Even in her dreams she can feel the horrors of day's past, reaching out to swallow her. With insipid intent unfurled, she finds herself struggling with these apparitions of old. For fifty tendays she has been freed from the claustrophobic grip of the Underdark. The skies of stalagmite replaced by the crisp blue heavens of the surface world. The eerie and unrelenting darkness fading from her mind, as the warm kiss of suns defiant rays beat against porcelain toned skin. Yet no matter how often she tried to dream, only the horrors of the world beneath her feet haunted her. Reminiscing over those days, she found comfort in the day she escaped the mouth of the tight corridors of heartless stones. Recalling not the relief of returning to the world of her fathers, rather the kindness wrought to her by a band of mercenaries. Who found her passed out at the gates due to malnourished, fatigue and the overwhelming ferocity of the sun on her untrained eyes. Normally they would of looted her armor clad course, but something about her ignited the fires of curiosity. Many have heard the stories of the underworld, but never has anyone entered and escaped to tell the tale. It was this group of renegades that she now called a family, offering their services not in the name of a God, Ideology or bigotry like that of her captors. But for the times and their own wealth, whatever the times decide to define them as. Her unnatural ability to levitate and skills with the blade and arcane arts made her an invaluable asset right away. Through time she earned their trust; enough so that they sent her on her first real mission to prove her merit to her clansmen. Gathering around a roaring fire, the group observed Mur'Dallia as frigid eyes remained fixated on their leader. Only the sound of crackling wood dared to defy the tension and uneasiness building up between certain members of the flock. "Mur'Dallia; it is time." An old man replied, his skin weighed down and wrinkled by the burden that is time. "That it is Milord." Her words as well poised as ever, her lips contorting giving birth to a subtle smirk. "For fifty ten days you have been apart of our family. But no extension of our will, non matter how well loved can exist if it proves unable to pull it's own weight." His words heavy with solemnity, as he expressed the cost of failure. "I know milord...But I am ready." She spoke so matter of fact like, earning a chuckle from the old man as he admired her confidence. "Be that as it may; only time will tell if you speak truth. If any wish to aid you and become your sword sister or brother let them speak as soon as I explain your task." Casually the group of mercenaries glanced at one another, pondering whether or not any would dare stick out their neck to return with drinking songs of their glorious hunt. "To the north lie's a Drow Warparty, preparing to sack the town of Illstone. We've been contracted by the lord of the hold to eliminate this threat before the town falls." The Drow were nefarious killers, skilled with Blade, bow and spell alike. Relishing the pain of others and enjoying the sweet music the wailing teeth of those suffering from their vile spells. It was no secret why he gave her this mission, she had explained briefly her life in the Underdark; and the Drow were a major element in the tale Mur'Dallia had woven with her tongue. The symbolism of this mission both offended yet flattered her. It was his way of having her literally prove her devotion by removing the demons of her past, quite literally so. Yet she was infuriated deep down inside, that he'd use what little she expressed against her, surmising it as a betrayal of trust. Regardless of her feeling and foe, she understood the rules of this hunt quite well. Succeed and return anew, or perish and relinquish your soul and forfeit your right to be family. Silence stirred amongst the other clansmen, as they pondered both the glory and dangers of such a hunt. As from the crowd a man stepped forward with cat-like ears. His Name was Lynx; a once noblemen of a shape shifting tribe now gone rogue from his oppressive culture. "I will lend you my arm and blood if need be." He proclaimed aloud, others whispering between themselves at the outburst. The old man offering him an firm nod. "That is one...will there be no others?" Mur'Dallia softly bit down on her bottom lip as she mentally calculated their odds. Which proved agonizingly tedious seeing how she had yet to see this ol' sly cat skills. However she had heard whispers, all of which provided some illumination of hope within a normally sea of darkness.