Outside the pantheon temple in Waterdeep, a storm raged, rain pattering a rapid tattoo on the roof in counterpoint to the kettledrum beat of thunder. Inside the temple, in a chamber reserved for the work of healers, a gold elf woman screamed in agony, her throat raw and sweat beading on her heated skin. Wisps of wheat gold hair clung to her sweat slickened face, her lovely features twisted in a grimace as she continued to scream.
Beside her, clerics of Correlon Lerathian and Hanali Celanil murmured reassurance and healing prayers, holding her hands and placing a wetted cloth on her head in hopes of bringing down the fever that raged through her frail body. Her belly was rounded with child, and though she pushed, the babe still did not appear. In the doorway of the crowded room stood the High Priest of Correlon, Evendil Durothil, his expression somber as he watched. The gold elf woman was deteriorating despite the prayers of the clerics.
She seemed to know this, to sense her own return to Arvandor, and suddenly gripped the hand of the moon elf woman at her side, violet eyes bright with determination.
"The father." She gasped, her voice barely audible. "He must know of the child. He must take her in." She insisted before slumping back against the sweat soaked pillows of the birthing bed she rested on. The moon elf woman, a cleric of Hanali Celanil, leaned closer to her, stroking her golden hand gently, soothingly.
"Who is the father?" She asked, her own eyes, blue with flecks of gold, intent on the gold elf woman's face. She screamed again, a terrible gut wrenching sound that seemed to echo on forever, arching her back violently with the effort. Though this time, her voice was not alone, the squalling of a newborn babe sounding in accompaniment. The new mother slumped back against the pillows once more, seeming to wither, her lustrous golden skin pale and drawn, her face slackened with exhaustion. She took several deep breaths, her chest heaving, her eyes drifting closed.
"Tell me, lady." The cleric persisted, giving her shoulder a gentle shake to rouse her. "Who is the father?"
She turned her head, oh so slowly, to face the cleric, though her eyes were now dull and unfocused, her lips curved up in a pained smile.
"Elaith Craulnober." She whispered, closing her eyes and taking one last breath.
The cleric set the dead elfwoman's hand gently by her side, turning stricken eyes to the Durothil patriarch. All eyes followed that gaze, the only sound in the room now were the high piping cries of the newborn elfling. The Durothil patriarch frowned thoughtfully and drifted into the room, taking the crying babe from the arms of the midwife who held her, rocking her gently until she quieted.
"What should we do, my lord?" One of the clerics asked finally, his gaze locked on the child.
"Find whatever rock the serpent is sunning himself on and bring him here." He said finally, looking around at the gathered clerics.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Elaith "The Serpent" Craulnober sat unobtrusively at a small table in the corner of The Silken Sylph, absently sipping a glass of Elverquisst as he watched the storm rage outside. All around the elf, the tavern was bustling with activity. Elven and half elven barmaids threaded their way between tables while patrons enjoyed fine drinks and music, accompanied by the steady hum of quiet conversation. The tavern itself was a plush establishment with gleaming tables of chultan teak and delicate crystal chandeliers casting a warm honey glow about the taproom. Elaith was particularly fond of the establishment and had taken to frequenting The Silken Sylph himself. No one ever looked twice at the crime lord, all but his employees oblivious to the identity of the handsome, silver haired elf.
The atmosphere was particularly cheerful this night, perhaps in defiance of the storm raging outside. Rain ran in rivulets down the wide windows and lightning frequently illuminated the streets, casting the moon elf crime lord in sharp relief, shadows flitting across his angular face as he constantly surveyed his tavern with the keen amber eyes of a hawk.
"More wine, my lord?" one of the barmaids asked politely, gesturing to the crystal decanter she held, her pretty expectant. His lips curved up in a languid smile and he nodded, spinning several gold coins in her direction before his gaze returned to the window. It was a rare night for the crime lord, quiet, uneventful, pleasant, and he meant to savor the all too uncommon break in his usually busy schedule. An enterprising elf such as Elaith usually had a long list of errands to run, illegal goods to smuggle and people to kill.
Almost as if in response to his thoughts, the door to the tavern swung open with a resounding bang, a sheet of rain and cold air swirling around the taproom as a soaked and bedraggled young gold elf staggered in from the storm, his forest green eyes scanning the tavern swiftly. A few cast him brief glances, but saw nothing of interest, returning to their drink without comment as the young elf approached Elaith's table, though to the Serpent's eyes he did so against his better judgment. In his long fingered hands he clutched a slightly damp scroll. Elaith let him stand there for several moments, a puddle swiftly growing at his feet as rainwater dripped from his sodden clothes. Finally he acknowledged the younger elf, setting aside his wineglass and surveying him more closely, noting the seal of the Pantheon Temple upon the scroll.
"Yes?" He asked impatiently, quirking one silver brow.
"A message for you, from High Preist Durothil." The young elf replied, passing the scroll to Elaith, a few drops of rainwater splattering onto the table. Elaith accepted the scroll and pointedly wiped the tiny puddles from his table. With a flick of his wrist he unrolled the document and took up his wineglass once more, sipping as he scanned the page. After a brief moment he glanced back up at the messenger.
"Come to the temple at once?" He quoted sarcastically. "Could you not have simply spoken this to me?"
"I didn't know what the scroll read." The messenger replied nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Elaith had half a mind to ignore the summons completely. He was warm and dry and comfortable where he was, enjoying his wine and still waiting on his evening meal. Still, he had grudging respect for the Priest if not his religion. With a long suffering sigh he motioned to one of the barmaids who scurried over, deftly balancing a tray of empty tankards on one hand.
"My cloak." He said simply, rising sinuously to his feet. She nodded wordlessly and threaded her way past tables and patrons to relieve herself of the tray and bring her employer his travel cloak. Before long Elaith and the young messenger were leaving The Silken Sylph and stepping out into the deluge to answer the summons of High Priest Durothil.