The Jewel of the Sands, Book 1 of The Vicelord Chronicles

by ely.cady.313

A riveting tale of the perilous lands of Calimshan and the Underdark alike, detailing the travels of a young, outcast Psion, an up and coming hopeful to the Dungeons and Dragons' mythos offers this exciting new entry and hero to complement the likes of Liriel Baenre and Drizzt Do'Urden as she treks through Faerûn's most dangerous reaches.

The Jewel of the Sands

Book 1

of the

Vicelord Chronicles

Shawn M. Cady

The Vicelord Chronicles

-Book 1 The Jewel of the Sands (2015)

-Book 2 The Kingdom of the Sands (2015)

-Book 3 The Scepter of the Sands (TBA)

-Book 4 The Throne of the Sands (TBA)

Also by Shawn Cady

The Enchanter's Cycle

-Book 1 The Path in the Shadow (2014)

-Book 2 The Phoenix Fate (TBA)

-Book 3 The Scythe and the Seer (TBA)

-Book 4 The All-One (TBA)

-Book 5 The End Time (TBA)

The Dreadborne Legacy

-Book 1 The Heart of Darkness (2012)

-Book 2 The Will of the Old Ones (TBA)

-Book 3 The Soul Forge and the Darkest Depths (TBA)

The Faerûnian Calander

Every year on the world of Abeir-Toril is measured in three hundred and sixty five days, split up into twelve months of thirty days each. The months are given both formal names and common names, spoken depending on the nearness of a holiday or with special emphasis. Each week consists of ten days, called a tenday. Each year is commonly measured by the Dalereckoning scale, beginning in the Year of Sunrise, when the Standing Stone was raised by the elves of Cormanthyr and the human Dalesfolk.

Month: Formal Name, Common name

1: Hammer, Deepwinter

2: Alturiak, The Claw of Winter

3: Ches, The Claw of the Sunsets

4: Tarsakh, The Claw of the Storms

5: Mirtul, The Melting

6: Kythorn, The Time of Flowers

7: Flamerule, Summertide

8: Elesias, Highsun

9: Eleint, The Fading

10: Marpenoth, Leaffall

11 Uktar, The Rotting

12 Nightal, The Drawing Down

Prelude

House Duskryn, Menzoberranzan (23rd of Elesias, 1361 Dalereckoning)

Another night in the Underdark, though the word held little meaning to its inhabitants. Each lightless day was measured as a pair of the twelve-hour cycles, displayed by the heat signature of the magical pillar of stone named Narbondel; Menzoberranzan's timepiece. The latter cycle of Narbondel, in which heat gradually bled from top to bottom in a manner akin to a candle wick slowly burning out, was far too dim to see from the battlements on which he stood, atop the overhanging cliff on which House Duskryn stood, a heavily fortified mansion in the northwest section of Menzoberranzan, the fabled city of the Dark Elves. He watched again for the dim flicker of light betraying the stone's position and its reading, and failed to find it, idly wondering if Archmage Gromph Baenre would light it soon, staring the process and the day anew.

He grimaced at the thought of a new day, though in his present state, it was likely indeterminate, thanks to his closed-face helm. It served to conceal his expression, a useful thing for a male Dark Elf, who generally wished above all else to be concealed and anonymous, beneath the attention of the unpredictable, temperamental females of the same species. For female dark Elves were also generally larger, stronger, and armed with clerical magic, which derived from Lloth, the wicked matron goddess of the Drow. Wicked too were their whips, animated snakes which delivered a multitude of foul poisons, and how loosely those whips hung in their scabbards...

Clothed in the leather-backed mail of a common house guard, Netal Oblodra righted his kite shield, emblazoned with the Duskryn crest, and checked to see if the strap holding his slim adamantine sword in its scabbard was loose. It was. While he was not unduly concerned, as there was no current house war, House Duskryn had suffered several attacks from its rival houses over the centuries, and the experience had hardened it into an effective fighting force. Berni'th Duskryn, the cruel and sadistic Matron Mother of this house, ran a tight ship, so to speak, and had the support of more than one of the other noble houses, as well as several lesser houses beneath it.

After the events of the Time of Troubles, Duskryn had become the Eighth House, the least of the ruling families of Menzoberranzan. The Houses Mizzrym, Fey-Branche, and Tuin'Tarl ruled immediately above it, with the Baenre weaker than it had been in centuries at the top of the hierarchy. House Oblodra's defection and subsequent destruction had weakened it. The failed war on the Dwarves of Mithral Hall and the death of Matron Baenre had weakened it. Triel's questionable leadership and the rising tensions with its neighbor Ched Nasad had weakened it. Though they had friendly ties, the time might come when Menzoberranzan could carry on without the First House. The time might come when House Duskryn could carry on without the First House.

He wished them the best of luck with that, only in part due to the fact that it would improve his station as well. It might also serve to rid Menzoberranzan of one or two of the current noble houses and offer him some more personal satisfaction.

Netal never spoke of his family; House Oblodra, the disgraced former Third House of Menzoberranzan, led by his grandmother K'yorl Odran, that had been destroyed during the time of troubles when Lloth herself had walked the continent of Faerûn.

His family had been poised to take Menzoberranzan from the Baenre, only to find that their powers, psionic in nature, had become crippled just as Lloth's clergy had regained their own, just in time for Matron Baenre (now thankfully deceased, the wretched hag), to sink his home into the Clawrift, the pit that had and likely still held their Kobold slaves.

Thankfully, Netal had been far from Menzoberranzan at the time, and had only returned the previous year, well informed of his family's demise. With his abilities, it had not been too difficult to cover his trail and arrange his service to House Duskryn, though at this point he was little more than a brute mercenary, reduced to commoner rabble. With the chaos that had ensured during the failed attack on Mithral Hall, nobody had taken notice of his psionics, nobody had linked him to his House. That was well...for he did not wish to die for his grandmother's mistakes.

Resuming his patrol, Netal concentrated sufficiently to activate his latent psionic powers, manifesting to others as a barely audible humming sound and a tangible feeling of vibration. As was his wont, he filtered through subtle visual leeches that he had prepared beforehand on several of the soldiers under his command, as well as many house slaves, becoming privy to their senses and base thoughts in addition to his own. He had selected individuals that would not likely become aware of his actions. It was not terribly difficult with the Orcs and Goblins that served as day laborers and general servants; they were most often too exhausted, to occupied by their duties, or too terrified by the genuine threat presented by their Drow masters to notice his telepathic presence. The Duskryn females, he had discovered soon after his employment, were notoriously violent, even for Dark Elves, always itching to test themselves against foes too cowed to resist.

Netal, to his credit, just anticipated their requests and completed them before they were even asked, preventing any contact and conflict whatsoever. It seemed to work for him.

Minutes passed as he gathered his results. Nothing was amiss, and there was nothing otherwise interesting to offer to the Duskryn family or any of the informants he supplied with rumors on the side.

Except for...

"Lloth's hairy legs..." he cursed under his breath, seeing through the stable hand, an elderly Human male purchased from The Night Above, and noting that one of the laborers was finally birthing. That was potentially a problem for him, because it was her...

...

His shift ended several hours later, and Netal attended the changing of the guard, an affair done with military precision that was, sadly, only a pale reflection of the Baenre's highly ordered affair, and slipped away into his room. As a captain, one of four who oversaw the house's defense, under the Duskryn sons of course, his station warranted a small bunkroom along the lower levels of the manse. He kept few possessions; there was a wash basin, a locked chest beside the bedroll, a cabinet that held a change of clothing, and a small desk with loose papers spread haphazardly. He ignored all of it, sitting cross-legged near the center of the room, throwing off his armor and weapon belt, though he always kept a series of small daggers hidden in the folds of his threadbare tunic, just in case.

He terminated the visual links on the others for the moment, concentrating on the stable hand, seeing through his eyes with greater clarity. He saw the dim way the Human perceived the world without infravision; the way he strained to focus through the dim torchlight. He smelled the musky animal stink of lesser races crammed together, accented with un-swept dung, dried blood, and heard the panting of the Orc the Human cared for, and then her screams as another painful contraction struck her.

Her name was Gul'tah.

One might have thought that she would have had to look especially beautiful, or at least not particularly hideous, to attract the attention of a Dark Elf, even one that had been rendered highly intoxicated by notoriously potent dark elven liquors, in his quest to drown his bitterness at his station.

Not so; she looked entirely ordinary for an Orc; a short, plump body, her skin tanned and rough, almost leathery, her eyes a dull yellow, her hair a ragged mane. Her voice, her laugh, was equally rough, almost grating. And yet something had caught his eyes on his trek to his room that night. Something had caused him to approach her, cajole her, and bed her, right there among the slaves, though none had seen him through the magical darkness he had the sense to conjure via innate ability, even when intoxicated.

He had woken in his room, a crushing pain in his head that in no way had erased the memory of what he had done. He had been wary of ridicule, but no negative response had been forthcoming. Except for the fact that this particular Orc had become heavy with child within the next two weeks...

"There were so many other chances for her to do that..." he chided himself, watching the spectacle, "It could have been any of the other slaves, even the Goblins". Still, he had to know for sure. He had to know that it...was not his.

She screamed again, her eyes pinched shut, blood tricking down the void in her legs. He tried to will the Human through which he saw to avert his eyes, to no avail. He cursed silently, wishing he had created links on a any of the eight Orcish slaves filling the room. He really did not want to watch from that perspective... The laboring Orc groaned as the contraction passed. He could see something else, a dark spot inside... Had it not been so dark, he might have terminated the link then and there. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.

He held down the gorge in his throat.

Another half hour and several more contractions passed, the Human soaking a rag and replacing the one on her forehead in the interim, and she soon shook, groaning.

It was nearly time.

The Human watched, expectant, as did Netal, through him.

She screamed a final time, her legs twitching, and the head tore free fully. The Human dug his hands in after the next bout, pulling the newborn free by its shoulders, and Netal was speechless. Connected to her mother by a thin cord, to which the Human sliced with a flat-bladed razor, was a baby female, though it hardly looked Orcish, save for the tiny lower canines that peeked through its lips. It bled heat from its tiny, frail body, and sprang to life as the Human cleared its throat, and its wails were loud indeed for something so small. The Human wrapped it in a rough threadbare towel, and presented it to the mother, who stared wide-eyed, despite the dark circles under her eyes.

Netal too could only stare, as did many of the slaves in the room. The infant was dark ashen skinned, and far too slim for a Orc infant, the points of her ears far more pronounced. Her hair, already over a finger-length, was oil black, though a lock of grayed white marked a ridge over her brow. Her eyes, when peeled open, were a rich, vibrant blue, a rare color for both Orcs and Drow. They would likely appear red in infravision, however.

There could be no doubt. It was a Half-Drow, and then some.

The odds that another male had shared his peculiarity was next to nil.

It was his.

Netal Oblodra did not feel the crushing humiliation as he expected.

He felt...pensive, uncertain...and that made him felt quite unlike himself.

"What will you name her?" the Human asked, uneasily, and it took Gul'tah some time to frame a reply, some time to accustom. "Va...la..." she said, her eyelids heavy, her face pinched in discomfort, save for a peculiar smile that marked it.

Vala.

The girl's name was Vala.

Troubled, Netal considered terminating the link, but did not do so until the Human left the room.

For some reason he could not articulate, he wanted to watch as child and mother slept.

Chapter 1

House Duskryn, Menzoberranzan (7th of Ches, 1367 Dalereckoning)

The horn sounded, telling them it was morning.

Everyone woke up quickly, before the Dark Elves came in for inspection, and knelt near the door in orderly lines. They probably wanted to be first to eat. Vala yawned, disentangling herself from Mama, who took a few moments to collect herself before getting up too. She changed her tunic, rough linen, for a clean one, but she did not get new leggings, so she kept the ones she had. Mama fussed over her hair for a while, but Vala shook her away. She would cut it soon, like Mama asked. She just hadn't had the chance yesterday. She walked near the front of the bunkhouse, to the second line, and knelt down, though she kept close to Mama all the while.

They did not hurry to be the first to be fed; the males sometimes fought for it, and it was good to be far away.

The house soldiers came in, eyeing everyone with naked suspicion, especially her, checking the room for sharp things or anything else they weren't supposed to have. The Dark Elves swatted at the other slaves, the rounded end of a pommel or the clink of a heavy boot often accompanied by the exclamation, "iblith."

Vala had learned that word quickly; "iblith" was a Dark Elf word which meant "excrement" or "offal". They used it to mean anyone who wasn't Drow.

And according to the Dark Elves, everyone who wasn't a Dark Elf was a slave, as well as iblith, whether they knew it or not. That meant Dwarves, Humans, and the Faerie Elves, whoever they were.

There were none of those; Vala and Mama were Orcs, which made up of most of House Duskryn's workers. Most Orcs were big and thickly muscled, much bigger than her, with longer tusks, thick, warty skin, and heavy-browed faces with sunken dark eyes. Most had green skin, though hers was dark and ashen. She didn't know why that was.

There were also Goblins, like Orcs but shrunken and thin, with big, pudgy heads, Gnolls, which had long snouts, claws, and coats of bristly fur, and Kobolds, which looked like rats if they could walk on two legs.

Most were not very friendly, so she just stayed with Mama.

The Dark Elf guards found nothing, so nobody would be tied up and flogged with the priestess' snake whips. That was good; Vala didn't want to see that again, since they made the rest watch.

The Dark Elves sent two of the slaves, both Goblins, outside, and they brought in loaves of bread, made from spores from the mushrooms they farmed daily, and buckets of rusty water. No Rothé cheese, then... Vala deflated at that, but swallowed down the half-loaf that was passed to her, gulping the water as she was handed the bucket, before passing it further down her line.

Sometimes, the Dark Elves gave a meat stew, but Vala had no idea what kind of meat it was. Only that Mama didn't like it when she ate it. So she usually gave her share to somebody else.

When everyone was fed, the Dark Elves took them out in groups of three to work the fields. Hers was second to last. She hugged Mama's skirts as they were led out of the bunkhouse, daring a glance back to the mansion above them. It was huge; three stories of finely quarried stone and metal that was black as obsidian, with winding arches, towers, murals and hieroglyphics engraving the walls, dozens of pennants, and glowing purple and red fire everywhere, Faerie fire, she heard it was called, made from Faerzress, a form of magical radiation unique to the Underdark.

Whatever that was.

Sometimes they farmed by torch. Sometimes they changed their eyes to see heat instead of light. It made everything look strange; everyone looked light red, with splotches of yellow and green, where everything else looked like shades of dark green, blue, and purple.

The Dark Elves never used torches. Nor did they use stairs; there was no way to get into the mansion above without levitating. She knew all the nobles and many of the soldiers had a rock that let them float through air, and all the other soldiers lived near the bunkhouse and never left the house grounds. She wondered if she could get one of those magic stones. It might be fun to float like them.

Mama grunted for her to pay attention, so she looked away, back to the group.

They went down a small ramp, away from the cliff and the manor, and into a small bog underneath. There was stinky water everywhere, and Vala pinched her nose. There were rows of mushroom stalks, seventeen by thirty-seven. Each mushroom was as tall as a grown Orc, and much wider. The Dark Elves made the mushrooms grow with magic; they came back every day. Every day she, Mama, and the other slaves harvested the bloom on the top, a big, fat, russet brown cap that was good to make into bread, fermented into wine, or mixed with other things to make a healing salve. There were other mushrooms too; little glowing blue ones that made potions, purple ones whose glossy, fibrous bodies were made into fabric, and a black one that helped make sleeping poison. The Dark Elves used that to make the other slaves stop if they got mean. Then the snake whips...

Vala shivered, but remembered they never farmed those mushrooms, the Dark Elves did. Beside the mushroom grove was a small patch of grass and root vegetables, where over two dozen Rothé, the cattle of the Underdark, lowed and chewed. They made cheese, the cheese that Vala liked, fur, that they never got to wear, and meat, which they never got to eat. That went to the Dark Elves.

Their group stopped, near the end of the field. The scythes and picks were in the same place as yesterday. Mama took a scythe. Vala found her shears, and waited while a male Orc took a pickaxe and started breaking apart the mushroom cap's outer casing, a shell that was hard as stone. Mama then used her scythe to slice off the softer, edible sections of the cap. Mama then handed a piece of the cap to her, usually about two-thirds the size of her body, which Vala set down, and cleaned off any lingering residue with her shears before dropping the fibers into the basket. They did this until the cap was completely gone, and then moved down the row. When the basket was full, Goblins would come to carry it away, and replace it with a fresh one.

The time passed by quickly. Her feet sank into the muck, but she didn't fight it. Thankfully, she, like the others, had bare feet. Otherwise, it would be hard to pull free. Vala panted, sweating, trying to peel off a particularly stubborn fragment of shell, when she smelled Dark Elf in the air. She never heard them coming, because they walked without making a sound, even in the watery muck of the field.

Guards, keeping an eye on them.

There were five, a female leading them, her bright red eyes probing for somebody working too slowly, a leather whip at her belt. Not a snake whip, but still painful. Vala had learned that very quickly, unconsciously knotting the muscles in the small of her back. She had drawn on the bunkhouse walls with a piece of coal on a night she couldn't sleep, and they had not liked that. Not at all.

She averted her eyes; the Dark Elves didn't like being looked at, either. She grunted, trying harder to peel the cap, and the shell broke off with a loud thump. With a sharp intake of breath, she dropped the cap into the basket, clean as could be, and the Dark Elves passed by without a word.

Relieved, Vala took the next piece that Mama handed her, and returned to work.

When they were out of earshot, she looked to Mama, while peeling the next lump of mushroom, "Do you see any coal, Mama?"

She frowned at that, but did not look up from her work, "No. You not need draw anyway. You remember what happen last time."

"But I won't draw on the walls again." she protested, still flinching at the memory, "I found some mushroom husks the Dark Elves threw away. I can draw on those."

"I no see any coal." Mother replied, before her expression softened, "I look though. Keep working."

Satisfied, Vala dropped the next lump in the basket, and started on the next one after that. There was always a "next one after that".

...

There... Netal stood at rapt attention at his post, in truth more focused on the psionic link with one of the lesser guards following behind Irae Duskryn, one of the three daughters of Matron Mother Berni'th Duskryn.

He treasured these moments in which he could look upon his daughter. Any could tell that she was no pureblood Orc, and in truth, the Drow side of her lineage was far more prominent. Her small body was still plump with youth, but her slender neck, slanted eyes, and round, cherubic face, made it abundantly clear she would grow into a beautiful female. If she survived long enough.

Watching her, Netal severely doubted she would remain a laborer for long. House Duskryn would likely make her into a maidservant or an attendant. That could be potentially opportune for him. While her continued survival pleased him for reasons he could not articulate, he studied her now for the purpose of learning enough about her to gain her trust and to quietly enlist her into his small cadre of spies later. With an extra set of eyes in the manor proper, there was much he could accomplish, for House Duskryn, but more importantly, for himself.

He could also plant a telepathic link whenever he chose to, should she refuse him, but he was also curious to see if she developed psionic abilities of her own. Their linked blood gave her roughly a fifty-fifty chance, a mere flip of a coin. A fellow Mind Mage as an ally would be even more useful. Survival and the ever-consuming quest for power and influence, at least, as much influence as a male could hope to find in Menzoberranzan, had defined his life and continued to do so. Such was their way.

The patrol passed the spot at which Vala labored, and with nothing else of interest, Netal terminated the connection, lest the subject become aware of the link, and again cycled through his other prospects. There was always more to learn...

...

Irae Duskryn had been keeping a close watch on this most interesting slave through most of the day. She had no idea who was responsible for such unlikely offspring, though the sire was likely one of the house guards, who had taken the girl's mother out of frustration at their station and their treatment by the superior females of House Duskryn. It was not uncommon, really.

Whatever the sire, whatever the reason, Vala was Half-Drow. And female. Irae needed capable females if she was ever to depose her elder sisters, and eventually her mother. The idea of usurping one's family was the motivation of every ranking female. Lloth demanded it from her faithful and her people, for it was the best way to prevent the great houses from becoming weak and bloated. Under her mother's rule, House Duskryn was becoming one of the most prominent and stable ruling families. Under Irae's, Duskryn would rise to even higher station.

And so, when she was eventually sent to Arach-Tinilith to complete her training to become a High Priestess, she planned to do so with obedient underlings watching her house for her, studying her siblings and mother for weaknesses. Vala would make an excellent informant, and perhaps underpriestess. The females of lesser races were sometimes called to faith, and as a Half-Drow, Vala would make an excellent cleric of Lloth. She would just have to make sure the little wretch owed something to her, became beholden to her.

The girl thought she wasn't watching, but Irae had a small enchanted item on her person; a talisman that offered her eyes in the back of her head. Metaphorically speaking, of course. The girl clung to her mother as her men led that group of slaves back to the bunkhouse. Tightly. And not out of fear of her fellow slaves. She rubbed the side of her head against her mother's thigh, a distant smile on her face.

Irae was unsure what to make of it; Orcs did not demonstrate such an odd behavior when they grew. It seemed like something a Human or Faerie Elf child might do. It implied some sort of...familial closeness, something that Irae did not fully comprehend. She had been plotting against her mother since her tenth name day, had always seen her sisters only as rivals, and her brothers only as pawns. Lloth despised weakness, and compassion was among the worst symptom of that insidious condition.

Action was needed. Vala would need to gain strength to survive in the Underdark, to become a proper servant. The mother would have to die. Irae considered the best way to do this, to best explain to Vala indirectly that softness was not a thing to be tolerated, all the while furthering her efforts to indebt Vala to her. She was not unduly concerned as to how this could be accomplished. To the Drow, conspiracy and manipulation was as natural as drawing breath...

...

They led her and Mama back home. Everyone ate more bread, and she got a whole loaf this time. Vala was more than hungry enough to eat it all, and she drank more water than usual. Her skin was slick with sweat, and it was still hard to breathe. Today had been hard, harder than usual. She had heard that the wizards would make the mushrooms bigger and bigger, thanks to some new spell. How would they trim them all if that happened?

The Dark Elves left, locking and barring the doors behind them. With them gone, the Orcs and Goblins settled in for bed, growling at anyone who got too close. Vala stayed close to Mama, and found their pile of straw, not very big, since the males took the biggest piles.

That was fine; this was where she always slept.

Still, she wondered if the Dark Elves slept on straw. Or maybe they slept on air. For that matter, if they could walk on air, does that mean they could go down the big whole behind the manor? What was down there? Or outside home at all?

"Mama..." she whispered, not too loudly, since they might yell at her, "What is outside here?"

Mama frowned at that, scratching her head, "The mushroom bog. Why?"

"No." Vala whispered, "Outside that."

Mama tried to smile, but her eyes didn't smile.

"Nothing. There nothing past that. The world ends after where you can't see any farther".

Vala wondered for a moment, then nodded. That made sense. It explained why the Drow said they could never leave. She pressed herself against Mama, and went to sleep.

Chapter 2

House Duskryn, Menzoberranzan (22nd of Elesias, 1369 Dalereckoning)

The day brought with it a momentous occasion. House Duskryn welcomed a powerful ally, its satellite among the lesser houses, House Srune'Lett. Alirana Srune'Lett, niece of the Matron Mother Srune'Lyris Lett, attended the family dinner to celebrate sister Laele Duskryn's return from Ched Nasad and the success of the delegations.

In their dealings with House Zauvirr; a minor Drow house that had significant interests in the Black Claw Mercantile Company, which was owned by House Melarn and the Menzoberranyr House Baenre, the three of their houses had begun a conspiracy together against the Baenre, one that would offer them significant wealth in the form of the Black Claw's stores of goods. Zauvirr would and had already begun to smuggle whole sections of the stockpile through Ched Nasad, to Srune'Lett's outpost in the free trade city of Skullport. Duskryn provided armed protection to false shipments, a decoy; wagons carting heavy but cheap excess mushroom spores farmed by its slaves and sold in Ched Nasad proper.

Irae would make a note of purchasing more workers to manage the increased yield.

The actual shipments would be transported by Zauvirr's wizard, a double agent guarding the stockpile, who would transmute the desired items into miniature versions of themselves, to be moved and teleported all via spell. The transmutation was alchemical in nature, and thus, would not leave residue that could be traced to its source. Likewise, a transmutation would serve to disguise the worthless items that would replace the missing goods...for a time. Clerical magic would not reveal their ruse either; each family remained comfortably in the Spider Queen's favor. Lloth would not reveal her faithful unless they overstepped their bounds.

Despite the risk, celebration was in order, for the first shipments had already been pilfered; adamantine ore, rare Underdark mushrooms, and enchanted trinkets leftover from the war. Grand theft on so large a scale demanded pomp and ceremony, especially because the entire process was to be accomplished with absolute secrecy. The Drow lived on the edge of disaster by choice as much as by necessity. The Baenre was still a powerful enemy, but risks were always essential for the purpose of greater victories, and with the cooperation of each house (not without some suspicion of each other, of course), it would be extremely difficult for a single house to be exposed as the culprit.

Irae took her seat at the family table and took all of this in stride, eyeing her evening repast. Slices of Rothé steak, finely seared and seasoned by over a score of laboring slaves, sat upon her plate beside slices of fine cheese, sautéed mushroom spores, iced, crunchy tubers, and a small scoop of spreadable eggs harvested from a rare Underdark fish. A steaming mug of tea rested beside the plate, next to a slim glass of wine, and on the other side was a small row of delicate silverware. She took the second of eight forks, a three pronged affair, and teased a small portion of the caviar, considering it before popping it into her mouth.

Laele, the second eldest, took the seat of honor beside Matron Berni'th, much to Talice's distaste. The eldest daughter, a high priestess of Lloth, hid her displeasure well, grinning around her wine glass as if she were among fast friends. Several males sat at attendance as well; Sorn, Krenaste, Quild, and Vrinn, the elderboy and younger sons of the Matron Mother, and Berni'th's latest patron, some nameless rouge that had not been seized by the wretched Bregan D'aerthe, the male-led mercenary band led by Jarlaxle. No common house soldiers stood in the hall. This was a time for nobility alone.

They ate in silence; most Drow preferred to savor their food, and leave their satisfaction unvoiced.

Alirana Srune'Lett broke that silence.

"I feel especially festive this evening..." she said, grinning.

Everyone watched, pensive, though Irae finally caught a glimpse of Talice's dislike for their guest as Alirana finished her steak with graceless enthusiasm. Talice's face was impassive all the while, but through infravision, the Drow could see heat bloom there, betraying her emotions.

Irae supposed she could understand; females of Srune'Lett were often known as the "fat sisters" for their stocky build. It was often jested that a previous Matron Mother had bred with Humans. Alongside her weight, Alirana was a particularly malicious specimen, crude and ignoble, obsessed with petty diversions and cheap pleasures. Her pudgy fingers were weighed down with tacky, heavily ornamented rings, her gown was overly bright and patterned, and its bosom was plunging well below commonly agreed limits of courtesy. She gave frequent passing glances to one or more of the family males, who shifted uneasily. She practically sweated animal lust.

Talice, like Irae, was of a more practical mindset, and both of them had a good idea of what Alirana would suggest. Irae also knew that both the Matron Mother and Laele shared Alirana's attitudes. So much for a quiet night in.

"I propose a hunt." the Srune'Lett female continued, her husky voice just above a whisper, which to a Dark Elf was the equivalent of a knowing wink, "No offense to all attended, but this coven of gruff, humorless warriors need know how to find enjoyment in life's simple pleasures. Your work ethic is a symptom of this; your guards patrol the walls and your field slaves farm mushrooms all day. The iblith could use some "excitement" as well. And I think, for one, that they remembered who their masters were".

It didn't take long for more than one conspiratorial grin to be passed along the table, including one joined by an amused chortle from Mother. Irae swallowed a sigh, and decided to finish her meal quickly. There were a few specimens that she would prefer remained alive.

...

The horn sounded too early. Was it morning already? Vala felt Mama stir against her, so she squirmed out of the way. She stood up, waited for her, all the while clearing loose straw out of her hair. She needed to cut it again; she would have to find another knife, since she intentionally lost her last one before the search.

The Dark Elves came in, more quickly than usual, and they led everyone out. There was no food.

"What is happening?" she asked, and Mama shook her head, frowning.

Something was wrong.

...

"And so the entertainment begins!" Alirana Srune'Lett said in Undercommon above the din, and house soldiers and slaves looked up from the courtyard. The latter shifted nervously. "Like many, I enjoy sava, and so the game shall represent the game to which I so adore. Three types of players are thus named; the Priestess Pieces, the Weaponmaster Pieces, and the Slave Pieces. Each noble male and female will be a Priestess Piece, and thus mount a riding lizard and select the armaments of their choosing, be it sword or spell. Every house guard will be a Weaponmaster Piece, save those that do not man the wall. They choose their armaments, but will have no mount. They will roam in groups of their choosing."

"The slaves..." she continued, eyeing the lesser creatures with open disdain, especially a small, dark figure that stared up with bright blue eyes, "Will be the Slave Pieces, obviously. Each will carry nothing, but weapons will be placed in racks throughout the grove. In ten minutes, every slave will descend into the mushroom groves and seek their weapons. In ten minutes, the other pieces will follow. By that time, my retainers will have sectioned it off with columns of summoned darkness and dozens of lesser demons called Hezrou. They will attack both soldier and slave alike, but rest assured they are trifling foes. However, their cries may attract the Goristro, a massive demon alike in many ways to the Minotaur".

She grinned at the increased unease spreading across the assembled. Even the Duskryn children beside her on the balcony looked nonplussed. "Fear not." she added, "For the Goristro is enspelled to seek magical darkness, and avoid light. Fields of Faerie fire will also be placed to provide light. That is my way of allowing the pieces a choice to avoid or kill him. And thus is the point of the game; The quarry is the Goristro. The Weaponmaster Pieces will draw the beast from hiding, and the Priestesses will wait in the Faerie Fire. If the Slave Pieces kill the Goristro first; I will set every one of them free".

The slaves eyed each other. Several grunted with approval. "What are you doing?" Matron Duskryn hissed quietly, to which Alirana's grin widened, "House Srune'Lett will compensate for the loss. We now have the wealth to spare, as you know".

"If the Priestess Pieces slay the Goristro, or if the timer ends one hour after all the pieces enter the fields, the lesser demons will vanish, and the slaves will become the new quarry. They will then try to return to this spot. If they arrive, they can resume working for this house. However, while the Weaponmaster pieces will be removed from play, the Priestesses, with their mounts, will attempt to run them down. If that happens..."

She laughed, "And remember, if the timer runs out, the Hezrou, and the bindings enspelling the Goristro, will cease to be. The Goristro itself, will not, if he is not slain. That will be my contribution of chaos; the most important aspect of every good match of sava. Now then, I think that it has been about ten minutes. Slaves, ready yourselves!"

...

Netal balanced on the balls of his feet, watching as his daughter was led away beside the other slaves. The Srune'Lett cow had failed to mention that Weaponmaster Pieces were forbidden from aiding the slaves in any way. He grinned, despite himself.

He needed Vala alive. She would be too useful to leave to Alirana's sport. He had links with several slaves, and would be able to locate her quickly, and was more than capable to dealing with Hezrou. They were little more than Troglodytes in the hierarchy of the abyss. He would find Vala, slip away with her, and return her to the bunkhouse, beside her mother if possible. Nobody would be the wiser, and the act would be what he needed to enlist her in time.

He waited one minute, the better for the slaves to scatter. Then he moved.

Calling upon his psionic ability, Netal did not cloak himself in invisibility. Instead, he projected a subtle telepathic suggestion that led others to dismiss his actions as unimportant. Without preamble, he descended into the bog, and crouched behind a mushroom, sifting through the minds to which he was connected.

He paused as one of the slaves he was linked to crossed the same row that he just had, and turned, studying the far fields. A scraggly Goblin bounded into his periphery, joined by seven of its fellows. They held farming implements; shovels and picks, mostly, though one held a bowl aloft like a buckler. Even in his current predicament, Netal found the display amusing.

The Goblins paused, sniffing the air. One pointed his way, growling. The others bayed with excitement, cackling and whispering words in their foul tongue.

Agitated, Netal plotted his first actions. He would prefer to scatter them; it brought him no joy culling house slaves, and he needed to find his quarry quickly. He drew his thinblade from its scabbard, his shield still in his room. A humming noise filled the air as he made his body appear larger than it really was, and infused himself with an artificial presence that projected ineffable might. As he stepped around the mushroom, the Goblins visibly cowered, whimpering.

"Be gone from my sight..." he hissed, brandishing his sword, and as one, the creatures retreated, yelping and cursing as they scrambled over each other in their flight.

Grinning, Netal turned, and found himself face to face with eight Hezrou, souring his expression. It looked like he would have to whet his blade after all...

...

"Mama...What is happening?"

"Quiet..."

"But why are we-"

"Quiet!"

Gul'tah crouched between a pair of mushrooms, her eyes darting to and fro, trying to make out what she could in the gloom. She could hear others plodding through the murky water; that was good, because she could not see enough to tell if the footsteps were from Dark Elves, Orcs, or...something else.

She wanted to go right back to the bunkhouse, but the approach was guarded. They wanted players in their game, and while most would fight, she could not. Not with Vala with her. She would have to bide her time, and hope nothing found them. Within eyeshot of the ramp that led up from the grove, no matter the result, she could leave with her daughter when the hour ran out. She would know when that was because she would hear it.

She tensed, flexing her hands and favoring her right, the one with nails she had filed to points. She-Orcs could not hold weapons, so like Luthic the Cave Mother, she would use her claws if she had to.

Something was coming.

As the she-elves came on their giant lizards, Gul'tah crouched a little lower, placing her other hand over Vala's mouth. Most passed without a word, as did the he-elves that followed in packs, but the fat one, who had spoken earlier, eyed them, her eyes glowing red.

Her hands passed in such a way they did when they were casting a spell.

"Come." she whispered quickly, pulling Valla by her shoulder, positioning the mushroom between them and the Elves. To no avail. Gul'tah looked down at her hands, finding them covered in colored fire that did not burn. Vala did not have any, and her eyes went wide. She tried to squirm away, but Gul'tah held her close, "It fine. Fine. We go".

Gul'tah turned, wading as fast as she dared in the murky water, looking for a place to hide her daughter.

A strange noise, like a hiss, startled her, and she turned her head to the side. There was a little dark-skinned creature plodding towards them. At first, she mistook it for a nude, malformed child. But then she saw it had a spade shaped, toad-like face, filled with teeth. Metallic appendages, like poles wrapped in metal wire, protruded from its skin, which make it look almost mechanical. It loped, sometimes with two legs, sometimes on all fours, emitting a gurgling, throaty growl.

Gul'tah turned away, holding her daughter tightly by the hand as she led them through the bog, ignoring her whimpering.

Vala was no true Orc, not in body and definitely not in spirit, but Gul'tah would not let her die. She was kin, and Orcs protected their own blood.

They continued through the bog, the little frog-thing keeping pace, but not getting closer. Still, she had to walk quickly, and the sucking sound that her footsteps made seemed deafeningly loud.

In the distance, she heard bestial growls, the ringing of metal on metal, then a terrible roar. She thought to herself that must have been how dragons sounded.

Another demon joined its fellow chasing them. Then another. Their yipping and slavering became a chorus. Vala began to stumble, her entire body shaking. Gul'tah picked her up completely, and started to run.

...

A quick exhalation steadied him. Knowing his psionic-based illusions and charms would have no effect on demons, Netal angled his blade low, leading with his left foot, and prepared for the first charge. The Hezrou tried to fan out to surround him, but with their limited intelligence, they left gaps in their advance. He took an opening, and sprang forward. Slipping under the swing of a pickaxe, Netal used the water walking enchantment in his boots to rush forward and slide, as if he were standing on polished marble. Gaining a few paces of distance from the unexpected maneuver, he thrust his thinblade into the back of a turning Hezrou, puncturing a lung. It gurgled, but could not scream, just as he wanted.

The two closest demons closed ranks, ignoring their downed fellow as its thrashed and died in the water. Netal sidestepped one swing while parrying the other with his basket guard, as the blade itself was too light to manage such a bulky weapon. Gripping one of the demon's iron shoulder protrusions, the Dark Elf swatted the Hezrou's hand with the hilt, forcing it to drop its pickaxe, maneuvered beside it so its fellow could not attack, and slid his blade into the small of its back, targeting its kidney. He missed, since it writhed in pain but did not collapse. He took an elbow to the nose, and with the metal plating there, it was enough to break it.

The other Hezrou attacked in spite of its fellow serving Netal as a shield, burying the pickaxe in its skull.

Netal ran forward, inhaled through his nose, and spat blood into the Hezrou's face as it pulled its weapon free. He also drew a line across its throat, but it was too shallow to slice an artery, thanks to the metal lining protecting its jugular. In addition to telepathy, he knew a few abilities based in Psychometabolism, and healed his nose over the next moments as he put his back to a mushroom, letting his enemies gather again.

Rather than functioning like a clerical spell; the power sapped his vitality, drawing from his lifespan in order to locally accelerate time. He chided himself for losing over a week of his life, but he needed to be focused.

"Six more."

They charged, snarling. He kicked one in the midsection, crumpling it, and rolled over its back as its fellows struck the mushroom behind him and recoiled off of its hard surface. Spinning, he pulled back, and thrust through its back, then again, a moment later, through its underarm and at an angle, piercing the heart, kicking it again, this time in the rear, to draw his sword free. It collapsed, and bled.

"Five more."

The demons recovered quickly; he was forced to backpedal while using his thinblade to slap aside a clumsy thrust from a Hezrou with a shovel. He retreated, spinning his blade in little loops and slapping at the wrists of any who tried to swing, bloodying them. Hezrou screams filled the air.

Seeing a window of opportunity, Netal dispelled his water walking enchantment, falling straight down, and kicked a glob of mud into a Hezrou's eyes, impaling it through the mouth with a precise thrust while it tried to rub the debris away, drawing his sword free to continue harrying the rest. The struck Hezrou stared wide-eyed, gagging, and the effort ruptured the lining of the back of its throat. It fell to its knees, coughing blood. He also followed up by thrusting through another Hezrou's right eye, his sword's edge scraping the back of its skull.

"Three more."

The Hezrou with the sword wound across its throat growled, but its enthusiasm was greatly lessened. Demons, while savage in battle, were cowardly, especially the smaller, weaker demons. They seemed ready to flee.

Netal dropped a globe of magical, impenetrable darkness onto them, and they whimpered plaintively, blinded. He snapped his wrist up, priming the small hand crossbow that most Drow carried with them, and fired a small, poisoned bolt into the globe, still able to see the demons thanks to his Drow infravision, which detected heat instead of light. It hit an unwounded Hezrou with a dull thud, and after a few seconds it drooped unsteadily. Most used a sleeping or paralytic poison. Netal always used a lethal concoction. He hurled a small dagger into the other one, popping its eye but not killing it, and that was all the incentive it needed. It turned and ran, gibbering wildly. The one with the opened throat followed soon after, and the third collapsed in a heap.

Dispelling the darkness, lest it attract the Goristro, Netal darted as far as he could from the site, towards the manor. He had made far too much noise, drawn far too much attention. He needed to lay low for a time, then try again to locate the girl.

...

Alirana turned from where she had seen the Orc and her Half-breed with a smile, knowing that she had probably just ensured their horrible deaths. That was well; the moment she had laid eyes on that little mutant child, she had wanted it dead. The thought that it carried elven blood sickened her; such oddities needed to be drowned at birth.

That done, she watched with glee as the first Hezrou was impaled through the abdomen by the thrust of the barbed lance carried by Talice Duskryn, and dragged behind her lizard mount via a chain that connected the weapon to her saddle. The strike was intentionally non-lethal; the little demon thrashed wildly as it was lynched, screaming as black blood poured from the wound. It tried to dislodge itself and crawl up the chain, but the barbs actually elongated, holding their victim in place while its bowels were pierced.

"What a wondrous enchantment." she purred, and Talice smiled back mischievously, the first genuine mirth she had seen in the woman all day, "This weapon is mean to torture, not kill. When I need to kill something, I use my mace".

The adamantine bludgeon strapped to her weapon belt seemed to perfectly fit that description. It lacked spikes or other ornamentation that would intimidate an opponent, and featured only a plain round head with angular flanges meant to wedge into bone and deliver most of its impact directly to internal organs. So boring...

The demon's frenzied, desperate cries attracted more of its kin; three more loped into view.

Irae Duskryn shot two down with her darkwood bow in rapid succession, one after the other. Matron Berni'th struck the last with a Dark Elf fireball, which detonated on impact and sent up a cloud of hissing steam as it seared the water around it. The Hezrou, normally immune to fire as most demons were, burned brightly like a torch as it turned to ash.

How interesting.

As they ventured deeper into the grove, skirting the columns of magical darkness, each of the Duskryns used their infravision to try to locate the Goristro. Alirana knew better; she had also masked the demon's heat signature. Her second little contribution of chaos.

While she had no intention of letting her valuable allies perish, it never hurt to cause a little constructive anarchy; it did wonders of revealing ones character, and Alirana was nothing if not willing to test her allies for weaknesses. For allies among the Drow could quickly become rivals to be eliminated...

...

She ran for what felt like hours. Mud caked her leggings. She perspired heavily, her eyes burning when a droplet flowed into them. Wiping it away just left mud instead, because she had been forced to climb. She had gotten a few cuts and scrapes, but had managed to evade their pursuers.

Until now.

Two more Hezrou joined the group, cutting off their escape. Both of them had found weapons; the crude scythes that she and the others harvested mushrooms with.

Gul'tah growled, low and threatening, setting Vala down and pushing her away. "I go first." she told her, "You follow."

Vala shook her head, her eyes wide, and Gul'tah snarled, "You follow. Now. Do not argue!"

Claws alone would not avail her against so many.

If she had to go to Nishrek and kneel to Gruumsh One-Eye in disgrace when she died, then so be it. Vala would live!

She charged the two in front, determined to seize a weapon.

"Mama!" Vala screamed, weeping.

The Hezrou cackled, their jowls drooling as they raised their scythes.

Gul'tah used her size to slam into one before it could swing, toppling it with her shoulder. She ducked under the other's scythe, but it still grazed her arm. She turned, leapt onto it, and drove her claws against its eyes. It shrieked in pain, opening its mouth wide to bite. She shoved her other fist into it, hoping it would gag. It did, which gave her enough time to grasp the wooden length of the scythe. She kicked it, rose to her feet, and swung down, planting the curved iron blade into its chest.

The Hezrou screamed, thrashed wildly as its black blood gushed from the wound, splattering her tunic and face. Gul'tah turned, and screamed herself, lifting her other foot. The other Hezrou, the one she had toppled, had just crawled over and bitten her, its head twisting in the wound. She beheaded it with one clean stroke, but screamed again as it still stayed attached, even biting deeper.

Ignoring the pain, she took Vala in her arms, who had followed as close as she dared, and limped forward, waiting for the demon to perish and detach. Every step brought fresh waves of pain. Her own blood flowed freely, mixed into the water. The contact between bog water and wound brought further pain, and likely infection. Gul'tah ignored it. The severed head twisted further, gouging a lump of flesh from her leg and slurping it down. Gul'tah ignored it, using the scythe to help her walk.

"Mama..." Vala moaned, crying. No, certainly not an Orc. But she was hers! She would not go into the afterlife as a coward that allowed her daughter to perish at the hands of demons!

"It nothing." Gul'tah said tightly, gasping as the head finally died and slid off, already breaking apart into streamers of shadow. She did not look back at what it had bitten off...

...

Vala held tight, weeping. She could smell Mama's blood, hear her strained breath. They walked through a wall of darkness, and she could not see. She could not see!

"Be quiet now." Mama grunted, pressing her face against her chest, like she used to after Vala stopped drinking her milk but still wanted to be close. She clamped her eyes shut, and begged Gruumsh it would be over soon. Gruumsh had never said anything to her, like he had Mama, but maybe just this one time he would.

The monsters were close; as much as she tried not to she could hear them. She also heard Mama groan in pain from her hurt leg.

They crossed into light, albeit not much, and Mama drew in a sharp intake of breath.

"There it is..." Mama breathed, "We almost there now".

Vala looked up, and she saw the last row of mushrooms, a little higher than the rest; the glowing ones. Past that was a wall, and the foundation for the houses above it. Vala looked harder, and there was a small shaft against the cavern wall, like the ones they sent Kobolds through sometimes with picks to look for shiny metal. That one had been closed up, mostly. There was still a little bit of space inside.

"We hide there?" she asked, and Mama nodded, "You hide there".

Vala smiled, then frowned, as they got closer and she got a better look. It was too small for Mama. She would barely fit herself.

Something big growled, and the water and Mama shook.

Mama moaned, nearly fell. Her arms squeezed Vala painfully. She recovered, grunted, and kept going.

"Where are you going to hide, Mama?"

She said nothing.

"Where are yougoing to hide, Mama?"

She said nothing.

Vala started to shake again, "Mama?"

There were sounds of metal ringing on metal. The big growl again, then a scream.

They reached the little shaft. Mama dumped her in, then started burying the doorway with heavy sticks. It got dark. Vala crawled on fours towards her, but got pushed back with a curse. She got up, and Mama was almost done. She saw only through a thin crack.

"Mama?!" Vala gasped, trying to reach through the sticks.

Mama said nothing.

The big growl repeated, closer.

Mama shivered, turned, and moaned again.

"Mama?! MAMA?!"

"You stay here." she said tightly, and as she knelt down, Vala could see past her.

And wished she could not.

Its head was nearly level with the ceiling of stone. Its skin was red, bright red, and its head was like a Rothé's, but shaggy and black. Its eyes were shut, against the light, and it crawled on fours, its hands shaking the ground as it lumbered closer. Dark Elves followed behind it, some riding on lizards. One charged ahead of the rest, raising a giant black bow.

"Listen to me, Vala." Mama said sadly, her yellow eyes the only thing visible she was so close, "...Do one thing. Only one thing. Be strong...and live free."

She turned, and ran towards the red monster.

"NO! MAMA, NO!" Vala screamed, scrabbling against the wooden sticks. She broke her nails, could see the heat of her blood against the cold wood, but didn't care.

The red monster grabbed mama, roaring as an arrow hit it in the shoulder, and again, it the back of his knee. Mama hit it with the scythe, once, but the weapon broke against its skin. The monster squeezed its hand, squeezed Mama, and she went still. Red stuff poured from her mouth; blood, but not just blood. Vala heard rocks grating against each other, then realized it was Mama's bones breaking.

"MAMA?!"

No answer.

"MAMA?!"

No answer.

"MAMA?! MAMA?!"

...

The Goristro turned to her, its maw wide enough to fit a wagon abreast. Irae fired a pair of arrows simultaneously. Each took the beast in an eye. It howled more than roared, dropping the slave, which struck the water with a dull thud. There was not much left of the body.

Talice galloped in beside her, hurling her spear. It struck the demon and lodged two hand's breadths in its side. Irae drew another, special pair from her quiver, and fired, her arrows burying into its throat. By the creature's size, it was no more than a flesh wound. Until her arrows animated by latent enchantment, and began to burrow deeper into its hide. The Goristro sensed its peril, tried to dig the projectiles out, but its fingers only scraped the fletching before they sank into its body and out of sight.

Mother reached them next, laughing, smiting the demon with a blast of dark energy and a whispered imprecation to Lloth. Hundreds of poisonous spiders manifested along its leathery skin and began to bite. Her house guards rushed to her and surrounded the beast, hacking at its legs. The Goristro wavered, falling again to all fours, then vomited blood. The pinpricks her arrows had left gushed black.

"Game over." Alirana chuckled, her weapon still embedded in its knee from the beginning stages of the battle, the blow that had crippled it.

The Goristro collapsed, its death throes sending up waves of fetid water mixed with black blood.

Knowing what would soon follow, Matron Berni'th ordered them to retreat, and all turned to watch the spectacle. The Goristro's body became engulfed in flames, and in an instant, detonated in a blinding display, before vanishing, banished back to its home dimension in the abyss. Her ears popped from the pressure of displaced air filling the space that its body had occupied.

"Too easy, Alirana." Matron Berni'th sighed, "The Slaves never came close to flushing it out; they wander the fields of darkness still".

Alirana shrugged, "Such is the chaos of the game, Matron Mother. We can "herd" them back to their hovel now, if you wish".

Ignoring them, Irae pushed her mount forward, around the spot where the demon had perished, the spot that water still flowed into, the soil underneath seared into obsidian. She made a note of it; obsidian, while not particularly rare, had a dark, reflective quality that pleased her. Perhaps she would magically harden it to the consistency of diamond and make the piece into some jewelry.

She approached the shaft, heard a faint noise on the other side, and switched to infravision, ignoring the miniscule dots of heat that were in fact spattered blood. She saw a much larger, albeit relatively small, lump of heat, low to the floor, and grinned, hopping off of her mount with practiced ease. Good, she was still alive. Adopting a more somber expression, the Dark Elf waved a trio of her house guards over, one of which was Netal, the house's resident psion, who they had found bloodied and wandering the bog alone. Either his patrol had been wiped out or he had been engaged in some...very suspicious behavior.

"Clear the rubble." Irae commanded, and they set to work, pulling free the collapsed supports of the shaft with visible difficulty.

That the Orcish slave had managed to lift such heavy objects with such seeming ease when her offspring had been threatened suggested disturbing implications that she decided not to acknowledge.

A small voice cried out when a particular specimen was upended, sending up a cloud of dust, and she reached in, and drew the shivering child out, heaving it over her shoulder and walking to her riding lizard. The girl wept, openly, her entire body shaking, and Irae for a moment reconsidered the wisdom of having her as a house slave. Too soft...too weak. Then, she saw a shadow cross Netal's face as he followed, too closely, and suddenly a great many things fell into place, and her interest was rekindled.

"Leave us." she commanded, setting the girl in the saddle, and each of the males obeyed, that one slower than the rest.

Irae grinned, though the Drow made sure the girl's face was turned. She needn't bother; she looked at the broken body of her mother, tense as a bowstring. Tears continued to flow.

Unwilling to waste a slave for such foolishness, Irae tore a length of her piwafwi, an enchanted cloak unique to the Drow, and blindfolded her with it. The girl did not even seem to notice. "Hold still." she said gently in Undercommon, the language of the slaves, "I am taking you to the manor".

Spurring her mount forward, she noticed Alirana, who remained even as her siblings had set off in frenzied pursuit of the slaves. The Srune'Lett cow's mount sped forward to intercept hers.

"Such odd behavior from the youngest Duskryn..." the Srune'Lett diplomat said with a grin, in elvish, "Such compassion towards her lesser servants". Irae returned the grin in full, replying in the same tongue, to which the girl could not understand, "I have no idea what you mean, Alirana. I happen to be choosing morsels from our stock for my personal use. This one seems ideally suited, and it just so happens she can no longer be raised with the others".

"Why so?" Alirana asked, irritated, and Irae knew she had her now, setting a hand on the girl's shoulder, "Because I can't have my future handmaiden ravaged by the male Orcs and Goblins the moment of her first bleed. I prefer my servants...unspoiled, and I know also that this will please Lloth. Even a Half-Drow female is half hers".

All true enough; female Drow were the favored creatures of the Spider Queen. And she did indeed favor her personal attendants so. Irae, like any practiced conversationalist, knew to withhold the truth rather than mask it, for the best lies were also truths.

Loping around her, Irae sped her mount forward, towards the manor. She had a few arrangements to make...and she was very thankful that Vala was blindfolded, lest the girl see the look of naked triumph on her face and draw conclusions.

Saving the girl's life was not an act of mercy, but a capitalization on an opportunity.

Chapter 3

House Duskryn, Menzoberranzan (23rd of Elesias, 1371 Dalereckoning)

Vala celebrated her tenth nameday alone. Mistress Irae had no need of her, thanks to pressing matters among the family, which currently had all the Duskryn females sequestered in their private sanctum where they did worship to the Spider Queen.

She also thought that it must have something to do with the Menzoberranzan as a whole. They said the slaves, far outnumbering the Drow, were especially restless, and that there had been a string of vandalisms in the bazaar; painted symbols of Orcish clans and the like. The city, they said, had not been so restless since the Time of Troubles, which happened before her birth.

She shrugged; everyone always seemed tense and restless in Menzoberranzan, Drow or otherwise.

Though not the slaves of House Duskryn lately, surprisingly.

Since the "hunt" that had taken her mother, the strange meat soup had been in abundance. It had not taken Vala long to make the connection. She wanted to vomit, every memory of taking a bite making her belly quiver.

She dismissed the memory before she really did throw up.

Vala had come to learn of the city as she had of several other large settlements beyond Menzoberranzan's walls; Ched Nasad, its largest ally and trading partner, Eryndlyn, a sinful place in which many gods were followed against Lloth's decree, and many others, not all of them populated by Drow. West of the city, there stood Blingdenstone, peopled by the Svirfneblin, or Deep Gnomes, the most immediately hated of the Drow's enemies, as well as Drik Hargunen, which was much further away in the Darklands and peopled by the Dreugar, or Grey Dwarves.

Actually, the Underdark seemed a much larger place than what Mother had led her to believe. She wondered if she would live long enough to see any of it.

No matter.

Now that she had some time to herself, Vala had decided to catch up on her chores, one of which included preparing the mistress' wardrobe. She had nearly finished a week's worth of silks and leathers, polishing the latter and washing the former. The boots were always an issue; in addition to stepping into who knew what, the mistress had a most distinctive case of boot foot. Leaving a slab of pungent mushroom fiber in each sole to neutralize the stink, she turned to the piwafwi. Entranced by its shifting patterns of color, which could mask a Dark Elf even from their race's heat-detecting vision, it always disoriented her when looking too closely.

"No." she grunted, folding it and setting it aside with difficulty, "It needs magic, and I don't have any".

All that was left was the coat of adamantine mail, the lady's spare set, which she leaned against the back of a chair and began to polish with a lump of steel wire dabbed in specially-made oils which were given to her from the house smithy, a Half-Drow like her, though definitely part Human if his pale complexion was any indication.

After shearing off the grime with the pad of wire, which took almost an hour since it was so much bigger than her, Vala followed up with a dry cloth, which drew in the oil and dried the ore. She was careful not to cut against the links, which were subtly barbed, the better to discourage attackers. It also made this part painfully tedious, because she had to get all of the oil before it dried.

By the time Vala was finished, she found herself short of breath and beaded with sweat. She was grateful that the sleeveless gown of black spider silk she was given to wear was enchanted not to stain. On the downside, the soft fabric reminded her how sensitive her skin had become. Before...before she had moved into the manor, such activities had not winded her. Nor had they caused her to perspire, thanks to the moisture present in the bog.

Admittedly, she was more comfortable now, in body, at least.

She lived in constant threat from her Drow keepers. All three of Bern'ith's daughters were priestesses now; all carried those dreaded snake whips. She had tasted a snake whip two weeks after Irae had carried her in. In the middle of painting her mistress' toenails, she had spilled a small measure of dye within view of the eldest, Laele. There had been a sharp intake of breath, a reptilian hiss. The sound of a belt buckle being tapped by something. Her back muscles had twisted in pain, and she had convulsed on the floor for what felt like an eternity, too shocked to scream. Needless to say, she had spilled far more dye in her tumble, earning another strike when she came to, which had left her unconscious.

It had become very clear that she meant nothing to any of them, even her mistress, which had taken her from Ma-...her mother's body. She was a tool, a thing that they found useful, or amusing. Her Half-blood made her less than any Drow, even the males, though it also made her more than any Orc or Goblin..

As a Half-Drow, she had come to know of Lloth, the Drow matron deity and queen of spiders.

While she had made no effort to commune with the goddess, she had learned of her history; how the Drow had once been allies of the Faerie Elves of the surface (There was that word again. Surface. Was it an upper level of the Underdark?). The Faerie Elves, however, had been cruel and spiteful, and betrayed the Drow, and nearly exterminated them. Lloth had nurtured the Drow nation back to health in the lowest reaches of the Underdark, spawning many great cities, of which Menzoberranzan was the crowning ideal. From the Underdark, the Drow conquered or destroyed the civilizations of the lesser races and of Drow not rightfully loyal to the Spider Queen.

In theory.

Aside from a failed attack on a place called Mithral Hall, a kingdom ruled by Dwarves, the pale-skinned cousins of the Dreugar, Vala knew of no such incidents. The Drow seemed more interested in lingering in their cities, leaving only to trade, mostly in slaves.

She eyed the iron bracers that were bound to her wrists. They had been a condition of her stay in the manor; so that Irae could know where she was, and that she could not leave. If she tried, or so Irae said, she would fall into a deep sleep, and not awaken until a priestess revived her. Then, would come the whippings, or, if she was deemed unfit for service, death. Irae would take her heart and offer it to the Spider Queen in atonement for the injury of refusing her gift.

Not like Vala felt like leaving anyway.

In spite of things, there was nothing left for her outside of House Duskryn. Her mother was dead. The only thing she had to remember her was...

Sparing a glance about her, Vala reached down her gown, and pulled on the length of wrapped cord that she had tied about her neck, freeing the object at its end to rest against her gown, instead of inside it. A small lump of bone; a chipped tusk.

She had asked Irae for one thing and one thing only during her two years of service; a token from her mother. Since Gul'tah had been a slave, and bore no private possessions, Irae had returned with the tusk, cleaned and polished. Vala had not understood why Irae had done that, nor had the woman ever explained herself. Nor had she explained why she had saved her.

The rest of her mother, no doubt, had gone to the stew.

Sighing, Vala put away the polished mail, alongside the laundry, neatly and per the mistress' set arrangements, every movement made with delicate care, forcing herself to focus solely on the physical activity.

She would not cry. She could not. Such behavior was unbefitting to a servant of the house.

...

Netal found his days to be increasingly frustrating, in spite of the swift advances he made among the Duskryn house guard.

She was beyond his reach now; Irae had kept the girl sequestered in her personal chambers, or in the dining hall in the manor proper. He had no way to reach her, not way to monitor her. He did not even know if she had manifested already, or if she ever would...

The death of Gul'tah had troubled him, if only slightly. The true loss was in his daughter. What he had learned about her...disturbed him, but had convinced him that she would have been a loyal agent, more so than he could expect in any of the others. He could have raised her himself...taken her in and told her what he would. If only he had reached her first...

The Drow returned to his meditation. It was the only thing he could do not to scream in anger and frustration.

...

Vala dreamed of shadows. But she knew this was no dream, because it hurt when she pinched herself. It was dark, but she was not afraid. Merely...expectant. In the shadows, she saw skittering shapes. There was blood, whose, she could not say.

There was a woman, cloaked in darkness.

Vala kneeled before the woman, though she didn't know why.

From her hair there were strands of spun webs, on which hung many spiders. Menace radiated from her body, and she opened her eyes. In them was red brighter than all the blood around her. She stood far taller than Vala, taller than any Drow. In her shadow, Vala saw an iron fortress crossing a blasted landscape, heard the screams of the damned and roars of something far more frightening. Eyes...eight eyes, black and merciless, bored into her from that shadow.

The woman, the Drow that was not a Drow, reached out a hand, an offering to her supplication. Vala looked at it, tempted, and pressed her own hand forward to touch it. Spiders covered the woman's arm and her own, their bodies oddly warm. Their presence oddly comforting. She heard her mother scream, in fear or in pain, she did not know.

She woke suddenly, in cold sweat and sharply drawn breath.

Her wrists, or, more accurately, the bracers lining them, vibrated, a sign that her mistress desired her presence.

She looked at her bracers dimly, confused. It had felt so real...

The bracers vibrated more rapidly, insistently.

She shrugged; the present was more important. Though it had likely been less than an hour since she had fallen asleep, she prepared herself for staying up another cycle of Narbondel.

Yawning, Vala rose from bed, hastily donned a new gown, righted her short bangs, and opened the door to Irae's bedchamber. Her own room, little more than a closet with a small bed, directly connected to it, allowing her swift passage.

Irae Duskryn sat at the foot of the bed, tossing aside her boots. Vala abased herself, kneeling, pressing her forehead to the floor, hands palms-down and outstretched forward.

"Mistress." she stated, and waited to be acknowledged.

...

"Rise." Irae Duskryn commanded, watching the girl climb to her feet. Her eyes stayed downcast. That was good.

Irae rested her feet upon her wash basin, removed from its stand and set on the floor.

"Massage my feet. Sitting in the Duskryn chapel has been taxing."

To her credit, Vala hid her distaste, and without hesitation, walked to the cabinet, drawing a small jug of lotion. She whetted her hands with the thick paste, made from a rare Underdark flower mimicking aloe, and considered for a moment.

Vala's hands, softened with her departure from hard labor but still highly dexterous, grasped her right foot, and began probing the wiry muscles just below her calf for several minutes. Forcing the tension further down, the girl moved to Irae's ankles with practiced confidence, and then to the bottom of her foot, before alternating to the spaces between each toe, over the course of roughly an hour.

Sighing as her stress dissipated with the physical release of tension, Irae studied her slave as she moved to the other foot.

Vala was something of an anomaly; breeding Orc and Drow rarely produced so fine a specimen. Her features, predominantly Elven, featured a few distinctly un-Drowlike traits; her large, icy blue, slightly diagonally slanted eyes, her button nose, her round, cherubic face, which always seemed to frown, and the small tusks that poked from her lips, little more than extended lower canines.

Iblith, to be sure...but the sort of Iblith that could prove useful or intriguing enough to rise ever so slightly from the other rabble. With Irae's generous assistance, it could be more than slightly.

Finished, Vala set aside the jug, washed her hands. The lotion on Irae's feet she left as it was; it would dry, and produce a slight aromatic effect.

"Good. You please me. Ring the bell and tell the servants to bring in my evening repast, as well as yours. You will eat with me."

She complied, and as the meal was delivered within a hundred count, Irae sat cross legged on the bed, while Vala knelt on the floor, having washed her hands, picking at a shallow bowl filled with cubes of Rothé cheese and sliced mushrooms.

Irae's meal was far more intricate; a platter of blackened fish with grilled tubers and a light sauce made with a variety of seasonings. Beside the platter was a torte, and slicing it open with a slender fork, she grinned, seeing heavy custard, harvested from eggs and milk that had been imported from the surface. Taking an experimental bite, she savored the rare (and expensive) treat, before clearing her palate with a light Drow-made wine named qilovestualt.

"You are quieter than usual." she commented, watching Vala unceremoniously scarf down her meal. Her servant took no time to eat; half the bowl was gone in the time Irae had taken a single bite.

Vala nodded, facing Irae, her eyes downcast; a subtle manner of deference, "I had a strange dream today."

"Oh?" Irae asked, her throat parched from conferring with her matron mother and sisters but aching for stimulating conversation regardless.

Vala shrugged, "I saw a woman. She was Drow, but not Drow".

Now that was stimulating conversation.

"What else did you see?"

"An iron spider, and a desert." Vala continued, considering a malformed curd of cheese, "Blood. A vision of the abyss. I guess the chapbooks that they hand out are getting to me a little".

"Perhaps..." Irae said, all of her attention now on the girl, "But perhaps not."

"What do you mean?"

"Mother Lloth often appears to potential ley-worshipers in their dreams. It is her way to present her offer." Irae replied, gauging her reaction, "Did you accept what she asked for?"

Vala paused, now looking to her directly, a dangerous breech of manners. Irae ignored it.

"I woke up. I think I was about to."

Nodding, Irae returned to her meal, "You will have another chance, I think. If Lady Lloth has interest in you, she will likely press her suit. Be sure to accept whatever she asks of you, if you value your life".

Vala stared at her, her lips pursed, "What does she offer me?"

"For you specifically? I know not. Her will is her own. But there is always great gain to be had. Perhaps she even would wish for you to be her priestess. Were that to happen, you would become a free hireling."

"And all the more useful to me in the end..." Irae thought to herself.

Vala digested that for a time, then, "I heard my mother screaming."

"What?"

"In my dream." she persisted, "Would she be in the Demonweb Pits?"

Irae shrugged, "Unlikely. Some of the lesser races can enter Lloth's realm, but they must worship her. To my knowledge, Gruumsh One-Eye is still the patron deity to most of the-" she nearly said slaves, "...workers. Why do you ask?"

"I do not think she wanted me to..."

She didn't finish the statement. She didn't need to.

"This is irrelevant." Irae snapped, irritated, "You will know soon enough if it was a dream or not, and if it was indeed a portent of the goddess' interest, you know what you must do. You are of our blood, child, if only half. You, like all Drow, will come to worship Lloth."

She considered that, and added in a tone that was gentle but firm, "Tomorrow I will take you to the Duskryn chapel, as I should have the moment I brought you under this roof. You will learn more of the ways of Lloth. I will tutor you as I would a pureblood initiate."

"Yes, Mistress."

...

After being dismissed, Vala set her bowl and the mistress' platter outside the door, and returned to her room after bowing a final time. She considered the bed, then fell in. It was nearly the same dimensions as the room, meeting a wall on either side. The ceiling, low, seemed to box her in. Likely, if she grew much more, her head would be level with it.

In truth, she found the enclosed space more comforting than confining. It helped her forget how alone she felt.

She fell asleep, hoping she would not dream. Most Drow never dreamed...maybe that was because they had taken Lloth's hand.

Her night was a restless one indeed as she waited for Lloth to visit her...

...

Upon ensuring the identities of each of the guards and passengers, Netal ordered the gates opened for the Srune'Lett delegation, having received word well in advance of their impending arrival. Alirana Srune'Lett followed him to the manse while her brother Dargathan, an up-and-coming Weaponmaster of their house, was left to stable the pack lizards with the other males. The indignity was not lost to the Oblodra Psion, who had suffered similarly in both this house and his own. "The place has not changed much since I last arrived." the female noted idly, "Did my little sport properly remind the iblith of their place?"

"Thoroughly." Netal replied, hiding his irritation, "It took over a week to process and bury all the bodies. Having their own ground into fertilizer had served to pacify the slaves for many months. Not to mention the finer bits making the stew that they so love."

It was hardly a secret; Goblinkin often engaged in cannibalism. Even outside of desperation.

"Indeed." Alirana replied, seemingly pleased by that remark, "I will help myself into the Manor proper.

My room will be where it was last time?"

"Of course, milady."

...

"Again..." Irae snapped, her feet impatiently tapping on the tiled floor. Vala tensed, expecting a lash, but found none forthcoming. Sighing with relief, she drew the rune again while she knelt before candlelight, making sure each layer of intersecting strokes was perfectly aligned.

While she now spoke both fluent Elvish and Undercommon, thanks to regular sessions of vocabulary, Vala had never been formally taught to read and write, and her mistress' lectures had proven equal parts intensive and misleading. And while she had learned to suffer the minimal light in the manor, mostly from wax candles, her eyes still ached, and had difficulty focusing on the complex symbols that the mistress showed her.

They had spent most of the morning introducing the basic twenty-six letter alphabet, with varying suffixes on each vowel. Actually, figuring out which ones were vowels and which were consonants had taken almost an hour to comprehend. Every passing moment since had served to erode Irae's notwithstanding patience.

Then, they had gone over basic terms, Vala balancing the tenses of each letter to determine which made up a specific word. That had been much easier; blending speech and writing allowed her to draw upon pre-existing experience.

Now that her mistress was satisfied that she could passably write clipped sentences, she studied basic symbols; the current one being a house defense glyph, which, when imbued with magic, would summon a cloud of noxious poison if activated. It looked, at first glance, not unlike a series of scythes, the tool that...that she had seen used to harvest mushrooms. It had a two-pronged end facing diagonally, with several secondary lines forming a pinwheel pattern with needle-thin ends. To her, each segment of the wheel looked like nothing else but thin spider legs.

This proved to be far more pleasant than her expectancy of a lesson relating to Lloth, as Irae had implied would be today's subject. Vala had not dreamed of her again, but the more she contemplated her original dream, the more disturbed she became.

She finished the rune, studied it intensely, recalling the example she had been shown at the beginning of the lecture. It looked right...but it was hard to be sure. So much time spent focusing her eyes had left her vision blurry, forcing her to squint.

Nothing for it, Vala presented the sheet to her mistress, who in turn studied her work. Waving her hand in a mystic pass, Irae crumpled a small pouch at her belt, and luminous green light emerged from the paper.

The Drow smiled, "Good. It is slightly imperfect, but passable. It would function normally when activated, though the poison would be slightly weaker than normal. You justified the expenditure of that specially treated chalk".

Nodding, and appearing grateful, for she knew the consequence of neglecting to do so, Vala listened intently as several additional runes were described, and tried to ignore the feeling that she was drowning in a sea of her own incompetence.

...

Alirana watched intently through her enchanted divining mirror as Irae disciplined her iblith student over failing to create a more complex rune for the third time.

Smiling, the Drow enjoyed the iblith's expression of pain as Irae's whip cracked, though her device could not record sound, then found herself disappointed as the iblith child was dismissed, the mirror's focal point remaining affixed to the spot on which they had stood.

She knew it would be housed in a small chamber inside of Irae's room. A repurposed broom closet, more specifically.

Redirecting the focal point of the divining mirror, Alirana grinned as she saw the lashed iblith collapse into bed, drained and short of breath.

The iblith girl spoke to herself in hushed whispers. Her device, unable to perceive sounds, nonetheless allowed Alirana to read its lips, as it drew something from under its gown.

"The more I learn of this place..." the girl whispered to herself, "The more I wish the world really had just been this house and the mushroom groves. How did you stand it, Mother? How did you survive in this land?"

Alirana noticed that she held something in her hands...some manner of token.

She considered, her fat little lips pursed, before opening her hands about the item, revealing it to be a weathered, chipped tooth, "How did you find the strength to give your life for me? Here, in this land where the only meaning is found within the self? In this land of heartlessness? This wretched abyss?"

The girl's face pinched. Moisture formed in the corners of her eyes, "I wish I had your strength, Mother. I fear that Lloth will approach me again. I do not know if I want what she offers...but I know I lack the strength to refuse, even if I wanted to. I wonder how that will change me...will it make me forget you?"

Apparently finding no answers, the girl sighed, slipped the tooth, which was tied into a leather thong, back about her neck, tucking it down under her gown. She fell asleep mere moments afterward.

Offering Alirana a chance to torment her further...

Weakness was not something that would ever be permitted amongst the faithful. Alirana had been content to pettily tease her, as she had planned, mocking her over her mother's death.

But the potential of the iblith becoming an Underpriestess in full had changed things. She was a faithful servant of Lloth, and would not allow the little wretch to shame their goddess.

She would remove the source of the weakness, and purge the child of its softness by hurling the tooth into the Clawrift. Perhaps it would become Drow enough afterward to love it...stranger things had happened.

...

Vala did not dream of Lloth.

She dreamed of another, one in service to the goddess.

Like a great lump of melting candle wax, it lacked definition and structure. She knew that it must not have a conventional skeleton, or perhaps any to speak of at all.

Roping, slimy tentacles emerged from its quivering, amorphous body.

Though its face lacked defining features, Vala knew the creature to be female.

Ancient tales told of Drow Priestess who died in the very highest favor of the Spider Queen, and were chosen for a special honor.

They were consumed by Lloth, their very souls extinguished, and transformed into Yochlol, her blessed demonic handmaidens, who were tasked to guard her realm in the 66th layer of the abyss, as well as seek out new followers and punish disloyal ones.

And so did a Yochlol stand before her, on a great, empty surface, a windswept desert of lifeless grey sand, above them a vast emptiness, a darkness so impenetrable that measuring distance and depth was impossible.

Her hands grasped at the sands. Her balance lost, she felt as if she would fall into that void if she let go.

"Greetings, profligate..." it said in a wet, bubbly voice, froth rimming its pulsating lips, inside of which were rows upon rows of jagged teeth, "Twice the lady of chaos has spoken to you, and twice now you have not answered."

"But we know your heart." it added, "Your weakness. Your yearning. We would offer you a means to satisfy one, and quench the other."

"I..." Vala stammered, trying to absorb her surroundings and the complexity of this dream, "I do not understand."

No. Not a dream. A vision.

It laughed, a horrible, croaking sound, "You wish for vengeance upon the one who slew your mother. This is a blessed act in the eyes of the Spider Queen...and the perfect test for your mettle. Harden your heart, and kill Alirana Srune'Lett with cold wrath and silent anonymity. Make her death a service to Lloth, and hasten her voyage to the Demonweb Pits for her reward in afterlife, as well as your own. Your killing will be hidden from the divining reach of the Matron Mothers, and it will be a secret known only to we three."

"Do you not wish to make her suffer?" it asked, all innocence, and Vala remembered starkly the sight of her mother hurling herself into the Goristro.

The Goristro. The lesser demons. The hunt. All of it had been Alirana's doing.

Vala remembered the wretch's voice...though she had not known their language at the time, the words had burned themselves into her mind.

"And so the entertainment begins!" Alirana Srune'Lett had said, "Like many, I especially enjoy sava, and so the game shall represent the game to which I so adore."

Alirana had created the circumstances that had killed her mother, and had gloated. Had laughed, at Vala's plight.

Grief buried itself beneath the weight of a new feeling.

Vala clenched her fists, scowled at the blessed servant of Lloth, though her wrath was directed elsewhere.

"I do." she replied honestly, "And if Lloth offers me the power to make her pay, I will take it."

"She offers far more than that, child..." the Yochlol grinned, "The strength to crush or pervert your enemies. The will to fortify yourself from fate's cruelty. The cunning to cling to life's chaos and emerge victorious from the very edges of disaster. Become a priestess of Lloth, girl. Become a full-blooded Drow in spirit, if not in body. When you die in the Spider Queen's favor, as I have little doubt, you will join us in the Demonweb Pits as a sister in full. Your Orcish blood will be burned away; where nature failed, faith will succeed in purifying you of that foul, lesser heritage."

Her blood ran cold. She again imagined her mother, recoiling in horror.

But she was beyond this.

She yearned for justice, or vengeance, and no longer cared which it actually was. For two years she had prized her mother's tooth, carried this weight in her heart, not knowing what she could do to let go.

This would be her means of a final farewell. Her means of repaying Gul'tah for everything.

If this was to be her destiny, then so be it.

"Accept this gift." The Yochlol said elatedly as it beamed with approval, one of its tentacles curling languidly and brushing against her hand, "A weapon of the faithful."

Vala opened her hand, palm up, to find a small, black spider, a red hourglass on its bulbous thorax. It arched its legs up and down, its mandibles clicking hungrily.

No creature of nature, it eyes burned with demonic rage and glee. She knew instinctively that its poison could kill in a heartbeat, protections or no.

"I will use this weapon." Vala replied calmly, steeling herself for what she would do, "Alirana Srune'Lett will die by the weapon of her...our, goddess."

...

She woke, startled. She looked down to her hand, and the spider perched upon it wiggled its thorax, a simple acknowledgement of her scrutiny.

"Rest easy, Mother." Vala said, smiling, "Soon, she will be dead."

Her smile, and her plans to seek out the woman, died stillborn, when she reached into her gown and found...nothing.

Mother's tusk!

Panic set in; the spider darted off of her hand as she rolled over, desperately hurling the blankets off of the bed.

Nothing.

It was nowhere to be found.

Alirana...

Lloth would not have given her this chance if the woman was not currently in House Duskryn.

She had taken it!

The only remembrance of her mother, the only thing that had given her comfort in this short, miserable existence!

She snarled, swatting at the spider as it tried to set itself onto her skin.

It felt like her skin was crawling. She saw little specks of blue light, like glowflys, tried to swipe them away.

Her world became a rush of deafening noise, piercing light.

She screamed, but she did not recognize her voice. It sounded like the old Orcs that went mad under the whip and attacked their Drow keepers, giggling madly as dark metal pierced their hearts.

...

Alirana walked from the girl's room to her own, and found Irae standing by her doorway, beside her personal house guards.

The female's expression soured.

"You took something that belongs to a member of this house." she said dryly.

Alirana chuckled, "Slaves need no possessions, Irae. Especially none based upon...sentimentality. You should have stripped the girl of this ages ago."

She brandished the tooth like a trophy, grinning.

"Give it to me now." Irae said with authority, "As my slave's possession, it is also mine. I do not approve of this disrespect towards my property, and my property's property."

Shrugging, she considered just surrendering the item, but Irae blanched, walking past her.

"Vala? What are you doing out of your room?"

Alirana turned to find the girl standing in the hallway, her eyes riveted to the tooth in her hand.

The girl said nothing, a dazed expression on her face.

"Answer me, girl. What are you doing?"

Her eyes were empty, and she started forward, unmindful.

"Have you something to say to me, iblith?" Alirana laughed, "Let us hear it. I am all ears."

...

Unlike the Srune'Lett female, Irae's eyes were still attuned to the infrared spectrum. She could see then, that despite Vala's impassive, even submissive expression, her body emanated waves of body heat that painted her skin like molten steel.

Anger alone could not explain such a plume of heat...she only saw such coloration on an Orc entering a murderous berserker rage.

Before she could call upon the Spider Queen to hold the girl in place with invisible webbing, Vala lunged forward, her roar deeper than her voice should have allowed. Alirana's two guards scowled, and strode in to intercept. Their dark blades crossed between their bodies in such a way as to impale the girl as she approached, without her being able to see the danger until it was too late. Irae's eyes readjusted to light just late enough to note that Vala had somehow masked her heat signature.

But as Vala crossed between the armed males, her body rippled, a faint hum audible in the air, and her body passed through the blades without resistance, as if she were no more than a phantasm. Her screams muted, as did her footsteps.

"Ghostform...?" Irae thought silently, "Impossible. There was no wizardly spell at play..."

Alirana seemed equally disquieted, but readied her snake whip, speaking a prayer to the Spider Queen to enhance her battle potential. Enchanted, and imbued with the power of Lloth, her three-headed snake whip surged with dark, crackling unholy power, their scales turned from slime green to obsidian, save of a pale splotch atop their foreheads in the shape of a skull. They snapped forward, their fangs opened wide.

Vala outstretched her hand, towards the serpents. A vibration shook the ground, and Irae nearly toppled over as she dashed forward to stop the foolish child. Alirana's head was slightly cocked to the side, and her stance was slightly hunched.

That alone saved her.

Pale crystal poured from Vala's fingertips; four thick plunging spears that impaled the lengths of the snake whip, pressed them against their wielder without fully penetrating, and gored Alirana across her mouth; under her chin, through her tongue, and out her cheek, all the while shearing off a strip of her eyelid. The final spear tangled in her hair.

Irae reached the pair just as Vala over-extended, breaking the crystals' connections to her fingers.

In an instant, they dissipated into streamers of mist, just as both the girl and the Srune'Lett diplomat crumbled to the ground, the latter gushing blood.

She reached them before the soldiers, and before one of them could kill the child, Irae snapped at them, "Your mistress needs healing. Bring her to the Duskryn Chapel at once!"

Being mere males, they instinctively rushed to obey the command of a Priestess of Lloth.

Leaving her to stare blankly at the Half-Drow child, who twitched on the floor, her eyes blank and unseeing, foam pouring from her lips, her body emitting more of that peculiar mist which formed a cloud about her that masked her heat signature.

"You fool...what have you done?!"

Chapter 4

House Duskryn, Menzoberranzan (24th of Elesias, 1371 Dalereckoning)

The females of the house attended the Matron Mother in the Duskryn Chapel. After Alirana was stabilized; outside of blood loss, the injury was not severe, she woke in a rage, demanding Vala's head.

Irae, unwilling to risk her mother's ire, had not argued too overtly against this, claiming the girl's value with the awakening of her unusual powers. Neither wizardly in nature, nor deriving from divine or infernal beings, it had taken hours for one of the house guards, Netal Oblodra, to identify the phenomenon as a Psionic Manifestation.

He had surrendered this information with some difficulty, a most curious thing, though perhaps he was nervous about delivering a report to a room filled with agitated priestesses.

At least, that was what Irae hoped Mother would believe. Mother had not yet reached the understanding that the two were kin.

Divinations and binding spells had been placed on the girl, who now slept in a magical stasis at the sacrificial altar; a position that was by no means ironic, pending her selected judgment.

Matron Berni'th sat at her throne behind the altar, considering.

Irae stood with her sisters around the altar, and Alirana paced below, before her soldiers and the Duskryn house guard. Netal, to his credit, to not look at the girl overtly, nor did he appear to be intentionally looking away. He looked like any male; curious, but not overly interested.

"Something must be done." Matron Berni'th finally proclaimed, "I will not allow an iblith to shame this house by attacking an ambassador."

Alirana made no effort to hide her smirk, though it looked strained on her mangled face. Vala's attack had permanently scarred the flesh beneath her chin, near the throat, as well as tracing an angry red line from lip to cheekbone, obvious both in light and infravision. Clerical magic could only go so far; Lloth was a capricious goddess, and healing magic was always in short supply, scarcely given.

That Matron Duskryn had seen fit to save her life at all constituted a considerable charity; most would have let her rot for her foolishness.

Irae considered giving the conniving bitch her due personally, if only for a moment. Had this treachery accomplished a purpose, even against House Duskryn, she would have understood, even applauded her efforts. But effectively killing Vala because of her iblith blood served no purpose, and it offended Irae's practical sensibilities.

"You will give her to me, then..." Alirana demanded, breaking courtesy, "I will discipline her for attacking her betters."

"As I recall..." the Matron Mother replied dryly, "You have not yet repaid me in full for the thralls that were slain in your hunt. As enjoyable as it was, I see little reason to forego profit in this matter."

Irae bristled, but did not protest. She would not dare her mother's anger for a Half-breed.

"House Zauvirr is due for a good faith payment." she continued, "I was already going to give them some fresh veal, and this will make a fine addition. I will sell her cheap, and they can decide what to do with her. If they harness her psionics, good...I hear the Illithid have ways of harvesting parts of a brain while leaving the subject...mostly intact. They can sell what is left to Nym. I hear he has received enough business to create a secondary site in Ched Nasad. She would fetch a fine price in his Jewel Box."

Irae shuddered; Nym, for he had no known house affiliation, was a retired wizard who had taken up the trade of innkeeper in the bazaar of Menzoberranzan. It was not widely known that he also traded in the flesh of female Drow, battle captives mostly, for to allow a male to so violate a female among the Drow constituted the most vile of blasphemies. But the Matron Mothers of the ruling families had abided his practices as a means to more easily subjugate the males of their species, offering in Nym's captives a cheap conquest to assuage their constant humiliation.

She hoped that there was not enough of the girl left to sell to Nym. A quick death would be a merciful one.

Netal paled. His entire body tensed.

Was he going to try to rescue her from Berni'th's decree?

The judgment seemed to satisfy Alirana, who quieted, watching the child with undisguised spite as her nude body was wrapped in a thin blanket and carried away.

...

Everything hurt.

Her head felt heavy.

A buzzing noise. More pain.

Then, silence. Warmth. She was finally laying still. Was she dead?

A woman, a Drow who was not Drow, stood over her. Her grin spread from cheek to cheek.

The woman, the goddess, reached out to her.

Vala wanted it to end; the pain, the doubt. She never wanted to see Alirana or Irae or any of the others ever again.

She reached out to touch Lloth's hand, but darkness carried her away ere their fingertips could meet. Again she felt herself spinning, tumbling.

"Lloth...?" Vala cried, "Lloth?!"

"Lloth will be of little aid to you now, creature..." another woman replied coldly.

Irae.

Everything went still again. She opened her eyes, not realizing they were closed, and saw Irae, standing over her, scowling.

"Where am I?" Vala asked, and her mistress backhanded her, splitting her lip.

"You fool." the Drow snapped, striking her again, "You insolent idiot! Do you know that you have done?!"

At a loss, shivering, Vala pressed the blanket over her body tightly against her, wincing as she found her left hand shackled to the bed, "I do not understand, mistress? I went right to bed after your lecture. Did I do something wrong?"

Irae started, flummoxed, before regaining your composure, "You do not remember attacking Alirana Srune'Lett then? You do not remember attacking an ambassador under Duskryn protection, and shaming this family and our Matron Mother?"

What?

"I..." Vala stammered, horrified, "I do not. I remember..." she paused, trying to piece together what she had done after falling asleep. Everything was...cloudy...

"She stole my mother's tusk..." she concluded, seeing faint images flash before her eyes, "I went to ask her to give it back...and then..."

"And then...?" Irae prodded, her knuckles white as she gripped her whip.

"I felt something in the air..." Vala gasped, "Like a quake was happening far away, and the stones beneath my feet were vibrating. Everything went blue, and I saw lights, like tiny dots of Faerie fire."

"You passed through metal like you were naught but air." Irae finished for her, "And summoned a mass of crystal that mangled Alirana's face."

She hurled something that smacked against Vala's cheek, and she ignored the sting, looking down to find her mother's tusk, still tied to its string, "You took back what was yours, at the cost of your place in House Duskryn. You are a common thrall once more, you insufferable churl!"

Her expression darkened further, though her voice became calm and even, "I had offered you a life beyond your station, and you have spat in my face with this insolence. You will be gone from this place, to wherever House Zauvirr chooses for you...pray your end will not be as your mother's. By attacking a priestess of Lloth, and being witnessed committing the deed, your afterlife will certainly not be pleasant, I can assure you."

Her face flush with heat, Irae turned away, and shut the door, locking it on the other side.

Leaving her alone in a room that was not her own.

...

She kept track of time only by the delivery of her meals, which felt like once every other cycle. The food made her feel dizzy; it was likely drugged, so she could not use her powers.

Powers.

That still felt strange. She was no wizard. Whatever she had done had been done in some sort of trance. She had no idea how she had done what Irae said she had.

She had no idea of what was now to cause her likely death.

Vala guessed then that about a ten-day had passed before anyone else had entered since Irae, when a male Drow entered her room.

He looked entirely average; his short cropped, stark white hair contrasted his oil-black skin and burning red eyes, and his armor, while of fine make, was the standard issue of a house guard of the Duskryn compound.

"What is happening?" Vala asked, shivering in her blanket, studying his blank expression.

He just stared at her, his right eyelid quivering.

His hand was tightly gripping his sword.

Was he one of Alirana's guards?

"I should kill you." the Dark Elf said bluntly, scowling. He shook his head, "But it would be an act of mercy...Lloth would not protect me for it. The Matron Mother would kill me. And yet..."

He considered her, his eyes now pained, like a desperate, trapped animal, "I owe you this...but could I really..."

He shook his head a second time. "I cannot. I am so sorry. I..."

He turned, walked back to the door, "...I cannot."

...

The House Zauvirr caravanentered House Duskryn, led by one of its Weaponmasters, Jhuild Zauvirr, a great-nephew of its Matron Mother, Ssipriina Zauvirr. Such a prominent rise from a distant descendant spoke volumes of his ability with his fighting daggers.

Irae briefly considered Jhuild, appreciating his slim build that nonetheless sported thicker muscles than most diminutive males.

He wore an armless suit of form-fitting black leathers, forsaking the more common adamantine coat of mail. A pair of waving bladed kris were sheathed across his back, and a pair of main-gauche were belted to his waist. A bandolier was attached from his right shoulder to the left of his waist, holding dozens of small throwing knives.

About him was no drow piwafwi, but a fur-lined black cloak, its interior a lush velvet red.

"Ssipriina Zauvirr sends her regards." he said as he approached her and her mother, Alirana and her band thankfully long departed.

He bowed low, but his eyes moved up to her, taking notice of her scrutiny.

Irae, for her part, looked away, appearing disinterested.

That was the proper response, after all.

"Indeed." Berni'th replied jovially, "And let her know that she and hers are welcome here as valued allies. House Duskryn watches over its own."

Nodding, Jhuild motioned for his house guards to begin unloading Duskryn's payment for its part in the conspiracy; heavy crates of linen, silk, spices, and other trade goods that would fetch a hefty sum in the bazaar. Gold was too obvious; it was better to let their enemies think them mere trading partners.

"Business proceeds apace." Jhuild noted, "Our...investments continue to pay in rare goods from the surface. Your cut of the profit margin will be seven percent higher than the last."

"Excellent." the Matron Mother replied, "You must join us for tonight's feat. There will be diversions aplenty."

"Indeed." he replied slyly, his eyes darting to Irae again.

She returned the look. The loss of her valued slave had left her restless...

...

Vala woke to the sound of the door opening again. Startled, she looked up, wondering if the strange Dark Elf from before had returned.

It was a male Dark Elf, but a different one. His eyes settled on her cruelly.

"I am Jhuild Zauvirr, Weaponmaster of House Zauvirr. I am told that I am to bring you to Matron Ssipriina as tribute." he said, naked contempt on his face, nonetheless tinged with something else. It looked like...release.

Standing at attention, covering herself with the blanket to hide her nakedness, Vala nodded, her eyes downcast.

"They have told me you have unusual powers." Jhuild continued, "I will then have to make sure you don't do anything suspicious."

He rushed forward, and Vala heard a wet crunch as he struck her nose, bloodying her.

Suddenly, she was on the floor. Everything went dark.

"I am to bring you to my Matron Mother intact. But do not test the limits of my patience. I assure you they are slim indeed."

...

Netal watched the caravan exit through the gates of the manor, tormented.

Both the drow in him, the creature of pure self-fulfillment, and the father, this unprecedented, insufferable creature that longed for proximity to this girl, this iblith child, raged at the sight of Vala taken from them. Again.

He knew, however, that this would be the last time. He would never see her again. He had failed himself by not finding her before Irae. He had failed Vala in failing to rescue or kill her. He had failed Gul'tah by proving unable to protect their shared legacy. He had failed in the one task that might have lifted himself from the pit of wretched despair that was Drow Society.

Alone, lost in this world he despised but could not escape, Netal watched from the battlements of his adoptive house, his prison and his sanctuary; a lone pair of eyes glowing red in the endless darkness of Menzoberranzan.

...

Shackled to the inside of the roofed wagon that the caravan had carried with them, Vala watched through the cracks of its walls as the pack lizards led her away from House Duskryn, her home and her prison for all her life.

She did not hold the tears at bay. Not that she needed to. There was nothing else in the wagon with her but a pair of newborn Rothé, which nuzzled against her legs for warmth, their wrinkled, furless skin soft to the touch. She stroked one of its ears, numb to all else.

The Dark Elves mounted on riding lizards surrounded the wagon, lances held at the ready. Down the edges of the miles-wide cavern of Menzoberranzan they went, skirting the west wall, offering a view of the dozens of lesser houses situated along the countless stalactites lining the great stone roof of the city; small, two story manses patrolled by dozens of mounted Dark Elves, though to her, they only looked like tiny red splotches in her infravision.

Further south, Vala caught a glimpse of a place that Irae had spoken of in hushed whispers; the Chamber of the Ruling Council. Four great towers, linked by high battlements, loomed over a great chasm lined with faerie fire. The towers looked like nothing other than hollow stalagmites carved with intricate tracing patterns, spiders being the most prevalent image. Everywhere in the architecture of all the buildings she passed, the spider was present, the Dark Elves' tribute to Mother Lloth.

From the crossroads, they turned east, around a high plateau called Qu'ellarz'orl, alongside Tier Breche further north as the largest structure in the city. All she could see of House Baenre, the ruling family, was a painful cloud of violet faerie fire above great looming gates of adamantine and spider webs. It forced her to return to the visible spectrum of light, lest she be blinded.

Across from it, House Fey Branche, the Sixth House, was clearly visible, smaller but still easily dwarfing House Duskryn in size. Where her home had been a mansion, this was a castle, lined by several secondary towers and sets of battlements. She could not imagine how many people were inside its walls.

Angling north-east, they neared the Baeryn before turning to the shores of Lake Donigarden, which housed the Isle of Rothé, the property of House Hunzrin, a minor house nonetheless vital to Menzoberranzan's health due to its focus on agriculture, owning and maintaining the majority of fungus farms, Rothé herds, and fisheries.

As they passed the island, the light dimmed, forcing her to switch again to infravision. Menzoberranzan became nothing more than a distant blur.

Panic threatened. The Rothé she had been petting lowed in discomfort.

She looked down, realized she had been squeezing it too hard, and stopped, holding her hands to herself.

...

Hours passed, as the caravan made its trek through the lightless underdark, an endless labyrinth of tunnels. Even in Infravision, Vala found it difficult to map out her surroundings; natural vents in the ground produced clouds of obscuring steam.

For once, she was very grateful that she was in the center of a large group of heavily armed Drow.

The Rothé, it seemed, liked it little better than she did. They cowered in their wagon together.

Wait.

Something was happening. The soldiers did not speak, but she saw glimmers of light pass between them atop their mount lizards.

Mirrors?

The caravan came to a halt.

Her meal, long forgotten and half-eaten by her fellow passengers, toppled.

Vala curled into a little ball, beside the Rothé, as she heard a low rumble in the distance.

She heard drow blades unsheathe, heard the riding lizards hiss in agitation.

Then, there was a great commotion that came from all sides, and drew nearer.

The Rothé began to shiver too.

Vala closed her eyes, imagined herself in that little pile of straw in the bunkhouse.

She was safe. Nobody could harm her there.

She heard the twang of Drow hand crossbows, heard them rebound off of something hard, like stone, but more pliable.

Chitin, maybe.

The Dark Elves fought in silence. There were no battle cries, as with Orcs. The only thing she could hear were the plodding sounds of their lizards' feet, and the soft, went sinking of their spears into flesh.

But something else roared where they did not, accented with a heavy clicking pattern.

Hook Horrors. Irae had educated her on many of the wild beasts of the Underdark, and that lecture had accompanied a live specimen.

Vala began to weep. She was not here. She was in the pile of straw.

The sounds of battle drew further away.

She was safe. She was in House Duskryn. She was home.

It grew quiet. Darkness settled.

She was in House Duskryn.

Scratching noises...the sound of clawed feet on stone.

She was home.

A dull growl, curious.

She was safe.

A lower growl. Angry.

Hungry.

She saw little flecks of Faerie fire, tinted blue.

It pawed at the door of the wagon. She could smell its breath. The Rothé lowed, panicked, huddled against her.

She clutched at her ears. Why were they so loud?

"Quiet..." she moaned, her heart pounding in her ears.

The Hook Horror on the other side snarled. It struck the door, and the whole wagon teetered.

"Quiet." she stated, dazed, the motes of blue fire thickening.

It struck again. The door jamb split.

The Rothé screamed.

"QUIET!"

The blue lights burst into streamers of mist.

"QUIET!" Vala screamed, clutching at her ears. She was crying, but when she tried to brush the tears away, she found that they were red.

The door splintered apart. A mountain of pale chitin and grasping pincers leaned in, like a horrible melding of bird, turtle, and beetle, seized one of the squirming Rothé with its barbed hook hands. It screamed all the louder, a high pitched squeal of terror.

"No!" Vala wailed, "You cannot have him!"

The Hook horror pulled the creature apart with its bladed beak, licking up its gushing blood and organs as its midsection spilled open. Vala screamed as the little Rothé did, and continued to as it went limp. Slobbering down the rest with a length of sickening crunching and slurping sounds, the Hook horror leaned in again, for the other one.

Her ears rung. She pointed her hand toward the Hook Horror, and mist bled from it.

It turned to her, its pupil-less yellow eyes narrowing.

Those eyes went wide as a length of crystal skewered it through the mouth.

Vala screamed, but now in anger, pushing the little Rothé aside as she forced her hand forward.

The Hook horror crumpled backwards, its mouth gushing black. Vala clutched her temple, as a searing wave of pain spread outward from behind her eyes.

A memory returned to her; Alirana, snarling, brandishing her snake whips, their scales black. Skull splotches marked their heads.

In her own hand, the length of crystal became a whip, a single length of bladed spinal disks, like a snake without its skin. Instead of a head, its end was a dagger.

The Hook Horror rose to fours, shrieking. Vala swung her whip down, like the priestesses did, and the length of her whip coiled about its neck. It scrabbled against it, and Vala pulled, its edges retracting and slicing the head cleanly off.

Dark blood spattered her, her clothing, and Vala turned dazedly, to the battle far in the distance, visible as a blob of bright red heat.

She snarled, and ran towards it.

...

Jhuild Zauvirr crouched beside his downed lizard, hurling dagger after dagger into the charging Hook Horror. The monster shrieked, its beaked mouth wide, and its bladed hook arms scrabbled in the dirt.

It would not rise to its feet. His weapons were poisoned with a potent toxin that caused severe disorientation, nausea, and eventually paralysis.

It wretched, expelling a mass of half-digested "food", before collapsing fully, twitching.

Two more took its place, and his men were occupied with the rest of the flock.

Over two score of the beasts had ambushed their caravan. Less than an even score remained, but four of his seven men were incapacitated, and one was quite dead.

Two of the hook horrors were in the process of eating him, which bought Jhuild time, but he had to find a way to finish the others.

Favoring his twin kris, the Drow warrior rushed forward, twirling his blades in a hypnotic patterns, before sliding underneath their swiping arms and landing shallow hits on the joins of their ankles. He felt his adamantine bite deep. He twisted about, the sword in his right hand in reversed grip and close to his body, as one of the Hook Horrors turned and swatted at him. When its arm rebounded against that sword, it propelled him into its fellow, still turned away, offering him extra leverage to slide his blade into the small of its back, between its thick plates of armor.

Abandoning the weapon, for he knew he could not pull it free in time, he backpedalled, drawing and hurling a main-gauche into the other's left eye. It shrieked, clutching at its ruined orb, as its companion lay very still.

A second, smaller, perfectly balanced dagger robbed it of its other eye. The last one in his bandolier.

Backing away, Jhuild crouched silently and observed, as the Hook Horror entered a killing frenzy, and turned on its downed fellow, sinking its beak into flesh.

Four of the remaining ten turned to him as the sounds of its feasting.

His back to the cavern wall, Jhuild prepared himself for his last defense.

...

Her world became a blur of bright lights and deafening sound, like rushing water.

Vala screamed at the Hook Horrors, their backs turned to her, and rushed forward, her whip sword burning brightly like fire.

One creature turned curiously, just as the sword's tip buried itself into its chest, puncturing its thick plates without resistance.

The whip twisted in the wound, and the creature clutched its chest, whimpering plaintively, as it pulled free, a sickly yellow five-chambered heart impaled on its edge.

It collapsed, and all of the rest turned to her.

Vala groaned, the weight in her head unbearable, and she imagined giving it to them instead.

They clicked, screeching, as they fell to fours, bladed limbs scratching at their heads, drawing blood.

She felt the pain in her head diminish, just as they screamed, weeping blood.

Their plated heads cracked, oozing pale fluid.

They shook wildly, before going limp.

She saw other Dark Elves, fighting more Hook Horrors, but they saw what she had done, and shrieked in terror. They fled back into the tunnels, dozens of them, all too dark for her to see, even in infravision.

One of the drow, the one that had hit her in her room, looked to her, his gleaming red eyes wide as coins.

The other drow finished off the last creature, which was eating one of its own, and then everything went silent.

Except for her breathing.

Mist bled from her body, and her head started to hurt again.

So close to the others, she heard voices, but their lips were not moving.

Jhuild came closer, and his "voice" became louder.

"How interesting..." he said aloud, grinning, "You are handy in a pinch, aren't you? Maybe you can serve House Zauvirr after all."

She heard...no...she saw, what he imagined Matron Zauvirr was planning to do with her.

She shivered, backed away.

"Come here, slave." Jhuild persisted, "This instant. And dismiss that sword-thing you have conjured."

They were going to sell her to the Illithid.

They were going to...

"Here." Jhuild said, eyes narrowed, finger pointed downward to the ground on which he stood, "Now."

Her whip sword became mist again. She held her arms to herself, eyes darting uncertainly.

"Good. Yes, now come here."

She shivered, near tears. She would not...

Jhuild scowled, took a step towards her.

She would not...

Vala turned and ran, into one of the tunnels behind her.

"Stop, Iblith!" Jhuild shouted from behind her, "You have nowhere to run!"

She paid him no heed. She had seen into his mind. She knew they intended to kill her, in mind if not in body.

The Dark Elves rushed to pursue, but their leader called them off.

"Not now." Jhuild said loudly, "We cannot risk them coming back. Get this disaster up and running in a hundred count or Lady Lloth herself will not save you from me!"

Away she fled into the darkness, the shouts of her Drow keepers going quiet.

They would not recklessly follow her. She knew the stories. The Wild Underdark was more dangerous than the Abyss itself; an endless chasm filled with confusing tunnels, chaotic magic, and tens of thousands of monstrous, carnivorous creatures like the Hook Horrors.

Nobody survived for long here. Even the Dark Elves traversed the Underdark with extreme caution.

In her heart, Vala knew she had likely only traded one death for another...

Chapter 5

The Underdark (2nd of Alturiak, 1373 Dalereckoning)

An echo, likely a crash in some upper tunnel.

A steady dripping of water.

Darkness, all consuming darkness.

Cold, blank stone, purple to its eyes, lacking even remote heat to shift its color to lighter blue and yellow.

Quiet. So quiet.

But not alone.

It sniffed the air for spoor, holding a flat length of stone sharpened to a point.

Nothing, but that meant nothing, for many of the other beasts of the Wild Underdark were not possessed of an odor. Many had hard outer shells that matched the stone that surrounded them, masking their heat signature.

But they would never find it. No.

It had become Nobody. Nothing. A mere patch of its own darkness, indeterminate from the darkness around it.

It remembered another life, but only faintly.

It remembered a scarred face, felt a surge of fresh hatred, but it was a fleeting thing.

False memories.

There was no city. There were no others. There was only Nobody, and the monsters, and the dark. It deceived itself by imagining otherwise.

It need only concern itself with survival.

Beside it, in the small, small cave it had set for itself, was its kill; a trio of small, bony lizards it had snared.

It ate the meat raw. Fire was a dangerous thing in the Underdark. It was blinding, at a time that vision was key. At a time when its hunters might not have eyes, or if they did, might not use them.

A crunch of bone. A slurping sound.

It was careful to be quiet, but still some noises persisted.

A steady dripping of water.

A pebble falling from the stone ceiling, insufferably loud.

But Nobody found it hard to tell if it had been in the tunnel in which its cave was, or another altogether. Small vents in the rocks made sense of direction inexact.

It never knew what was happening out of line of sight.

Hence, the slab of stone protecting the entrance to its cave,

Always, always it covered the cave before it slept. A new cave every time it slept. Forward, it went. Forward and up.

After it ate, it curled up, back to the wall, eyes facing the slab.

It pulled the tattered remnants of a dark gown about it, drawing what warmth it could.

It stared at the slab at the end of the cave.

It would know. It would know.

It closed its eyes, weary but alert.

...

Iljrene Ahruyn, Battlemaster of the Dark Promenade of Eilistraee, forsook her place in the weapons hall for a time by wandering the outskirts of their Underdark sanctuary on patrol. The exercise calmed her nerves; it always paid to seek out a change in scenery, if however slight. It reduced the tedium of training new recruits, be them surfaces dwellers, freed slaves, of converts from Lloth's faithful. The latter were well trained, certainly, but lacked the understanding of following strict protocol and trusting one's fellow Darksong Maidens, which took time to teach effectively.

But that was Iljrene's task, as ordered by Qilué Veladorn, their leader and chosen of both the goodly goddesses Eilistraee and Mystra. By Song or by Sword, they would free all the Dark Elves from Lloth's tyranny, and integrate their people peacefully onto the surface kingdoms, as they had of old as the Ssri-Tel'Quessir.

That was long before her time, when their people had been a part of the elven race, destined for the elven afterlife known as Arvandor, before Lloth had separated from the pantheon by attempting to murder Corellon Larethian, patron deity of the surface elves.

She sighed, weary. So many had been lost to Lloth's demonic corruption.

One of her latest pupils followed her, silvery mail reflecting faint moonlight that never reached the tunnels of the Underdark. That one reminded her of the importance of her duty; one by one, she freed elven souls from that corruption, that damnation to the abyss.

Once a noble of Menzoberranzan and a priestess of Lloth, and a singularly unpleasant creature at that, she had found forgiveness, and redemption, through Eilistraee, rejecting all aspects of her previous life. Her locks she had sheared into a short military cut, her girth she had honed into a large, muscular build, and she spurned finery for leather and mail.

She stood head and shoulders over Iljrene herself, thickly muscled, the deep scar across her cheek and her stern, unflinching expression making her look the ideal warrior.

Iljrene hid her smile. One might have assumed her to be the novitiate. Her slim, almost child-like build, soft, gentle voice, and large, innocent eyes, hardly fit the appearance of a hardened veteran, but her technique and centuries of experience had earned her respect from even the most seasoned fighters.

Never once had she been marked, though she had fought in countless battles.

Both carried slim broadswords, and a small round shield strapped to their backs. Iljrene, for her part, also carried a small metal crossbow, which hung around a strap around her shoulder, as well as a blowgun at her belt. Both lacked poison of drow make, which required Underdark radiation to function properly, because the magical Faerzress did not extend so close to the surface. Instead, she had brewed a concoction of nightshade and scorpion venom, mundane but debilitating to the right victim, to the former, and a potent sleeping drug for the latter.

Not that she really thought she would need either; this section, while marginally outside of the considerable magical protections within the Promenade, was mapped and regularly traveled, slightly above the countless tunnels leading deeper and deeper into the Wild Underdark. The risk of attack was scarce.

"We will visit the lake." Iljrene announced, "We will not be needed for a few hours. There is time yet."

Alirana looked to her, troubled, "Is it safe for us to venture that far? It skirts the lower reaches."

She nodded, "We will be safe. Our diviner scanned these reaches the other day, and found nothing larger than a halfling down here."

...

It woke, and finished its meal.

Thoroughly gorged, it rested for some time, before deciding it was thirsty. It needed to drink.

It remembered the water nearby, and wondered if there were any fish there.

Careful to look through the rock for ambient heat, it found none, and pushed the rock slab forward, opening the way to the tunnel beyond. It did not want to move so far up...but it was very thirsty, and it needed to move.

For all the time it remembered, it had felt drawn forward, and up. Maybe there was more food there.

...

Iljrene sat cross-legged before a great cavern, roughly two bowshots wide and many times that long, housing a large subterranean lake. More a pond, really; its relative size in an open chamber classified it as a lake, though it wasn't even that deep. A bed of glowing coral illuminated its depths, showed in stark contrast the silvery luminescent kelp which hid many species of Underdark fish. Nonetheless, she caught infrequent glimpses of silvery skin, rows of delicate spines, and large eyes.

She loved this place. It was a true shame the Promenade didn't have an outpost nearby.

Exhaling slowly, the Drow emptied her mind, and attuned herself to the natural flow of life about her.

Though there was no such thing as fresh air so far underground, she imaged the play of wind against her skin, the subtle melody of birdsong. She heard the quite present sound of the pond's shallow waves striking the edges of the shoreline.

Rising to her feet, shedding her crossbow and shield, Iljrene drew her sword, and, without opening her eyes, slid into a graceful dance, utilizing her martial skill beside the beauty of the neideirra style.

However, where the more common Menzoberranyr neideirra utilized frenzied, thrashing movements, meant to quickly drain the body's reserve of energy in a burst of wildly acrobatic displays, her variation was slow, careful, precise. She knew she would have seemed in a restful repose, were it not for the sheer lethality of her mock attacks. Her blade whistled with the speed in which she wove it into complex passes and arrangements, meant to slip through, between, and around conventional defensive maneuvers, while the rest of her body confused and hypnotized with subtle swaying and contortions.

She imagined foes all about her, careful to gauge where Alirana had been standing, lest she force her to move. Thrusting forward, Iljrene nonetheless arched her body back, recoiling in the very same motion, carrying the momentum into a dazzling flurry, her sword passing over her head in a two-handed grip, following with a second, equally precise swipe from over her shoulder, before reversing the grip, and twirling it about her body in such a way to slap aside a multitude of pressing weapons without halting momentum. Maintaining impeccable footwork, she spun her body in such a way that this motion carried in a nearly perfect circumference about herself, never facing away from her stating position, and never advancing more than two paces in any direction before returning to her original standing point.

Hurling her sword into the air, Iljrene leaned backward, and somersaulted, landing hands-first, swatting the pommel with her feet, rolling forward, catching the sword by its handle, righting the guard, and thrusting forward, aiming for what would have been the heart of her phantom enemy, the last one not cut down by her attacks. Opening her eyes, Iljrene turned her head, to see Alirana right where she had left her.

Smiling, the Drow noticed that her eyes were facing away, down the length of the shore.

Following those eyes, Iljrene's smile became a look of bewilderment.

...

How many hours had passed? How much time?

What was time? Had it only imagined such a thing?

Memories of time, of the passage of time, but were they real?

Nobody sat by the edge of the waters, staring into its depths. The fish were the same temperature as the water, so it switched its eyes to detect ambient light.

Light. Such a rare thing. It had almost forgotten.

Now able to see the fish, Nobody concentrated, imagining the little motes of blue fire, as it had learned to do long ago.

Its body bled mist, and it reached out its hand.

A length of crystal shot from its open palm, raced through the water, and speared one as it darted back into the kelp.

Licking its lips, for it had gotten hungry again, Nobody retracted the spear, the fish squirming impotently upon it.

It hurled the thing behind, to die in the air.

It drank, knowing it had food, and that it had scared the rest further downstream, before turning to the fish.

Everything outside of the water a dark blur.

It picked up the fish and tore out its bowels, before sinking its teeth deep.

...

Unmindful of their approach, Alirana crept towards the creature beside Battlemistress Iljrene.

At first, she had mistaken it for a goblin...color meant little in the lightless Underdark, but now she saw its skin was black. It faced away, gnawing on a raw fish.

It was a ragged thing; its mane reached nearly to its ankles. It was female, but Alirana only knew that because the pitiful thing sparked an uncomfortable memory from her past.

A little girl, in a dark gown, her blue eyes sparking with a light that her soul had no longer possessed. A soul that Alirana herself had stripped from her.

"Vala..." Alirana moaned, her sword arm going limp.

The girl started, turned, her eyes appearing red as she switched visible spectrums. She backed away, on fours, snarling, her kill limp in her hands. Mist flowed from her body; a psionic manifestation of ectoplasm.

"This is the one...?" Iljrene asked, lowering her sword, unmindful of the crystals that emerged from Vala's skin.

Alirana nodded grimly. She had confessed each and every one of her crimes after a cadre of Darksong Knights had ambushed her family caravan out of Menzoberranzan years ago, offering her and her surviving followers freedom by either the song of Lady Eilistraee or a sword of her follower's.

By choosing the song, she had chosen to abandon her former life. But before her stood a reminder of her crimes, and her need to atone.

"It is alright..." Alirana said gently, letting her blade fall to the floor. The girl flinched at the sound, covering its ears.

"I won't hurt you..." she continued, unmindful of the crystals that lengthened into blades.

So young...so powerful...

"Alirana." Iljrene said sternly...

Alirana reached out her hands, as if in an embrace.

"It is alright now. Come here."

Vala snarled again. Her eyes opened wide in recognition.

"Alirana..." Iljrene said again, more forcefully.

Vala tensed, crouched forward, as if to pounce.

Iljrene raised her sword.

But then the girl wavered, confused. Her eyes darted to and fro. The mist about her body lessened.

"Va..." she croaked, her voice strained with lack of use..."Va...laa...?"

"Yes." Alirana replied, moisture forming in the corners of her eyes, "Yes. Vala. Come here."

Oh, Goddess...had she really been out her all this time? Two years...?

Vala's eyes watered as well, the pale, wrinkled bags under them starkly pronounced, like a drunkard or a corpse. She looked in pain.

"Vala?" she asked again, tormented, "Vala?"

"Yes!" Alirana breathed, advancing a step, "You are safe now. Safe. Take my hand."

Vala backed away, whimpering.

"No, come back. Just let me touch you."

Vala snarled, rose to her feet.

A dart sank into her cheek, just as the crystals again became lengthened blades.

"Iljrene!" Alirana gasped, looking behind her to find her mentor holding a hollow tube. A blowgun.

She turned back, to see Vala collapse, limp. She rushed over, held the girl up.

She was so light...so small...

She still breathed. Alirana exhaled in relief.

"She will awaken in mere hours." Iljrene noted, "We must reach the Promenade with her by then. She needs...help."

Stricken, Alirana nodded, "Two years...in the Wild Underdark...she is but a child."

"A gifted Psion..." Iljrene corrected, "But a child, nonetheless."

"Can you help her?" Alirana pleaded, desperate, and the woman nodded, "We will need to take measures to subdue her, but yes. We will try. We owe it to you, to earn your redemption, as you owe it to her, for the life you have stolen from her. Vala, then...she will awaken to find herself in the company of the Darksong Maidens. Pleasant company indeed."

...

It stirred, felt warmth where there should be none.

What had happened?

It opened its eyes, and found itself covered in furs. Confused, Nobody pushed away, and found the furs to be sheets, not some unknown creature. Under that, It wore a white gown, not the one from before.

It glanced about it; it was in a large room. So large. A high roof, hard angles.

It knew this...this was no cave. It was...

Memory failed it, then...

"Va...la..." It moaned, remembering the first words spoken to it since...

Had that been real?

No. It was imagining. There was only Nobody, the monsters, and the dark.

Growling, low, Nobody noticed a small platter that had been set on a small elevation by the...bed? Was it called a bed?

On the platter was a pile of steaming mushrooms and a dark, viscous fluid.

Mindful of the naturally developing acids in some such fungi, Nobody sniffed at it for a time.

Satisfied, it took the plate, and sought a more confined space in which to eat it.

...

Iljrene entered the girl's room, unlocking it. She did not see her atop the bed, and there was no other furnishing inside.

Crouching, the drow found her under it, gorging on the mushrooms she had left.

She noticed her immediately, and growled.

But no mist or crystal emerged from her body, and the girl paused, puzzled.

"Qilué has sanctified this place in the name of Eilistraee..." Iljrene said slowly in Undercommon, hoping her words were being understood, "No magic, be it wizardly, clerical, or psionic, can occur here without her approval or being cast from a devout follower of the Goddess."

She said nothing, her eyes unblinking.

"In those mushrooms is a potion I had prepared for you." the Drow continued, "It forces deeply buried memories to surface. I am sorry...for while I am certain that there are things you wish forgotten...I know that you would not want to continue to live...like this."

Iljrene sat, cross-legged, returning her gaze, maintaining a distance of five paces. In her left hand, she held a small chapbook, a written record of Eilistraee and elvish history.

"I am Iljrene, Battlemaster of this sanctuary. I would read to you. I always find reading to soothe the mind as song soothes the spirit."

"I will tell you of the World Tree..." Iljrene continued, selecting a passage from the chapbook, "Ao the Overlord, from which all gods drew strength, knew that both good and evil existed in our world, in all worlds. Gods both dark and light paid tribute to him, but only the latter had a presence in the Afterlife. The Hells and the Abyss, the home of devils and demons, respectively, had long existed then, but for the goodly, there was no place for our souls when we died."

"Corellon Larethian, our creator, and Moradin, the patron of the Dwarves, then mortals like us, argued for a goodly place for the souls of their followers. they pleaded mercy from Ao, and so at the crossroads of all the realms, he planted a seed. As that seed grew, its roots formed little pockets, in which he gave Corellon and Moradin space in which to create a realm suitable for their kin."

"And so they became gods, and filled those reaches; Corellon envisioned green fields and great, majestic forests, and created Arvandor. Moradin envisioned lofty halls of flowing mead and the endless strike of hammer against ore, and thus crafted Dwarfhome."

"Centuries and millennia later, the champions of Halflings and Humans also vied for a place on the world tree, and on its lower roots they crafted the Green Fields, an endless pasture created for the followers of Arvoreen, Brandobaris, Cyrrollalee, Sheela Peryroyl, Urogalan, and Yondalla. The lawful paladin kings among the human realms, then but young city-states, erected The House of the Triad, devoted to Helm, Torm, Illmater, and Tyr, whereas the greatest of human wizards created Dweormerheart, the seat of Mystra, Azuth, Savras, and Velsharoon. For each of the goodly races there was a place beneath the World Tree, and for many it was good."

"But all was not well in Arvandor..." Iljrene continued sadly, "For Araushnee the Weaver, elven goddess of destiny and Corellon's lover, grew jealous and plotted to murder him and usurp control of the Seldarine. In secret, she aided his enemies; Gruumsh and Malar, in an attempt to murder him in cold blood."

"When he learned of her treachery, Corellon drew from Araushnee her beauty, making her a hideous blending of elf and spider, and banished her and her people from the world tree, even as on Toril the elves banished the Ssri-tel-quessir into the Underdark, and bound them with the Faerzress, the fire of the Underdark. With her, he banished Vhaeraun and Eilistraee, their children, though the latter was an unwitting ally in her rebellion."

"And so the Dark Elves wept, their skin darkening, their eyes burning red with their tears, their hair turning white from fear of the darkness in which they were imprisoned. And so the world unwillingly welcomed the first Drow, the children of Araushnee, then renamed Lloth, condemned to her newly created Demonweb Pits."

"But Eilistraee, in grief of her people's fate and her father's rejection, resisted Lloth, and demands of her followers the will to return, to the surface and to our rightful place in the World Tree."

Iljrene paused, thoughtful, "Through her chosen, Qilué Veladorn, the outcast of Mystra's Seven Sisters, she created the Dark Promenade; the portal from Lloth's darkness to Corellon's light. It is here, in the Promenade, that you stand, child."

Vala said nothing, gave no acknowledgement that she understood her words, but the Drow nodded regardless, "When you come to yourself, I would train you as I have all the lost children we have gathered here. Remember these words, and their meaning to you, for a Half-Elf is still an Elf, a child of Corellon Larethian deserving of a place in the World Tree. Let me tell you more of Arvandor and the realms..."

...

Nobody lay beneath the bed as the Drow made strange noises, patterns that it could not articulate.

After a time, the female sighed, setting aside the book, and closed her eyes, as if asleep.

Tired itself, Nobody closed its eyes...just a moment.

Just a moment...

...

It woke, its head aching. Like it did when its powers awakened, but worse.

It clutched its temples, groaning.

It opened its eyes to see the Drow much closer than before, and only then did it realize it was under the furs again. It thrashed wildly, trying to dislodge them, but the Drow held it firmly, her expression unreadable.

"Remember, Vala." she said, and it occurred to It that It could clearly understand the words. Words. Undercommon. The language of the-

It screamed, terrified, but the Drow of...Eilistraee, held her down.

"You are Vala..." she continued, "Daughter of Gul'tah and former thrall of House Duskryn. You lived in Menzoberranzan, but now you live here."

"Mama?" she asked, remembering a sad face with dark eyes, a weathered brow, and tusks, leaping into the jaws of a monster.

"She was your mother, yes." Iljrene said, nodding, "Remember."

"It..." Vala whimpered, "...It killed the Rothé."

She cried, remembering its squeals as it was torn apart by the Hook Horror, remembering Mama's cries as she was crushed by the demon. She remembered Irae, and Alirana, and Jhuild, and everyone.

She felt herself pressed against Iljrene, but was not sure if she or the woman had done that. All she knew was that the Drow's silvery gown was soft against her face, moistening with her tears.

She pressed herself against the woman all the tighter, banishing Nobody and accepting Vala, with all the pain and doubt that it brought...

The only other option was to succumb again to the darkness.

She felt it at the edges of her consciousness, set aside but not completely removed. Nonetheless, she laughed as she wept, drawn between joy and terror. Again, she was alive. Again, she knew to fear the dark, rather than to live with it.

...

In spite of the potentially dire current events, Iljrene kept several hours apart from her routine to attend to the girl, seeing a potential Darksong Knight in the wayward Psion.

Now that she had reached her, Vala's education continued apace. In just two weeks since she had been carried into the Promenade, she had learned, or perhaps re-learned, to speak, read, and write Elvish, both the surface and Drow variations, as well as Common, the language of Humans.

After basic communication and literacy, they had discussed magical theory, history, and geography.

The Drow had seen, beside dozens of coal sketches littering Vala's room, several sheets of parchment filled with odd verses of poetry, whether copied or newly created, she could not say. The drawings themselves were very intricate, exquisitely detailed. Most were landscapes, and she noticed almost perfect symmetry between the depiction of one particular well-traveled area and her memories thereof.

A quick divination of that spot had confirmed it; Vala had Eidetic Memory, able to almost perfectly recall anything she committed to memorization, though to such an extent as to recall events months prior. Iljrene attributed it to her burgeoning Psionic powers.

Vala was now able to (mostly) suppress her more banal instincts, though Iljrene still noticed an odd hysteria boiling up in moments of intense stress. Activating her powers only made the phenomenon more frequent, so Qilué had allowed only infrequent lessons in Psionics. The girl trained with Elmbeth in those sessions, a resident wizard, in much the same way a new apprentice might be conditioned.

Though she drew power not from spells, but from her own mind, Vala learned a greater level of focus and concentration. Shards of psicrystal, as identified by one of their alchemists, a young moon elf male, no longer sprouted from her flesh, only from areas in which she dictated. They became thinner, more finely honed, though they sprouted secondary branches when she began to lose control.

Iljrene was still concerned about this; Vala could enter something akin to a berserker rage, though its symptoms were undoubtedly magical in nature. But she could not control it; she ceased to respond to verbal commands, and seemed unable to speak herself, reverting to base, animalistic noises. It became less and less frequent in the intermittent months, but still present, still something rooted to her essential being.

Attempts to reintroduce the girl to Alirana did not end in positive results. Nearly every instance had provoked a rage, and Iljrene and Qilué herself had been forced to seize and restrain her.

They were forced to keep her far away from the woman, which caused the recruit great distress. She seemed certain that she was responsible for Vala's condition, that her actions which caused the mother's death had provoked the rage those years ago. That if she could just reach the girl, explain all that had happened, it might dissipate indefinitely. She blamed herself for all of it, and for the girl's continued turmoil.

But Qilué had expressly forbidden her from seeing the girl after the last incident. Whether she was correct or not, the confrontation would have to wait.

...

The days went by more quickly now, now that she had found a routine in her training.

Still, Vala could hardly hide her excitement. The more she learned of Eilistraee from Iljrene, the more she wanted to know.

It felt like Lloth, but not like Lloth. It felt...lighter. Better.

She wanted to know everything about the Dark Maiden.

She wanted to walk the surface with the Darksong Knights when they danced in the moonlight and hunted demons.

She wanted to fight the Drow of the Underdark, like Jhuild and Alirana, and she wanted to save those that had a shred of good in them, like Irae.

She wanted to free all the slaves in Menzoberranzan and Skullport and all the rest.

After she had come to herself, she had read a great many of Iljrene's books, and seeing a peculiar surface custom detailed within one, Vala had asked for a spot on her forehead and between her eyes to be permanently marked with a small red dot, the representation of the Ajna Chakra, or Third Eye; a symbol of her developing psionics and her broadened awareness. It was a reminder of the blood that had been spilled in the name of Drow cruelty. A spot that symbolized her mother's blood.

Vala found that she grew stronger with the regular meals; the dark circles under her eyes diminished, then disappeared. She became something more than wiry cartilage. She could breathe without wheezing now that there was no fungi and moisture present in the air, and the minor wounds she had sustained as Nobody had all but healed.

The conditioning and stretches Iljrene had instructed her to practice heightened her reflexes, her balance, and her confidence.

The magic lessons with Elmbeth helped her focus and to keep Nobody at bay.

Since Iljrene was away on business, and could not give another lecture, Vala sparred today with Lady Qilué herself in the weapons hall of the Dark Promenade, so she could become a better fighter. She would need to if she was ever to be given a patrol mission.

The whip sword she had once called on before fleeing into the wilds rested in her hand, light as air.

Rather than using it like a proper blade, Vala had found that she could direct it to attack on its own. It struck like a serpent, coiling and snapping forward, slipping around the shield that the High Priestess used to protect her body. The woman always seemed to evade it regardless, but many watched the spectacle with disbelief as she did. No normal person could withstand her weapon.

But Qilué was not normal; a towering mountain of a Drow, she stood taller than any of her peers, her white hair marked with streaks of silver, her tall, shapely body tightly muscled, but naturally graceful. Though garbed in only a thin white gown, she was possessed of more natural charisma and intimidation that Vala felt she could find in any armored warrior.

Her sword, a fabled Singing Sword, one of twenty magical silver blades provided by Eilistraee herself and wielded by Chosen who patrolled the Pit of Ghaunadaur, hummed as it passed weightlessly through the intricate, delicate patterns in which its wielder wove it.

The sword sang constantly when unsheathed. The blade's song, or so Vala had heard, made its wielder supernaturally confident and immune to illusionary charms. The sword's song could also silence a harpy's, the banshee's deadly keen, and could entrance earthly, living creatures, like the beasts native to the surface above.

The sword was unwrapped, naked, for its wielder was too graceful to even land a glancing cut as she defeated Vala's attacks again and again, slapping her with the flat of the blade every time, maneuvering around, under, and over her own magical weapon.

But it was not just a weapon. Vala keenly felt a rudimentary consciousness in its faceted depths, filled with instinct and memory. It lived, in a sense, like an extension of her being.

She tensed, thrusting the blade forward, and Qilué, with her superior height and reach, swatted it aside.

Just like she wanted her to.

Turning its head mid-flight, Vala twisted its later sections to rush backward, to spear the woman from behind. while she had intentionally dulled the sword's dagger tip into a thick, flat pommel with rounded edges, it still hurt.

Qilué leaned forward, as if to swat her with the flat of the blade again, but blinked, confused.

Vala grinned, knowing she at last had her, but impossibly, inconceivably, Qilué actually leapt over the returning end of the sword, propelled upward as if lifted by an invisible hand.

It was too late to redirect her weapon's course.

Vala felt the impact of her own weapon slam into her chest, felt the air pushed from her lungs, and felt herself collapse, insensate, ears ringing.

Moments passed by faster than normal; suddenly Qilué was kneeling over her, hand outstretched, a coy but gentle little smile on her face.

Dazed, Vala nonetheless accepted the hand, and pulled herself to her feet. Her whipblade was nowhere to be found; with her focus broken, it had turned back into mist, and disappeared.

"You improvise..." Qilué said, "That is good. A moment's decision can turn the tide of a battle. But you need to think further ahead. If I were a Drow of Lloth, possessed of a House Insignia, I would be able to levitate at will...and your own attack would have ended your life."

"I am sorry, Mistress." Vala replied, abashed.

"Qilué." she corrected, "Or Priestess, if you must. But you are no thrall. Such designations are useless here."

"Of course, M-...emm, Qilué."

"Excellent." the drow said with a nod, towering over her, "Are you fit to continue?"

"Yes." Vala replied, though she was as tired as she remembered being, clearing the sweat on her face with a brush from her forearm, "But I think I need to meditate. I can feel..."

She could feel a part of herself pushing up from its grave, a reminder of the creature that Iljrene and the other one had found that day.

Qilué nodded, needing no explanation, "Go then, and reflect on what you have learned. We can continue tomorrow."

Vala returned the nod, though she summoned anew her whip-sword. It took about four minutes, and she nearly lost focus again.

She felt the weapon's ill-focused, faint surprise at being dismissed in such an abrupt manner, and a question of if it would be used again. She noted its distant but persistent irritation in being defeated so easily, even by an opponent as renowned as the chosen of Eilistraee, the Dark Maiden.

"You need a name..." Vala decided aloud. It was alive, and it needed the name of a living being.

"What do you think, Qilué?" she asked, looking up to the woman. She hated having to look up to everybody...

"I agree." the Drow replied, still smiling, though Vala now glimpsed the fatigue in it. Was Qilué tired too? Did Chosen get tired?

"What to call it, though?" Vala wondered, considering its finely honed surface. No longer a mere pale crystal, its surface had slowly tinted blue the more Vala used it, like the color of her eyes. She wondered if a little of herself was rubbing off on it; if it was gaining aspects of her own personality.

"You look an awful lot like ice..." She thought aloud, remembering the odd sensation she felt as she touched a lump of ice brought down from the surface, where it had then rested atop a frozen lake, "Your name should reflect that. And the mist that comes from you, and that you come from, is cold to the touch. And you take life, like every weapon does, even if you are beautiful..."

It came to her, from an obscure language she had read about in Iljrene's books.

"You are Toshisha!" Vala declared, "The death that one finds in the coldest reaches of the world."

Qilué nodded, "Indeed, it is a fine name. And a fine weapon. No priestess of Lloth could ever wield such a formidable and elegant whip, for it is crafted by your own hand and shaped by your own nature."

Beaming with approval, Vala dismissed Toshisha, and bowed low, surprised still that the Drow here returned the gesture with equal sincerity. It felt odd, but welcomed.

...

Having said her good-byes to Qilué, who was needed elsewhere, Vala had meditated for a time, recovering her strength, banishing Nobody back into the place she had prepared for it.

Hours had passed, though they hardly felt like hours, and she had eaten her meal alone, before returning to her room.

And there she found someone she had not thought about all day, staring at her through moist eyes.

"Hello, Vala..." Alirana Srune'Lett said quietly.

Though she had not intended to, Vala felt herself scowl.

"We need to talk." the woman persisted, but she did not come any closer. She would not.

"Do we?" Vala asked, "I thought we talked plenty already. I will not forget what you did to my mother."

"I would not ask you to-"

"Yes, you would!" she snapped, burying Nobody as it again reached up from her, "By expecting me to tolerate your presence here. Is it not enough you killed her...now you ask me to defile my memory of her by letting you walk freely through my life?"

Alirana's expression became distant, pained.

"I do not expect you to forgive me. But I wish that...oh, how do I explain the years that have passed? How do I explain what I have become, what I have ceased to be? I can never settle the debt between us...and I bear that as my punishment for what I have done, and for all the other things I, as the spoiled child of Srune'Lett, committed in my life."

She averted her eyes, "It feels like another life. I remember the decades I spent under my mother, learning what it was to be Drow. How all the world, and everything in it, existed to suit our whims, or should be made to. I remember tormenting my brothers, because I could, because Mother preened as I did, congratulating my efforts. How right they said it was. How right I came to think it to be...how wrong I have come to know it was now. All of the lives that ended with Lloth's smiling approval..."

She shivered, held her arms to herself, "I felt and feel the weight of every one of those lives, the guilt of the horrible, unforgivable crimes I have committed. I wept in the arms of my captors, as for the first time in my life I had felt, truly felt, the truth of my actions. The light of Eilistraee had revealed to me where Lloth's darkness had concealed. I wanted, I needed, to cleanse myself in it. In that pain. In that revelation."

Calming, Alirana exhaled, and ran a hand over the deep scar across her face and her throat, "The mark you left me I have kept, all this time, though Iljrene or any other of the priestesses could heal it. Even though I could heal it now. It reminds me of what I have cast aside, of the person that I let die with the rest of her family's caravan."

"I will not shed this scar until I ease your burden." she continued, "I cannot return your mother to life...but I wish for there to be peace between us. I wish you to become one of us, for you are an innocent and a truer child of Eilistraee than I am."

"Please..." she begged, falling to her knees, "If you cannot forget, than forgive. Fight with me as a sister, as a warrior of Eilistraee. Let me shield you, guide you, and, if need be, die for you. Let me atone, let me absolve. Let me earn that forgiveness. Please..."

The Drow warrior, once her tormentor and now...something else, pleaded, offering an embrace.

In her, Vala saw another. It looked like Qilué, but not Qilué.

A Drow that was not Drow.

Vala knew that by embracing one, she would embrace the other.

Absolve, and be absolved. Free...and be free.

The temptation was strong, so strong.

Since she had come to this place, she had envied the Dark Elves here, not feared them. To commune with a Goddess of Light, to become a priestess.

She needed not commit murder. She needed not do anything physical. There was no pact to be entered, not contract to be struck. Their faith was different...it existed internally, not externally.

How she wanted to feel as they did, become as they were.

All she had to do...was forgive.

Tears threatened, but she pushed them away too.

The pain, the loss, the hopelessness, of watching her mother die returned to her. It steeled her, renewed her determination. The anger returned tenfold. Alirana saw it, knew the answer.

"I...I cannot. I am sorry."

Alirana deflated, averting her eyes.

"Leave me be." Vala continued, looking away, hardening herself, pushing Nobody and Lloth and Eilistraee away, "If you wish to offer something to me, offer me this. Go away. I do not want to look at you."

She heard, if not saw, the door open and close once more, and was again alone with her thoughts.

Alone, as she had always been alone.

Alone, as she hated above all else being.

Alone.

...

Iljrene sat with her guest in an isolated chamber in the lowest reaches of the Promenade, near where Qilué and her sisters had sealed the avatar of the foul god Ghaunadaur. She had offered every hospitality, from wine, tea, and food, to a fine cushion on which to sit, though this visitor, appearing tangible enough, was only a projection from its original caster, a form of telepathic illusion that had been permitted to pass through the normally impenetrable barriers placed upon the temple by Eilistraee herself.

Still, the detail was so extraordinary, that Iljrene herself would have believed the illusion to be real, a dangerous proposition, for believing in powerful illusions generally made them real.

The male, the Drow, eyed her with a carefully neutral expression as she in turn studied him, gauging his reactions to her words.

"You understand that it is not normally our policy to invite Bregan D'aerthe here, in our home..." she explained, "...You can understand, then, the necessity of this request."

"And that would be?" Kimmuriel Oblodra asked, arching a pale eyebrow curiously, "I have pressing matters below."

"There is a young Psion that is in the process of developing her powers." she replied, surrendering that information in a straightforward manner, more to unnerve the male than anything else.

It did; Kimmuriel, like all Underdark Drow, generally expected the parry-and-riposte style of conversation common in house intrigue, and were flummoxed by directness.

"I see..." he replied, "I assume she shows potential. Some Human or Faerie would hardly be worth my time."

Iljrene allowed him that comment, replying with a sly grin, "She is an Oblodra. Her ability and natural talent, of course, would be indicative of your own."

It was a wager; Drow Psions were incredibly rare; House Oblodra had supplied the vast, vast majority of that small number. The likelihood that she was of Oblodra blood was extremely high. Orc Psions were completely unheard of, in this age or any other.

He bristled at that, shifting uncomfortably, though it was only a reflection of his gesture, which he performed on another surface than the cushion over which his projection hovered.

"House Oblodra is no more." he said grimly, but not without a hint of pique, "Is she full blood?"

A noble house required a female to serve as Matron Mother. No doubt, restoring his family would be of interest to him...if only to subdue it under Bregan D'aerthe. She disabused him of the notion, "Nay. Half-Orc, Half-Drow. The Drow side is much stronger, but she is young. Sentimental. We will compensate you well in tutoring her."

He looked doubtful, and Iljrene played her hand, "We know about Lloth's silence. We know about the Scourged Legion. We know also Bregan D'aerthe's reticence in entering the conflict, and its concern that its home in the Clawrift may be...less than ideal, given recent events in the city."

"If this is another offer to join you in The Night Above..." Kimmuriel said dryly, "You can save it. We would sooner side with the Jaezred Chaulssin than submit ourselves once more to the dominion of a goddess, particularly yours."

"We accept that." Iljrene replied, "For now. We offer you gold, enough to compensate you for your time, and neutral contacts in Skullport. They can arrange safe haven, should Bregan D'aerthe need it, and opportunity for work."

"I am sure that Jarlaxle can excuse your absence..." she concluded with a hint of sarcasm, again offering the mercenary vital information without cost. So used to the highly insular nature of Menzoberranzan and the Underdark in general, Dark Elves like Kimmuriel often forgot the surface presence of their distant kin in the followers of Eilistraee, and the fact that their leader, Qilué, was a chosen of both Eilistraee and Mystra, the goddess of magic. As a Theurge, Qilué had her ways of discovering pertinent information.

The Promenade knew of the feud in Calimport, the attainment of Charon's Claw, and the presence and possible destruction of Crenshinibon, the sentient Crystal Shard. The Promenade knew of the disaster that had nearly befallen the male-led mercenaries, the powerful magic they had expended. That it was in fact Kimmuriel, not Jarlaxle, that currently led Bregan D'aethre.

That Jarlaxle Baenre was currently wandering the surface world, far from events as they were.

She was acknowledging the gravity of their request, for Kimmuriel was also perhaps the only Psion in the mercenary band, and was certainly the only Psion they could call upon without resorting to much more desperate measures.

But she was also acknowledging that Bregan D'aerthe, one of the Promenade's enemies, was in a state of flux that they could easily capitalize on, and that Eilistraee's faithful had no immediate intention of pressing the attack.

Honesty was the quickest, if not most convenient, method to upset negotiations and force a verdict.

"A sum of ten thousand." the male capitulated, his normally impassive demeanor noticeably flustered, "I will tutor the child in a neutral location in the Underdark. You may observe, but I do not want any-"

He paused, reconsidered the term he was to use. Likely, he correctly thought "Heretic Priestesses" was too radical.

"- associates of the Dark Maiden within eyeshot. Bregan D'aerthe will likewise keep its distance."

"That will be acceptable, if not ideal." Iljrene conceded, "But if the girl is harmed, know that you will surely perish. We do not abandon our own, nor fail to avenge them. You know this already."

Another key difference between Eilistraee and Lloth is that her followers, while far less in number, knew a greater level of cohesion, even loyalty, than any Matron Mother could ever force upon her subjects. Each sister was family, and any foolish enough to attack a sister when under the conditions of parley brought the entire sisterhood down on their heads.

Heads that were swiftly parted by silver blades.

Kimmuriel nodded, disinterested, "I will attempt no mischief on this Half-breed. There would be no gain for myself or Bregan D'aerthe. And in truth...I am curious to learn of this Psion that you are taking such great measures to train. She must show considerable potential."

Seeing the raw, wild energy that Vala had called upon while she was no more than twelve years of age, Iljrene only nodded.

She failed to mention, lest he renege on his word, that in order to unlock her power, Kimmuriel would also have to contend with Vala's hidden demons. That in order to train her, he would have to save her first.

Chapter 6

Skullport, Undermountain (1st of Eleint, 1373 Dalereckoning)

"The air smells different here..." Vala noted quietly, as she was led through the magical portal and into a great cavern. Lichen and mold clung to every surface, the darkness only partially dispelled by a multitude of Glowballs. She saw sodden, haphazard architecture; basic shacks stacked upon one another like building blocks. The buildings gradually sloped down, forming a rudimentary L-shaped pattern.

Iljrene led her out of an alleyway and onto a rope bridge, connected to several adjacent buildings and tangled with netting. It reminded her of nothing less than a massive, city-sized spider web. Down the rope web they descended, into streets of packed dirt, stone, and waste. Everything stank of dried blood, moisture, sweat, and despair.

They jostled with scores of tightly packed Humans, Dreugar, and Half-Drow, though she caught fleeting glimpses of creatures far stranger, only some of which she could identify. There were Illithid, octopus-headed denizens of the darkest, foulest reaches of the Underdark, their face tentacles twitching, betraying their thoughts as their milky white, expressionless eyes did not. There were scaled Humanoids with serpent tails and flickering, forked tongues, Yuan-ti perhaps, the amphibious Kuo-toa, full-blooded Underdark Drow, and one or two Beholder demons; floating masses of flesh with wide, fanged mouths and dozens of eye stalks.

But worst of wall were the animated skulls that hovered high in the air, which gave the city its name, awash in bright orange light akin to heatless flame. They eyes burned into her, though there were no eyes to speak of.

"This is Skullport." the priestess said quietly to her, for wrapped in their heavy cloaks, neither likely wanted to free their hands for signing. Vala, for her part, kept her hand close to Toshisha's hilt, nervously glancing at the Promenade's many enemies, who seemed to take little notice of them, "The closest one can venture to the abyss while she still draws breath. Stay close to me, and do not stare."

Nodding, Vala pressed her way through the throng, averting her eyes as shackled Humans, Half-Elves, Orcs, and Goblins were led by cursing, laughing Dreugar, who cracked their cruel whips at their living cargo. Every time those cursed things struck, she winced, remembering the sting from her early days in House Duskryn.

Eyeing the backs of the cruel taskmasters, she was sorely tempted to draw her weapon.

"We cannot save everyone." Iljrene said even more quietly, and Vala nearly missed it in with the din of hushed conversation, "But we do what we can. We raid the ships traveling to and fro regularly. It is how we recruit."

Nodding sadly, Vala looked away from the depravity, and did her best to ignore the cries of pain and whimpers of fear.

"Why are we here?" she asked, "There is something this male can teach me that you cannot?"

Iljrene nodded, though through her cloak, the gesture was nearly indeterminate, "We are warriors, wizards, and priests. You are a fine fighter, Vala, and I expect that you will finally join with the goddess in your own time...but you have even greater potential, which can be revealed here and now."

"Fear not, child. You are safe, for I am with you. Eilistraee is with you."

Vala nodded, though seeing Skullport for herself, merely a pale shadow of the horror that was Menzoberranzan and the Wild Underdark, she felt that Eilistraee was somewhere very, very far away at the moment.

...

Kimmuriel Oblodra sat cross-legged in a hideout owned by Bregan D'aerthe; a small bunkhouse in the lower tier, near the docks and just within eyeshot of Skull Island, the base of operations for Skullport's slave traders. On the outside, it looked like any of the poorly constructed residences; a miserly affair of dilapidated sodden wood and netting. On the inside, however, the two story hideout was reinforced with quarried stone that resisted magical transport, in or out, and dampened latent magic.

Save that of the mind, of course.

It was here where he occasionally brokered deals with the Illithid, offering goods and slaves in exchange for hidden secrets of their mutual art.

Basic necessities were present; chairs, tables, and benches, all made from a mushroom fiber of a consistency very similar to wood. Cloth drapery and curtains covered the barren walls, and a small parlor stocked with wine and spirits made up much of the far wall. There were bedrolls for his fellow Bregan D'aerthe, where they could lounge and relax between missions in the city proper or in the underlying tunnels, wherein they often raided and stole from the Iron Ring's buyers, if not the organization itself.

There was no guarantee of successful delivery in the Underdark, after all. And slaves needed not be sold only once in the markets of Skullport.

A pattern of successive knocks on the door, a code pre-arranged between him and the Priestess of Eilistraee, informed him of his guests' arrival, and he opened the outer door with a small burst of telekinesis.

There was nothing wrong with a little theatrics.

The female he had spoken to before crossed through the second door, which was unlocked, bundled tightly, followed by the girl, whose bright blue eyes darted as she considered the room. Though her hood was drawn, he noticed a peculiar marking on her forehead; an Ajna Chakra, colored red. Curious. The third eye was, unless he was mistaken, an Amnian custom.

As little as he bothered to study surface dwellers, he always sought information on the matters of psionics...

"Remain outside, please." Kimmuriel snapped, "In the antechamber, or in the basement. I prefer to do this alone."

"Very well." Iljrene replied, turning to her charge, "Remember what I said, Vala. All of it."

The older female departed, and the younger stood just inside of the main area. She looked ill at ease.

That was good; Kimmuriel had no time for a fool. And only a fool would feel at ease around him.

"Remove your cloak." he added for her benefit, "And come closer. I wish to see the result of the loose spraying of a distant relative's seed."

He hid his smile, as he always did, when he saw the flush of heat color her face, in both infravision and the visible spectrum of light.

Tense as a bowstring, the girl complied, setting the garment aside and crossing her arms, poignantly not looking in his direction.

Thirteen years had marked her well; too thin to be an Orc, she was nonetheless possessed of a remnant of her infantile softness, neither child nor adult, an ill-defined changeling as much as an ill-defined half-breed.

She might become truly hideous in the next critical years, or the very pinnacle of the feminine ideal of either race. There was no way to know for sure, but he suspected the latter. In the curve of her cheekbones, the thinness of her brow and neck, the inner glow of her youthful eyes, tempered by the caution and experience of a true Drow, he saw a faint reflection of a Darksong Maiden in full.

It tempted him. For a moment.

Then he remembered that she was iblith; excrement, offal. As were all that were not full-blooded Drow.

As well as possibly related to him.

"Sit." he commanded, "As I do. Within five paces of where I sit. Now."

Vala scowled, but did as he demanded, taking a cross-legged position approximately five paces form him; the absolute threshold of his spoken tolerance.

"Though you are most assuredly not, iblith, your heretic sisters have likely groomed you in the manner of a female Drow..." he said calmly, considering her threadbare tunic, the padded leather vest over it, her woolen leggings, and calf-high boots, contrasted them against his own slim, form-fitting robes, which protected like armor and restricted his movements not in the slightest, "Likely, even with only half our blood, you will think yourself superior to me, for I am but a lowly male. Likewise, you would think yourself superior to me because you serve Eilistraee, and I serve only myself. This conclusion, I assure you, is highly erroneous."

"I will mentor you in the invisible art." he added, "But only if offered the proper deference, and the proper respect. You are but a student, an apprentice. When in my presence and even when not, you will refer to me as Master. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes..."

Vala's expression strained, only for a moment, before she yielded, "Yes, Master."

"Good. You will not question me here, at any time, even if I mock your goddess or question your beliefs. You are iblith, offal, and it is in my graciousness that I recognize your talent, whatever it may be, at all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good." he replied, low and dangerous, "But I can see you require a demonstration. I will, in turn, offer you a wager. If you can strike me, and draw blood, I will recant to you, here, now, and declare you Master. I will forsake my evil ways and become a ley-worshiper of Eilistraee, where I will grovel at the feet of your Priestesses and their traitor goddess for the rest of my days. Does the thought please you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then strike."

...

Vala tensed, expecting immediate backlash. But the male Iljrene had named Kimmuriel sat impassively, appearing for all the world bored.

She concentrated, drawing her focus into herself, and feeling the connection with her psionic power, conjured a cloud of ectoplasm, before compressing the substance into denser psicrystal and honing it into Toshisha, her whipblade. A length of partially intangible ectoplasm remained, though it was now clear in color, serving as the length of the whip, with segments of psicrystal forming its bladed protrusions which appeared akin to the disks of a spinal column. A double-edged, dagger-length blade of razor sharp psicrystal provided its thrusting tip.

The process took roughly two minutes, with Kimmuriel watching her all the while.

"A Psychic Warrior." he said idly, "Interesting."

Empowered by his surprise, and hoping it concealed discomfiture, Vala contracted the blade into a coil, before lunging forward.

And watching as her blade passed through Kimmuriel's right eye with no visible effect, before pulling free from a depth too shallow to penetrate to the brain. She had not intended to kill him, after all.

Prepared for such trickery, and needing no footwork to follow up with a second swing, Vala mentally commanded her whipblade to loop near the hilt, snapping back into the Drow's midsection even while its dagger tip embedded into the far wall, the length connecting the two points dragging across his cheek.

Again, this second attack did not wound him. Did not even touch him.

Backpedaling, Toshisha retracting into a simulacrum of a mundane sword, Vala altered her tactics, summoning a pair of psicrystal shards and hurling them at blinding speed. They detonated on impact with the floor before Kimmuriel, obscuring the Drow in a blinding mist of light.

Back to the wall, Vala called upon the strongest of her latent powers, and attuned herself to the presence of psionics in the room.

Immediately discovering part of the nature of Kimmuriel's defenses, she knew that she could defeat him by causing enough potential damage. His barrier absorbed kinetic energy, but could overwhelm his concentration if bombarded sufficiently.

She charged forward, though her footsteps were nearly silent, thrusting Toshisha into the cloud. If it hit anything but empty air, she could not say.

Something touched her foot, and Vala glanced down in horror at Kimmuriel rising through the floor, his hand about her ankle, before her world exploded in pain.

Her eyeball burst, wetly dripping down her cheek, and she doubled over as a deep gouge opened below her breasts, rending her armor and loosing a string of flesh and bowel. She heard a grinding sound as deep lacerations across her cheek scraped her teeth.

Moments passed without her knowing, and suddenly she was staring up at Kimmuriel, not down, and he, in turn, knelt over her, forcing a liquid down her mouth.

Gagging, Vala tried to twist away, before screaming as she felt her flesh ignite in searing heat.

She writhed in exquisite agony, the room spinning, for what felt like an eternity. Nobody rose up from the depths in which she buried it, but even it could not assert control through the pain.

Then she felt the gash close, as if pulled together by an invisible hand, and her vision fully restored itself. She tasted blood, but could no longer reach through her cheek with her tongue. Vala rose to a knee, patted her chest, feeling the smooth skin there, before waving a hand before her right eye, while closing her left. Her teeth too, on closer inspection, were again flawless.

"Healing potion?" she asked, though it was hardly a question, and found that Kimmuriel had taken his previous sitting position, eyeing her with visible satisfaction, perhaps the first gesture of emotion she had seen him offer.

"We have reached an agreement, Iljrene and I." the Drow replied callously, "I am to train you, and make you an asset of the Dark Promenade. And so I shall endeavor to keep you alive and whole, unless you displease me too greatly. Get up."

That tone, so reminiscent of the cruel barking of Duskryn males, jolted her to her feet before she realized what she had done.

He grinned at her discomfiture, "Sit. Again. We can discuss the subtleties of the technique I just used at a later time. First, I must instruct you in the most basic terms of our art ere you could understand such a complex power."

"Yes, Master." she replied, though with more enthusiasm than before.

"Now then..." he continued, watching her take her seat, again at the maximum of five paces in distance, "Now that we have concluded that unfortunate business...unfortunate in the sense that I had to waste a valuable healing potion on an iblith because she failed to recognize the gulf in our respective levels of skill, we can begin your education in earnest."

"What is a Psion?" he asked, as if it were a simple matter.

It was.

"A mind-mage."

"That is what those who lack the gift of the invisible art call us." Kimmuriel said dismissively, "What is a Psion?"

Flummoxed, Vala considered the question on a deep, philosophical level, and found herself empty-handed.

"I do not know."

"Obviously." the Drow chided, "A Psion is a person gifted with unique connections to the Astral Plane and to the hidden recesses of the mind. However, it is the latter that is the more vital for a Psion. We can understand ourselves, and our surroundings, with far greater clarity than lesser mortals. We need no prayers, we need study no spell books for our power, for we are the source. The astral plane is but a conduit that can amplify our personal power...but to grow in power is not something that can be attained through studying the weave, or being devout to a god. Our key is in understanding, in knowing."

...

"So know what you are; there are six schools governing the powers that we can manifest, six types of Psions. Most never branch into more than one discipline, though you, a mere child, have already accessed two."

"There is the Egoist, who can modify organic life to suit their purposes, be it their own bodies or the bodies of others, the Kineticist, who can use the unseen forces about him to alter and damage matter, the Nomad, who is privy to the hidden roads that crisscross Faerun to which distance is irrelevant, the Seer, who is privy to the past and the future, or all possible futures, depending on individual philosophy, the Shaper, who makes their thoughts reality for a time or for an eternity, and the Telepath, who can twist and distort perceptions of reality to better suit them, in themselves and in those around them."

"Which Psion are you, I wonder? Can you tell me?" he asked.

She considered it only for a brief moment, "I can make things that do not rightly exist in this world, be it my blade or the shards of psicrystal. I am a Shaper. And you are a Kineticist."

"Good" he replied honestly, "You understand magical theory well enough, at least. But you are also a Seer, because you partially determined the nature of my Kinetic Barrier through psionics. Like I said, manifesting powers from two schools is exceedingly rare among our type. It is perhaps the only thing that interests me in you."

Pleased by the bemused scowl marring the girl's normally impassive features, Kimmuriel nodded, "Now we will meditate. As you can manifest your powers continuously, you have already learned how to do this, I assume. Empty your mind. Learn what you can from your experiences. Know."

Maintaining the appearance of indifference, Kimmuriel waited several minutes before manifesting his powers and peering into his new apprentice's thoughts, for he was also a skilled Telepath.

Due to her inexperience, he easily detected her consciousness, and attuned himself to it, lest she detect his presence, penetrating to her surface thoughts.

He found her thoughts pertaining to a sermon, likely undertaken in the Dark Promenade. There were sprinklings of Humans, Faerie, Halflings, and other surface and Underdark races mixed in with male and female Drow, the latter singing lightly to accompany a moonbeam which encompassed the platform in the center of the room, ringed with silver. Around the moonbeam, a tall female with silvery hair circled in a rhythmic, acrobatic dance beside three others. All bore silvery blades which hummed when in motion. The patterns in which they twirled, swung, and retracted those swords produced music which perfectly accompanied the voices of their sisters.

There were no recognizable words spoken, but Kimmuriel knew this to be a sermon. Even as a memory, it evoked images onto him, impressions of a greater scope than he could comprehend; dark glades under starry night skies, fountains of clear water and clouds of concealing mist. He felt cold wind against his face, knew the freedom of running nude across the surface of Faerun, nothing weighting him down but a sword in his hand and a hunting horn about his neck. The thrill of the hunt, and the smell of blood, the surge of triumph as his blade sank into the flesh of monsters.

He saw a female akin to the silver-haired giant, whose sheer presence left him gritting his teeth in consternation, and he heard her soft, gentle cooing.

Eilistraee. It could be no other.

Instinctually, he receded from that contact, for even indirect contact with the divine could drive a mortal mad.

Slowly, the sensations passed from him, as the focus of Vala's attention diverted.

He felt his physical body sweating, trembling, both at the exhilaration he had felt and the relief with its passing.

He returned to studying her, seeing a sermon of a very different sort.

He saw through her eyes; observing a great chamber, also in the Underdark, but tinted with Faerie fire and glowing mushrooms instead of moonlight.

By the angles of the room and the way the other worshipers, mostly female Drow but also including a few males in the outer edges of her vision, towered over her, Kimmuriel assumed this was a much earlier memory.

This sermon bore no music, no dance. A female with bright eyes and a cruel smile stood over an altar draped with red cloth, and spoke of the tribulations of the Spider Queen, of the wickedness of the Faerie Elves and the heretics of other faiths. She spoke of Vhaeraun, Lloth's traitor son, who rebelled against her and Selvetarm, her six-armed champion, to defect to The Night Above.

She spoke of Ghaunadaur, and his worthless, degenerate followers who worshiped the primordial oozes and slimes that they ritualistically fed themselves to in the deepest, darkest reaches of the Underdark, living in a state akin to the iblith that served them.

And she spoke of Eilistraee, the foulest of all, who led unwary Drow into the light of the surface to grovel at the feet of their enemies, condemned to dance impotently in the blistering light of the sun for the rest of their days. She spoke of the service it was to return them to the faith of Mother Lloth before removing their hearts, in tribute of the Spider Queen's infinite forgiveness.

In the midst of her wild, frothing rants, this female, likely the Matron Mother of whatever house Vala had been property of, gave wild proclamations of Lloth's eventual return to the surface, in which her chosen people would eradicate the hated Faerie Elves with all of the other inferior races, before tearing Corellon Larethian down from his celestial perch as god of the elven races and burning the Seldarine paradise of Arvandor into ash and ruin.

In a detached, cynical way, Kimmuriel was reminded of a time when he had heard similar words from the lips of K'yorl Odran, the heartless Matron Mother of House Oblodra, before the Baenre sank it into a crushing oblivion.

As ludicrous as it was, the girl's memory elicited something other than instinctive dread in her.

It was not the words that resonated with Vala. It was the power that was displayed. Lloth was a cruel mistress, but she offered the right followers incredible power.

It would seem that the girl sought such power.

He saw an old Orc, her face leathery and her eyelids dark from many sleepless nights, hunched over him as they lay in a bed of straw. He saw in this Orc many places, in many conditions; Vala's turbulent course of thoughts processing several memories of the creature at once. He saw at last an uninterrupted image; that of her leaping into the grip of a towering creature, demonic by the looks of it. He saw her go limp in its hands, saw her blood shower down into dark waters.

The vision became cloudy, not by her lack of concentration, but because of the tears Vala had shed in those moments.

The symbolism for that ridiculous marking on her forehead suddenly became clearer.

He felt keenly her intense distress at this image, which burned into her consciousness more fully than any other memory of the subject in question.

Her mother.

As a Dark Elf, he could hardly empathize with a feeling of loss over the death of a mother. Such things were the realms of the lesser races.

Still, this anger intrigued him; it gave him something he could offer the girl at a later date. It showed him the uneasiness of her allegiance to Eilistraee's coven. He knew that he could bribe her with the death of Alirana Srune'Lett in return for any information he desired on Eilistraee's faithful or their sanctuary.

He compiled that information and saved it for another day.

Seeing also that single, terrible moment before she lost all memory after the confrontation with the same woman, feeling the awakening of her psionic powers, Kimmuriel reconsidered the potential value that this Half-breed Psion could offer, and contemplating perhaps adding a rare female to Bregan D'aerthe...

...

Iljrene ate with Vala while Kimmuriel attended his duties as the temporary leader of Bregan D'aerthe. Though the male's healing potion had left no scars, she inferred that he had badly wounded Vala through her demeanor.

She averted her eyes, and spoke little. She was more skittish than usual.

She spoke in short, precise sentences. Her hands shook. Over the last few minutes, she had reached up towards her eye at least twice.

"We can leave this place, if you want..." she said honestly, unwilling to subject her to such treatment, even to aid the Promenade.

Vala returned her gaze, troubled, but shook her head, "No. I need to get stronger. He can show me how."

Her hands shook, just a little. A Human would not have noticed, so subtle was the gesture. A Dark Elf noticed everything.

"I need to get stronger, so I can protect the promenade." Vala continued, gaining in confidence in her words, "You said I was getting better in martial training, but I can barely swing a proper blade without lopping off my foot. Without my powers and Toshisha, I am helpless. I need this. Let us remain here."

Nodding uneasily, Iljrene hoped that she had not pushed the girl too hard by bringing her here. She knew too little of the nature of Psionics to be able to save her from it.

...

Over the next weeks, Kimmuriel meditated and trained with his student in that small house, minding the occasional small group of Bregan D'aerthe mercenaries that passed through. The priestess always fled with the girl during these events, and demanded to know well in advance of their arrival to do so.

Kimmuriel suffered the woman with effort, because Vala had proven such a capable apprentice. He discussed with her, in private, the Kinetic Barrier, his prized attack, which absorbed all incoming kinetic energy, and stored it for a later time. Its beauty was its flexibility; he could bequeath the injuries inflicted upon him onto his attacker, as he had demonstrated, or he could bestow the barrier onto another, allowing them to thus escape harm. Or...he could give it to an unwilling subject, and watch with delight as the subsequent injuries multiplied and caused grievous harm all in an instant.

Sadly, her skill, while considerable for one so young, was not up to the task of duplicating his signature attack. Kimmuriel did not find himself displeased.

They also discussed far simpler techniques; how to invade the mind of an unwilling opponent and how to protect oneself from the same. He offered her the Empty Mind, which allowed hostile psionic emanations to pass right through the defending Psion, akin to sidestepping a swinging blade. Though she could commune with the Astral Plane with absolute focus, it took her over a week to comprehend the feeling of thoughtlessness necessary to produce the Empty Mind effect. He also offered the Tower of the Iron Will, which was more akin to a parry, and allowed the Psion to in turn protect others in close proximity from telepathic attacks.

In this technique she excelled; it took only two days for her to passably deflect his mental intrusions, though he could still with little difficulty invade the minds of the Kobold slaves that he tasked her to protect. He scattered their feeble brains across the chamber for the failure, knowing that, as a former slave, the gesture would vex her.

Her efforts improved considerably after the experience, but this only distressed him.

These powers were of the Telepath School. That made three disciplines that she could manifest, an equal to him in potential if not in practice, for he was also a practiced Egoist, able to heal himself and transform his body into shadow or ectoplasm.

She didn't seem to take notice of just how powerful she was. It was the only reason he had not recanted the deal, and braved Eilistraee's retribution by killing her.

...

Now that she could protect the minds of the Kobolds that Kimmuriel carted in by the scores, Vala allowed herself to comfortably meditate while her mentor prepared her next lesson.

The poor creatures were no longer led in...that meant he had something else in mind.

She found that she had no need to memorize what she learned; the powers that her mentor taught her seemed to burn themselves into her mind.

No... It felt like they had already been there...and she had only cleared the fog of confusion that hid them from her. It felt like her mind was a vast, uncharted expanse; an incomplete map, and with his help, she was filling in its blank edges.

"Today I will not be instructing you..." Kimmuriel finally said after some time had passed, possibly an hour.

Vala startled, confused.

"Instead, one of my associates will be taking my place." the Dark Elf continued, "He has contacted me with news of his arrival. You will offer him the courtesy you show me. Do you understand."

"Yes, Master."

"Good." Kimmuriel replied, taking a seat much further away.

Something rose from the floor.

Vala jolted to her feet, Toshisha in hand, as a hideous, dark clad, purple-skinned, octopus-faced monstrosity slithered up through the solid floor to appraise her with blank, soulless, milky white eyes.

An Illithid.

"Dismiss your weapon." Kimmuriel snapped, "Now."

Toshisha dissipated in a cloud of mist. The problem was that she had not done it.

"Greetings, strange one..." a voice that was not a voice echoed in her mind, while the Illithid spoke aloud in a gurgling, bubbly speech she could not understand, "We are Hu'um, and Kimmuriel has told us that you show potential in the invisible art. Seeing your sword of Psicrystal, we agree."

"I am sorry." Vala replied telepathically, eyes downcast, "I was not expecting one of your kind. I should have guessed that my master would have sought you out. Your people's skill in psionics is known all across the Underdark."

"Indeed." Hu'umprojected, "You are a Shaper, and a Seer, and a Telepath, so Kimmuriel tells me. It is rare for a Psion to manifest much a wide variety of powers, especially untrained, especially for one so young. I am here to expand upon your education, in exchange for a gold and a sample of your blood and brain tissue."

"Umm..." Vala stammered, considering the door to the basement, where Iljrene would be, but Kimmuriel offered a rare grin, "Fear not, girl. I took the necessary samples after you blew open your eye. A subtle telekinetic tug pulled free some matter behind your optical nerve, which I split in two and preserved with the assistance of one of my wizardly allies. My potion no doubt regenerated the lost material."

"...Thank you, I guess." she replied, disturbed beyond measure at the thought of what they might want with that, "How will we begin?"

Immediately, her body tensed as she felt a weak but persistent psionic attack; Hu'um attempting to penetrate her conscious will. She immediately emptied her mind, save for the sequence of perceived sensations that Kimmuriel had taught her. She wiped her hand in front of her face, as she completed the pass, Vala obliterated her identity; her appearance, memories, and thoughts ceased to be. She was, and nothing else.

She saw about her a still pond, floating in an infinite space of clear white light. It was only a tool.

"Looking" down into the pond, Vala saw no reflection, imagined herself to be nothing but a cloud of air, from which no tangible object could manipulate. Just at that moment, the attack immediately increased in intensity. She felt a foreign, malevolent force all about her; a darkness that polluted that still pond, causing it to thicken and bubble like boiling sludge.

The sludge then hardened, solidifying into a mirror of obsidian. In it, she could see herself once again. She was Vala Oblodra, daughter of-

No. No! She was a cloud of air. She was nothing.

Her reflection flicked in and out. Hu'um began to press his attack; she caught a glimpse of her wide, terrified blue eyes before her reflection was that of the hideous, tentacle-faced Illithid. She, for a moment, became Hu'um, and he, fused to her, began to break down the connections she had to her body, and forced from her control over her limbic system. Her body began to move without her volition; her hand reached down to the dagger tucked into the folds of her other sleeve. She drew the weapon, and started to lift it.

Towards her eye.

In a panic, Vala changed tactics; Hu'um was too persistent to be repelled by such a simple technique; she envisioned a pillar of iron that closed about her body, expelling the probing tendrils of the Illithid's psyche. She strengthened the pillar with her own willpower, using her desperation as a focus from which to purify herself of lingering doubt and uncertainly.

Her knowledge of her body, and the room that it inhabited, faded away. All she saw was iron. She was the tower.

Immediately, the malevolence receded.

How much time passed since she activated the Tower of the Iron Will technique, Vala could not say.

"Well Done." Kimmuriel's voice echoed about her, "You repelled Hu'um's intrusion. Unfortunately...you failed to protect your body from physical attack."

The iron crumbled.

Vala was flesh once more, wavering on her feet. Her dagger struck the floor and embedded point-deep will a dull thud.

Hu'um flickered his face tentacles with an audible thump, likely the second time he had done so, and suddenly she was on the floor, her ears ringing and a painful numbness in her temples.

Kimmuriel stood over her, arms crossed, "Your Empty Mind and Iron Will will protect you from all but the most powerful Psions if maintained so effectively. Your mental strength is not an issue. All you need is to learn to multitask so that you can attack while defending, which requires practice, and to leave a stronger tether to your body, the better for you to sense injuries. When you wake up, Hu'um will teach you a new technique, and you can chew on that for a time. Until then, pleasant dreams..."

Chapter 7

Skullport, Undermountain (12th of Uktar, 1373 Dalereckoning)

Months passed as he mentored the girl personally or by proxy. The latter became more frequent in recent days; Lloth had broken her silence, and Menzoberranzan was in such turmoil that Kimmuriel's organization had nearly abandoned the city altogether. Dozens of operatives had perished, either as bystanders in the war with the Scourged Legion, in the murderous intrigue of the Matron Mothers, or in attempting to monitor the progress of Valas Hune and his band, which had departed to ascertain Lloth's fate years prior.

When the girl was not in his company or that of his Illithid allies, Iljrene continued Vala's education in linguistics, geography, and other forms of magic. While the girl could not tap Mystra's weave as a wizard might, she showed considerable promise in identifying and understanding magical artifacts, and could even determine the meaning of the runes of a scroll or spell book.

Vala also sought out tomes on the subjects of philosophy, history, and the cultures of the Underdark and surface races, devouring the knowledge they contained by the scores.

Likewise, as her knowledge of the world grew, so did her knowledge of Psionics. It took every bit of Kimmuriel's hard-learned ability and fortitude just to repel her attacks while maintaining his aura of invulnerability. It became more and more difficult to hide the shrinking distance of skill in their mutual ability to manifest the invisible art.

Compounded by no less than three occasions in which her powers had overwhelmed her, akin in nature to a true Orcish berserk.

Her body would become a living furnace, and her thought processes, while simplifying to the state in which she could no longer determine friend from foe, would remain capable of summoning the full breadth of her powers.

Actually, he was convinced that her combat potential actually amplified during this state. A pity that she became as a much a threat to herself as her enemies, for such a technique would be her strongest attribute.

As it was, Kimmuriel was forced to exhaust even more of his power to restrain her during these events, waiting until they passed of their own accord. He found himself increasingly exhausted, and his own powers genuinely tested when pitted against this young opponent.

Such was the case as they sparred on this day.

It was too dangerous to battle in the confined area of the Bregan D'aerthe safehouse; instead, he had moved them into his Mindscape, a telepathic representation of his consciousness. Though their bodies remained behind, Kimmuriel and Vala dueled with precise representations of their natural reserves of stamina, their powers, items, and abilities, and each would suffer damage equal to what was inflicted on their incorporeal selves.

They were inside of a great sealed cavern, their arena four bowshots in diameter with a high, sloping roof. Orbs of Faerie fire hung from the ceiling on invisible tethers, lighting their area. The rest was concealed by impenetrable darkness that could not be pierced by infravision. Every aspect of this chamber's temperature, light, heat, and gravity, was precisely equal to that experienced in the physical world.

The level of focus required to manifest such a power, combined with the strain of actually battling his apprentice within its confines, was staggering.

Kimmuriel manifested Empty Mind even as he portioned a section of his consciousness to the task of defeating Vala's Tower of the Iron Will, even as his Kinetic Barrier absorbed the frenzied attacks of Vala's animated whipblade, which struck with purpose and intelligence that only a sentient artifact could possess.

When the accumulation of his potential injuries exceeded his ability to contain, the Drow dropped a globe of impenetrable darkness about his person, a natural ability of any full-blooded Dark Elf. As Vala no doubt hesitated in the instant before adjusting to infravision, he reached out his hand, touching Toshisha and transferring the stored kinetic energy.

He heard a sound akin to a scream as it splintered apart.

Vala exhaled deeply, and he knew she was in the globe with him. Using his House Insignia, a memento from his days as his Matron Mother's lackey, Kimmuriel floated upward in weightless levitation, focusing his energies into a focused ball of concentrated telekinetic energy and dropping it back into the globe.

The floor, to them solid stone, blew apart in a tremendous explosion that rocked the cavern about them.

From this vantage, Kimmuriel grinned as he saw that Vala was in fact several paces away, shielding her eyes from the debris.

She had manifested only the most subtle of telepathy, throwing her voice in little more than common ventriloquism, and had in turn prompted him to waste one of his stronger manifestations.

He had not expected something like that; generally, her attacks were entirely too straightforward. That was the Orc in her. This was the Drow.

He readied another orb, and hurled it at her.

A subtle aura surrounded her, and his attack passed through her.

This was not his Kinetic barrier; Vala had in that moment recreated her body into ectoplasm, becoming intangible.

That was a power unique to Egoists, the forth school of psionics that she could draw upon.

Vala's face darkened as he began to penetrate her defenses; the iron began to soften into flesh. He could almost sense-

Her eyes began to emanate a light that was not caused by her infravision, which was mimicked by the chakra on her forehead. He felt her focus divert, and tensed, expecting a hail of psicrystal to bombard him from all directions, as was her main offensive ability.

But instead, she re-created her whip-blade, and thrust it forward, extending its length by several paces.

Grinning, for Kimmuriel would not possibly be defeated by such an attack, he formed a cone of telekinetic energy that hovered before his body like a kite shield, more that prepared to directly parry her sword.

But then a prism of light came into being in front of the ascending point, and expanded into a reflective disk. As Toshisha came into contact with the disk, it continued to shoot forward without resistance, though its tip never penetrated its surface.

Kimmuriel gasped as a numbing cold spread across his forearm, and twisted in mid-air to see Toshisha's dagger point embedded into his arm, its links leading into a duplicate of the reflective disk, which stood in place a stone throw behind him.

A dimensional door, small in size and range but a dimensional door regardless. The ability of a Nomad.

He turned, gaping, to see Vala floating up to him, aided by levitation that did not belong to the effect of a house insignia. Another power of a Nomad. In her hand, she held a sphere of telekinetic energy similar to his own, but much smaller.

Still, it would break bone and crush muscle.

Injured, defenseless, Kimmuriel hastily erected a barrier of force that surrounded his body, crackling where it cut into Toshisha's length. With her other hand, Vala pulled on her blade, in turn twisting its tip in his arm.

Still his concentration held.

She dismissed the blade, its absence leaving a gaping hole in his arm.

Still his concentration held.

She hurled the orb forward, towards his barrier.

Still his concentration held.

It impacted with thunderous retort. His barrier held. Vala began to plummet down, her eyes wide.

In her other hand, the hand which had held Toshisha, she bore another telekinetic orb.

Her whip-blade had been a mere telepathic illusion, and he had believed it enough to make it real.

Her expended power had been telekinetic in nature all along!

She was now manifesting telekinetic abilities. She was a Kineticist, as she was each of the other five disciplines.

Never had her heard of a Psion that branched into all six schools!

His concentration wavered; Vala's telepathic tendrils bored into his mind as her second orb shattered his physical defenses. The Mindscape crumbled apart, just as his body was thrown upward from its sitting position.

He landed hard, against the wall, the air blasted from his lungs.

What was this creature?!

Dozens of offensive abilities formed in his mind, and even knowing her to be connected to him, he blanched as he saw her hold up her hands in surrender, visibly terrified.

"Master, wait! I did not...-"

"Enough!" he snapped, dismissing his power and using all of his strength to repel her telepathic intrusion and not to collapse in exhaustion as he rose to his feet.

He drew a potion from his belt, and drank it, sealing the wound in his arm and the concussion that Vala had given him with that sudden, final attack.

"Enough." he replied more gently, breathless, "I am satisfied. There is no more that I can teach you. Tomorrow, you will return to the Promenade, and I, in turn, will return to Menzoberranzan."

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, tried to slow his heartbeat, "Bathe and eat. I will speak to Iljrene for a time."

...

Watching Kimmuriel depart from the room, Vala did as instructed, trying her best to forget the murderous intent she had gleaned from his thoughts.

She had bested him.

He was centuries her senior, a Master Psion, and she had bested him.

And he had nearly killed her because of it.

She threw off her tunic, unmindful of her nudity, and washed vigorously with the water she had drawn from the docks and purified with an alchemical tonic that was common to those with a little wealth.

She tried not to think about the other things she had learned in those moments...

...

After discussing Vala's success with the priestess, Kimmuriel returned to the main room, leaning ageist the wall. The girl had set aside her clothing, and meditated beside her bedroll, kneeling as if praying, garbed in a thin white nightgown.

A plate of half-eaten bread and cheese lay forgotten beside her.

He watched her, trying to discern what it was about this creature that contained such incredible power.

She began to notice his scrutiny; her brow and eyelids pinched. Her breathing pattern altered.

"Master?" she said, looking back to him, and he nodded, reaching an unspoken decision, "You should sleep. I will want you both gone from this place in the morning."

She blanched at his indifferent tone, then shrugged, "You will return to Menzoberranzan?"

He nodded.

"Why would you want to?" she asked, her voice small and timid as it had not been since she had arrived months prior.

"It is my home." he replied simply, "Why would I not wish to? Bregan D'aerthe requires my presence. The insufferable politics of the Drow nation requires my attention."

Deflating, Vala slid into her bedroll, and her hidden meaning struck him.

He smiled, though not kindly, "You were hoping I would follow you to the Promenade."

"It is so different there." Vala explained, "You could do so much good."

"At the heel of a priestess, you mean." he replied dryly, "By Lloth or by Eilistraee, I am but a lowly male, meant to grovel for my station. I will not. In Bregan D'aerthe, I shape my own destiny. I survive. I command. I overcome. There is nothing that I need outside of this."

The girl looked like she had something to say from that, but did not follow through.

That was fine. He could care less anyway.

"You are aligned to neither."

"What?"

"Lloth." Vala said, "Or Eilistraee. You follow no goddess?"

"Of course."

"But you lean towards Lloth."

"I suppose. I would sooner return to my previous station than dance in fields of grass beside Faeries and Humans or other iblith."

"So you would side with the Matron Mothers if they ever came to blows with the Promenade. I would not want to fight you if that happened..." she said drowsily, "I hope I never have to."

Kimmuriel considered that statement even after the girl had fallen asleep.

At first, he had assumed it to mean that she feared a confrontation between them, if the Darksong Maidens and Bregan D'aerthe battled openly. As the ranking Psion in each group, the two of them would eventually be destined to battle, likely to the death.

But on closer inspection it sounded more like she would not want him to die, or for herself to die at his hands. It sounded like she felt some connection to him, and would not want to fight him because of it.

He reminded himself that she was a sentimental fool, no matter the ability. It was not a trait she would grow out of. Like all the followers of Eilistraee, she was soft.

He could kill her easily if he needed to.

But for now he would ensure her survival; such a malleable subject would be easy to manipulate. All that strength would not protect her from Drow intrigue, Kimmuriel's second prized weapon.

Chapter 8

The High Forest (17th of Eleint, 1376 Dalereckoning)

Alirana Srune'Lett stood at the mouth of the cave that she and the other Darksong Knights had consecrated in Eilistraee's name. Within, her sisters had already prepared bedrolls and a fire. The corpses of the Gnolls were buried outside in a shallow ravine. It was more than the beasts deserved, but Green Dragons still roamed the impenetrable pine and redwood forests, and the smell of rotting meat attracting one was a risk none of them had been willing to take.

The mood was festive. News had arrived from the Dark Promenade; Vhaeraun, one of Eilistraee's rival deities, was dead, his hegemony and the majority of his male followers absorbed by the Goddess, who now endeavored to defeat the Spider Queen once and for all.

While the Protectors of the Song and the senior Darksong Knights remained behind to fortify the Promenade and welcome its unlikely new recruits, Alirana and several of her peers led secondary detachments, mostly consisting of initiates and prospective novices, into the surrounding wilds to create secondary consecrated sights and practice their fighting skills by hunting beasts, in preparation for the inevitable hunting of demons, as was a Darksong Knight's divine-given purpose. That included forming defensive perimeters around each new site in order to protect new sisters while they communed with the Dark Maiden and forgot their allegiances to Lloth and the Underdark.

It was in such a way that Alirana herself had found atonement for her past, and the peace that it offered, by reneging her oaths to Lloth and striving to end the goddess' oppressive reign over her people forever.

Hence, their current position; they were roughly two leagues south and east of their main outpost; a small Human village that had been raided by some manner of creatures and subsequently abandoned. It had only taken two weeks to renovate the ramshackle buildings into functionality, thanks to the assistance of over two dozen ley-worshipers; lesse...other races, mostly Humans and surface Dwarves that had been freed from servitude and offered a place in Eilistraee's following.

Vala stood beside her impassively, though she knew the half-blood did not appreciate her presence.

Then again, Alirana was not even sure Vala was aware she was standing there.

Unlike most initiates of the Dark Maiden, who favored thin, supple mail, the Half-Drow wore a layered robe of black and violet silks, confiscated from a priestess of Lloth who had chosen death before conversion. After obliterating any spider iconography on the garment, she had outfitted its heavy sleeves, hem, and collar with a silvery threading, her tribute of Eilistraee, and cut away much of its thick skirt to allow better freedom of movement. Under the robe, she wore a simple threadbare tunic, woolen leggings reinforced with padded leather greaves, and slim, calf high boots.

Unlike wizards, she needed no material components, manifesting her powers through her mind. And more skilled with magic than steel, she carried few weapons; a pair of throwing daggers in each sleeve, and a thin shortsword at her belt. Thus, her load was light, enabling her to move as silently as her full-blooded sisters, who were often weighted down with equipment.

Outside, Selûne shone brightly, though her trail of tears was hidden behind the clouds that would soon obscure her as well. Rain pelted the forest in a steady drizzle. The peal of thunder and the wild gusts of wind shook the trees. The use of infravision in such winds was impossible; the constant motion blurred even the brightest heat signatures into muted darker shades, forcing the both of them to shift back into the spectrum of visible light.

Vala watched the display in rapt awe, her luminous blue eyes wide.

No doubt, she was still uncomfortable with the turbulent weather on the surface. She had only been away from the Promenade for a few months, assisting Alirana's detachment with her psionic abilities. Their pairing, no doubt, was not unintentional, if Qilué intended for the girl to become a fellow Darksong Knight.

"You should rest." Alirana advised, following her gaze, "This storm will not last to the morning. And we will be gone long before the sun crests the horizon."

Vala shrugged, "I will meditate for a time, but not yet. I want to watch."

A bolt of lightning struck a tree two bowshots from the cave. A fire spread from its surface as it wavered, and fell, creating a second, violent retort as it struck earth.

"The land feels as the Underdark does not." Vala said idly, frowning as the rain extinguished the blaze before it could ignite the grass, "Its rage shakes the ground on which I stand."

"It is invigorating, isn't it?" Alirana asked, trying to gauge the mood of her at times unpredictable initiate. The Half-Drow shrugged, "I fear its anger. And it always rains as it storms, betraying its sadness."

Her frown deepened, "I detest the rain; this land is too beautiful to weep."

Nonplussed, Alirana studied her more closely.

Vala had grown nearly as quickly as the Humans her band sometimes fought beside; now well within her puberty at fifteen years of age, the Half-Drow had grown to just under five feet tall. Her infantile softness had given way to a lithe body of wiry muscle, the thin contours of her waist, arms, and neck the epitome of elven beauty, though the more bestial aspects of her Orcish nature contrasted them starkly. A small red dot marked the space on her forehead between her eyes and above her brow, which she said represented her mother's blood and the subsequent "opening of her eyes". That might have meant the development of her grim philosophy, or her psionic ability, or both.

She had not expressly defined her explanation.

Her dark hair was cropped short, barely below her pointed but subtly serrated ears. Her tusks had grown to nearly finger-length, forcing her to shave them down into nubs, lest they create blind spots. Thus, they sometimes scraped her upper lip when she was deep in thought and ground her teeth, a nervous habit. Her fingernails she had filed into sharp points, allowing her to fight with her hands if she wished to. Alirana had seen the deep gouges she made into the training dummies while she practiced her martial training. Her technique, while unfocused, was certainly...enthusiastic.

Likewise, her personality was unusual for a Dark Elf; her temper had not improved much since the first days after they had brought her into the promenade. She was at times reckless, impatient, and rude, but otherwise she was as quiet and passive as a lowly male.

Her studies in psionimancy had given her a measure of focus and control over her baser impulses, but at times her own telepathic strength threatened to overwhelm her. She was very powerful for her age, developing new abilities at an alarming speed, and this power made her a potentially great asset in their fight to migrate the Drow race back to the surface; Psions were extremely rare, especially those of such caliber. Most on the surface did not bother with protections needed against the unique nature of a Psion's powers, though the Drow of the Underdark had always prepared for attacks from the Illithid, a communal race of Psions, and were thus better protected.

For roughly a quarter hour they watched the skies, before Vala turned towards the camp, never once making eye contact, "I will restore my powers in solitude. Rouse me when you are ready to move on."

Nodding, for the toneless acceptance of her presence was still an improvement, Alirana watched as the girl slipped into the darkness, and considered the next steps to developing the perimeter around their central outpost in this section of the High Forest.

...

Vala chose a spot near the back of the cavern, in a thin crevice of shale just larger than the dimensions of her old room in the promenade; seven paces by four paces, with a relatively low overhanging roof. The confinement calmed her, if the darkness did not. It reminded her too vividly her time in the Wild Underdark.

Focusing her natural energies into her Ajna Chakra, a faint hum filled the chamber, and then a chiming as a thumb-sized orb materialized from the astral plane. Composed of ectoplasm, Vala molded the properties of the temporary construct to emit a light phosphorescence, barely visible to a Human but comfortably bright to her Underdark-attuned vision, before sitting with a contended sigh.

Setting aside her boots and robe; Vala crossed her legs and leaned slightly forward, relieving the pressure from the base of her spine. She pulled the woven thread about her neck free, so that she could see the two items than hung from it; her mother's chipped tusk, and the tiny sword pendant that Iljrene had given her years before, the symbol of Eilistraee's worship. Bone and silver. One represented her past, the other, her future, though each held equal meaning.

Thus focused, she retreated into her mind, becoming less aware of the sensations of her body; the hard surface of the stone floor, the echoes of the storm outside, and the light perspiration across her skin in spite of the cold.

In place of the waking world, thoughts became to her as visible, malleable objects, just as in the real world she manifested her psionic potential as physical manifestations. A great surface spread out beneath her "feet", a shifting realm of color, light, and possibility. This world was her Mindscape; the visual representation of the self, both known and unknown.

As one's interpretation differed from that of a fellow Psion, Vala envisioned her mind as the night sky. Consisting this verse was the swirling, chaotic play of lights known as the aurora borealis, which represented her passions and fears, which gamboled beside a constellation of stars and celestial bodies, which represented memory and thought. Thus was sentiment and logic, ever in an uneasy balance.

Unlike a cleric, which might draw from their goddess, or a wizard, who might draw from their spell book, Vala practiced the exercises that Kimmuriel had taught her, and visualized a series of movements, gestures, and sensations, that focused her mind and allowed her to reflect upon and study her memories, experiences, and subconscious urgings.

Though her body did not move, Vala's dream-self mimicked these motions in a manner akin to a dance, and her mindscape altered rapidly as she conceived these patterns. Her daily experiences she wove into this grand pattern, creating new stars, which formed new constellations.

To most, the key to understanding resided in others, be it people or deities, or in the world around oneself. To a Psion, the self was the key; understanding one's nature was the means from which to divine all natures. If she lacked absolute power, it was because there were hidden aspects of her being that she was either unaware of, or unable or unwilling to make peace with.

These aspects manifested as well, as dark, looming clouds hovering at the edges of her Mindscape. Though the bulk of this darkness was apart from her, small patches marred the aurora borealis, and hid what she knew to be many more stars from sight.

She was the source of her own power, and likewise, her only barrier to greater powers still.

Distressed but not deterred, for steep was the path to self-realization, Vala studied these clouds, attempting to penetrate their obscuring gloom and realizing what lay beneath.

Thus, she conceived the notion that her continued hostility towards Alirana was in error. In truth, she knew this well enough already.

Alirana was a Darksong Knight. A redeemed warrior of Eilistraee. Qilué and the goddess herself had vouched for her authenticity towards their shared cause.

But years had not softened her hatred of her mother's murder. Qilué's teaching had not. Kimmuriel's imparted discipline had not.

Dark, violent urges swelled within a portion of her mindscape, pitch black thunderheads that dwarfed those she had studied earlier.

Within one, which was tinted a dark, dark red, a woman's laughter was audible above the rumbling din.

Within another, backlit with moonbeams, Vala heard a woman singing, though it felt strained with its proximity to its opposing twin.

This was Vala's dilemma...

She felt Eilistraee when she communed with the goddess beside her Drow sisters, in dance and in the hunt, knew her as intimately as she had come to know much of herself. She sensed the goddess' regard, her compassion, the tenuous beginnings of the connection between them both, the link between mortal and divine. She knew, knew, in her heart, that she would be welcomed as a cleric of Eilistraee, as a Darksong Maiden in full, with open arms.

How she longed to feel that connection, to receive that closeness and familiarity and give in full in return.

But a part of her resisted.

A part of her held to her old teachings; that of power, of dominance, of subterfuge, and of revenge.

A part of her held to Lloth.

That darkness clung to the edges of her spirit like a choking miasma. It demanded she make Alirana pay; pay for murdering her mother, for convincing Matron Duskryn into selling her like a loaf of bread, and for betraying Lloth's priesthood through cowardice. It whispered foul temptations into her mind; promises of power. The power to crush her foes, and save whomever she wished to. The power to never be harmed again.

Vala knew these promises to be hollow; unlike Eilistraee, Lloth desired only personal gain, and cared nothing for those who served her. The constant strife and betrayal in Menzoberranzan, the callous disregard for her people and all peoples, was proof of this. Vala knew this, and yet she was nonetheless tempted.

This part of her did not agree with Eilistraee's mercy. This part of her wished to see evil exterminated, not redeemed. This part of her felt that there was no turning from certain paths; that some decisions irreparably stained one's soul. That such darkness could, should, be destroyed wherever it was found.

Troubled, Vala looked away from the clouds, and returned to what was already known, already understood.

She was afraid of what she saw there, for there Nobody also hid, an aspect of her own mind and soul. A piece of her that she had created to survive in the Wild Underdark, and existed purposeless now, yearning.

Envying.

Alirana's proximity only made these desires worse, only drew Nobody further out of the darkness. Qilué had placed them together as a test; a rite of passage, to fully connect her to Eilistraee through forgiveness.

Vala was uncertain if she could pass this test.

She opened her eyes, aware of the passage of hours. Though she had not slept in two days, or four cycles, as had been her method of telling time for most of her life, she felt renewed by her meditation, if deeply disturbed. Something would have to be done about that one...

She stood up, donned her clothes, and went to her allies, more or less ready for the new day.

...

Something was wrong. Alirana ordered them to halt before the entrance to their forward outpost, the first stirrings of dawn's light turning the sky to a lighter shade of blue. The village was protected by a balustrade constructed of thick wooden logs reinforced with packed dirt and gravel. The only means of ingress was a reinforced gate...a gate which was open with no patrol in sight.

Vala crouched behind a thick bush, irritated by the tension and the moisture in the grass beneath her feet.

"Scout the village in astral form." Alirana commanded in handcant; the silent language of the Drow, "Return to me with your report. Remain undetected. Be careful."

Nodding, Vala called upon her psionic abilities, and shifted her body fully into the astral plane, in a small pocket dimension therein of her own creation. The space in Toril that her body had occupied was instantly replaced with a duplicate, formed of ectoplasm, which was intangible and could not be molested by steel or by spell.

Willing her ectoplasm-body down, Vala slid into the ground beneath her feet, and counted the seconds as she slowly floated forward, under the village.

When a two-hundred count had passed, she extended her perceptions upward, just for a moment, and ascertained that she would be inside one of the buildings if she ascended. She could not see anyone, or anything, inside.

Drifting up in a manner akin to levitation, Vala solidified in a crouch, trading places with her ectoplasm duplicate instantly, manifesting her psicrystal whipblade, Toshisha, which coiled to strike even while hidden in the heavy folds of her sleeve.

She grimaced at the sight of blood. It stained the walls in minute droplets, and sheets of it coagulated across the floor.

There were no bodies to accompany.

The room in which she stood was a small tavern, near the center of the village. Its main area was roughly twenty paces by thirty; a large lounging area sporting four tables arrange in a square formation, before a roaring fireplace, which was still lit. To her right, away from the door, there was a bar, with two long racks holding both surface-dweller wine, whisky, and more potent Drow spirits. A dagger was embedded into the table before it, and several were embedded into a target on the far wall.

It could have been mistaken for a surface dwelling, were it not for its windows, which had been permanently shuttered closed. There were no torches. The only light in the room would be by the fire.

The door, open on its hinges, was to the left, and beside it, obscured by an inner wall, was the stairwell that led to the second floor.

Her footsteps utterly silent, Vala dared a glance upstairs, seeing obvious signs of battle. As its inhabitants were Drow, there was nothing so obvious as gouges in the walls, nor even the small crossbow quarrels. But there was a telltale feeling of expended magic in the air; a tingling with the smell of ozone. A few thin streaks of blood, and something else she could not identify.

Instinctively, she knew there would be no bodies, though her sisters had obviously attempted a hastily constructed defense on the second floor.

Troubled, Vala once again became intangible, her real body in the astral plane, slipping partially through the far wall to peer outside, revealing as little of her body as possible.

What she saw was scant comfort.

She swiftly drew herself downward, back into the ground, and returned in the direction of her allies, taking that same mental count in reverse, down to zero.

When she surfaced, it was four paces to the left from her starting position.

Cursing silently, for she had not intended to do that, Vala dismissed her astral form and returned in her original body.

Alirana was waiting for her report.

"The bodies are piled in the central clearing." Vala signed grimly, "They were burned. There is powerful magic at work, but I cannot be sure what. No enemies, but I would not assume for long."

"Because?" Alirana returned, though she no doubt knew the answer. Even now, she was testing Vala's tactical perception.

"Because anyone that could stage such a successful attack would correctly guess that more sisters were on patrol in the outlying region." Vala replied in handcant, "And though I shielded myself from such, there are likely magical alarms that would trigger if anyone approached the village."

"Indeed." Alirana returned, scratching her chin, "The wise decision would be to return to the Promenade and inform Qilué of our findings..."

Vala shifted to infravision, partially so she could re-adjust her eyes to the gloom, but also the better to see the plume of angry heat that rose from the Drow's body, "But at this moment I am not obliged to the wise decision."

She signaled two sisters to return to the Promenade, and ordered the rest into scouting formation, "We will learn who has done this, and slaughter them for their transgression against our sisters and against Eilistraee. This attack was carried with the benefit of surprise. We know that we tread into the dragon's maw, and gain the advantage."

They immediately advanced into the village, a sister taking the wall on either side and drawing a longbow, their silver arrows enchanted to pierce plate armor and ravage demons and other creatures of evil.

Their main force passed the gate; fourteen armed with lances and longswords, save Vala, who needed no weapon save Toshisha and her psionics, and Alirana, who carried a Singing Sword, the weapon of a Darksong Knight in full.

It had been a show of considerable favor when Qilué had allowed the woman to take the sacred blade from its place in the Promenade.

Three in front, the point guard, fanned out to survey the few alleys as they passed further into the village, towards the bodies. True to the omnipresent (and quite correct, in her opinion) Drow paranoia, their village had few alleyways; most buildings in the four-column-three-street design were constructed or reconstructed in such a way that each building shared walls with those beside it, save a few major channels that allowed one to pass into successive streets or quickly attend one of the walls.

Nothing for it, they reached the center, right outside the inn that Vala had scouted.

Whoever had invaded the village had gathered its occupants, living or dead, and arranged a carrion pile. Drow, Human, and others, male and female, accounted for that pile, many sporting burns and deep, jagged lacerations across their bodies. It looked like several also had...pieces missing. Tooth marks were present. Something had tried to eat them. But a mere beast would not have gathered the bodies in this way. It made little sense...

Now that she was so close, Vala detected a scent she had missed while incorporeal; brimstone.

"Demons." she signaled to Alirana, drawing from her education, "Most Tanar'ri can teleport, and use that ability to ambush their prey. It would explain the lack of organized response. At least two dozen."

Nodding, for she likely had made the same observations, Alirana's scowl deepened when her eyes fell upon a young Drow boy, less than eight years of age, that had been gutted and thrown onto the pile, his bloodshot eyes blank and unseeing. The scratches on the nearby bodies indicated that he had still been alive when he had been so placed.

"An adopted ley-worshiper..." she explained, her expression hardening, her scar starkly pronounced, a fresh angry flush of heat spreading from her body, "I read to him just a tenday ago."

"Heretic..."

The word echoed disjointedly through her mind, and Vala intuited many voices within the word.

"Heretic..."

Alirana and the others tensed.

"You, who spurn Lloth..."

"Vala." Alirana ordered aloud, "Link us telepathically."

Nodding, she sought out the presences of each of her allies, and created a link between each of them, visualized as a tether of thick rope. Weaving her net, Vala linked each mind to each other, as they were to hers. Non-audible and instantaneous communication was now possible.

"Must Die!" screamed the disembodied voice, and from the shadows emerged dozens of leering, horned, red-skinned fiends, with draping lengths of barbed tentacles from their long, snouted faces.

They looked to her like misshapen mountain goats, though their claws and teeth were reminiscent of more predatory animals. Most carried a wicked, barbed lance, though some favored clubs hewn from some manner of bone.

"Barbazu." Alirana projected telepathically to each of them at once, "Lesser devils. They seep a burning acid from their beards. Mind their natural weapons as much as their steel. Like all Tanar'ri, they can teleport short distances."

"Not on my watch..." Vala replied, emitting a cloud of mist that blanketed the earth beneath their feet, expanding to about a stone throw around their group.

Teleportation would be all but impossible while she maintained the ward.

"Well done."

Vala nodded, coiling Toshisha to strike.

As one, the devils, robbed of their best surprise attack, hurled themselves into the mist, shrieking.

Vala speared one with her blade, even as the arrows of her fellow warriors downed three, ere they met the rest of the Darksong Maidens.

Vala wove a coil of psicrystal about her body, using Toshisha as both weapon and shield, for its length expanded, forming a lashing tail which swiped or thrust at the surrounding devils.

Alirana chanted, her sword singing as it cleaved flesh from bone, breaking the feeble club a Barbazu had held, along with its hand, all in a single cut. It hissed, thrust its head forward to bite, only to be propelled down as the Drow completed her incantation, a prayer, and a moonbeam fired down from the sky with the force of a thunderbolt.

Its body began to dissipate in a cloud of shadow.

Vala, for her part, grimaced, as a telepathic presence began to attack her.

Calling up her Tower of Iron Will, she protected herself and her allies, but was otherwise rooted to the ground, manifesting so many powers at once that they required all of her concentration. She wound Toshisha's coil all the tighter about her body.

"Alirana..." Vala whispered telepathically, "Something else is here. A Psion."

"Hold fast." the Drow replied, channeling more and more of Eilistraee's light, "The devils weaken. Soon, we will route and slaughter them. We only need a little more time."

Despite her assurances, Vala groaned, clutching her temples. From her flesh, small buds of psicrystal collected. The animal in her was beginning to assert control with the occupation of her focus on the unseen assailant.

From the shadows between the houses emerged new horrors.

Great muscular bodies riddled with jagged spines, their four arms like mature oak trunks, a pair of Glabrezu, greater demons, lumbered into view, their growls like rumbling boulders.

They charged into the fray, and a Darksong Maiden screamed as she was gored on their bladed arms.

"Moonmaiden...strengthen our blows." Alirana prayed, "Light our way through the darkness."

As one, the silvery blades of the warriors of Eilistraee began to glow, the radiance causing the lesser Barbazu to cower. They were indeed a light in the darkness.

But Vala saw the true attacker, now that the devils had thinned enough to risk lessening her cloud of hindering mist.

Cloaked by invisibility that her psionics had just penetrated, this demon was no mere foot soldier. A sickening, amorphous body hunched in a space just beyond the combat, its wild, hateful eyes boring into her. Tentacles poured at random from its flesh, which resembled melting candle wax.

"Yochlol." Vala gasped, reducing the mist even further, and thrusting her consciousness forward in a concentrated spike of telepathic energy.

The Yochlol did not so much as flinch, indeed, only increased the pressure it exerted on her mind.

"Profligate of the Spider Queen..." It projected as it hissed, and it occurred to Vala that this was the creature from her dream, "Heretic, who spurned Lloth's gift. We meet again."

"You have defied Lloth's gift." it continued, radiating spite, "You will find her forgiveness only in death. My bloodline ends with you, cretin."

It had been a priestess. And a Psion.

An Oblodra.

Vala held her head even harder, whimpering, as the demon began to breech her defenses. The first Glabrezu, each of its four arms hewn away, thrashed on the ground, spraying blood, weakening, dying.
The second retreated, sprouting dozens of arrows from its leathery hide, snarling.

The Yochlol drew nearer.

Vala screamed, blood dripping from her eyes, "Do something, Alirana! I cannot protect us much longer!"

This foe was beyond her. Beyond Kimmuriel. Beyond Hu'um.

Her Clairsentience offered small glimpses of its prowess.

It was a chosen of Lloth, thought a lesser one. Someone of Qilué's potential was needed to actually kill it.

She was outmatched.

Her scream became an animal wail; only instinct alone kept her defenses up. She no longer attacked. She no longer had the strength. She suffered and held her defenses, though they were swiftly crumbling. the iron she visualized was rusting, corroding under the Yochlol's attacks.

"Be gone, foul creature!" Alirana hissed, following her gaze and outlining the Yochlol, or more accurately, the space around it, in faerie fire, dispelling its invisibility.

A half dozen moonbeams struck the remaining Glabrezu, burning its flesh. It faltered, only for a moment, nonetheless allowing a trio of Darksong Maidens to thrust blades into its throat.

It collapsed, writhing, bleeding and choking to death.

But Vala knew she would not last. The Yochlol would win out.

She did the only thing she knew that would increase her powers; she allowed another to take her place.

Nobody wanted it dead as much as she did.

...

Nezierre, Darksong Maiden of Eilistraee, called upon the Dark Maiden as she defeated the parry of a Barbazu, and thrust her blade through its chest, between the ribs to pierce a lung.

The devil, gurgling, slumped over the sword, and she pushed it free, regaining a defensive posture for the next attack.

It was not forthcoming.

The Barbazu, cowardly things, likely mercenaries from one of the lesser hells, turned and fled, yipping like hounds as arrows peppered them from behind.

Turning to the Yochlol, she joined Alirana and two others as they charged forward.

The Yochlol noticed their advance, its tentacles writhing in precise, angled paths.

They shared no words as they dashed forward, though Alirana hummed a melody, and as her blade took up the song, the Yochlol quivered, as if struck. Its spell died stillborn.

It shrieked, began to cast anew, just as Vala, their wayward sister, collapsed to fours, screaming, her flesh bursting with Psicrystal.

"Die, Heretics!" the Yochlol snarled, but as it lumbered forward, a cloud of mist covered it, before hardening into crystal, pinning it in place.

"What is this?" it gasped, its tentacles desperately trying to parry darksong blades, "I had broken your defenses. You have no powers left..."

Alirana thrust into its heart, just as Nezierre crosscut what she felt was the demon's throat. Black blood stained their swords. Alirana's Singing Sword emitted a pained keen.

"You have no powers left!" it wailed, as they attacked it without retaliation. With its tentacles pinned, it could not attack of cast, and still somehow shielded by Vala's telepathy, it could not manifest its psionic powers against them.

The rest of their force surrounded the beast, striking again and again. Its bulk gave them the ability to surround it without threatening each other.

Its body began to crumble apart, melting into putrid sludge. The copse smelled like a carrion pile, and not because of their proximity to their murdered kin.

The yochlol impacted, and dispersed, returned to its infernal realm.

Nezierre heard the screams of the damned, carried on the wind, saw a fleeting glimpse of a dark, windswept land under blood red skies, then stood beside her sisters in an empty field.

The fiends were gone. Four sisters had perished, most against the Glabrezu. Two more were wounded. But they had succeeded. They had ousted the Spider Queen's presence from their forest.

She felt the telepathic link between them, Vala's creation, cease to be.

Her protections over them as well, ceased to be.

Grinning, despite her grief, Nezierre turned to their odd, half-blood sister, to thank her for her aid, but grimaced, seeing her expression.

Vala advanced, blood dripping from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Her body was a host to an armor of crystal. She drooled, her expression distant. A low growl bubbled up from her lips.

"Vala..." Alirana gasped, "Sheathe your swords. Quickly!"

Nodding, for everyone knew of her peculiarity, Nezierre complied.

"You did well, sister..." Nezierre said, "It is over."

Vala snarled, her eyes burning with azure light. She advanced a step. Another.

"Set down a wall of faerie fire." Alirana ordered, "She does not recognize it for what it was in this state."

Obliging, Nezierre set a patch of grass ablaze between them with green Faerzress.

The girl stopped, puzzled.

But then she shrieked, thrust forward her hand. Spears of crystal burst from it, Alirana sidestepped the attack, for it was directed at her alone, arrows flew into the girl's body, and passed through harmlessly.

"Do not!" Alirana snapped, her hands waving in intricate passes, pleading to the Moonmaiden for aid.

She completed her prayer, and a light burst from her hand, and wrapped Vala, just as the half-blood passed through their line of defense, and impaled her through the gut.

Both collapsed into each other, Vala's animal shrieks far louder that Alirana's pained moan.

...

Swirling light.

Hands, reaching, grasping.

She screamed, felt something split away from her.

Then darkness.

"Wake."

She stirred, warm where before there had only been cold.

"Wake, traitor."

The venom in that voice brought her back to herself.

Vala opened her eyes, found herself in a cave, beside the others.

They surrounded her, blades drawn.

"What happened?" she asked, confused, "Where is the Yochlol."

"We banished it, with your aid." Nezierre, one of the other recruits, one born on the surface rather than converted from Lloth's faithful, said.

It was her voice, from before.

She looked around, "Where is Alirana?"

"Bedridden." Nezierre replied, "By the gut wound you gave her."

Oh no.

She had let Nobody...

Now she understood what she saw in the others' expressions.

"I did not mean to..." Vala moaned, holding her head in her hands.

She moaned, her temples ready to burst. It felt like her head was padded on the inside with wet cotton.

The Drow did not so much as flinch, "But you wanted to. A part of you wants her dead."

"I cannot forgive her..."

"No, you choose not to. Forgiveness is an instinctive thing." Nezierre replied coldly, untying her wrists, "We, as sentient beings, are gifted with the natural instinct to forgive and coexist with each other. Lloth, and other external factors, corrupt that instinct, to lead us down paths of self-destruction."

"And so you choose to live this way." she continued, "Alone, among us. Alone, among any. You do not belong here. You never did."

She pointed her sword away, turning her head, "Be gone. Qilué would order your death, and I feel it to be one justly deserved by attacking a Darksong Knight, but I will not allow you to be remembered piteously. Be gone, traitor. Take your grievances, your vendetta, and be gone."

"I..."

"Be gone."

Her eyes darting to each of the others, who looked to her with blank expressions, Vala nodded, gathered her things, few as there were, and walked to the edge of the cave.

Her robes were tattered. She left them behind. The amulet about her neck, the silver sword, was cloven. She left it behind, keeping only the tooth.

"Tell Iljrene..." she said quietly, not looking back to them, her voice breaking, her spirit broken, "Tell Iljrene...that I am sorry."

And then she ran into the night.

Chapter 9

(18th of Eleint, 1376 Dalereckoning)

After fleeing the outpost, in tears that frosted to her cheeks, Vala found herself near the outskirts of Silverymoon, the magical city of Alustriel, the quasi-divine Human sister to Qilué. It had taken some backtracking, forcing her to skirt the Silver Marches, but she had approached from the east, and slid through the walls in ectoplasm form, bunking for that terrible first night alone on the surface in a great tower with open portals for walls and a peculiar metal device hanging by a thick rope.

She had learned its purpose that morning, nearly toppling from its peak in terror as it bombarded her with deafening waves of sound.

She was able to mask her appearance through telepathy and the thick bundled clothing she wore over her mottled tunic and leggings, arranging for food and dominating a teamster to vouch for her to accompany a merchant caravan as a guard.

Though she did well to hide, Humans and Faerie Elves often looked sidelong to her, frowning in consternation at her light, steady gait; too graceful to be Human in a land where Drow sightings were not uncommon.

As these two days waiting for the caravan passed, Vala found plenty of time to consider her next moves.

She was not willing to return to the Underdark. Even if Kimmuriel was willing to admit her into Bregan D'aerthe, she could not perform the tasks he would ask of her as a Drow mercenary. It was not in her, not then.

The thought of returning to the Promenade and accepting whatever judgment Qilué would bestow was tempting; Vala had no way to know if the woman would order her execution.

But that too was unacceptable; she could not forget or ignore her hatred towards Alirana.

Always, always, would she remember Qilué and Iljrene and the others that had showed her kindness, but she was not one of them. She did not belong.

She kept hidden, like a criminal; always she had been warned of the hatred that the other races felt toward the Drow, and her Orcish features would not endear them to her either.

There could be no life here, either. Her only chance would be to find a place far from anywhere other Drow might live; as a curiosity and not a threat she could make her way in a surface town. With her power and cunning, she would make her way.

It was all she had at that moment.

In order to survive the grief in her heart over the second loss of her world, she strode forward. There was nothing else she could do other than give in to despair and perish.

In the end, she did board the rearmost carriage in a caravan of four, headed south and guarded by six dark-skinned Human sellswords with common livery; an organized force, then. She heard them call themselves the Flaming Fist, part of a large band that used to operate out of Baldur's Gate, tasked with destroying those who committed acts of evil.

She assumed they would kill her on sight if she revealed herself, so she kept her distance all the while, eating and sleeping alone several paces outside of the encampment. Two or three times she had heard someone approach her in the dark, and each time she evaded them. It was not terribly difficult. To her, attuned to the slightest noise, flat-footed Humans were easy to pick out even against the confusing wind and birdsong.

Once she had been given food from their stores; dried pork, which had reminded her so much of the vile, evil stew of House Duskryn that she had purged herself in the bushes and declined any further nourishment.

She had found some edible nuts and berries growing from the trees, and that had been enough. She had the training and the experience to survive almost indefinitely in the harsh terrain, let alone accompanied.

Winter was in full, though the ground was only frosted, not covered in what Iljrene had called snow. By the time they reached Waterdeep, which never knew snow, Vala thought she might stop shivering.

She was thankful for her insulating disguise; accustomed to the constantly neutral temperature of the Underdark, these changing seasons had greatly disturbed and unsteadied her, and she had yet to experience the full bite of winter cold.

It might become an issue, however, for as the temperature rose the farther south one traveled, the cloak might become a little too much. She was equally unschooled in situations of extreme heat, save short-term proximity to one of the forges in House Duskryn.

In the days, she watched the horizon with some difficulty, occasionally sketching landscape or from memory of the skittish creatures that neared the road enough to be observed. Her gloves, thinly padded, did not hinder her efforts.

She spoke little, though on one occasion, she had joined the other guards, Toshisha in hand, as they had skirted an area notorious for marauding bands of Gnolls. The Humans became more uncomfortable around her after seeing her psicrystal sword, and the way in which she could summon and dismiss it at will, now in under a two-count, but did not comment. That was good.

Weeks passed, as her unwitting transport briefly stopped to trade and resupply in Everlund, then Yartar, Tribor, and finally making its final stop in Waterdeep.

The irony...Vala realized...was that in escaping the coven of Eilistraee, she had arrived on the spot almost directly above the Promenade itself!

Her misgivings mattered little compared to the sight before her as they rolled down a steep hill, offering a magnificent view of the lands below.

There was land, reaching up to the city itself...and beyond that...

She perceived a distance unimaginable, marking each end of the horizon.

Beyond Waterdeep was eternity, the fading sun painting this endlessness, this infinity, in blinding red and gold that burned itself, physically and metaphysically, into her eyes.

"What is this?" she gasped, her eyes watering, unwilling to believe that what she saw was anything but the edge of the world. It was a lake, but a lake beyond anything she had ever believed possible. Her eyes could not see its end, could not even envision it had an end.

"The Sword Coast." Luk, one of the Flaming Fist guards, said beside her, having taken that opportunity to slip past her defenses without her noticing, "You have never seen the ocean?"

She shook her head, then realized the futility of the gesture in such a heavy cloak.

"No." she replied, "What is an ocean?"

Turning away, lest she permanently damage her sight, even in spite of the ectoplasm she created to form a shadowy cloud before her eyes and face, Vala studied the Human intently beneath her scarf and hood, seeing his puzzled frown, though he would only see impenetrable shadow.

"Like a lake, but bigger." he replied, "How have you not heard of-"

"I lived far to the east." Vala replied hastily, which was technically true, "There was a word, yes...but a mere word..."

She looked back, though with more caution now, "A word alone cannot account for this."

"In the...east, you said." the Human added as she turned away, chuckling, "Straight east or a little...down."

Vala sucked in air, and exhaled it slowly.

"I am certain I don't know what-"

"Never you mind lass, never you mind." he added, retracting his statement but making her very certain he had already found his answer as he did, "Enjoy your visit to the City of Splendors...maybe lose the cloak, eh?"

Vala found herself nodding, though she had no intention to stay, so close to Undermountain and her connections with her people. She decided she would continue south...much further south...

...

Qilué Veladorn learned of the disaster in the High Forest, and lamented the loss of her new sister as much the destruction of their outpost and the slaughter of its inhabitants. Vala had nearly accepted Eilistraee's communion, had so nearly forgotten her Underdark heritage. In spite of everything, the Drow allowed herself a moment to grieve.

"Go, then, our wayward little sister." she said quietly, "Learn what you will of the surface and its ways. Find peace, and a new life, as the Dark Maiden wishes of every Drow. If you learn forgiveness, and let go your past hatreds, we will welcome you anew with open arms. Until then, farewell..."

...

She watched with a great sadness as Waterdeep, her last chance to renege and return to the Promenade, became nothing more than a tiny dark splotch on the morning horizon behind her, the sea spray wetting her cloak even as the wind threatened to tear it away completely. All about her, roughly clad Humans maintained the great mast of their caravel, a behemoth of wood, iron, and canvas sails, the latter vaguely rectangular in shape. They sang, jested, and cursed, with an openness that nearly sent her into the lower decks with reddened cheeks.

Gradually, the sun rose to its full glory, casting such intense light that she could only perceive a distance of roughly a bowshot before everything became obscured by a painful white haze. What she could see, however, featured color so rich that it likewise became painful to observe. But she endured. She would not be able to depict this scene with coal alone. She would try to paint it sometime...

The captain, an elderly Human male with noticeable streaks of grey in his beard, attended the tiller; a thick wooden wheel with eight protrusions that could be grasped like handles, smiling like an uncouth youth as he surveyed his crew, laughing at their sport and even adding a few lewd jests of his own, tipping his great plumed hat in deference.

He was a curious sort to look at; fine linen clothing, a heavy, battle-worn cutlass, and yet there was such an aura of casualness about him that Vala had nearly considered being straightforward with him about her identity when booking passage with most of her coin. Almost...and even then only after carefully studying him for signs of latent illusions or enchantments. He had watched her curiously as his vessel, "Shallow's End" had raised anchor and set down the Sword Coast towards the sea of sands known as Calimshan, but after some time, it seemed he had forgotten her entirely.

That was good, because now that the crew was too preoccupied, Vala could appreciate this strange, terrifying feeling of weightlessness as Shallow's End crested a wave and plummeted down, nearly lifting her from her feet as gravity seemed to invert.

Though none could tell, her smile was wide indeed, for never had she felt so alive.

How this ocean spoke to her! How it sang its joy as the land could not!

Their vessel, while formidable, was but an insignificant speck when measured against this ocean's unfathomable size. With but an unfortunate stroke of luck, they could capsize, and be lost forever to the mysteries of its shadowed depths!

Her hands gripped the railing, and she laughed as she had never before as they once again struck down, sending a flurry of airborne water across the deck to the melody of the Human's bawdy uproars.

Though she knew not the words, she hummed in tune as they began to sing again, unmindful of the fact that they were singing about a...less than reputable female with unfortunate carnal tendencies...

Eww.

...

Alirana woke to pain, but she would not succumb again. She could not.

She needed to wake up.

Startling, opening her eyes, she found herself atop a surgeon's table, the tangible weight of thousands of tons of rock overhead.

Iljrene was there, as was a young female moon elf, who was replacing the bandages about her midsection.

She tried not to look. Vala's strike had not been a clean one.

They gave her a little water to drink, and she tried not to gag on it. When the fit cleared, she dared to speak, gently, lest she strain her wound.

"Where is she?" Alirana asked quietly, to which the Battlemistress shook her head, "She is sent away, beyond our grasp. Our Harper associates spotted her, disguised, of course, in Waterdeep, but they said she took a ship further south."

Oh no...

"This is my fault..." Alirana moaned, licking her parched lips, "I set her against that...that thing. She was not ready, and her demons caught up with her."

"Nay." Iljrene replied calmly, though her eyes displayed her grief as her voice did not, "They were with her all along. I hope she finds a way to defeat them, wherever she has gone."

"Elmbeth was not able to track her by divination." she continued, eyes averted to the side, "Her psionic defenses repel such intrusive magic. Were it not for the Harpers, we would have no idea which way she went, or even if she is still alive. She acts wisely, I think. And I have hope."

"Why is that?" Alirana asked, though she suspected the answer.

"She chooses a life on the surface." Iljrene replied, "She could have sought out Kimmuriel, and we would have been powerless to stop her. She could have retreated into the Underdark and embraced her bestial aspects...but she did not. She is obviously not seeking a secluded cave in the wilderness, otherwise, she would not have traveled such a great distance. She seeks a civilization, a home, among the surface dwellers. Somewhere she would be accepted."

"I hope she finds it." Alirana said, "Or that she returns here. This was to be her home, and a fine one it is. I have already forgiven her. I hope the others will as well."

...

A few days of smooth sailing greeting the merry men of "Shallow's End".

Captain Sevren kept their course true, subtly angling them out of the shallows where they had dropped anchor for the night, skirting the major trade route that connected north to south; Neverwinter and Luskan beyond that to the north, Baldur's Gate, the Moonshaes, and around Wealdath, which jutted out from the bottom of Amn like a thrusting rapier, was Memnon, to the south. From there, it was east to Calimport, and further east to Almraiven, the City of Spells, and thus the last bastion of civilization for hundreds of leagues until one crept north and east enough to skirt the Vihorn Reach and further to Cormyr and Sembia.

One could also go west, Sevren supposed, to Chult, but why in the hells would a man want to do that unless he was mad or in search of the kind of sport that would either reward you with fame and riches or swallow you up and leave you in a tidy brown pile by the shores?

He chuckled at that image, lest it make him shudder instead.

The wind was good today. Like the last ones.

Hours passed, the sun fully rising to their flank as they moved south, slowly angling in front as they gradually altered course. He had timed this so the sun would be at its apex when they fully faced due south-east as they angled around the Nelanther Isles, so they would not be blinded by it. And as evening came, the sun would set in the west, almost at their backs, and then they would have an easy course with the strength of the tides speeding them further on to Calimshan's first port city.

The night shift of the crew would remain awake to man the ship, for these were dangerous waters and he liked to pass through them as fast as can be. He always paid them well for this, knowing they could sleep it off come morning, when the rest would take over fresh.

Their only passenger stood on deck, watching the sea go by.

She must have been on such voyages before, he figured, since she had offered nothing to Umberlee's waves in the first days, like most land lubbers did.

Yet she seemed to know nothing of the nautical terms he offhandedly said to her about their course, their cargo, or anything else, just nodding politely until he stopped speaking.

She had also failed to offer due courtesy by dining with him, as the ranking officer, on the first evening, as she likely would with their last.

And not once had she doffed that damned cloak! She was a fugitive, likely, though it was none of his business. All sorts of folks got themselves in trouble, even the good sorts, once and a while.

He shrugged; she would be out of their hair in due time. She had asked to go as far down as they would. Well, Almraiven was as far as they would go. What she did there was her business.

"Cap'n!" his first mate shouted from the crow's nest, "Two ships back and off the port bow!"

He turned, cursing, locking the tiller in place as he drew a telescopic spyglass, a fine gift from the Gondsmen of Waterdeep and one of a matching pair, the other of which resided with the first mate.

There would have been no other way to see them, so far were they still.

But indeed there were two vessels approaching from the rear, coming at breakneck speed.

Caravels, like his own, but smaller, sleeker, meant for speed rather than cargo capacity.

Squinting, he tried to make their colors, to no avail. They swam with blank sails.

It would have been enough if they traveled gradually; this was a heavily trafficked route, and even the smaller ships could get good pay off of the right cargo.

He could excuse one travelling in such close proximity and at such speeds as a messenger ship, no more, but two approaching with this level of precision meant one thing.

Pirates, likely hidden in Firedrake Bay to the east, waiting for a hefty target to lumber on by.

With the Starspire mountains to the south, he could not safely dock, and the nearest safe port was many leagues away yet.

The scoundrels had them caught dead in the water!

The crew shifted uneasily, but there was a hardness in their eyes. This was a merchant vessel, but she never went forward unprepared!

"Up and at em, lads!" Sevren shouted above the din, "It looks like they're lookin' for a fight!"

He considered their odd passenger out of the corner of his eye...and wondered if this attack wasn't a coincidence...

He passed a glance to his first mate, before ordering him to attend the quarter deck. The mongrels were close enough now that the crow's nest was more a hazard than a boon.

And they might have an enemy far closer than the rest.

...

The Humans readied themselves quickly, drawing cutlasses and boarding axes, though a few belted their steel and drew bows instead. Two manned a ballistae on the port side, and another two on starboard. Like a giant crossbow, the ballistae would hurl massive spears at an enemy ship, tangling its rigging, killing a few of its crew, or hopefully even puncturing the hull, forcing its crew to divert attention as their ship took on water.

At least, that was what she had read in the Promenade's library some time ago.

Vala, for her part, loosened her cloak, though it still concealed her features, and summoned Toshisha, testing its heft, though it most often swung itself.

A few crewmen shared wary glances at the casual display, but the captain only laughed, "Looks like we have a free ship mage! Good to know! Let loose a fireball or two and let us be done with it!"

"I am not that kind of magic user!" she testily replied back in her own voice, then, "But we will see, won't we?"

She walked up the steps leading to the tiller, hand on the railing for support as one of the crewmen manned it. He eyed her with naked suspicion.

The enemy ships banked around Shallow's End, cutting off its avenues of retreat. They would rush from either side and attempt to pin it with their own ballistae spears, overwhelming the crew with an extreme show of force to compensate for their smaller numbers.

Vala had an idea on how to slow them.

"Do you see a mage?" she asked the captain and first mate, each of which were eyeing one of the ships with a small device with glass lenses.

"Nay, lass." Sevren replied, "Buy they don't wear skirts like them Waterdeep lords. They will be hidden, and we won't be able to tell them apart until they start casting."

Nodding, for the reasoning was sound, Vala nonetheless noticed the tightness of the Human's back. The way his other hand inched towards his cutlass.

The first mate drew in a sharp intake of breath, and that was all the warning Vala needed before they rushed her.

Shifting to ectoplasm form, Sevren's cutlass sliced across her belly just as the first mate's boarding axe would have split her brow. Instead, it buried itself into the mizzenmast post behind her, and Sevren, hopelessly overbalanced, stumbled forward, his outstretched hand swiping through her body and denying something to grab hold to.

She could have skewered him on Toshisha's edge. She almost did, but raised her hands in surrender instead.

"I am not your enemy, Sevren."

"You came just afore the pirates." the first mate hissed through his yellowed teeth, "I'm to bettin' your the ship mage we can't see o'er on their ships.

Sighing, Vala slipped off her cloak, and both of them recoiled at the sight.

The crew took notice of the altercation, and advanced to the quarterdeck, steel in hand.

"I said I am not your enemy." she replied again, squinting in the daylight, "I will handle the ship mages, if any there are. I will handle the ballistae. Just keep this tub afloat, yes?"

"I'll not fight alongside a damned Drow!" the first mate snarled, a second axe in hand.

"Half." Vala corrected, nearly forced to cover her eyes entirely, "And it doesn't look like you have a choice. I cannot trust your attackers to carry me the rest of my journey, and likewise, I cannot walk over water or travel magically for more than a bowshot or two. You, in turn, my very likely perish at their hands, especially if they carry magic users, as most seasoned raiders do. It would seem like we need each other."

"Give us the word, captain, and we'll skewer the wretch!" one of the deckhands said, the words emboldening his fellows.

Vala summoned a cloud of ectoplasm about her body, which formed into over a dozen dagger-sized shards of psicrystal. The remainder of the cloud coalesced into a frigid mist that clung to her clothing, giving it the consistency of plate armor.

"You can try..." she replied coolly, "I can always just force the pirates to ferry me. They will fall in line if I kill enough of them."

The supreme confidence she emanated, if hardly the match to what she actually felt, left the Humans teetering uncertainly.

The captain cursed, for in the moments of bickering, the pirates had almost completely closed the distance. Vala found herself able to distinguish individual faces even in the glaring light of the sun. She noted an abundance of rotten, yellow teeth, scarred, swarthy, leathery skin, and bared swords.

"You are a hard negotiator, Drow." Sevren said with a grunt, "Back to stations, lads! You-" he snapped, motioning to the man on the tiller, "See them coming in hard from the flanks. Angle the ship, so they don't spear us with their nose!"

Having educated herself with the practices of surface-dwellers, Vala nodded at the captain's logic, as she noted a long, angular protrusion with a rounded tip on the fronts of both of the ships, obviously designed for battle, judging by the three ballistae on each side of their narrow decks. The protrusion, a battering ram of sorts, indeed slightly resembled a nose.

Likely, the pirates planned to strike the Shallow's End from either side, damaging its hull, before the ballistae and the boarding crew even reached it.

Everything happened at once.

The navigator spun the tiller, making the vessel nearly perpendicular with the enemy ships just as they closed distance. Instead of splitting the hull, they glanced off of it, the impact toppling many of the crewmen. Vala had shifted to ectoplasm form, and was thus unmoved.

First, they rammed the target vessel. Then, as the distance increased between the three vessels, the pirates would fire ballistae and ready boarding ladders as a small force swung on lines from the mainsail rigging. She had read of this at length, for naval combat was indeed something a Darksong Maiden trained for, for Skullport, the center of trade in the Underdark, had always been a potential target for their raids.

The ballistae fired, their hooked ends trailing great lengths of thick rope.

Vala focused her psionic power into six shards of Psicrystal positioned above the ship, their tips thick and flat, and thrust each downward, swatting the ballistae downward and into the water.

The crewmen on the other ships exchanged wary glances. They had not expected Sevren's ship to have a mage, likely. Vala walked casually about the deck, and the sight of a Dark Elf unnerved them further.

They recovered quickly. Crossbow bolts peppered the deck, and Sevren's longbow-men returned fire. Many bolts were directed at her, but knowing the crew were behind her, she conjured a sheet of tangible ectoplasm that absorbed the projectiles, its texture akin to thick molasses but pale green and shimmering.

Not content to merely defend, Vala hardened the barrier, rooting it in place, before retaliating with a half of crystal shards. She felt, but did not hear, them deflect against something other than flesh.

A gout of flamed detonated at her feet, but struck only her ectoplasm form, passing through without harming her.

Several men beside her were not so lucky.

"I will kill you for that!" she snarled, her eyes scanning in front and behind for the enemy wizard.

Levitating above the barrier, still impervious to physical harm, Vala noted the wizard, his perfect teeth revealing his identity better than any flowing robes. Another, a dark-eyed female, his apprentice, perhaps, waved a talisman in a mystic pass, and the two pillars of stone she had erected from below deck came alive, revealing arms and misshapen, overlarge heads with jutting brows and glowing eyes.

Elementals. The apprentice was a conjurer, and the master was an evoker. The male placed his hand together, before weaving them into a series of mystic passes.

Vala descended, levitating down into the ship, thinking.

A cursory examination revealed his and his apprentice's mind to be protected from telepathic attack with a series of barriers, akin to the Tower of Iron Will. He was a Psion as much as a wizard, albeit likely an unschooled one.

Vala found that the crew, their sheer numbers making it difficult to focus on one in particular, were not so protected.

It was a hunch; pirates were cowards, after all. She had wagered that the captain would be on the same vessel as his magical support; the vessel she was facing.

She found him in a twenty count, ignoring but not unmindful of the screams of Sevren's men as they were pushed towards the quarter deck.

The Human's mind was intricate; the man was intelligent, cunning. Ruthless. She entered it without resistance, for he was unschooled in the invisible art, but soon wished that she had not.

Memories of his committed atrocities repeated over and over again as she studied him, learning the weaknesses in his psyche that she could exploit.

She found what she needed, and much more. Immediately asserting control over his body, all the while permanently severing the connections between body and mind, and mind and spirit. Vala killed the Human and animated his corpse at will, causing it to lunge towards the spell casters.

Though the creature's blank eyes, Vala saw that almost the entire crew of the enemy vessel was aboard the Shallow's end, massacring Sevren's men, who, forced to the upper levels of the ship, were bombarded by crossbows while a front guard boxed them in.

She noted this only offhandedly as the corpse flung itself into the wizard, impaling him on the end of a blade just as his apprentice stared back, her eyes wide as coins.

"TRAITOR!" Vala snarled through the captain's lips, causing his crew to glance back warily as one of the female's earth elementals plowed into him.

Her connection to the body dissipated as it began the initial stages of decomposition, as blood ceased to flow to the brain, making it inert.

Nodding grimly, Vala levitated back into deck, a cloud of tenebrous mist clinging to her flesh. Humans shivered, their skin gooseflesh, as they recoiled from her presence, buying Sevren and the others time to organize. As one, they advanced down the steps, their steel biting deeply into pirate flesh.

Vala saw the apprentice likewise fall to the blades of those stationed on the vessel. She cut the rope bridges connecting Shallow's End to it with conjured blades of psicrystal, and the vessel began to drift away. Cut off from their ship, the pirates fought with greater ferocity, while their fellows from the ship behind her circled her.

Swords passed through her body without harm, but she felt her powers waning.

There was not much time left. Already she felt the rage gnawing at her. Her perception of time began to distort. Moments slowed, or sped without warning. Suddenly Sevren was nearly upon her, clutching at a deep wound in his thigh, even as his first mate doubled over, into the arms of an enemy, who pushed him to the mainmast and completed the impalement, the basket hilt of the curving sword reaching the man's belly.

Vala groaned, clutching her temples, seeing her hands coat in psicrystal that manifested outside of her conscious will. She felt her mindscape begin to fray, the barriers separating her from the creature of the Underdark wavering. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"Do something!" Sevren snapped, and turning, her body awash in heat, Vala succumbed to the rage.

...

Sevren knew something was wrong. The Dark Elf screamed; a manic, bestial wail. His men and the pirates alike turned to her nervously, battle forgotten, as her tiny body began to sprout thick, jagged spines. Mist flowed from her pores. Her eyes burned blue.

She screamed again, and men around her, pirate or no, began to clutch their heads, blood seeping from their eyes.

"Kill you..." the girl snarled, her own eyes weeping blood, "KILL YOU!"

She charged forward, impaling a pirate with her outstretched hand, from which emerged a thrusting spear. It snapped in two, just as she circled around him, backhanding him with a fist covered in the same material, sending him sprawling, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

Seeing the captain and the wizards dead, the pirates behind the girl retreated to their ship. Those in front, cut off from escape, charged into her. Where before they passed through, now they struck an armored hide, a hide from which grew more blades that thrust into their bodies.

There was no defense. In moments their numbers were halved. His own men fired arrows into their backs as they stumbled, crawled, and whimpered their way to the other ship, which was even then detaching from Shallow's End and retreating.

The girl nearly leapt onto that deck, and apparently judging the widening gap as too far to jump or levitate, she snarled, pacing, before striking down the survivors, even those that simply lay and moaned.

His crew cheered at their victory, until her wild eyes turned upon them.

The mirth died in an instant.

She took a step towards them. Another. Her eyes were blank.

"Ease, lass..." Sevren said calmly, evenly, setting down his blade and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, "You saved my ship, and so it is yours. I will carry you to Almraiven, as we agreed. No questions."

The girl growled, as if the words did not register.

"Lower your weapons!" he ordered his men, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. He knew of warriors who went berserk in battle, by aid of potions or without. The Gutbuster Dwarves of Mithral Hall, the warriors of Rasheman, and special Orcs that called upon a fragment of One-Eyed Gruumsh.

He knew that, often as not, they could distinguish friend from foe, or, failing that, generally ignored noncombatants.

The girl reached him. She lifted her hand, trailing mist.

The crew tensed.

She blinked, confused. Her hand wavered.

"Ease, lass." he repeated, "I am not your enemy. We are not your enemy."

She blinked again, before her face took on the most horrified, revolted expression he had ever seen.

She fell to all fours, cradling her head. The spines fell away, breaking apart into mist. They left holes in her clothing.

He started as he realized she was sobbing.

"Berg." he snapped, addressing the ship navigator, "Bring this tub around. The rest of you, tighten the rigging and toss these whoresons to Umberlee. We will bury our dead, not theirs."

"Are you alright, lass?" he asked, minding his leg as he knelt down.

She nodded, eyes downcast, "It has passed. Sometimes I can direct it, but I cannot control it. I..."

She shook her head, "I must be alone for a time."

He nodded, helping her to her feet. It occurred to him now how small she was. How young she appeared; no more than tendays older than his own daughter. With the fair folk it was hard to tell...but...

She noticed his wound, shivered, "I can heal that."

"Nay." he replied, "I will patch it up. We will order in anyone who needs it...though it seems most that needed it have already passed."

He spared a last, mournful look at his first mate, a distant nephew, before sighing, "Aye then. Go get you some rest. We press onward to Memnon."

...

Two more days passed, but Vala hardly noticed, sequestered as she was in the lower decks. The captain had relinquished the use of his bed, a straw mattress, claiming to prefer the net hammock to hold up his wounded leg.

But she knew from his thoughts that he had done so in order to offer her some needed privacy, and for that she was very grateful.

She spent the time meditating, again separating the feral, raging aspects of her mind from the whole. So close to her fouler nature, she felt soiled. Again, she questioned her decision to leave the Promenade, for Eilistraee's light and the relative peace among her following had kept the darkness at bay as her own concentration could not.

Despite everything, she was nonetheless emboldened; she had repelled her berserker rage on her own. Sevren had undoubtedly helped, but she had done it! Perhaps...perhaps with time, she would rein in the impulses for good...

They docked twice, the first longer than the second. Sevren had said he was paying for a temple devoted to Tyr to store and prepare the bodies of the dead crewmen. "Shallow's End" would run its course, and return to Memnon to collect them for transport to their families situated along the Sword Coast.

On the third port, Vala sighed, collected her things, donned her cloak, and walked up to the deck.

The sailors eyed her warily as she stepped outside, but some also nodded in deference.

The captain hailed her as she advanced to the quarter deck, the coast stretched to either side.

It seemed like a second ocean, almost. A sea of golden sands swept up by gusts of wind battered rounded sandstone buildings, built low to the ground, as well as fat, bark-less trees with long pointed leaves. Colorful curtains and pennants were abundant, as were merchant stalls. Even from so far away, she could smell salt, leather, and cinnamon, an odd combination to be sure.

They dropped anchor along a small pier on the edges of the city's docks, which were crammed with fat merchant vessels and could not accommodate their passage. The lines of dockworkers unloading creates and hauling them up to one of two massive warehouses formed a labyrinth thicker and more erratic than the greatest of spider webs. The din of activity was deafening.

A Human approached them from the pier, eyeing the deep gouges in the hull, before offering a salute and shouting something in a tongue she did not understand.

The captain, in turn, replied in the same language, then nodded to her, "Amnian is the main language here, but most also know common. Stay by the docks and you should have no trouble."

He frowned, "You know...you could stay. We are always looking for new blood. The men would not take offense, as you have fought beside us already."

Interesting. To Humans, like Eilistraee's Drow, battle forged a bond between survivors.

She believed him, but shook her head, storing that pertinent information for another time, "Truly, though, I thank you."

"It is nothing, lass." he said as his men offered a gangplank for the visitor, "You should not get off here, I tell you truly. Tis' a foul place, a treacherous place. The Vicelords rule the city, as even old King Ahriman does not. Powerful wizards, one and all of 'em. From them, the gold flows, and where the gold flows, people fight o'er it."

"Vicelords?" Vala asked, "Like the Pashas of Calimport?"

"The very sort." he replied, "They trade in flesh and precious stones, mostly, but one or two also dabble in enchanted goods and relics. They run the streets, from the battlemasters to the common footpads. Those that interfere in any way, they end up in the water. For good."

"Sounds like the city of my birth." Vala replied dismissively, "A place ruled by intrigue and magic and greed. It will be nothing to which I am unfamiliar. I will make my way here. Perhaps I will permanently settle elsewhere."

"Well enough." Sevren acknowledged, "But know one thing; don't cross the Vicelords. Do what you have to, to get ahead. Never show a weakness, and stay alert. Always. This place has spat out the remains of far stronger than you."

Offering the Human a bow, and in it a final gesture of gratitude, Vala stepped off the ship as the harbormaster exchanged words with the captain, setting off on perhaps the final leg of her journey for a new home...

...

To be continued

...

The Vicelord

Chronicles

A riveting tale of the perilous lands of Calimshan and the Underdark alike, detailing the travels of a young, outcast Psion, an up and coming hopeful to the Dungeons and Dragons' mythos offers this exciting new entry and hero to complement the likes of Liriel Baenre and Drizzt Do'Urden as she treks through Faerûn's most dangerous reaches.

-Book 1 The Jewel of the Sands

An outcast child wanders the realms of the Underdark, haunted by her heritage and a power that she cannot understand. She will find that the attention of the gods can be a curse as much as a blessing, as light and darkness battle for her immortal soul.

-Book 2 The Kingdom of the Sands

Tempered in the hardship of Faerûn, a young woman plays with fire as she dares to upset the lordship of her new homeland. She will find that many can hide falseness in truth, and truth in falseness, as she seeks a treasure that will give her the power to rule her own destiny.

-Book 3 The Scepter of the Sands

(TBA)

-Book 4 The Throne of the Sands

(TBA)