Title: L'Sarol

Author: Anya al'Nighter

Email: anyasy@singnet.com.sg

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Set between Starless Night and Legacy… but not many spoilers about the books, since it goes off canon.

Summary: Artemis Entreri, trapped in the Underdark, agrees to play The Game, where he will carry a weapon – L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin – and play the role of L'Sargtlin, the Warrior. To win is to kill the other players – and to lose is to die…

Note: Ideas about L'Sarol are due to my having read far too much Witchblade for my own good. Oh yes – I love Ian Nottingham.

Disclaimer: L'Sarol is based on the Witchblade, owned by Top Cow Comics, Marc Silvestri, David Wohl, Michael Turner and Brian Haberlin, a beautifully drawn comic. Artemis Entreri, Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle and most associated characters and places belong to TSR and Salvatore, the Forgotten Realms.

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Part 1

L'Sargtlin

"The rivvil Artemis Entreri. He will be Player Sargtlin."

"A rivvil, malla Yathallar?"

"He is capable – and expendable. Take the faerbol velve."

"Will he…"

"He will have L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin in its place."

"Will, malla Yathallar?"

A smile in the darkness. "Will."

**

The drinking pit Qaynstone operated on paradox. It was situated in the dark elven city of Menzoberranzan, yet most of its patrons appeared to be colnbluth, non-drow. It was suitably noisy and crowded, yet if one looked closely; all the tables seemed carefully unaware of each other, or uncaring of each other. Only the waiters and waitresses acknowledged the existence of all of them, like metaphorical fish in the channels between island tables. Weapons were allowed in the drinking pit on the precise knowledge that if a person or several persons attempted to start a fight, everyone would immediately turn on them. In a city ruled by matrons, this drinking pit was commonly recognized as one of the neutral grounds, the unspoken rule being Xuat vith xuil ussa xor usstan orn vith xuil dos, to put it crudely if accurately. Neither too clean or too dirty, patrons a mix of rags and finery, species, race, occupations – a conglomeration of life that would seem very disparate from that which would appear in, say, Narbondellyn or Eastmyr.

That suited a lot of colnbluth and some dark elves curious about outsiders. Qaynstone was a good place to wet the throat, fill the stomach, and conduct meetings, transactions, or just to enjoy a period of relative privacy. Currently involved in the latter activity was a figure cloaked and hooded in black such that only a clean-shaven jaw with tanned brown skin could be seen, mouth set in a thin line of fear, anger or dismay – it was hard to tell. The figure leant against the back of the tattered cushions of his chair, alone at his table, occasionally fingering his tankard which emitted the soft green glow of one of the stranger types of mushroom wine as if unsure of whether it was safe to drink.

Here in Qaynstone, the species – human - of the figure would have hardly caused the reaction it would have had in the sections of the city where the dark elves were more numerous.

Artemis Entreri, once the greatest assassin of surface-world Faerun's Calimport, sat as unobtrusively as possible in the drinking pit, feeling disoriented, numb, furious, hysterical and amused at the same time. It was a curious sensation as the different emotions in him strove for dominance, and after some consideration, he allowed amusement to take centre stage before studying his surroundings with a calmer eye. Much preferring that to returning to the heavy regret he felt for agreeing to come to Menzoberranzan with Jarlaxle.

A group of duergar played at cards raucously at the next table, thumping the blunt end of their axe shafts on the table in emphasis whenever one thought he had scored a point, speaking in their harsh tongue. There was guttural laughter and some form of primal comradeship.

Some svirfneblin on higher chairs so as to fit at the tables, murmuring to themselves but looking completely at ease, wearing unassumingly plain clothes and keeping their hands on the table where they could be seen.

Githyanki, tall, stilted, yellow-skinned… a table of orcs of which type he'd never seen before, with dirty dark brown fir and wearing lurid mustard-yellow clothing… some humans all wearing variants of rings that would allow them vision in the Underdark…

He considered going over to speak with the humans – any of them – for all of them sat together at a few tables that had been haphazardly fitted together, joking loudly in the Common tongue of the surface. Entreri was surprised to find how much he missed the sound of it, crude as it seemed next to the musical dark elven speech he had been attempting to learn. He had difficulty finding teachers in that, even in Bregan D'aerthe – his only willing teacher so far was Jarlaxle, and the mercenary leader was busy lately, what with Baenre demanding his attentions.

At least he'd mastered the finger code, which was more rudimentary than the actual dark elven language and without all the subtle insinuations that different words could insert. Sometimes speaking dark elven was like trying to say two things or more at the same time using the same words. Needless to say, Entreri wasn't particularly good at that, having spent most of his adult life speaking with weapons and violence instead of devising word games. Speaking too long with Jarlaxle gave him a headache.

As to the dark elven females…

Entreri's hands went instinctively for the hilts of his weapons when someone sat down at his table. Only the rule about no fighting stopped him from unsheathing them as he said curtly, "This table is private."

"You looked like you needed company."

Entreri realized with some confusion that he had spoken in Surface Common – and the intruder had replied in the same tongue, albeit with a thick accent. Suspicious, but also intrigued, he narrowed his eyes, grateful that Qaynstone used enough mage lights such that he could utilize his normal 'night' vision. Many places in the city seemed to be obsessed with the Surface – there were shops where one could buy surface plants, foods, birds and animals, weapons, books… this probably reflected something about the dark elven psyche, but Entreri could not be bothered to try and verify his suspicions. Not to mention it'd be quite impossible.

The abundantly female intruder wore a tight black dress of soft leather, the hem of which was just a tad higher up the legs than was actually decent, in Entreri's opinion. That, along with the elbow-length black gloves and long, high-heeled boots of the same material hinted at her chosen occupation. A thick belt of brown leather and silver encircled her hips loosely, though the crimson hooded cloak with gold embroidery of random spirals drawn around her prevented Entreri from seeing if there were any weapons concealed. The cloak was clasped above her small breasts with a heavy circular adamantite brooch in the shape of a leaping fox… no, a vixen, Entreri realized, as the detail became more apparent. There was a faint aroma of light perfume that smelt expensive.

She looked like a dark elven female… except that the waist-long hair and the eyes were a deep burnished gold in hue. Her attitude towards him was also startling – instead of the disgust he normally incited with dark elves, she seemed… curious. Not the curiosity one reserved for strangers – but more of the sort one reserved for something one had heard of but had never seen before.

Come to think of it, she didn't seem to be as slender as dark elves should be, and she certainly seemed to be tall…

"Your ears," Entreri said bluntly.

She grinned impishly. "Your hands," she replied, mimicking his tone.

Not knowing why he did, he put his hands on the table where they would be plainly seen, unarmed, and she winked as she twitched back her hair for a moment. Her ears, though pointed, were not as long as a dark elf's.

Entreri groped for the word for 'half elf'. "Tu'rilthiir," he accused, puzzled to find a hint of playfulness in his voice. Perhaps it was because he was starved for company in a friendless, unfamiliar world, or perhaps it was because the half-drow was supposedly a myth, since no self-respecting dark elf would… or would they? Entreri found the dark elven society rooted in constant flux. It was no telling what they would do, and he wondered if his hunger for learning and receiving communications and words had to do with that – vain attempts to keep afloat and to understand.

And, to be honest about it, she was a pretty face, and he hadn't had female company for a while – female company that didn't treat him like some sort of disgusting slug, that is. Dark elves.

"Rivvil," she replied, a little mockingly. "Now we're even."

"You thought I needed company?"

"Doesn't everyone?" The half elf extended one slender-fingered hand. "Name's Hierathe d'Aerth."

"Prostitutes also have a House?" Entreri raised an eyebrow, unwilling to offer his name, though he shook her hand. The drow word for 'prostitute', Ssins d'Aerth, was, with some irony, also the same as 'professional entertainer'.

"An organization… but yes, 'House' is also accurate," Hierathe looked at Entreri for a long moment. "Hmmm. You are Artemis Entreri."

Entreri blinked. "How… ?"

"You have been indiscreet," Hierathe said in much the same dispassionate tone as a bored teacher would chide a young pupil. "Walking in the wrong areas, and spreading the wrong type of chaos. There may have been distinctions in surface worlds, but Menzoberranzan is quite different." She grinned suddenly, spontaneously, as if having just cracked a private joke.

"Who sent you?" Entreri asked suspiciously.

"Someone who has grown quite tired of having to clean up your messes," Hierathe replied mildly, tapping her fingers against her cheek thoughtfully as if trying to recall comments. "Oh, and someone who wishes that you would be taught to correct your terrible accent."

Entreri was very sure she was laughing at him now – but he was careful not to get angry. Tu'rilthiir or not, he was quite certain that she must have had some powerful protection or some sort of skill, or she wouldn't have lasted in this city. The popular drow attitude towards the half-breeds was just about as insalubrious as their attitude towards humans.

The fingers against her cheeks idly began to weave delicate patterns, and Entreri kept his expression as bored as possible as he watched the patterns, all the while continuing the conversation. "What is wrong with my accent?"

"You pronounce the vowels wrongly, and your structure is wrong. Keep to monosyllables if you do not intend to improve." Hierathe smirked. "Also, if you do wish to explore, do it in the Braeryn, the Bazaar or in Manyfolk, instead of lurking around the other sectors where there are more dark elves."

"This someone we are speaking of… does he have the fashion sense of a hallucinating orc?"

Hierathe laughed in a strange, noiseless fashion, but neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions. So far, if he had understood the finger-code she was using correctly, she had invited him to come and talk somewhere more private, she gave him her word she meant him no harm, and she wished an exchange of information and items – and she did not wish him to reply in any form, as his finger-code movements were likely to be as clumsy and crude as his pronunciation.

And if I refuse? He replied anyway, his fingers half-hidden by the tankard on his table.

"That you have to judge," she said, and leant against the tapping hand, which for a moment flattened out four fingers to point at him, thumb pressed beneath between the middle and ring finger, twitching forward and back in a passable imitation of a snake's reptilian grace. Did she mean one of those high priestesses, then? With their snake-whips? Then her fingers resumed their patterns. You will lose the opportunity to gain a weapon against mages.

Despite himself, that sparked some interest.

A weapon?

She yawned, parting inviting red lips, then purred, "I tire of this. Do you wish to dance somewhere private?" You have to see it for yourself… and, it can get you out to the Surface.

Entreri hesitated. On one hand, this was extremely suspicious, being rather too good to be true, but on the other hand, he didn't have much to lose other than his life, and if he stayed longer in this city, it was quite likely he'd lose that as well. He inclined his head. "Very well."

"Stand up and let me take a better look." Hierathe looked him slowly up and down appreciatively, lingering, oddly enough, on the corded muscles of his left arm, as he rose to his feet.

"Well?" he raised an eyebrow, not at the least self-conscious. He felt adrenaline rush into his blood, almost humming through his body – most strange. Perhaps it was something the city did to him.

"Do you want the truth, or do you want some flattery?" Hierathe grinned devilishly.

"Lies bore me. The truth."

"I've seen better."

**

It was a relatively short walk to Hierathe's 'sanctuary', as she called it, and they spent most of it talking. Hierathe was easy to talk to – she listened, she never disregarded his words, and she had a certain odd sense of dry humor. It was hard to look at her with the same sort of contempt he usually had whenever he saw the prostitutes in Calimport who usually either were overly sensual, or hard creatures, with hard little eyes, little dignity left, resentful, desperate, or those with the dead eyes, who had turned to the oldest profession due to having no other option. By the way Hierathe walked Entreri guessed she was at least trained in self-defense, or even fighting, and she had the easygoing manner of those not too concerned with moral compunctions.

"How do you survive here?" Entreri asked, after listening to Hierathe sketch out the city in words, explaining where he could go and where he couldn't.

"This pays," Hierathe pointed at her brooch, "And the guild ensures you don't get ill-treated unless you want to," She winked at Entreri, "In return, we get high, relatively standard rates, while we don't rob the customers, kill them, or use anything we overhear them say against them unless threatened. D'Aerth has a powerful tool there – information – so the ruling council prefers to pretend we don't exist, allowing us to take on non-drow."

"How many of you are there?" Entreri was mildly surprised. He'd never thought this sort of profession would have a guild.

"Twenty, of date," Hierathe shrugged, "The qualification into d'Aerth is rather stringent – though of course there are lots of non-guild Ssins d'Aerth around. You need to be doing it of your own free will, you need to swear all sorts of oaths on pain of death, and you need to enjoy it." She smiled. "You need to believe that you aren't selling your principles or whatever it is that puritans like to claim prostitutes do, and so selling your body doesn't bother you, morally or otherwise, since it's a conscious choice of a way of living. Related diseases and all that which you may pick up in the line of work can be taken care of by the guild, and there're spells to prevent conception."

Come to think of it, he wasn't particularly sure what he actually had against voluntary prostitutes in the first place, except that they seemed to be some sort of lower class of society performing demeaning tasks… or was it? Did he actually have some moral reservation about this? That would be quite hypocritical of him, considering which line of work he had chosen, and his attitude towards it in the early years…

"D'Aerth members have to learn self-defense, some magical skills if possible, learn certain other skills, stay fit and flexible, know how to speak intelligently and dance." Hierathe continued idly, "Usually we're solicited from the guildhouse itself, and we can choose whether or not to take the job. Personally, I don't like those that are far too kinky." She made some gestures that Entreri immediately attempted to forget. Seeing his reaction, she chuckled at him, clearly enjoying the discomfort.

"Ah, here we are."

A relatively large in the midst of several other buildings, some abandoned, some shops, near the transition zone where Manyfolk gives out to Eastmyr, nondescript, blocky and almost squat. No windows, and a single, almost unnoticeable door. Entreri heard several muffled clicks when Hierathe opened the door with an oddly twisted key – first by twisting it once one way, then a few times the other way, then pushing in the key. The door opened noiselessly, and Hierathe invited Entreri in.

Figuring he really didn't have anything to lose, he shrugged and complied; though he had to force himself to keep from flinching when she closed the door behind him.

The room was… impressive.

The door led to a semicircular apex about a metre wide with dark slate tiles. From the platform a solid rock staircase descended down several metres in the form of ever widening semicircular discs, tiled similarly, in a graceful spread from the platform that contrasted with the off-white plaster of the walls.

The ground was partly a simple network of rigid, thick dark metal grilles – the staircase led to a large platform of this, which seemed to be the living room – sofas and pillows themed in beige and brown, discreet elegance, a relatively large glass and metal table with six chairs neatly against it. In an arrangement on the glass surface of the table was a shallow pot of surface-world flowers – white daisies that flourished in the unfamiliar brightness of the room, an early-morning sunrise's soft light that seemed to be emitted from the ceiling. Expensive.

The next platform from this could be accessed by following a narrow metal grill path, and was some sort of confluence, rock, a large circle about four metres in length, a mosaic depicting a complicated compass, centre a single red design of a rose. To the east of the mosaic was a path leading to a bedroom platform, the four-poster bed covered in black satin sheets, thick maroon drapes drawn back. A single dresser, and a vase of long-stemmed sunflowers.

To the north, a glass-walled bathroom with the usual commodities, along with a sizeable personal pool about the size of the 'compass' sunk into the platform. Entreri couldn't actually see why it was glass-walled.

To the west, a kitchen, utilitarian, a table for eating with chairs, stove for cooking, with a funnel that snaked up to the ceiling to channel out most of the smoke, a pantry, a few cabinets. White porcelain against rock and metal.

The most stunning thing about the room was that all the platforms were elevated a foot above water that lapped against the walls and the supports of the platforms, drawing silvery white, wavy, constantly moving patterns on the ceiling on the rest of the walls and on some of the furniture. On the water floated hundreds of some breed of white lilies that gave off some sort of delicate scent that was just on the edge of being pungent, their circular leaves floating on the water. Walking the side of the living-room platform and looking down, Entreri saw small fish that immediately hid underneath the nearest lily leaf, and larger, darker shapes – then suddenly a gorgeous school of multicolored koi, their graceful tear-shaped bodies flying, flying underwater in a living, rich rainbow of gold, red, white, orange, yellow.

Entreri watched, nearly entranced, as the school swirled in perfect coordination under his feet in an audible gurgle and whisper of water, then streamed away out of beneath the platform to squabble over some bright pellets that Hierathe threw into the water. She smiled affectionately at them, watching as one, too eager to get at the food, jumped in a splash of water and a flash of gold.

"Surface flowers?" Entreri asked her curiously.

"Yeah, they're quite popular – if expensive. I'm good friends with Faeera, the supplier, so I get some discount." She pursed her lips as she looked at the water lilies. "You're looking at the result of decades of obsession."

"It's beautiful," Entreri volunteered self-consciously. Words failed – it was sheer beauty, a living white and green carpet with occasional 'clearings' of dark water.

"Thanks," Hierathe smiled. "The fish had to be specially imported. Actually there're more plants in the water if you look properly – and a lot more sorts of small fish and some insects – the sort that don't come out of the water. They can live in here without feeding for quite a while if they need to. Light goes off for a certain period of time to simulate day and night." She made a face. "That cost me several favors to a mage. Have a seat – I have to get some materials."

Entreri sat down cautiously at one of the sofas, feet flat on the ground, watching as most of the koi school swam after Hierathe, with a few hopefuls lingering underneath his feet. The grille was disconcerting, dark as the water, such that he felt as though he were floating above it.

Hierathe returned with a few scrolls and what looked like a small snuffbox wrought of gold, gaudy, the rich design of elves twisted in painful-looking positions occasionally interspersed with emeralds and rubies. She sat next to him without the least hint of self-consciousness, and handed him the scrolls.

The first scroll was just a large, detailed ink drawing of some sort of gauntlet for the left arm, the designs metallic, sharp-edged and strangely compelling, looking like a chaotic weave of metal tendons tightly interlaced together. Woven into the back of the palm was a single thick golden 'thread' that traced out a simple design of a dagger. The fingers of the gauntlet were sharp and claw-like.

The other scrolls were written in the dark elven language, and Entreri looked helplessly at Hierathe, hating the feeling of not being able to understand.

"That's a design of L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin – roughly translated as 'The Weapon of the Warrior'. It's one third of three weapons that would make a complete whole if combined – L'Sarol d'l'Faern, the Weapon of the Mage, and L'Sarol d'l'Shebali, the Weapon of the Rogue. All three weapons take on different forms – it's just L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin that looks like a gauntlet. It's not known what the other weapons look like."

"And you are giving me this weapon?" Entreri asked disbelievingly. "What is the catch?"

"The catch is that you won't be able to use your left arm anymore once you wear it. All three weapons have their own fragmented sentience, and the Warrior weapon sort of takes control of just your left arm up to the elbow, though it'd usually not move unless you ask it to or you're threatened. At that point, it'd do what's necessary to protect or serve you."

"What will it do?" Entreri grimaced. The loss of one arm was a very big catch indeed… that was his dagger arm.

"Apparently the Warrior weapon extends several thin metal hair-thin threads that can be as long or as short as it wants. The threads slice through whatever they sweep through." Hierathe grinned. "Also, it gives you an immunity to harmful magic. That includes arcane magic, psionic magic, divine magic… everything."

Entreri nodded curtly. "And how will this thing get me to the Surface?"

"It can provide you with ample protection while you follow one of the merchant trails," Hierathe shrugged. "My Mistress is willing to place you on one of the caravans which emerge in Skullport, where you can find your way up to Waterdeep. L'Sarol will work just as well on the Surface."

"And why would she do that?" Entreri glanced back down at the compelling drawing. "If I understood you correctly, your 'Mistress' is a High Priestess. I am not sure I understand why she's even offering it to me in the first place."

"She's not giving it to you for free," Hierathe informed him. "You will have to give in exchange your jeweled dagger – and you have to take part in a Game. Simply put, you're expendable as a human, and said Game is dangerous."

"My dagger?" Entreri blinked, and had to stop his hand from seeking out his weapon hilt in reassurance.

"It has certain magical properties which interest my Mistress." Hierathe said evasively. "And you need it not once you get the Warrior weapon – if need be, the weapon will heal you."

True, but the dagger had some sentimental value. Entreri had taken it from another assassin – one of his first kills as a fully trained assassin in Calimport. He'd seen the dagger in action when very much younger – when he had been one of the hard-eyed urchins that ran in small gangs in the narrow streets of the city. It had been the first assassination he'd ever seen, a backstab in the midst of a rather busy street.

He hadn't known what was more frightening – the way the man died, screaming, wailing out some indefinable loss as his life was sucked away by the vampiric blade, or the way all the passers-by walked pass, purposefully unseeing, totally uncaring that one of their fellow men was dying, their eyes and faces carefully blank.

"And what is this Game?" Entreri asked, pushing away the memories.

"Elementary – find and kill the other players who hold the other weapons."

"And who are these players?"

"You'd have to find out for yourself," Hierathe told him, "But you've interacted socially with both Player Shebali and Player Faern before. It's quite possible you've seen the other two parts, though you may not have known what they were truly for at that time. All three parts have different properties."

"That is very helpful," Entreri said dryly. "I believe it extends my choices of suspects to infinity."

Hierathe sniggered at this. "Well, it might help if you know that all the parts of L'Sarol are from the Underdark, and all Players are currently in the Underdark. All the Players also have a guide. I'm yours."

Entreri vaguely wished that was true in all senses of the word, but shrugged. "And I can trust you?"

"My Mistress has expressed her wish that I help you in any way you wish until she terminates the order." Hierathe winked suggestively, but then immediately turned businesslike again. "But yes, I'd be giving you some hints along the way. Firstly, other things you should know – each part of L'Sarol can sense another part, and is also concealed from that part. The Warrior weapon can sense the Rogue weapon, but is concealed from it. The Rogue weapon can sense the Mage weapon, but is concealed from it. The Mage weapon can sense the Warrior weapon, but is concealed from it."

"When you put on the Warrior weapon, it will immediately begin to draw you to the Rogue, but the pull is extremely weak over distances of more than a few miles. However, if you can Name the wielder of the Rogue, this will activate something that will immediately teleport you to the wielder. You get only one chance at this, though, but there's no time limit to finding the Rogue. The Mage, however, may find you first."

"What happens if I guess wrongly?"

"It's not known, but I believe L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin will destroy you."
Entreri grimaced. "Ah. What if I refuse your offer?"

"You go back out into the city, and you'd never get to undo your decision," Hierathe said, leaning back on the sofa. "So, what's it going to be?"

"I think you're not telling me everything," Entreri said coolly. "I do not believe a High Priestess would give something this powerful to a human."

"Partly because my Mistress finds it amusing to watch this Game, and partly because on its own and uncombined with any other part, the Warrior weapon is the only one that consciously chooses a single wielder. It has been inert in the centuries that my Mistress possessed it. However, it twitched its fingers once – on the precise moment of your birth – and another time, when you first entered Menzoberranzan. It may or may not be coincidence."

"If you agree to the terms, I will take you to her and to the weapon now, and we'd see if you really are the wielder. If you're not, it would not allow you to wield it."

Entreri looked down at his boots. Losing control of his left arm and his blade was a disadvantage, and the fact that the thing was sentient was another. He much preferred weapons that wouldn't have the chance to disagree with him – if it was sentient enough to do that. There was also the problem about the Weapon destroying him if he guessed wrongly. Rogues are thieves and bards, aren't they? But all the thieves and bards he had met were on the Surface, as were the mages, unless one counted Bregan D'aerthe…

Well, if it was that easy… but Entreri was quite sure it was not. Perhaps some of his Surface world acquaintances had entered the Underdark, but that didn't help either – the Underdark was an immense place.

However, the Weapon's power was certainly extremely tempting, especially the immunity. It would definitely be helpful in getting to the Surface, especially if Hierathe's Mistress kept her word about the merchants going to Waterdeep, and he would not need to depend on Jarlaxle for it.

But his dagger?

What attachment did he have to the dagger anyway? Sentiment? Entreri had been proud of the fact that he had felt no sentiment towards anything, but it appeared that this wasn't particularly true at all, judging from the reluctance he felt from having to give up the weapon. It was like one of his badges of trade in Calimport, a solid euphemism.

And what if all this was some sort of set-up? A treacherous trick?

What did he have left to lose, other than his life? And considering the general life expectancy of humans too deeply involved with the drow in Menzoberranzan…

Entreri tilted his head to look up at Hierathe. "Very well, I agree."

--

References:

Malla Yathallar: (most) honored High Priestess

Rivvil: Human

Faerbol: Magical item

L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin: The Weapon of the Warrior

Colnbluth: This term appears in Starless Night, written by Salvatore, but does not appear in the dark elven dictionary. So do not kill me if it is inauthentic.

Glowing wine: I can't remember the exact name, so I'd just make it up. Yes, it glows, and it is green – and made of mushrooms. I have no idea why, and not to mention, speaking as someone who hates eating mushrooms – yuck, yuck and yuck.

Xuat vith xuil ussa xor usstan orn vith xuil dos: Don't fuck with me or I'll fuck with you.

Faeera's Floating Plants: This is an actual shop in Menzoberranzan that sells surfacer flowers.