Somewhere near Skullport,

Undermountain-Underdark Border

1362 DR, Year of the Helm,

Eleasis 'Highsun'

The two Drow priestesses, still with the little boy matching pace breathlessly between them, had led Mae'rillar only as far as one alleyway, heading for the north-eastern end of Skullport, when they insisted upon blindfolding him. Threatened by two well-armed clerics of a god he did not know, he had hardly been in a position to make demands, especially with the ever-worsening pain in his injured arm. It was hardly an ideal situation, leagues from Menzoberranzan and the relative safety of House Kilath, walking blind through the streets of Skullport with nothing but the vice-like grip of one of his captors to guide him to his unknown destination. Still, he was a Drow warrior, not newly graduated from his time in Menzoberranzan's martial academy, Melee Magthere. He could still fight blind, even if he could not find his way home. His trepidation came from the mystery that awaited him at the end of their journey.

He berated himself for getting caught up in that fight, for being drawn in by a moment of weakness. Amongst it all he might have even begun to forget about the strange encounter at the docks, but for the endless throbbing in his arm and the blood congealing in his glove. He wondered what had become of his soldiers, and if they had run straight back to Kirthel. They could not rightly present themselves without their commander, the medallion they had travelled all that way to procure or the gem bag he still wore on his belt, could they? After the necromancy they had witnessed at Mae'rillar's expense, perhaps they would be willing to take that risk – they probably presumed him dead. Drow allies had a tendency to aim for the more hopeless outcome regarding missing compatriots.

The way his captors led him was convoluted and disorientating; twice he heard the loud rattle of carts on the main thoroughfare of Skullport, but only once was he pulled sharply across, his hood up to hide his blindfold. He listened intently to everything around him; the snorting of some stabled rothé – the livestock native to the Underdark –, the clack and scrape of a carpenter and a butcher working in their neighbouring shops, the whispering wings of the fairies and imps overheard carrying messages for their masters. None of it brought Mae'rillar to a reliable conclusion; it seemed to him that the two priestesses were leading him on an aimless route through town, until he heard the murmur of water by his side and was bundled into a narrow-sided rowing boat. He had not heard the din of the quayside, and he felt the angle of the boat with his arm as it was pushed off from its mooring. North east…what lay north east of Skullport, close enough for two priestesses to fearlessly hold a well-trained Drow warrior captive, along with their human ward?

Mae'rillar was still digging through his memories, thinking through all of the lessons he could recall from his compulsory years in Sorcere, the wizards' academy of Menzoberranzan, when the boat scraped jarringly over dry ground. No one had ever told him what lay north east of Skullport, except for Ched Nasad, the other major Drow city. But surely that was not their destination? It lays leagues away.

Once more he felt his captors drag him to his feet, heard the high, nervous whispering of the boy with them and their reassuring voices. That ambience sent an uncomfortable jolt through him, a pang that he hardly expected: he could not recall a time when ever he had heard a child treated so kindly. He thought of vicious Matron Kilath with her three-headed snake whip, and of his father, the weapon master of the house, with his preference for training with bladed weapons over blunted ones.

Abruptly Mae'rillar's senses were once more assaulted by the noise of busy settlement, an unnerving change after their walk from the boat through utter stillness. This place must be enchanted and well warded. That explained why Sorcere had neglected to educate him. He began to wish he had run when he had better chances. He doubted a place like this would ransom him. His confusion mounted as they walked more briskly, stepping over smooth, neatly paved ground to the tune of the high laughter of children and the calls of merchants selling their wares. He was pulled to a stop at the beginning of a flight of stairs, feeling the bottom step graze against his booted ankle before he could twist aside. The priestesses conversed briefly, too hushed to hear properly, and then only one hand held his arm as his remaining captor dragged him painfully up the steep stairway.

"What is this?" a male voice demanded in a tone that would have had him scourged for a week in House Kilath, "You have brought a spider-worshipper here? How dare you risk our safety?"

"Our Lady said he would save us, and he did. She told me to bring him here, if it was possible. He has not borne witness to the path we took," the priestess tugged sharply at Mae'rillar's blindfold, and the rough treatment sent a jolt of fiery pain through his injured arm. A wave of sickness tightened in his stomach and, to his own surprise, he swayed to his knees, retching.

"She is not my Lady, Zerith," the male sounded disgusted, but seemed to have relented for the priestess was permitted to drag Mae'rillar back to his feet and through a groaning stone doorway, pausing to relieve him of his weapons.

He was only led for a few more paces – just long enough for the doors to slam behind him –, clutching at his arm and still blind to his surroundings, before Zerith released her hold on him, allowing him to slump once more to his knees, groaning. In the cool, still silence that followed Mae'rillar imagined a hundred crossbows trained his way, or perhaps an axe or sword poised over his neck. He did not expect a fingertip to press beneath his chin, tilting his head up as if to meet this stranger's eyes. Unable to see, still he gasped as warm, healing magic spread through his arm, pushing away the feverishness that had crept over him along the walk from the boat, and replacing the burning in his skin with a dull ache more akin to a bruise.

"We are grateful to you for your kindness," a strangely accented voice promised at his ear, as his healer leaned forward, hair brushing against his cheek as she unfastened the blindfold and revealed herself to him.

From her voice alone, Mae'rillar had not expected the one who knelt before him to be a Drow, but Drow she was, with the same combination of ebon skin and pale hair as he did. Her features were not as sharp as was more common among their kin, however, and she lacked the lines of anger that were to be expected among the aggressive priestesses of his homeland.

She smiled at him as he blinked at her, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit chamber. Overtaken in waves of confusion and surprise, Mae'rillar flinched away as her hands curved around his arms, expecting some kind of retribution, but she simply helped him to his feet, still smiling, and stepped back away from him onto the large curving stairway that dominated the chamber. For a moment he was dazzled by the strangeness of the place, of her unthreatening – even trusting – stance, but he was a trained warrior and he surveyed his surroundings with a practiced focus.

The hall was large and circular, awash in silvery light which filtered down from a central shaft set in the domed ceiling, the grey stone of which had been decorated with silver outlines of surface-world animals, along with a crescent shape followed by a spray of glittering gems. The young Drow warrior recognised that at least as Selûne and her tears, the moon of the lands above. Contrary to his expectation, the balconies set in the joining of the walls and dome were not peopled by armed aggressors; they were utterly empty, just like the floor upon which he stood. The doorway behind him was barred with iron and made of impressively heavy-looking stone, lined with silver, and it hummed with ominously strong magic. The only other possible exit stood closed as well, and though it looked less intimidating it likely led further into this unknown building.

The priestess was still standing on the last step of the central stairway, swathed in the silvery glow filtering down from the shaft above. The altar behind her was too high to see clearly, but whatever stood within its central dish caught the light and refracted it upwards into a spiral of colourful illumination almost too bright for Mae'rillar's sensitive Drow sight. It did not silhouette his mysterious benefactor as one might have expected; rather, she seemed to glow in that light, and he caught his treacherous breath. When his hands moved automatically for his emptied sword belt and his gaze swept the room once more for enemies, attempting to compensate for his more positive natural responses, she still did not move.

"You trust us as little as my people trust you," the Drow priestess before him noted softly, and at last his eyes were drawn back to her, "But the priestesses owe you their lives, as does our fosterson."

"Your fosterson? The human boy?" Mae'rillar could not avoid his incredulous tone. The idea was…ludicrous to him, "What place is this? And what do you intend to do with me?" But for a moment, she just smiled, and there was no malice in her sapphire eyes, no sinister twist to her shapely lips.

As his posture relaxed a little she stepped back down from her place with one graceful gesture to indicate that she was indeed unarmed, and Mae'rillar beheld that she was tall for their kin – almost as tall as he was. Her hair, falling in lustrous white curls to her hips, was woven with silver threads and shimmered iridescent in the soft light; her smile now was more mischievous than her serene voice had led him to expect. All but against his will, his eyes drifted and he saw that she wore a thin lilac dress, its distractingly wide neckline a little askew, leaving one smooth ebony shoulder bare. No weapons were visible upon her narrow silver belt, nor in her hands. She did not even wear a symbol of her faith; a faith which had lent her the power to heal his wound with a spell full of warmth and peace. From that alone Mae'rillar knew she was not a follower of Lolth, the goddess to whom his mother and all the people of his home city prayed.

"You need not fear me, warrior. I see the truth, and I see it with hope though there is much to come that must be endured. We are in Lith My'athar, an outpost of Eilistraee not far from the Promenade of the Dark Maiden," she gestured up at the ceiling above them, looking away from him with disarming trust, "Ours is the faith of song and dance beneath the stars," when her eyes met his again they held such joy that Mae'rillar felt his traitorous heart jolt just a little.

"And your intentions with me? You said yourself that I saved your priestesses and the boy. You can see that I know nothing of Lith My'athar or the…Promenade of the Dark Maiden," though in truth the latter destination held some familiarity to Mae'rillar, he preferred not to admit to it, "And I doubt we can offer each other anything more. I thank you for your healing, but I must be gone from this place."

"You truly mean your thanks," the priestess noted softly, her lips quirking and her eyebrow raising in curiosity, "You belong among 'your people' no more than I do."

Unexpectedly she stepped forward, her eyes holding his as her hand brushed against his cheek. Sucking in his breath, Mae'rillar flinched away from her touch but did not pull away entirely, for her eyes still held him and his heart was hammering in his chest.

"You will be returned safe and whole to Skullport," she agreed, dropping her hand to her side once more, half-turning away before a crooked, knowing smile crossed her face and lit up her eyes, "But you will not forget this place."


Somewhere near Skullport,

Undermountain-Underdark Border

1362 DR, Year of the Helm,

Eleasis 'Highsun'

It was turning into a day and a night of too many unanswered questions. Mae'rillar's thoughts were still spinning as he was led, blindfolded once more, through the quietened streets of Lith My'athar; though the Underdark dwelt ever in darkness, its inhabitants still moved to a regimented system of 'day' and 'night'. He remained blinded along the walk to the boat, and as his captors rowed back across the body of water around Skullport. He felt in no hurry to strike up conversation, and speculation was his sole companion.

The cursed medallion weighed heavily in his thoughts. He had not dared to throw it aside; Matron Kilath had demanded its delivery, after all. Regardless, its treacherous nature, and that of its courier, only strengthened his curiosity. He could not begin to fathom the significance of the unfamiliar necromantic ritual to which he had been subjected, but the teleportation his touch upon the offending blade had caused could hardly have been accidental. It seemed more than a little convenient that it had sent him to the priestesses and boy, especially as they had said that their 'Lady' had known Mae'rillar would help them. Yet…he found it hard to believe that such agonising wizardry was connected to the gentle warmth of the beautiful priestess's healing magic. Instead her words would not leave his thoughts; Eilistraee, Lith My'athar…the trust in her deep blue eyes…

His blindfold was removed as his captors, a pair of heavily armoured male Drow, rowed their boat up to a small, abandoned jetty. Mae'rillar was bundled wordlessly onto the platform and left without ceremony; he did not linger to watch them disappear into the gloom cast by the city's witchlights. Instead the young warrior pulled up his hood, made his way around the deserted warehouse by which he found himself, and slipped into the night-time streets of Skullport. The city was free of its earlier claustrophobic bustle but it was hardly deserted; brothels overflowed with rowdy, drunken debauchery, competing with the numerous taverns for dominance on the gloomy streets. Thieves and thugs darted among the backalleys; Mae'rillar had to employ some significant dexterity, despite his weary limbs, to avoid getting caught up in the beginnings of one particularly violent looking fight. He kept himself focused upon making his way to the section of the docks at which he and his earlier companions had arrived before acquiring the medallion. He sincerely doubted that any would have waited for him, but he also knew that there were a number of rowing boats tied up there, any one of which would most likely only be missed long after he had made his exit.

Mae'rillar's destination was a rickety boathouse, constructed from surface-world wood which had begun to moulder in the damp air of Skullport, well away from the busier streets of the city and sheltered behind a suspiciously unpopular bakery. From the smell emanating out of the kitchen door, it appeared the owners dredged their food from the murky waters around Skullport. Mae'rillar curled his lip at the thought – he doubted even his mother's half-starved Orc slaves would favour such food.

As the Drow slipped unseen into the boathouse, his passing inaudible amongst the creaking of the gently rocking boats within, his sneer quickly turned to a satisfied smile as his eyes adjusted to their favoured infravision, unlit as this boathouse was. He was alone, his quarry utterly unguarded as he had suspected, but nonetheless he worked quickly to unwind the rope mooring the nearest boat and to slip inside the narrow vessel, pushing on the oars with as much force as his need for silence would permit. In truth it was a dangerous position to be a lone Drow on the streets of treacherous Skullport. He did not bear the insignia of his mother's house, but that was perhaps all the more suspicious to any potential enemies of hers – for it hinted at the clandestine motivations behind his quest. His business had been to stay out of sight, and to evade capture at all costs if noticed.

Mae'rillar was familiar with the path he must take through the water, keeping the city close to his right in order to avoid the unforgiving blue illumination of the witchlights which never dulled during the day or night. Once he had rounded the rocky cliff-face ahead, moving out of sight of the city and towards a narrow channel which he knew to be swarming with his mother's soldiers, Mae'rillar was far from breathing a sigh of relief. He may have escaped the dangers of Skullport, but he now moved to meet with his sister Kirthel, the unforgiving leader of this mission for their mother. True, she dare not kill him given his success, but he would have much to explain about his absence, and her superior attitude always filled him with a gut-wrenching need to bury a dagger in her throat. The memory of her free use of her two-headed snake whip made his back burn. When the thought of violence was on his sister's mind, there was nothing one could do to sway her out of it, save for fear of her mother. Breathing deeply, Mae'rillar steeled his rebellious mind, slowing his movement through the water to buy himself a little time, closing his eyes…and seeing a flash of deep blue. You belong among 'your people' no more than I do.

"You are late, brother," Kirthel's voice cut through the darkness as Mae'rillar's boat slid into the narrow tunnel ahead, shattering the peaceful whisper of water against stone.

"Yet I return with the item our mother requires, sister," he responded sharply before he could stop himself, raising his eyes to see his youngest sister standing upon the lip of the path ahead, a habitual frown deepening upon her thin, angular face. Her hands flexed upon the bone handle of her snake whip, where the enchanted heads of the weapon coiled around her wrist, hissing and tasting the air with flickering tongues.

"The warriors who returned told me of the necromancer's magic," Kirthel's eyes narrowed, glittering a brilliant crimson in the darkness as she nodded behind herself, her braids of white hair twisting about her shoulders with the same sinuousness as the snakes twisting about her arm, "I would hear what you have to say of these events. Were I not to know better, your lateness would seem more than a little suspicious."

"Hurtful words," Mae'rillar raised his eyebrows, unable to hold back the sarcasm in his tone and affected his most unconvincingly innocent expression, watching his sister carefully even as he pulled himself from the boat, the Kilath soldiers lining the tunnel walls parting to let him pass, "But as it happens I have learned much tonight, and my tale is one for our matron's ears first. What would she think of us, discussing such matters behind her back…so to speak?"

Mae'rillar had to conceal his smile when his sister's expression twisted. Her snakes snapped at him, and he was careful to stop at a safe distance. His sister was their mother's least trusted daughter, and they both knew it. She was expected to scheme against her mother in Drow society, but her lack of subtlety had always put her in a dangerous position in their house. Even Mae'rillar could whisper a few words to their mother and worsen her standing if she made him speak of his time in Lith My'athar, and she feared that. In truth, her resultant vengeance would probably make such a move on his part more costly than it was worth, but he enjoyed his small moments of success against his sisters. Kirthel just happened to be the easiest target.

"Then you shall tell her presently," Kirthel held out a hand, and Mae'rillar pointedly emptied the medallion on to her palm. He had no intention of touching it again, and looked hopefully for a flinch, or a look of horror, but as her spidery fingers closed around the heavy, cold metal, her thin lips were curved in a triumphant smile.

"We return to Menzoberranzan immediately?" Mae'rillar struggled to conceal his disappointment. He was weary in body and mind. He would have liked to sleep at least a little – and he felt a rush of…something (was it hope?) at the thought that he might well dream of the beautiful priestess of Eilistraee who had given him mercy.

"To Menzoberranzan? No," Kirthel smirked, clearly enjoying his ignorance, "House Kilath has moved on from the petty squabbles of that city. Our mother's intentions are altogether more…ambitious."


Skullport,

Undermountain-Underdark Border

1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,

Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'

The bedroom was small and dark, save for the gentle blue of the witchlights filtering in through the cracked shutters. It was barely enough light for Sharwyn to see by, though she could just about make out the shapes of the two beds, one at each end of the room, and the table between them with its unlit candle. Mae'rillar had brushed past her as she lingered in the doorway waiting for her eyes to adjust, his Drow sight just as suited to the darkness as it had been when first they had met, when he had never seen the sun of the world above.

"Surely you brought the circlet?" Mae'rillar asked softly as he seated himself along the window seat, his eyes glinting with the red of infravision in the gloom, "You will need it when we leave this city…"

"Yes, yes," Sharwyn rolled her eyes as she moved to her bed, pulling off her boots before flopping onto her back with a groan, staring up at the play of faint blue light across the low, sloping ceiling, "Of course I did. Trust me, I know better than you how poorly I see in the dark. It's just…I'd rather not wear it until I absolutely have to."

"Always so vain."

Mae'rillar's laughter was low and genuine, but Sharwyn propped herself up on her elbows in time only to see him looking away from her, through one of the cracks in the shutters. Though she could not see him clearly, she could imagine the swift change in his expression.

"You worry for her; our Lady," Sharwyn noted softly, but he gave no response, "And I do as well. But we can't travel to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden without sleep."

"We will need to pass through the ruins," the Drow warrior told her at last as if she had never spoken, still not looking around, "I do not know another way, and if anything of what Nathyrra said is true then we must make haste. We will not have time to go around – we must pass through Old Lith My'athar."

"You still blame yourself for that, Mae'rillar?" Sharwyn sighed as noisily as she could, all the better to show her frustration, "It's not like you to wallow. You saved her…and you saved me. Don't forget that."

"I do not blame myself for it, no. I have no interest in lessening Matron Kilath's culpability," even after all those years, there was still a palpable sense of bitter satisfaction behind those words of his, "But as for the Seer…I knew her in the days of Old Lith My'athar. I saw her as she was. You knew her as the Seer, as our Lady, and you knew Lith My'athar as it was in those days, far away from the Promenade."

"Do you regret leaving?" Sharwyn asked, lying back again and staring up at the ceiling.

"No," Mae'rillar's voice was barely audible, just a breath, and when Sharwyn twisted onto her side to look at him staring back at her, he shifted on the window seat, drawing one knee up to his chest, his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes back on the street below, "Get some sleep, Sharwyn." But be on your guard.

Trusting in her old friend's protective qualities, the bard hummed a sleepy reply and turned over, closing her weary eyes. But she kept her harp by her pillow, and her sword hilt in her hand as she drifted to sleep…

"Sharwyn."

The whisper that woke her was urgent and familiar, the gloved hand that closed around her wrist was gentle as its pressure stayed the swing of the sword she held long enough to give her fogged thoughts the few seconds they needed to catch up with reality. Turning onto her back, the bard saw Mae'rillar leaning over her, and even after the better part of a decade she still felt her heart stutter at the sight of him.

At some point he had opened the shutters, perhaps in an attempt to awaken her more subtly, and now the pale blue light from the streets was streaming in to the little bedroom, casting shadows below his high cheekbones, highlighting the regularity of his ebon-skinned features. There was a perceptive seriousness in his pale hazel eyes as he started to lean back, his thin shirt shifting just enough to show the black links of Drow mail he wore beneath, and Sharwyn watched with curiosity as he raised her plain silver circlet and placed it gently upon her head. Instantly the item's magic worked upon her sight and the shadows in the room dissipated. Seeing her wince, Mae'rillar raised a white eyebrow and stepped back.

"You look beautiful," he promised as Sharwyn sat up, readjusting the heavy circlet in the vain hope of making it look more flattering; when she glared at him he pointed at the window and moved to shoulder his pack, "We need to leave. We were being watched in the dining hall last night and if they mean to follow us, I would meet them on ground of our choosing."