"Sabafae, could you possibly be a little louder? I'm sure there's some deaf orc out patrolling the city walls who hasn't heard your screeching," the bearded male drow said irritably, glancing up from his book. Vornas was the only one of the Matron's sons who could grow facial hair and was quite pleased with that, wearing it in a neat goatee.

"Want to say that again, brother?" the high priestess said savagely, leaning across the low, cluttered table and hauling him up by the front of his wizardly robes. Scrolls and books went sliding to the floor in a symphony of cracking paper and dull thumps.

"Both of you, be quiet. I can't hear myself think."

The priestess released Vornas reluctantly, turning to look at her oldest sister in response. The stony visage of Yasmur'ss was as unreadable as always. Her gray eyes never left the stolen surface elf tapestry on the wall. It's rich colors were invisible in darkvision, but she still traced each flowing figure and letter with her eyes. Tebatar and T'risskacha waited in silence for her to speak, concentrating their efforts on striving vainly to divine her thoughts through her movements.

The silence shattered as Sabafae spoke, a hint of rebellion in her voice. "Well, what are we going to do then? I'm not going to sit quietly while the Matron heaps praise on that little brat."

"You will endure it, as we all will," Yasmur'ss said bluntly. "T'risskacha and Talra both do. I do. We cannot act directly."

"Craven, all of you!" Sabafae challenged scathingly. "You fear our mother's wrath. So this is the fine, noble blood of our House in action. What are we to do then, sit and rot?"

"We wait," T'risskacha said with a genial smile, malice glittering in her eyes. Her tone was honey-sweet, despite the hatred that burned in the younger drowess's heart. "When the moment is right, we act. And you, Sabafae, those who call me a coward do not often live to appreciate the magnitude of their error."

"Hmph. That's all you and Yasmur'ss can do—wait. What good will waiting do us? You can keep your plans for yourselves!" The high priestess turned on her heel and strode out, the serpentine heads of her whip writhing on her belt to express their mistress's displeasure.

Vornas looked to his eldest sister, who had yet to speak again. Tebatar and T'risskacha did the same—they knew Yasmur'ss, regarding her with a healthy respect born of fear, though they would hardly admit it. She did not seem to have the black temper that characterized Despana's nobles, planning with an icy and thoroughly ruthless calculation that terrified her siblings.

The workshop was filled with spiders, the creatures crawling across the wall and ceiling alike. The drowess reached out, permitting one to step onto her fingers. She brought it close to her lips, whispering something to it and gently stroking its back with the index finger of her other hand. "Sabafae will be the first to make a mistake," she said, eyes still on the spider. "After that—if she lives—she will listen."

"How do we know your plan will work?" her brother asked as his sister turned her eyes to the gossamer webs and their inhabitants, lost in contemplation. It was a moment before she seemed to even acknowledge she had been spoken to.

"Here is your answer. The oldest spiders are the most cunning of weavers—it is they who catch the most flies. We must all return to our studies and duties now. Tebatar will need to try and talk Zezdrin around to our side."

"Or I could," T'risskacha offered.

"I think a female drow approaching him with the offer would dull his interest quite quickly," Tebatar said. "He hates being used as a tool in your infighting."

"Very well," Despana's third daughter said, flashing them both a smile. The others couldn't shake the feeling that it was genuine—a frightening concept. "I take my leave, then."

"She's up to something," Vornas said after a moment's pause.

"Yes, I believe she is," Yasmur'ss replied thoughtfully. "We'll just have to wait and see what."


T'risskacha stepped into the lesser training gym, humming thoughtfully. The floor was smooth and flat fitted stone at present—the spell to coax it into imitating the natural terrain of Yvoth-Lened's nearby tunnels and caverns was dormant at present. Her footfalls echoed softly in the large room as she padded over to her door and pulled it open. The female warrior loved her chambers, a gift from the Matron when she graduated from Melee-Magthere at the top of her class. They were private and removed from the bustle of the rest of the House, an island of calm and serenity in the midst of the chaotic politics and business that made up her world.

The main room was fairly plain compared to those of her sisters—there were only a few hangings on the walls, tapestries depicting scenes from history, the greatness of Lolth, and a lineage of her family that seemed there just to cover bare stone. Shelves stood against one wall, so closely stacked with history books and treatises on warfare not even a spider could slip between.

She almost cringed at the thought—the warrior had the appropriate amount of reverence for the arachnids, but no great love for them beyond that. She had been bitten too often as a child in her eldest sister's chambers. T'risskacha padded in across the woven rugs covering the stone floor, letting her fingers trail across the unmarked spines of some leather bound journals.

If the priestesses ever learned that they existed, those precious books would be destroyed. And the warrior was more than aware that the penalty for possessing them was harsh. Yet, they stayed, and no cleric had set foot in her rooms since they had been given to her—a state she dearly hoped they would remain in.

There was a clattering sound from her bedchamber, setting the noble on high alert. T'risskacha drew saber and stalked in, blade at the ready. The bed was undisturbed, spider silk blankets and sheets still perfectly smooth. She narrowed her crimson eyes, feeling along shelves for her clothes and personal items in search of any traps or magical triggers. Her experience with assassins had left her cautious indeed.

There was a twitch of movement behind one of the curtains shrouding her enchanted window. T'risskacha raised an eyebrow. A bit obvious...

The warrior sprang with a war scream that could freeze blood in the veins of foes, saber hissing through the air and slicing through the heavy fabric above her intruder's head, then whipping around to stop just short of parting their head from their shoulders. "Pellanistra!"

Wide silver-blue eyes stared up into hers, terrified. "I-I-I d-didn't m-m-mean t-t-to," the girl stammered out.

T'risskacha blew a sigh. "You idiot," she said softly enough to take away the words' sting, sheathing her saber and crouching down so she was a little shorter than her sister. "I could have killed you."

"I-I thought y-y-you w-were Sabafae," the girl said, trying to stop stuttering.

"Why is she looking for you?" T'risskacha asked, taking both of her sister's hands in her own. The girl looked so small and fragile the warrior had trouble understanding how Yasmur'ss saw her as a threat.

"She's angry," Pellanistra said softly. "I don't know why, but—"

"I do," the warrior replied grimly, standing up. She was a little ashamed of the girl for fleeing. "You can't hide from her forever, little one. You have to fight your own battles sometime."

"I think I did," the young drowess said softly. "I was going to say I made it worse."

"Worse?" T'risskacha echoed. The question in her voice did not escape her sister, but they were interrupted before Pellanistra could explain.

"Where is she?" Sabafae shrieked, the doors of the lesser weapons gym slamming open. "I'll snap her neck!"

"What did you do?" the warrior hissed.

"She tried to kill me, and I grabbed the dagger from her belt and fought back like you taught me to."

T'risskacha poked her head out of her bedchamber, then lead her sister out into the main room. "Maybe we can find you a hiding place somewhere," she murmured, casting about for a good place.

Despana's second daughter slammed her way in, blood dripping down from the gash across her face. "You little elg'caress!"

T'risskacha barreled forward into her older sister as she lunged with the knife. Sabafae was bigger and stronger, but not nearly as fast. However, the warrior was in the altogether bad position of having no blade in her hands to bring to bear against Sabafae's dagger. The weapon sliced across T'risskacha's forearm as she forced it out and away from her body. "Pell—" the warrior choked out, Sabafae's hand closing around her throat. Her vision swam as her lungs fought for breath, only to have their labors unrewarded. I'm going to die...

The girl shoved, throwing Sabafae off T'risskacha. The priestess managed to snatch hold of her sleeve, tugging her youngest sister after her and thrusting the knife upward. Pellanistra twisted her body mostly out of the way as she fell, the weapon drawing a burning line along her ribcage. Ignoring the pain and the wet feeling on her side, the girl fought like a wildcat with Sabafae, though to little avail. Meanwhile, the warrior's vision was slowly returning as she rubbed life back into her throat.

The priestess snarled and struck her away after a few moments, though that was plenty of time for Pellanistra's fingernails to leave several sets of tracks across her face. The younger drowess groped about for something to use to defend T'risskacha as the priestess rose and stalked towards the offending fighter, and seized a bag that had been knocked off the table. It felt fairly heavy, and she could hear the faint clacking sounds of ceramic beads.

A warning bell went off in Pellanistra's head, but the drowess jumped up and swung it in a vicious arc. Hideous light filled her world, searing her eyes into blindness as forty daylight beads all shattered in unison.

There was nothing but white...

And then pain.