his blades, nor would they be the last. His current life proved of this.
             The act of killing those elves was somewhat against what Vhaerun believed. Elves, dark and surface alike, are to join together and be the dominant race. That was impossible with one attempting, or succeeding, in killing the other. He didn't feel remorse or pity for what he did. He was young, though, and knew nothing of that particular God. Nonetheless, like his father once told him, sometimes people have to die for the greater good. What was the greater good of killing Evanshalee and Nathrae, he wondered? What part of a hidden scheme did he play in? He dared not to ask questions of D'veil. Later, in the end, everything would be revealed to him. Shaking such thoughts from his head he pressed open the room's door and settled his pack within. Checking over the innards of the chambers he nodded, satisfied, then closed the door behind him to make his way toward Matron Nathrae's quarters. Everywhere he looked there were images of the Spider Queen. To Nine Hells with her. Lloth sees all, they say. If that was true then it would be known of his betrayal. He would have been sacrificed ages ago. Then again, he was once the favored son, and still is even if 'adopted' by another Matron; D'veil. Matron only by the death of her sister by his hands.
             It was only ironic that he would flee to the very person he put to power after he killed his mother. He couldn't stick behind at the house, not with them knowing who killed the woman. Indeed, he should have been out of Lloths favor at that time. Maybe he was. D'veil believed that her disfavor would fall to her house once Istovir showed up, but since his personal hiring, and bringing him into the house as her own, they've had nothing but success. Though considering he got away with the murder, perhaps it was Istintaya, his mother, who dropped out of the Spider Queens regard. The woman had it in her mind that he played an integral part because of this. Perhaps why she hadn't killed him yet. Even if she seemed to favor him as a faux "son," as a lover, he always watched his back. And his front as well.
             Casually he ignored the pin point red of eyes that settled upon him as he passed, doing what he needed to get to the chambers be it lowering to a kneel, or dipping his chin down to avoid the gazes of many. His clothing held no house emblem, though he did have the symbol of his faux house within his pouch. His hair wasn't cut to resemble his status, or even his family. It was long, unkempt. One would almost think him a rogue if it wasn't for the way he carried himself. Lowering down before the chamber door of the Matron he lifted his hand, rapping three times upon the surface before dropping his hand again, keeping it away from his weaponry. Just how long he remained there he wasn't sure, but he heard voices just beyond the door. She wasn't alone. It didn't matter. He didn't have the decision to kill her that night. It could wait. He still had three days to destroy the both of them before he had to go out upon the surface. He wasn't to go to show Zilvra around, but for his own means and purposes. At least he told the truth about roaming with a slave caravan. His employer was there.
             "Enter," came a lulling voice from the other side of the door, and he pushed up to a stand. Taking a hold of the handle, which happened to be the bulbous backside of a spider, he gave it a slight twist and pushed further into the room. It was dark, not unusually so, lit by the harmless flames of faerie fire. The room was oval shape, and had only one visible exit, but he knew there had to be others within. No Matron would allow herself trapped, unless she felt sure of her abilities. What didn't surprise him were the people that were within. Nathrae laid there, decked in all her finery. A thin meshing of spider silk lined her hair, bringing even more of a shimmer to it within the light of the purple-blue flames. She wore nothing save for a silken robe loosely draped about her body, the front left open for a teasing view of shapely dark flesh. Only a hint of white would briefly catch the attention, and he figured she sat like that purposely to see if he would give into temptation. He didn't, though, and his eyes remained low, focusing upon the foot that swung slowly off of the side of the throne. Nasid was there as well. Armed, and staring bladed daggers at him. If looks could kill, Venorik would have been dead a thousand times over.
             "Strip, Rizzen. Completely" He found it amusing that he had used his brothers name, but no hint of that crossed his features or his mind. A woman of such power to get to where she was now had to know some idea of how to tap into a shielded mind. Just about to lower to a kneel he paused and pushed up again. He didn't argue, simply lifted a gloved hand to unclasp the latch of piwafwi. It was folded and carefully placed to the ground as was the rest of his clothing. Nathrae noticed how he paid special attention to his things, and even more to the doubled blades he had settled aside, though made no true thought of it. Once he was bared for her eyes he tucked his hands behind him, loosely clasping one in the other within a militant pose. Lifting a slender hand she motioned to Nasid, then to him. "Check him." A razored smile crossed over the lips of the Patron and he moved away from his position to near the bared assassin. Venorik turned his attention from the swaying foot to the nearing male, impassively. Though something in that garnet gaze made the Patron give pause. The silent threat was there, and it wasn't empty.
             'Touch me and die.'