Slowly he backed up, casting a glance over his shoulder before looking at the one before him again. Fingers curled at his sides, outraged that someone of lower station would give him such a look. "I should throttle you, Istovir Claddath!" He stood there silently, simply looking at the other that cast around threats. Threats that bothered him as much as a soft breeze bothered a mountain. Running his tongue along his lower lip he gathered up a bit of blood from the surface, then lifted his hand, using the back of it to run along his mouth. Kiseral got a good hit off. The boy was only Second born, which would have given Istovir a reason to bloody his face good, though he was of a higher house. In thus he had to choose his fights wisely. Kiseral glanced to his friends, confident in the fact that he had this Drow surrounded, the smug smile on his blood stained lips proved of this. His nose was shattered. Broken from a well aimed kick that his opponent placed there.
             "I could have been first if you didn't cheat, Noble Brat!" Kiseral snarled out, his knuckles now turning white with his unbridled rage.
             "Cheat? There are only two rules. 'Do not fail' and 'win.' You know this as well as I do." Calmly he stated, watching as Kiseral's face grew even whiter with the heat that passed within it. This time it was because a few of his 'friends' agreed with Istovir and walked away before they were caught by master Hatch'net. In fighting, when not told to, was against unwritten rules. Or so many would like to believe. Often there were times when boys were found dead within their beds due to their throats being slit, or other means of extermination. Luckily they had no weaponry at this time, or else he and Kiseral would be going at it with blades. "You are only jealous because I defeated you," the young Claddath stated, seemingly provoking the larger male. Kiseral's eyes narrowed even more, and with a cry of anger he lunged at Istovir, knocking him back into a wall with a shoulder to his gut. Only a faint grunt was given before he set his foot against the larger boys stomach and shoved him back with a strength he didn't even realize he possessed. Amazing things can happen when adrenaline surges through ones body. After the two regained to their feet Kiseral went back to his snarling threats. "Where's your friend now, Istovir? Where's your lowly mu--" His words were cut short by the strike of something wooden against the back of his head. His form slumped, his eyes rolling back before he fell, face first, to the ground. Behind him a form that was a good foot and a half shorter than the both of them stood with a staff in hand, and a grin on his lips.
             "Evening, Istovir. Trouble?" Mastok flashed a wink to his friend who chuckled deeply.
             "Not anymore, my friend. Come before Hatch'net has our hides." Mastok only chuckled at his friends proclamation. The man was old, but they both didn't doubt in the least that they would be flayed should the battle master catch them out of their dorms. What friends of Kiseral that were around had dispersed, not about to take on both Istovir and Mastok at the same time. Where one alone was nearly unbeatable, the both of them could tear through anything side by side. All the students had came to this place to learn what it is to be Drow. Any light heartedness was replaced by blackness. The love of life, became the need for murder and death. It was Lloths will. Lloths way. Melee-Magthere of Menzoberranzan was only the first place of three he would visit during his stay at the Academy. Not only those of this city came to this training hall. It was the most infamous in Underdark many Drow professed of. Mastok and Istovir hit it off quickly which was odd considering both were nobles. Usually there would be much competition between two rival nobles. They were there for the same purpose though. To train.
             Both of them were only sixteen years of age, a suitable year for male Drow to begin their training, something that would be a ten year, or more, process. Each would have a taste of what they needed. Physical fighting, magical prowess at Sorcere, and Lloth's discipline within the only building that was filled with mainly females, Arach-Tinilith. Their first lesson came strong, swift, and hard. Everything on the surface was evil. Most of all, the Elves were evil. Something goes wrong? Blame the Elves. Only they were the ones that didn't allow things to go properly. Never would he forget those days. Standing there, listening to the teacher go through the tales of just what evils they can do, as well as what horrors waited upon the surface. Night that was as bright as day. Sounds that shattered the eardrums, and sights that would scar one for a life time. More than once he found his own voice rose within the den of furious comments, of hatred, and lament of death. He hated the Elves, and everything on the surface as much as everyone else in that room.

             His tongue ran along his lower lip again, ensuring that it wasn't split. Evanshalee had packed a nice strike against him, but at least he could ignore the dull throbbing within his jaw. Nathrae narrowed her eyes, hissing like an irritated serpent. "I said check him!" Nasid flinched and neared Venorik, doing his best to ignore the look that the man kept giving him. "Open your mouth." He finally got out in a mumble, and with a smirk the assassin did just that. The glance within his mouth was then followed by the man roaming around him slowly, checking to see if he had any weapons strapped to his skin and hidden by magic. They weren't there, though, and so Nasid picked up the belt that had been dropped to check over that as well. "She said to check me, not my things. As you see I am unarmed." Nathrae seemed amused at the baleful look that was given to this bold male. She admired his spirit, and already began believing that she might have a new lover. Nasid dropped the sheathed blades to the floor carelessly and stepped over them to make his way back to his mistress. She stopped him, though, and lifted a hand with a flick of fingers, sending him away.
             "But Nathrae!" he cried, then blanched at the lack of 'Matron.' She glanced in the Patrons direction, raising a wan brow. He knew her patience was coming to an end with the way her face began to heat as well as the rest of her body. But more importantly, her hands. She was already murmuring a spell. It didn't take long for him to turn tail and run. As the door shut behind him Venorik focused his attention back upon the Matron, his eyes lowered again to the swinging foot. The length of leg traveled between the robes split, drawing it open just a bit more. He lifted his eyes slightly, enough to look upon her ankle and shin, something that she took delight within and a slow, cruel, smile returned to her thin lips.
             "Kneel," she purred as she leaned forward, lifting herself from the throne to travel her way to the silken topped bed. Thin, translucent and diaphanous spider silk also rained down over the edges of the beds canopy, veiling it with a silver sheen. Parting the material she took a hold of her robe by the shoulders and let it fall down her slender frame as he lowered down to a crouch, then dropped to his knees. It was easy to feign being enthralled with her beauty. You've seen one wench of Lloth you've seen them all. It delighted her the way that his eyes slid up the back of her body, then snapped down as she glanced over her shoulder. "Crawl to me." Placing his palms against the ground he pushed forward with a grace that could rival a jungle cat. One hand set to the side and before the other and afterwards a knee would thump silently to the ground. The closer he got, the lower he went until his chest was almost touching the floor and his lips near the back of her heel. "May I, Matron? May a humble male touch you?" The quiver within his own voice disgusted him. So properly played. So believable. The tone hid the thoughts of wanting to shove a dagger through her throat. She laughed lightly and turned her foot to adjust the way she stood, and soon she was sliding back upon the bed with one leg stretched, fine foot pointed. "You may." He lifted his hand, smoothing the pads of fingers along the top of her foot and his thumb under, beginning a firm kneading of massage. She groaned in pleasure and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as his lips touched, leaving a damp trace of saliva upon the ebony skin before his fingers rubbed it in slowly.
             How would she know that he had a capsule beneath his tongue that was broken between his teeth for the substance to be spurted upon his skin? Or how was she to know that a petroleum type salve covered the pads of his fingers to keep the poison off of his skin. It didn't matter. Two more nights of this and she would soon meet her fate.