Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters except the OCs. All published characters belong to the respective owners. I do not make a £ from this.

WARNINGS FOR ALL THE SERIES:
Contains heavy spoilers from WOSQ series of Forgotten Realms. Basically, I am telling you the ending, so, if you do not want to know it, do not read this story.
It will also contain gory scenes, nothing worse than seen in WOSQ series, which was pretty bad, however, especially some bits in the last two books.
It may contain love scenes, depending on how I manage the character development.

Chapter-specific warnings will be posted chapter by chapter.

The main characters will be the BPRD team, post-HBII movie, and Pharaum and Jeggred from WOSQ. This story is not in any way connected to my previous HB story "Howling in the desert", which by the way has been discontinued.

Flame all you want. I am fireproof.

Enjoy!

Kalandorl heaved the bucket full of organic waste, scraps of plants and animal parts used as magical components, over his shoulder and strode whistling towards the alley. The kobolds had implemented a new waste management system, which was quite efficient. He didn't dare imagine who would want to use a compost made of magical components, and what would grow from it, but the kobolds were happy, the enclave was cleaner and the trade flowed. So far, so good, he mused.
On second thoughts, the magically enhanced compost was probably the cause of the latest awfully powerful crops of healing herbs and ganja. A group of Caribbean forest-spirits was making heaps of money from it. Kalandorl had tried it once and, even if it cost a bundle, it was worth every penny, a real psychedelic experience…
Still whistling, Kalandorl put the bucket on the ground and struggled to open the waste container. It looked roughly like the ones the humans used, but instead of being made of plastic, it was made of a strange goblin-crafted alloy, specially designed to contain magical emanations. This container was used by pretty much everyone in the magic shop district of the enclave. His parents were among the first to adhere to the scheme and old grumpy Sapithra was the last, after thorough convincing by an entrepreneurial kobold. The old bat now claimed that it had been her idea from the beginning, but everyone in the district knew better. Not that they told it to her face. The old du sidhe sorceress was famed for her temper and her trigger-happiness.

Kalandorl grunted, lifting the heavy lid of the container, hinges squeaking and gathered the bucket, shaking its contents into the bigger container. It was almost full, he thought. Time to call Dietrich and have his boys empty it.
Kalandorl closed the lid with a snapping sound and was turning to exit the alley, when he heard a pained groan. He turned back and peered in the alley. The groan resounded again, accompanied by a feverish litany. Kalandorl stepped beyond the container and thought he saw a shadow curled next to a stack of crates. Cautiously, he approached the crates. It must be a homeless drunkard nursing his hangover, he thought. He stepped closer and the shadow erupted from his hideout, a sharp knife clutched in his trembling hands. Kalandorl parried the clumsy blow with the bucket, then dropped it and grabbed the aggressor's wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. The aggressor collapsed in a stupor.
Kalandorl let go of him and he curled on the floor, trembling and muttering incoherently. Kelandorl gave him a quick once-over, scratching his head reflexively. His aggressor was a slim and short du sidhe, probably from the isles, if he was any judge. Irish du sidhe, as he was, tended to be quite tall and the Scandinavians even more so: his cousin Terhentar, whose mother was Finnish, was six foot six inches for screaming out loud. This guy was barely five foot tall, so either he was a midget or he was from the isles. The islanders tended to be quite short, very short in fact, but made up for their height with viciousness.
He did not smell like cheap alcohol and piss, as most homeless did, and his clothes had been elegant and opulent, silken-looking and full of embroideries and decorations, but now they were torn and filthy. His white hair was long and lanky, possibly unwashed for a long time and he carried the accoutrements of a magician, an accomplished and wealthy one by the look of it.

"The spiders… - the stranger moaned – Spiders everywhere. Crawling, biting, clawing."
Kalandorl eyed him perplexed. Maybe he was on drugs? He had heard of a human drug called heroine and heard that sometimes the junkies felt like they had insects crawling all over their skin.
How a du sidhe sorcerer could fall prey of a human drug was beyond his comprehension.
"The Goddess will rise. The demons are defeated. Quenthel, do not let me die like this!" the stranger pleaded hoarsely, quaking.
"Great. – Kalandor mused aloud – Now we are having a religious delirium, aren't we?" he asked to the stranger. He could not leave him like this in the alley, he needed assistance, at least until the high of the drugs lasted.
Sighing, he stooped down and lifted the semi-unconscious stranger carrying him over his shoulder in the so-called fireman's grip. Thankfully, he was quite light, but he stank like sweat and blood and sulfur. Kalandorl wrinkled his nose and sighed again, heading for the backdoor of his parents' shop.
He kicked the door open and entered the workshop. His mother gave him an irritated look, which changed into a concerned one as soon as she noticed the stranger. "What happens, son?" she asked, wiping her hands on her lab coat.
"I found him barely conscious in the alley, probably high on drugs. Couldn't leave him out there, could I?" he replied.
"Of course not. –she agreed – Do you know him?"
"Nope. Never seen him before." he sighed.
His mother wringed her hands briefly. She always did that when she was upset.
"Let's put him down on the spare cot and call your father." she ordered.
Kalandorl nodded his assent and headed towards the break-room. There were some chairs and a spare cot, used to relax after a hard preparation or during lunchtime. He lowered the stranger on the cot and wiped his hands on his trousers. His parents arrived in an instant. "Your mother told me about the stranger. – his father said – Let me have a look at him." His father was a renown healer, his salves and potions fetched a good price on the market. He also had some training as a surgeon and collected human books about medicine. There was no one he'd rather have at his bedside when he was sick.
His father kneeled beside the cot and felt the stranger's pulse, then lifted one of his eyelids and examined his pupil. "Either he is very high on drugs, or in deep shock. Fast pulse, pinprick pupils and clammy skin. –he commented drily - Heroine, if I am any judge, but he also looks like he was assaulted."
He lifted the stranger's hand again and examined it. "His clothes are slashed and burned and his left ring finger is missing." he noted. Kalandorl stole a glance at the stranger's hand. His finger looked torn out violently, the edges of the wound ragged, but the wound looked quite old. ""I'll bandage his hand. – his father said, sighing – I suggest keeping him under observation for at least a day and informing the constable. Maybe his is missing from somewhere."
Kalandor and his mother nodded. It seemed a sensible opinion.
"Perhaps tomorrow he will be better and will be able to tell us something." Kalandorl said, leaving the room. "Meanwhile, I'll alert the constable." His parents nodded in assent. "Put the Be-Back-Soon sign on the door, will you?" his mother asked.
"Of course mom. – Kalandorl replied – I'll be back in half an hour, if all goes well."

Contrary to their expectations, the stranger did not regain consciousness the following day or the day after, or even two days later. He was still going in and out of consciousness, but never lucid. He often started hallucinating about spiders and demons and merciless goddesses and turned and tossed restlessly in his sleep. It was pitiful, really. Kalandorl and his parents had to move him from the break room to the main part of the house and took turns in nursing him. They placed him in Kalandor's sister's old room. Unconscious as he was, he could not be disturbed by the fashion model photographs and dress sketches stuck on every free surface. The bed was covered by a bright pink duvet and the desk was still cluttered with pens and markers. It had been a year since she left home, with her hair neatly cornrowed and dyed a deep black, a toch of glamour to look more human and a fake ID obtained through the BPRD, to become a fashion designer in the world above. His parents were not happy about it, but they had to let her go. Her room, however, was still as she left it, in case she returned for a quick visit.
His father has brought some colleagues over for a visit and they concurred that the stranger's condition was too long to be a drug high. "Except if he fried his brain with it, that is." added a goblin herbalist in a nasal thin voice, shaking his head. The current working hypothesis was that he was in deep shock from some traumatic event. But nobody had any idea about what had happened to him.
His mother kept him fed and warm, waiting for him to come round or for the constable to get any info, but apparently nobody has reported the disappearance of an islander du sidhe sorcerer.

"Come on man, get a grip! Do you want to stay like that forever?" he muttered angrily to the unconscious form. It had been ten days since he found him and he had not got any better.
"Kalandorl? Who are you talking to?" a familiar voice asked from the doorstep.
"Aibhlinn?" he exclaimed, turning towards his sister. She looked gorgeous in a human-crafted designer suit, her hair still dark and styled in hundreds of thin braids. He jumped to his feet and smothered her into a tight embrace. "When did you arrive?"
"Just now. – she said – I slipped in though the back entrance. Ma and Da have not seen me yet. Why there is a stranger in my bed?" she asked, quirking a perfect eyebrow.
"Oh, do you mean Mr. nobody here? – he replied, jerking a thumb towards the unconscious stranger – We found him raving in an alley ten days ago. Hasn't resurfaced yet." he shrugged.
"Mr. Nobody?" she repeated, quizzically.
Or John Doe, or U., if you prefer." Kalandorl laughed softly. "We have no idea of who he is. We only know he is a wizard."
Aibhlinn eyed him with a concerned look.

"Danifae! Quenthel! Anyone, please help me! I don't want to die like this…" the stranger sobbed, thrashing.
Aibhlinn gasped and Kalandor rushed to the bed to restrain the stranger, lest he fell of the bed and injured himself.
"Do not worry, he does that all the time." Kalandor said, voice strained from the effort. The guy was thin but quite strong. Finally he calmed down, slipping into a fitful sleep.
"Poor guy… -Aibhlinn said – Who are Quenthel and Danifae?"
Kalandorl shrugged. "Du sidhe like us, by the names, but blast me if I know them. Seems like they were this guy's battle buddies, from what he says. - he commented drily – Not that his words are very reliable, mind you…"
"Battle buddies?" Aibhlinn asked, uncomprehending.
"Battling against demons, apparently. – Kalandorl added – In the name of some Goddess. But he may be making everything up. Who knows what is passing in that weird mind of his?"
"I'll call Terhentar." his sister announced, quite firmly, fishing one weird human device from her bag.
"What for?" he asked.
She eyed him with a bit of irritation as if he was a bit too slow for his own good. "She is a frigging battle priestess, isn't she? She might well know these Quenthel and Danifae persons or might know someone who knows them and give us a clue about Sleeping Beauty here. Better than nothing isn't it?" she replied heatedly, folding her arms across her chest.
"Sure thing, yes. Go on. " he acquiesced, a little abashed about not having the idea first. As usual, Aibhlinn was faster than lightning, compared to him.
She dialed their cousin's number on the human contraption and brought it near her ear.

"Terhi?" she saluted.
"Terhi, love, it's me Aibhlinn." Kalandorl thought the endearment was a little ridiculous for a huge, bloodthirsty, axe-wielding battle priestess, but kept quiet.
"I have a question for you. Do you know any battle-priestess called Quenthel or Danifae?" she asked.
There was a moment of silence. "Why do I ask? – his sister continued – My parents found a nameless guy unconscious in an alley and he keeps calling for those two, so maybe you knew them and could tell us who this bloke is."
"You do not? It didn't hurt trying, did it? – she mused – Could you do me a favour? Could you ask your colleagues if they know them?"
Another pause. "Yes, that would be great. Brilliant. – Aibhlinn congratulated – Good luck with your mission. See you!" Aibhlinn ended the call and hid the contraption back into her bag.
"She will ask around and will come calling as soon as she can." she announced enthusiastically.
"Well, at least we have a lead." Kalandorl sighed "Now why don't we go downstairs to Mum and Dad. I am sure you have loads of things to tell us."
"In fact I do! – she exclaimed – It has been a busy period and very rewarding. I can't wait to tell you everything."

Kalandorl sighed. It would be a long day indeed.