Title: Before the Fall
Rating: T
Genre: Fantasy, Adventure
Warnings: language, AU(-ish)
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Neverwinter Nights 2 or its characters, nor am I profiting from this story. I only claim ownership of any original characters that appear.
Author's Note: The AU warning is due to a planned major deviation from the canon plot much later on. Though the story will rejoin the canon plot by the end (that'll make more sense when it happens. I hope.), I thought I should warn ahead of time.
Also, Sieban Undry is pronounced "zee-bahn un-dree."
(Edited for flow. No significant changes to plot or characterization made)
The building was little more than a shack built out of flimsy rotting planks that could have been pulled straight from the bay. Dark greenish-grey mildew thrived in the shadowy spaces between the warped wood. It smelled horrible, but not nearly as bad as the stale piss and vomit that pooled in the ditches and haphazardly dug gutters. The shack, like the rest of the buildings that stood vigil over the dank alleyway, seemed to sag under the weight of its own roof and slant forward, as though placing judgment on all who passed. This was a place of filth and grim and seediness. The two women striding down the alley in their neat, if simple, gear looked out of place.
They were an odd pair. Tieflings were rare enough; tieflings traveling together, even more so.
One of the women stopped at the foot of the steps, standing stiffly straight. She was tall, skeletal, even in her heavy wizard's robes, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and dark-faced. Her gaze flitted from place to place, as though it offended her delicate sensibilities to look upon something dirty for any length of time. The casual observer would never guess that Sieban Undry had spent the majority of her twenty-one years living in the muck and mud of West Harbor.
Her eyes flicked to her companion. "You are sure this is the place?" Her voice was low and rough.
The other woman, Neeshka, dashed past her, taking the few steps to the rotting shack door two at a time. She paused to turn around, eyes bright under fox-fur-red bangs, grin playing on her lips. Her sinewy tail twitched in impatience as she waved her companion forward.
"That's what Caleb said." Neehska shrugged, dismissing the question. "I know it," she gestured at their surroundings, "doesn't look like much, but trust me, Moire'll be a lot more helpful than the Watch-hounds—them, you can't trust." With that, Neeshka cracked the door and slipped inside. Sieban followed with a sour expression.
Moire's place, or at least the main room, was as decrepit inside as out. The walls, at least the spots that were visible between the shelves and crates stacked against them, were stained from water damage and, Sieban thought, eying a reddish-brown splotch on a patch of wall behind an unstable looking pile of crates, perhaps also from something more sinister. Someone had attempted to give the room some class. Fine, if slightly faded, Waterdhavian rugs covered most of the floor; a large, stylish desk dominated the far corner of the room. These trappings looked tacky in their destitute surroundings.
Moire herself was nowhere to be seen.
Neeshka flopped down in a straight backed wooden chair, part of set of four. Sieban remained standing, arms crossed. They both watched the door behind the desk; neither was foolish enough to believe the mistress of the house was out.
Time seemed to pass slowly, and that allowed Sieban's mind a chance to wander. This was not the future she had envisioned for herself, bending knee and begging for work from Neverwinter's dregs. This was not a choice she chose to make; this was a choice she was forced to make. The City Watch would never employ the likes of her.
She and Neeshka had visited the Watch that morning, after meeting Sand but before meeting Caleb. Fort Locke seemed so long ago, when Marshal Cormick offered his reward and thanks for finding the fort commander and saving the fort (an accident. Sieban and her companions had stumbled on Commander Tann and the shadow priest's undead army while "investigating" a tomb at Neeshka's request). Yet Cormick had remembered without needing reminding, and, with a stern smile, he offered Sieban a small pouch weighted with gold. Gold, that Sieban had accepted with a wordless nod.
She had hardly turned her back to leave when the lieutenant Cormick had been speaking to whispered "Can you trust them?". Rage did not flare so much as smolder in Sieban's stomach; that man dared to think her some deaf, stupid animal.
Though in truth, she never heard Cormick's reply, any doubts Sieban had about petitioning Moire and her gang died with Neeshka's knowing look as they stepped back out into the streets of Neverwinter.
Sieban stiffened. Something pricked at the back of her neck, like a mosquito bite. Warm breath caressed her slightly pointed ear. "Don't move until you're told. You too." The pressure on her neck increased until the light prick became a sharp sting and something warm and wet trickle down her spine to pool between her collar and skin. Neeshka's hand dropped from her weapon and she eased back to perch on the edge of her chair, displeasure prominent in her expression.
"You should know," the voice, smooth and female, continued, "that the only reason you're still alive is because of Caleb's word. And that doesn't go as far as either of you might think." Pain sparked bright, white, and without warning behind Sieban's eyes. Her long slender fingers flew instinctively to her cheek. "Turn around."
Still caressing the sure-to-bruise skin on her face, Sieban glanced nervously at Neeshka. The other tiefling nodded. Sieban turned slowly.
Moire was unexpectedly beautiful, with bright eyes set in a sharp, exotic face and dark hair knotted at the the nape of her neck. A vicious, self-satisfied smile played on her lips as she toyed with the dagger still tipped with Sieban's blood. Sieban wondered how long she had been watching. "Tell me why I shouldn't drive this blade through your throat," she cooed.
"I need to get into the Blacklake." The words whispered out so softly that for a moment Sieban thought Moire hadn't heard. Then Moire laughed.
"What, you want to join the nobility?" She turned up her sharp, delicate nose haughtily. "What do I care what you need?"
"An exchange of services." Sieban murmured the rehearsed response. Her hand fell away from her face and she glanced up from the floor. "I can help you."
Moire barked her half-crazed laugh. "Is that what you think?" Her smile vanished suddenly, replaced by a ugly scowl. "The Watch is useless, full of cowards and greedy cowards; they need to be reminded who runs this place." She paused, as if waiting for some form of agreement. A beat of silence passed before she continued. "I own the Docks. There are some people who think control should be maintained 'quietly' with subtle threats, but what good are threats if they aren't backed up with pain and blood?" Moire stepped forward so she was chest-to-chest with Sieban. Though she was shorter than the tiefling, the top of her head barely brushing the tip of Sieban's nose, she seemed much more imposing. Sieban fought the urge to step back.
Moire locked eyes with Sieban and tapped the tip of the dagger against her bruising cheek. The cold blade came to rest against heated skin. "What use is a grip if you don't squeeze?"
Moire's gaze held steady. Neeshka shifted about somewhere out of sight. It was clear an answer was required. Sieban asked with a passive expression, "Where can I fit in?"
Moire smiled.
Tensions ran high in the Sunken Flagon in the month following Sieban's meeting with Moire. Though Neeshka chatted happily whenever the chance was available, Khelgar and Elanee, her other companions, refused to speak to her. Khelgar refused to "associate with no-honor sneak thieves," while Elanee believed that "hurting those people who dared have morals wasn't right." They kept to themselves. Only once were serious words exchanged with either of them: when Elanee requested to travel...somewhere, a request Sieban only vaguely remembered granting. Both Elanee and Khelgar were gone for the rest of that week.
For his part, Sieban's foster uncle, Duncan, continued to offer free room, board, and unconditional love despite his niece's nonexistent thanks.
So Sieban made her nightly rounds with Neeshka, and later, with Qara, the young sorceress who was eager for any excuse to get out of cleaning tables for Duncan.
Moire required that the Docks be swept thrice weekly, with a report that was mostly formality submitted at the end of the week. Occasionally, there were other jobs: a merchant whose payment was late, a watchman whose behavior was out of line . Sieban was required to handle such complications, when they arose. Otherwise, her time was her own.
There was a fair sized storeroom in the back of the Sunken Flagon that Sieban had commandeered the evening she arrived. Duncan had allowed it, perhaps, out of some misguided sense of kinship that his foster niece did not return. What time she did not spend on the streets of Neverwinter, Sieban spent converting this storeroom into the library and lab she had always dreamed of, but never dared hope for, back in West Harbor.
Whether out of fear or apathy, the other patrons did not bother her, and the storeroom fell victim to the ordered chaos only a wizard could create. Empty crates, stacked atop one another against the wall, became cheap bookshelves that overflowed with scrolls, tomes, and loose parchment. The workbench was covered with alchemical tools, spell components, and scattered parchment and quills. There were stains on the rug, singe marks on the wall. Empty plates sitting forgotten on the small table Sieban often dined and slept at.
The path to Blacklake was no closer to being open than it had been a month ago. Sieban could not bring herself to care.
a/n: Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
