Author's Note: This just kind of happened. For all those people who wondered what happened to certain characters such as the charming half-orc. This is set after the events of Knife in the Dark. Reading that story is not necessary for this one.

Sometimes, she dreamed.

Metal clattered harshly against stone beside her head as she fought to keep the world in focus. There was a certain, special kind of tired that came from fighting, so tired that it was easier to stop and take the beating than keep moving around and swinging. "Up," a male voice rough with the same exhaustion said. It wasn't exactly a command, but it was no suggestion either. He would have hounded her to the end of the world if he thought it would make her better. She hated him for it sometimes.

She let her fingers close around the sword on the floor next to her. It was a blade forged without sharp edges but maintaining the shape, a dull training blade chalked up so that if she drew it across his body or left a stab mark, it would show. One could kill with it, but it required a little more work. Not that she intended to kill him. His training was never gentle, but it was far preferable to her aunt's, who was a bitter woman on her best of days and such days were few and far between.

She forced herself up despite the screaming of her overworked muscles. She'd been on her feet for two days, catering to the whims of the Matron Mother without respite.

Dark, onyx eyes followed her as she got up. There was something almost foreign about his square face, though there was not a drop of human or anything else in his blood to anyone's knowledge. His white hair was cut short, just long enough to fall across his forehead, standing out in stark contrast to his ebony skin. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow as he watched her with narrowed eyes, waiting for the next movement. He wasn't a big man, but he was built powerfully and he had centuries of experience on her. She didn't flatter herself and pretend she posed much of a challenge. What she was, however, was aggravating. She refused to sit still, even at her most exhausted. He'd spent the past half hour chasing her around the training gym.

"You are a pain in the ass," he said, something like amusement flickering briefly in his features.

"I'm counting on that," she panted out. "Where are they sending me? I know you know."

"Menzoberranzan. To learn, outside of the reach of the others. The Matron wants a new spymistress. I guess she sees more in you than she saw in your mother."

She shrugged. "Mother will be pleased." She wasn't pleased. It meant leaving her home again. Besides, the word 'mother' came dryly to her mouth. The woman who had given birth to her was no mother…

The world came rushing back to her when she felt the flicker. Her sword was in her hand, though she didn't recall drawing it. Everything was always fragmented, but now there was a weakness in the walls. It was her chance. She might never have another. She summoned up all of her will and tried to break the compulsion that had dominated every fiber of her being for what felt like aeons. Her steps came slowly, agonizingly slowly, but they were under her own power. The puppet's strings had been cut and she was a puppet no longer. She advanced on Deu'ra. The creature's back was to her as it focused wholly on the three intruders who had just burst through the door, hurling shards of ice into their midst like the powerful sorcerer it was. She could feel it stretching its will, dominating their warrior. But it was spreading itself too thin to successfully maintain control of her.

The illithid stood over six feet tall, with grey-pink skin and four writhing tentacles coming down from its octopus-like head. Deu'ra's white eyes were narrowed with concentration as they focused on the group. She could see the group of adventurers staggering now, struggling to fight the psionic attacks. The big warrior turned on his companions, greatsword at the ready. Another victim of the powerful Deu'ra. She might have felt pity if she hadn't been preoccupied by a hatred that immolated what was left of her soul, her mind. It was a hatred so intense that her body could barely contain it, focused solely on the illithid. She did not remember her life before, her identity, her name, but she remembered that Deu'ra had taken all of that away from her and left only ruins. Her hands trembled violently under the force of the hate as she advanced. She had hated it for what felt like lifetimes, defending it against all of its enemies even as she hoped beyond hope that some blade would find her heart and bring a merciful end to her wretched existence.

Something had answered her prayers far beyond her wildest dreams…the shattered remnants of her that could still find the imagination to dream, that was.

How long had she been at its beck and call? So long it had taken her obedience for granted. Deu'ra must have sensed her approach, but the virulent rage was so normal for her that it didn't bat an eye.

Kill, the order came from the creature as it leveled a long finger at the adventurers struggling to subdue their warrior without harming them. She hadn't even looked at them long enough to determine who they were, what they were. She didn't care. They had given her the opportunity to do what she had fantasized about for time immeasurable.

For the first time, she obeyed with relish. Just not against the target the creature was hoping for. She plunged the sword into Deu'ra's back, the screech of the creature felt as much as heard. It was a wail of agony. The creature tried to round on her, but she twisted the sword with both hands, tearing the wound open. Nothing in the world had ever been so satisfying. She would remember Deu'ra's dying screams forever. It was a memory to be treasured, to be reveled in. She sawed with the blade as black blood rushed over her dark hands, struggling to cut through Deu'ra's spine as the creature struggled. Its tentacles grabbed for her face, but she tilted her head back to avoid the fate of so many and ripped the blade out.

The creature sank to the floor. She could feel it dying, feel the last of its control fading. She almost crumpled then as relief overwhelmed her. For the first time that she could remember, she was free even as she felt like she was dying. She heard people rushing over to her, but she didn't care. Because, at that moment, the truth hit her.

Deu'ra was dead. She ripped the sword out of its body and hacked at its still form until pieces came off, until her arm was tired and heavy. She might have been screaming at it—she couldn't tell if the sound was inside her head or out of it.

Harsh, choking sobs wracked her slender frame and she felt hot tears start to drip down her ebony cheeks. She could taste the salt on her lips. It felt divine, to be without that crushing presence, to be able to think freely, to move under her own power. How had she lived so long never knowing this joy? Hands grabbed at her armor, pulling her up and away. She dropped her sword and looked up into yellow eyes. The face that looked back at her was half drow and half orc, a man with a heavy brow and a jutting jaw with small tusks, but his skin was dark like midnight—like her own, she realized when she looked down at her hands—and his hair was the color of salt and steel.

"Thank you," he said. He was the fighter, his heavy armor dull in the absent light. He had dropped his sword and left his two companions be. "Who are you?"

She struggled to find words among the shattered remnants of her mind. Who was she? Did the pieces of her ever have a name? How long had it been since she last spoke? Her voice came out raw and weak from lack of use. "We are thrall," she whispered.

He helped her up, her limbs shaking and shuddering. She wasn't certain if they would give out on her or not, but his constant support was helpful. "My name is Malagos," he said. "Come, let's have Alassëa take a look at you."

He led her over to his two companions. One was a small and surly looking deep gnome who was reloading his crossbow and looking around. He had a bandoleer of vials of poison looped around his chest over deep dragon's scale armor. "Are we sure there's not more?" the svirfneblin asked. He was eyeing her with something between gratitude and suspicion.

"This isn't an enclave, Nek," the woman with them said softly. Her skin was alabaster from lack of sunlight and dark hair framed her undeniably elven face. "And from what I understand, mind flayers are generally solitary creatures except for their slaves and thralls."

The former thrall was too tired now to heed any of the distrust she felt as the stranger approached her. Instead, she just sank down to the floor the moment Malagos's grip on her ease. She didn't try to resist the soft hand that touched her forehead and sent warmth coursing through her veins. In a distant, dull way, she knew that it was a healing spell. "There are no more," she said in her quiet, halting way. "The monster worked alone."

"I'm Alassëa. What's your name?" the elf asked her gently.

"We are thrall," she whispered again. That was all she could remember. Deu'ra had called her nothing else and she had no mementos of her time before…if she had ever been anything else. The fragments she lived sometimes were dreams at best.

"Never thought I'd feel this bad for a drow," the deep gnome said. "Come on, let's see what this critter had stashed away. A lot of coin always does a body good. Plus, I'm going to need more enchanted bolts. Those umber hulks didn't go down easy, princess. And we'll need to keep the head—Bruthwol will want proof that it's dead."

"I know," Alassëa said. She offered their new friend a small smile. "We need something to call you. How about Thraele? It's a drow name, and it sounds close to what you think you are. Would that work?"

"Thraele," she said, tasting the word. It sounded different. It sounded like freedom. "Yes." She paused, then continued in her deliberate, slow way, "This is what we are? Drow?"

The elf looked dismayed despite the fact that she was dealing with a blood enemy. "You don't even remember that?"

"We should probably be grateful to squid-face here," Nek said, kicking the mind flayer's corpse. He had already given it a pat down and taken a few enchanted rings of defense off the creature's long fingers. "Because otherwise she'd be sticking a knife in your face so fast you couldn't blink, princess. They're called mind flayers for a reason. Bet she doesn't remember a thing. Take a look at these for me."

"She should come with us. We know she can fight," Malagos said as Alassëa passed her hand over the rings to identify the magic contained within them. He looked at the drowess. "Do you want to leave here, Thraele?"

She felt a little tremor of fear and excitement mingled together. She knew in the abstract that there were places beyond Deu'ra's tower, but she could not recall ever having been there. It was a whole new world opening up to her. "Yes," she said thickly, feeling those tears build again. "Yes, this we would like."

"Why do you say 'we'?" Alassëa said curiously.

Thraele wiped away her tears. "Because there are many pieces in our head," she said.

The elf made a soft noise of comfort and held out a handkerchief to the drowess. "Here," she said. "You're more than welcome to come with us, Thraele. Do you have things to collect?"

"Some clothes," she said as she picked herself up off the floor. It felt surreal to be leaving. She picked up her sword and sheathed it. It wasn't really hers, but something that had appeared in her room when Deu'ra decided that she would make a good bodyguard. However, she was keeping it now. It was duergar-made, with their sharp, angular designs to its hilt. It was plain and simple, but well-used. She had been a servant defending Deu'ra for longer than she could really recall. It was all a tangle of shattered pieces in her head.

"I'll help you get those," Alassëa said gently. "Malagos, Nek, I trust you two can loot the place without me?"

"Way ahead of you, princess," Nek said, already heading into Deu'ra's study with Malagos on his heels. "You'll hear us shouting if something goes wrong. Be careful with the drow."

Thraele had no intention of harming her new, pale ally, at least for the moment. She wasn't certain that she could trust them, but they had helped her escape from Deu'ra's control. She owed them and she knew she wanted to repay that debt. She led the way down the stairs into a dank, dark area. There were several doors made of iron bars sunk into the stone, but there was only one with sign of a more permanent habitation than Deu'ra's food generally had. It was a cell, devoid of light or warmth or comfort. There was a thin, hard mattress in one corner and a small pile of clothes folded on the floor next to it.

She felt a hand touch her lightly, just between her shoulder-blades, and flinched away. It was the elf trying to be sympathetic, but even good contact was alien after so long without it. "This is everything," she said, picking up the clothes. "This and the armor and the sword."

"Do you have anything from your old life? Any clue as to who you were?" Alassëa asked hopefully.

Thraele looked over at the elf. "We are thrall," she said softly. "If there was an old life, it is gone without a trace."

"You remember nothing?"

The drowess frowned intently, stirring at the shards of herself in the hopes of inspiring another vision like the one she'd had when Deu'ra's attention slipped. There was nothing, but she did still remember what she'd seen just before she killed Deu'ra. "We dreamed of Menzoberranzan," she said. "Perhaps people…sent us towards it, to learn. But we do not remember reaching it."

"We're headed there, after we settle this bounty in Gracklstugh," Alassëa said. She offered the drowess a smile. "We have friends there. I'm sure we can find someone who knows you."

"Why are you doing this?" Thraele asked as she picked up her clothes. "Why help?"

"It's what we do," Alassëa said. She studied her newest companion. Thraele certainly looked unkempt. Her white hair was long and tangled, her amaranthine eyes cagey, her cheeks hollow, and her dark skin smudged with dirt. "You look a little wild, though. When we reach Rockhollow, you can take a bath. I'll have to be disguised when we get close to Gracklstugh and Menzoberranzan, just to warn you. I always am, around drow. Besides you, I guess."

"Why?" Thraele asked, confusion easily readable in her expression.

"Because if I'm not, they'll hurt me," the elf said. To her, it was a clear indication that their new friend's memory loss was genuine. Thraele did look at her with some suspicion, but it was the same kind of guardedness she had looked at Nek and Malagos with. It was nothing compared to the burning hatred that she expected from a drow.

"Not if we kill them," Thraele said.

Alassëa winced. "I really appreciate the sentiment, but you can't just kill people, Thraele."

"We killed the monster," she pointed out.

"We did," the elf acknowledged. "But the rest of the world is not Deu'ra. There are rules. Laws. Come on, let's meet up with the others. You'll learn—or remember, hopefully—as we go."

Thraele nodded and followed her new companion back up into the main room. The svirfneblin and half-orc were back. The gnome was sorting through some of Deu'ra's gems and trinkets while Malagos hacked off the illithid's horrible head and wrapped it up in cloth. "Here," Nek said, tossing a gold amulet set with a polished ruby about the size of a man's thumb to Thraele.

She caught it. A pretty trinket, but she had no use for it. "What do we do with this?" she asked.

"It's your share. We'll sell it in Rockhollow or Gracklstugh," Nek said in a business-like tone. "With that money, we can buy you some proper gear and some food. You look like you've been living off gruel and angsty thoughts for a long, long while."

Malagos chuckled. "Welcome aboard, Thraele," the half-orc said. He had a feeling they wouldn't need to feel pity for their drow companion for very long. There was a definite intensity to those eyes. Once she had her feet underneath her, she would be a force to be reckoned with. Not that she wasn't one already. They had her to thank for a dead mind flayer. Malagos was grateful he hadn't injured his companions, particularly Alassëa.

Nek nodded. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership," the deep gnome said, giving their drow an approving look.

Thraele looked like a completely different person cleaned up, Alassëa reflected. Rockhollow was not a large town, but it did have a very nice traveler's inn on the outskirts. A few servants had vanished into the baths with their wild drowess and a few hours later she'd emerged looking more than decent. Thraele's white hair had been cut to shoulder length and combed out so there was no hint of tangle. The ragged clothing that she had been wearing underneath her battered armor had been replaced by a deep blue spidersilk shirt and fitted leather pants that tucked into new boots. Her features emerged from the dirt, patrician and lovely. Her hands were now manicured, though they still had callouses from wielding a weapon. Nek had traded the amulet for a set of new armor that was going to be fitted to Thraele, a good investment if she was going to keep adventuring with them. "How do you feel?" Alassëa asked warmly, smiling at the improvement.

"We are better," Thraele said. She plucked at the fabric of her shirt with a small, self-conscious smile. "We must thank Nek."

"He's sweet in his own, kind of mercenary, self-serving way," Alassëa said as she finished folding her own clothes. "Just don't let him know I think so."

"So why is an elf in the depths? Malagos mentioned it was very rare when we asked," the drowess asked, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She was sharing a room with the elf, an arrangement that would have caused problems with any other drow. Thraele, however, seemed quite genuine in her non-hatred of elves. It was as if that emotion had fixed itself wholly on Deu'ra and all things of that same nature.

"That's…complicated," Alassëa said softly. "I came down here many, many years ago for a friend. I suppose I could have returned to the surface, but…" She hesitated, then shrugged. "I can do so much good here, even if it means wearing a disguise and helping people who would kill me if they knew. It's dangerous, but so are most worthwhile things. Besides, I couldn't abandon Malagos and Nek, and they'd never be welcome on the surface. I'd ask you what your story is, but you don't know."

Thraele lay back on the bed. It was soft and foreign, almost to the point of being uncomfortable, but it was a welcome change. It had taken them three days to reach Rockhollow, three days that she had been mostly silent for. She had stayed firmly at the peripheries and watched, waiting to wake up back to her old life. But the baths, the food, the clothes—all things that she could never recall experiencing before—made her realize that this was no dream. The change was terrifying, but even more than that, liberating. These strangers had made certain she had food and a safer place out in the wilds. Not safe, as nowhere was safe, but safer. Now that they'd made it to civilization, their beneficence wasn't coming to an end. She didn't know what to do with that. She was far more accustomed to being used, but if that was their goal, they were far more subtle about it than Deu'ra had ever been.

"No," she said softly, turning her head to look at Alassëa. "We do not remember. But sometimes, we dream."

"That must be hard," the elf said. "Not knowing who you are."

The former thrall considered this for a moment before saying, "It is as easy as falling."

A knock on the door broke their conversation, followed by Malagos poking his head in. "There are some drow downstairs asking questions about us," he said in a low, urgent voice. "Nek paid the staff not to talk, but there's no guarantee they'll stay quiet forever. You know how persuasive they can be."

Thraele stood up abruptly and brushed past him. Malagos went to grab her, but the drowess slipped his grip effortlessly. "Thraele!" Alassëa called anxiously after her. She went to follow, but Malagos stopped her.

"I'll handle it," the half-orc said reassuringly. "Plus, Nek's downstairs. He'll have her back."

He turned and followed their drow, leaving Alassëa to wait nervously in the room. The cleric was certain that those two would be enough to quell any potiental fight, but that didn't mean that the violence wouldn't have far reaching consequences. Someone had sent these questioning drow, after all. Thraele could unknowingly cause all kinds of problem.

Downstairs, Thraele found herself face to face with the first of her own kind that she had seen. Three males in well-made armor with sharp knives and swords. They looked dangerous, but if there was a flicker of fear in Thraele, she did not feel it. Her eyes narrowed and she stalked forward, chin held high and back rigidly straight. It was a sort of violent pride bordering on sheer arrogance, posturing done out of the echoes of her dreams rather than any decision she made on her own. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she demanded.

Her affect and harshly spoken words appeared to actually take them aback. "Mistress, respectfully, we are not intruding on your business," the one with a long scar down his cheek said, straightening up as if dealing with a priestess. For all he knew, he was. "We are looking—"

"For things that are ours," Thraele snapped. She stepped forward, well into the space of the scarred male to the point where he stepped back. It was a traditional form of intimidation. "Leave, male. You may tell your betters that they are ours."

"And who are you, Mistress?" he said carefully, trying not to elicit a wrathful rebuke. "We represent House Baenre's eldest daughter and to stay us in our duty is to cause affront to Myrineyl Baenre."

"A name that means nothing to us," the former thrall said, glaring at him still. "We are the servant of the Matron. Our business is the slaying of the mind flayer. We have completed that task."

"Which Matron?" he asked cautiously, clearly evaluating this.

"That is not your concern. Leave, male, or we will send you to whence you came in pieces," Thraele said harshly, as certain as the grave in her ability to kill this creature. She had killed many times at the command of Deu'ra, she knew that much. She would give this drow all the consideration she might give to an insect to be crushed if he pushed back. There was a soft click as Nek readied his crossbow and pointed it at the drow. Malagos's hand rested on his sword. The half orc had emerged from the upstairs, ready to fight.

The threat in her words was clear. The male drow bowed in acknowledgement. "Understood, Mistress. But know you have made a powerful enemy today," he said.

"And so have you," Thraele said, lip curling in disdain.

The drow retreated from the inn and everyone relaxed slightly. The buzz of conversation was tense and wondering—showdowns among the drow were rare in Rockhollow. Even rarer was anyone willing to go toe to toe with any member of House Baenre's nobility.

"Brave. Idiotic, but brave," Nek said, coming over. "Myrineyl Baenre is a powerful bitch of a priestess. She's going to remember this if she hears about it."

Thraele smiled with a slight grimness. "Manners maketh the man. Enemies maketh the woman," she said, echoing the whispered dream in her head. A familiar voice, a female voice, must have told her that once.

"Crazy bitch," Nek said with a chuckle that was almost fond. He was starting to really like their drow. Anyone willing to stick it to a priestess of Lloth couldn't be all bad. "You want to take her on, fine. We'll help. But it'd better be worth our while."

"We assume the priestess possesses more than Deu'ra," Thraele said. "If the priestess wishes to push, you are more than welcome to it."

Nek grinned. "If you can pull it off," he said.

"We protect what is ours," Thraele said, looking down at the gnome. "Our allies are ours."

"Like I said, Thraele, you are one crazy bitch," Nek said with a shake of his head. This one was definitely going to be a handful, but the deep gnome was pretty certain she could walk the talk. Still, only time would tell.