So just a quick reminder: 1362 is Hordes of the Underdark time, 1375 is the return to the Underdark narrative.

Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated. ;)


House Kilath,

The Underdark

1362 DR, Year of the Helm,

Eleasis 'Highsun'

Matron Kilath's new home was no makeshift settlement, nor was it a subtly constructed place in which to hide. By the time Kirthel brought Mae'rillar and their companions to the complex of graven stone halls amongst intertwined caves and glass spires decorated with the shimmering lights of Faerie Fire, this new home away from the rest of Drow civilisation was a bustling fortress.

Standing within an expansive cavern by a clear pool which was lit from deep within by glowing Underdark plant-life, the complex swarmed with well-armed soldiers only half-visible in the light and only half-visible with infravision due to their enchanted armour. Rothé milled within a large pen, evidently brought with their Drow masters to help feed a large number over a long period, and Mae'rillar had to fight the urge to drop his jaw a little in shock. It would not do to show such surprise and awe in front of Kirthel, or the conspiring soldiers serving them.

As they reached the largest of the buildings ahead – a palace adorned with unsightly ridges of black metal – Kirthel halted before the enormous front gates to shoo their travelling companions away. Echoing Mae'rillar's own confused curiosity they did not immediately move to do her bidding, watching the siblings with suspicious red eyes. A curse from Kirthel and a lash of her snake whip sped them on their way. Only then did the doors before them grind slowly open, their silver cobweb patterning glinting in shades of reflected red and purple from the play of Faerie Fire across the many spires around the complex.

A plain, broad passageway ending in an equally unadorned archway was revealed beyond, the Orc slaves within grunting with effort to pull the heavy doors open to their widest points. Two familiar –and most unwelcome – figures awaited within. A quick glance at Kirthel showed the downward turn of her mouth at the sight of Querthra – their formidable eldest sister – and Firzin, Mae'rillar's less-than-loving father, the vicious weapon master of Matron Kilath's household.

"I had not expected to see you so soon upon my return, Sister," Kirthel gritted out through clenched teeth. Kirthel had never been one to truly hide her anger, and her unsubtle glare simply brought a tight smile to Querthra's thin lips.

"Mother would have us all here to witness such an important day for our House," Querthra replied smoothly, stepping aside with false courtesy to allow her sister to pass, though the hissing of her three-headed snake whip in response to Kirthel's proximity was more telling of the truth.

The sisters moved on without a second glance at Mae'rillar. Strongly doubting that Querthra knew much more than he or Kirthel, he made to follow only to feel Firzin's hard grip on his arm. Stilling immediately, the younger warrior fought down a wave of anger, slowly turning his gaze to meet his father's as the door rumbled shut behind them.

Firzin was smaller than his son, but unusually heavily muscled for a male of their kind, his body covered in barely-disguised blades, and his narrowed eyes shone red even without the glow of infravision. There was very little to suggest any relation between the two, except for the unusual blonde tint to the expected white of their hair. It was no great comfort to Mae'rillar that he had inherited more of his mother's appearance, even when his father was gripping his arm so tightly, glaring into his eyes with unveiled threat.

"You should watch yourself, Mae'rillar," the older Drow warned, the harsh tones of their native language only emphasising his underlying aggression, "Remember it is because you are expendable that the Matron sends you on these…errands. The moment you forget," a wicked grin flashed across his scarred face, and his hand moved to his sword hilt, "I will make sure you remember it."

There was desperation hidden behind Firzin's words. His father had been the uncontested Weapon Master of House Kilath for all of Mae'rillar's fifty years of life. It was a noteworthy span of service, especially for a Weapon Master of a lower house like Kilath, comparable to the more storied houses of Menzoberranzan like Do'Urden or Baenre. As Matron Kilath's only living warrior son, who had fought his way to the top of Melee Magthere and bested the offspring of notable lineages, Mae'rillar was a threat. Even more painfully for Firzin, he enjoyed being a threat, and now looked upon his father coldly as he continued to fight back his anger.

"I could never forget your…determination…in reminding me of my place," Mae'rillar gritted out, putting as much threat behind his words as his father had and maybe some more besides – for he had the memory of the whip across his back and his father the memory but of the handle against his palm.

Pulling free sharply from Firzin's grasp, he moved for the archway ahead as his sisters had before him. Though he heard his father's angry hiss, he knew not even the vengeful Weapon Master would strike at him there, just footsteps from their Matron's meeting hall. His satisfaction at so riling his father was short lived, however, for the colossal room in which he found himself beyond the archway sent his thoughts spiralling as dizzyingly as the twisting rise of the great glass tower above it, as displayed through the clear domed roof arching overhead.

With its large central dais, awash in the writhing lights of Faerie Fire filtering down through the crystal tower above, there was a strange symmetry between this place and the hall dedicated to Eilistraee in Lith My'athar. Just as surface world animals and plants had decorated the roof of that chamber, so did black cobwebs and a central spider emblazon the glass dome of his mother's hall.

Where an altar had rested to catch the light in Lith My'athar, a throne carved from glittering white and purple quartz stood at the top of this central dais – and upon it reclined his mother, dark and slender, resplendent in a deep purple dress shimmering with black gems. Black mithral spiders glinted along each twist of her thick white hair, plaited over her shoulder and hanging to her hip. Her six-headed snake whip writhed and hissed where it waited draped across the top step of the dais, its black bone handle held deceptively loosely in her long, thin fingers. Upon such a seat, in a hall so dauntingly vast and grand, a tall, elaborate crown of polished obsidian and amethyst upon her head, she looked more of a queen than a Matron of a minor house newly defected from Menzoberranzan.

Dark-elf soldiers stood in an ominous semi-circle along the far wall, and upon the balcony arcing above them there waited six red-robed Drow females, adorned in symbols which Mae'rillar vaguely remembered from his lessons in the wizards' academy of Menzoberranzan, Sorcere. These were the sigils of the Infernal realm; of the Nine Hells themselves. The sight of them sent a shiver up his spine, a feeling almost as chilling as that which filled him when he met his mother's large amber eyes, just a few shades lighter than his own, and saw the wicked smile written across her deceptively beautiful face. She had recognised his fear, and it pleased her to see him so afraid. As her glance swept past Firzin – who lingered behind Mae'rillar – to Querthra and Kirthel beside him, the young warrior recognised that for all their varying degrees of composure, his mother knew that behind their facades they all felt equal trepidation at the sight of their matron so fearsomely defended and impressively adorned.

Mae'rillar had known his mother's ambition was boundless, but he had at least always found some comfort in the idea that, as the leader of the fiftieth house of Menzoberranzan, she would always be shackled by the limitations of her inheritance. It filled him with dread to see her so opulent, with such manpower at her disposal that she could command the construction of this complex. Her smile widened when she saw his eyebrows raise in understanding. Conquest. Of course. Somehow, she had found the backing to fuel her dreams of conquest.

At last the rest of her children stepped up to join Mae'rillar at the foot of the steps to the dais; along with Querthra and Kirthel there were two more daughters and her youngest son, the unsettlingly quiet mage Varel who was only newly returned from Sorcere. Only once all of her offspring waited before her did Matron Kilath stand to her full, long-limbed height.

"You are afraid," Matron Kilath noted, her voice resounding easily in the large hall though she had not raised it, "Though some of you would have me think otherwise," her amber gaze flashed from Querthra to Kirthel, pointedly skipping over Firzin before settling knowingly upon Mae'rillar and lingering upon him as she continued, as if watching his steady comprehension, "You would do well to admit your fear of what I can do for this house, and to those who stand against me. I have made allegiances with those who hold power beyond the means of mortals…which you shall soon observe."

Matron Kilath gestured wordlessly to Kirthel, barely giving her a cursory glance as her youngest daughter approached up the steps to hand the sinister medallion to her mother. Momentarily Mae'rillar wondered if he should warn her of its earlier curse, but thought better of it. Better that Kirthel take the blame…and he found himself curious as to how his mother would react to being overcome by such an object. As it was, Matron Kilath simply took the object with a calm smile, the rubies glinting faintly in the dim glow of Faerie Fire, and waved her daughter away.

"I have already broken away from the petty squabbling of Menzoberranzan, and I have bent several of the city's houses to my will," there was a cold satisfaction in her tone as she spoke, toying with the strange object in her grasp with disturbing nonchalance, "And I have brought the Illithids of this region to our cause, among others who know it would be unwise to stand against us. And now, with this token I shall prove to you why it is my right…and that it is my purpose… to conquer the Underdark for our House, and why all of the Realms will learn to fear us as they should."

Looking to his siblings, Mae'rillar saw his sisters and his brother were beginning to smile as their mother explained her plan of conquest. As she stood there by her throne in such a vast fortress, a complex teeming with well-armed soldiers, and speaking of allegiance with the Illithids and the other creatures of the Underdark, it seemed hard to disagree with Matron Kilath. But Mae'rillar could find no cause to smile even as his siblings did so beside him. He had felt the necromantic magic of the creature who gave them that medallion which his mother now held aloft, and he felt only a sweeping chill of dread when his mother turned to face the red-robed priestesses upon the balcony. The medallion roared into bright flame, which apparently caused no discomfort to Matron Kilath.

A darkness fell which not even infravision could penetrate, but through it Mae'rillar could hear his mother's voice rising over the chants of the red-robed priestesses, all uttering a prayer in a language which made his skin crawl. Eventually, the grinding of stone drowned out all other sound and a dull red glow spread through the magically darkened room. Mae'rillar stumbled back along with his siblings, seeing varying degrees of fear and shock on their faces as the ground shook and flame rose from the floor between Matron Kilath's pedestal and the priestess's balcony. From that flame, only half-seen from around the high pedestal, there rose a creature beyond anything Mae'rillar could have expected – or even imagined.

A pair of fiery wings spread momentarily outwards as if in flight, and the Devil from which they sprouted stood from the obscured portal. Humanoid in shape, with the sharp, regular features of an Elvish man, but with the glittering black eyes and cracked, red skin of the Nine Hells, he rose to tower almost up to the balcony, his black-clad form vast and muscular, the staff he held crackling audibly with malicious magic. His gaze, altogether too pointed and intelligent, fell immediately upon Matron Kilath, who was only just lowering the medallion to meet her newest servant's gaze. A smile spread across his face at the sight of her, a look of victory if ever Mae'rillar saw one. It made the young Drow shudder, rooted to his place now as he took in the scene, the impenetrable darkness finally lifting from all corners of the room.

"Mistress," the Devil intoned pleasantly, taking half a step forward before coming up against some kind of unseen barrier. Tendrils of magic spread from the hands of the still-chanting priestesses above him, weaving mighty chains into the air which coiled around his massive shoulders and forced him to stagger back until they held him fast to the wall. He looked at the new constraints as if stricken by some particularly hurtful insult, and then back up to Matron Kilath, "These bonds were hardly necessary, surely?" There was palpable mockery in his words.

"I would be a fool to trust you – Mephistopheles, Prince of Cania," Matron Kilath's voice shook with rage, but her stance was unreadable from behind. Even her snake whip was placid at her feet, "You are mine to command, and you will act as we discussed."

They watched each other for a wary moment before Matron Kilath turned once more to face her children, advancing but a few more steps towards them. Her amber eyes shone with her wicked glee, flickering back and forth from the red of infravision as her sight adjusted to the new lighting conditions. Again she held aloft the flickering medallion, and her voice commanded the undivided attention of all those in the hall.

"You see now the true power that I wield. I have summoned the mighty Mephistopheles, a Lord of the Nine Hells and the Prince of Cania, the Eighth Hell," she lowered her voice, and gestured to the ground before them, "Kneel before your Valsharess."

"Valsharess!" the chorus spread like a wave across those gathered in the room, and one by one they all knelt. Firzin was the first to defer, of course, even before the red priestesses, while Varel and the younger daughters followed suit with almost as much painful sycophancy. At last Querthra complied, and Mae'rillar was quick to follow her – but he could not bring himself to utter that title, and he noted his mother's expression flickered at that, the Devil behind her grinning just a little more broadly.

"Mae'rillar," his mother's tone was sharp, her lip curling in a sneer as she regarded him, "I hear that you have some…information for this house," she nodded towards Kirthel, who failed to hide her smirk. Of course his youngest sister would have told her first, while Firzin kept him waiting!

"Yes…Valsharess," Mae'rillar rose to his feet at her gesture, the ancient title bitter on his tongue. It was a taboo word in Menzoberranzan, for it carried all the weight of 'tyrant', 'warlord' and 'queen'. No Drow house wanted its power to be drowned out by the whims of an empress, but that was how she had now chosen to be seen.

"Then speak, fool!" his mother snapped, and her eyes flashed with triumph when she saw rage flicker across his face. She always did like to push him to the limits of his temper, "The rest of you…out."

Mae'rillar watched his siblings leave, Kirthel pointedly pushing past him as she went – she had clearly hoped their mother would allow her to stay, and it was certainly unprecedented that a simple Drow male would be held behind to speak in confidence without his sisters being present to hear. Firzin lingered at the door, glaring, but could not muster the courage to stay too long. The threat in his eyes had been enough.

Thus it was that with Mephistopheles looking on with poorly disguised interest and Matron Kilath descending the stairs from her throne, Mae'rillar explained all that had happened in Skullport. His mother's smile grew as he told her of the unfamiliar settlement of Lith My'athar, but the look did not reach her eyes. He neglected to mention the boy who he had indirectly saved, or the kindly priestess who appeared to have been some kind of leader among those followers of Eilistraee. He left any mention of the necromantic magic he had suffered for the acquisition of the medallion until last, for he had assumed that all of these events were connected. Why else had he been teleported to the fight between the assassins and the two priestesses of Eilistraee? But when he said as much, Matron Kilath threw back her head and laughed.

"Oh, how naïve!" she fairly cackled then, looked once more upon her son, and a cold stab shot through his heart. He had assumed that there was some kind of warning intended for the Drow of Menzoberranzan behind the actions of the Eilistraee worshippers, and now his mother's expression told him otherwise, "There was no 'curse' upon the medallion, merely an enchantment to hold you disabled for the appropriate time, and the cut of the courier's knife came at my request. Your meeting with the priestesses of Eilistraee was pure coincidence, a side effect of necessary magic which inadvertently teleported you to their aid," her words were dripping with scorn as she paced before him across the bottom step of her pedestal, always careful to tower over those who served her, "I required a little blood to seal the pact meant to summon Mephistopheles," she gestured to the prince of Hell and he inclined his head, altogether too pleased to be a captive, "Yours came easily. And as for the settlement, this…Lith My'athar…they shall be a lesson to the rest of the Underdark that the only way to survive my power is to obey me."

Her smile only grew as Mae'rillar blanched, as if daring him to act upon the rage that swelled within him. The necromancy had been her doing! He should have known. He should have expected, or at least suspected, that his apparent leadership of the quest in Kirthel's stead could have come to no good. He was male; he was expendable to her, as Firzin had told him. But she was his Matron Mother, a power great enough to summon a Prince of the Nine Hells – a Devil currently watching him with an amused smirk.

Fighting his rage, Mae'rillar forced himself to meet his mother's eyes, those eyes just a shade closer to sulphurous yellow than his own. He swallowed his curses, though she watched him with that same satisfied, knowing look which meant she might as well have heard them all the same.

"Y-you mean to attack Lith My'Athar?" his voice came out hoarse, to his own surprise. He knew the stab of cold which jolted through his now pounding heart for what it was: horror, guilt perhaps. No one had ever shown him kindness…and now…

"I do not mean merely to attack Lith My'Athar," Matron Kilath told him, taking a slow step forward, brushing the back of one cool, slender hand across his cheek, running a strand of his hair between finger and thumb until it caught the dim light of a distant candle, glinting almost golden. It was all he could do not to flinch away from her touch, feeling the twist of the snake heads of her whip against his arm, an unsubtle threat of what would happen to him should he ever voice those quelled curses, "I intend to destroy them, my son."

"A meagre settlement like that?" Mae'rillar forced incredulity rather than hatred into his tone, his skin crawling at her touch, "Do you not wish to move against a more…worthy settlement? Menzoberranzan, or Skullport perhaps?"

For a moment Matron Kilath simply stared at him, and upon hearing the hissing of her snakes he tensed, fearing he had yet again overstepped his place and attempted to prepare for his punishment. But eventually Matron Kilath smiled slowly.

"In time," she agreed at last, glancing pointedly toward Mephistopheles, who inclined his head in silent and unexplained understanding, "But I have heard tell of these…Eilistraee heretics, and of their hidden city, Lith My'athar. They hold a passageway to the surface world within their temple, so I have been told. It leads to the very heart of the human city of Waterdeep," something like mania flashed across her eyes, "If I am to hold the Underdark I must first control its most…profitable exits."

"…Valsharess," Mae'rillar gritted out, flinching away instinctively when one of the snakes began to coil slowly around his forearm, much to his mother's amusement, "May Lady Lolth guide you to victory, in her name."

"Oh, indeed," Matron Kilath inclined her head, her look altogether too pleased, waving a hand to dismiss her son, "Your advice has been invaluable, but I doubt your heart. You could be the greatest Weapon Master of this house's history, but I do so fear that you have a weak stomach."

Her words cracked like a whip against his back, full of menace as he had begun to turn away.

"I would have you with my army in this coming battle," she continued, "To prove that you are not the coward I fear. Act admirably, and you will be my Weapon Master. Firzin is a tiresome beast at the best of times, and I will have the best for House Kilath. If you return successful, I will give you your deserved position, and your father will try to kill you. Slay him with Lolth's blessings, my son, and honour will be yours. But first, you must oversee the destruction of Lith My'Athar."


Skullport and Old Lith My'Athar

Undermountain-Underdark Border

1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,

Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'

"I don't see them," Sharwyn hissed into Mae'rillar's ear as they rushed through Skullport's narrowest, most dizzyingly winding streets.

The Drow did not look round, his expression fixed into a frown of concentration, his gloved hand firmly but not painfully gripping her upper arm. They had not lingered at the inn after he had awoken her. Instead they had crept down the stairs – which had seemed silent and peaceful enough to the human woman – and out through the kitchens, through a wooden door which had looked remarkably new in its old, mouldering frame. Mae'rillar had hesitated as they stepped out into a small back yard full of kegs of ale, a little boat moored nearby where the lake had been permitted a path through the buildings ahead. It had been just a moment, a flash of recognition in his eyes, before he had stooped to pick the enormous lock on the gate beside them; its chain had slid into his palm, unclasped, just as readily as one held by a less imposing padlock. After that their pace had not relented.

Sharwyn could hardly believe their pursuers could still be following them; surely they must have been lost amongst the many other figures pacing the streets at this hour? It was not an unusual thing, a pair of shifty travellers cloaked and hooded against recognition here in Skullport, and this city was no more susceptible to the hour of the day than anywhere else in the Underdark no matter its clock tower bells. And if that had not been enough, Mae'rillar had insisted they hurry through these cramped, dirty backstreets. It was a tiring, disorientating march, and it might have made a less experienced adventurer more than a little jumpy. But Sharwyn had seen the hordes of the Underdark and the ice of Cania. She had her longsword, her bow and her harp. And she had Mae'rillar. Would-be attackers should fear them.

Such a thought only fuelled her confusion over her friend's haste and his determination not to meet the Duergar pursuing them in Skullport. Mae'rillar's anxiety was more unsettling than the threat of a potential attack.

"They are following us, do not doubt it," Mae'rillar promised, pulling Sharwyn with him sharply around the next corner, "Whether for bounty or sport I do not know – but we shall soon test their resolve."

The woman had to pull up short, faced as they were by the towering wall of stone which marked the end of Skullport's cavern environs. A gap in the rock waited ahead; barred by a warded gate it stood maybe three feet off the ground, some six feet high but not more. Valen would have had to stoop. The thought sent a pang through the woman's heart and she glanced uncomfortably towards Mae'rillar – but the Drow was already moving towards the gate, opening it without hesitation and gesturing sharply for her to go ahead. She knew those wards well; they had stood at the boundaries of Lith My'Athar's environs. In Waterdeep there might have been a sign up beside them that read 'no re-admittance; exit only'. There were only a few ways into Skullport, but many ways out.

"I take it we aren't returning then," the woman noted dryly as she pulled herself into the opening, peering into the void ahead and allowing her eyes to adjust to the lack of light with the aid of the magical circlet she wore, painting the darkness for her in shades of silver. It showed her that this tunnel stretched jaggedly ahead for only a short distance before branching off into three separate pathways; one taller and sloping steeply downwards, another smaller and inclining upwards, and the third turning sharply right, emanating an uncommonly nauseating stench.

"This way," Mae'rillar promised with the certainty only a Drow could possess in this environment, opting for the path down. Sharwyn still had enough wits about her to tell that this led north and east out of Skullport; to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden it would be, then. That was what Nathyrra's letter had begged of them, after all.

Mae'rillar led Sharwyn unrelentingly through the darkness. She had no way of telling how long they had been walking, though her legs ached wretchedly and her head was pounding from the constant threat of this place. With a less skilled guide than Mae'rillar it would have been impossible to get this far through the winding tunnels of the Underdark without stumbling upon some fatal trap or falling prey to something lurking in the gloom. With the Drow's competence came certainty…and with his absolute certainty came this wearying march.

Though she trusted Mae'rillar to guide her well through these twisted, jagged walls of stone and the eerie silence of the tunnels, with no way of knowing what might be around the next corner, their journey was wearing on her nerves. Even the distant drip of water or a rush of wind brought on by some distant exit to the surface sent her reeling into a battle stance, and her nerves were jangling from the constant pressure to maintain utter silence. Sharwyn had kept the presence of mind to wear the boots Nathyrra had gifted her those years ago when last she had been in the Underdark; enchanted to render her footsteps inaudible, they were invaluable to her in this place. But alas she could not avoid the creaking of her leather tunic, or the risk of scraping her scabbard against the stone walls. She could not match her companion's perfect silence.

When Mae'rillar stopped suddenly ahead of her, Sharwyn almost walked right into him. Even with the aid of her circlet, his dark clothes blended in with their surroundings well enough that she could often hardly make him out. He turned to meet her gaze just in time, eyes flashing bright white in the silvery rendering of her circlet. Had she removed the ornament those eyes would have been all she could have seen, two points of sharp crimson cutting through the utter dark.

"We will await them in the cavern beyond," Mae'rillar murmured, his voice barely audible to the woman. Had she been Drow, he would have used his people's sign language to avoid drawing attention to them in this place of shadowy threat, but such complicated gestures were beyond human dexterity and – even after months spent in the Underdark those years before – Sharwyn had never been able to follow the quick, intricate gestures. Gods save her, she had tried.

"Then we are not going to the Promenade?" Sharwyn could not hide the surprise in her tone, even whispering.

"No," Mae'rillar's smile with almost a grimace, "Though we are not far from that place."

"Nathyrra said she would be waiting there, that the Seer…"

"Yes, but the cavern ahead was once home to our Seer. I met her there, before she took her title. It is now abandoned, Old Lith My'Athar," he looked away as he spoke, sadness creeping into his tone as he gestured for Sharwyn to follow him, "There are wards in this place of which she has since told me. They will suffice in turning the odds more in our favour, once our pursuers reach us. Better that they never know the location of the Promenade, not even for the fleeting moments more that they shall live once they catch us. Come."

Old Lith My'Athar. Sharwyn had heard of this place, in passing. Many times Mae'rillar had spoken of its destruction with a sadness that the bard knew stemmed from guilt. She would have thought this would be the last place he would bring her, especially when threatened by these Duergar. Sharwyn and Mae'rillar together had the means to remove their threat without leaving Skullport, surely? But he knew this world better than her, and she was – quite literally – in no place to argue.

Thus it was that the bard followed Mae'rillar out of the tunnel and in to a large cavern, and never had she seen more beautiful ruination. Graven towers and sweeping houses – though broken and crumbling – where still a-glitter with artful clusters of quartz, the ceiling awash with stalactites sparkling in shafts of sunlight. The doorways were open and dark, and only shattered stone remained to show of the violence here. Anything of value had been taken and no life lingered in this place nor any hint of its passing. Not a single bone, nor scrap of cloth. A great domed temple of white stone rose proudly from the centre of the cavern upon a platform maybe fifty steps high, decorated with glittering gems and carved with arcane and holy words. Untouched by the violence around it, the building stood directly beneath the brightest shaft of sunlight and in this dark world it shone like the sun.

But for Mae'rillar's headlong progression towards the temple, Sharwyn might have lingered at the tunnel mouth, her heart pounding, her throat constricting, tears of awe in her eyes. What might it have once been like when life bustled there? She could see there were many homes clustered by the temple, now abandoned, and several watchtowers around the perimeter to protect from the threats of the Underdark. Two stone columns stood at the edge of a wide river, showing that once a jetty had stood there, perhaps linking this place to Skullport and the nearby Promenade of the Dark Maiden.

"We will wait in here," Mae'rillar informed Sharwyn as she caught up to him on the steps of the temple, "Help me with the gates."

The heavy stone doors were flung wide open, as it happened, but once inside the temple the Drow was determined that the gate be closed. It took both of them pulling on the levers within to wind those doors closed and once they were finished both travellers slumped to sit upon the smooth marble ground, panting.

"You Eilistraee worshippers like to make things pretty, don't you?" Sharwyn noted breathlessly, looking around this domed hall appreciatively. The sunlight from above filtered through an oculus, falling upon a central altar of plain grey stone, raised upon yet more steps. The ceiling was decorated with designs of animals and plants, along with the moon and its Tears. But for the scratches and scorch marks upon that roof, the bard might never have known that this place had been subjected to Drow violence along with the rest of the city. Its floor was smooth and polished as if yet tended, its semi-circular balcony still help up by proud fluted columns. The only other door in the room stood closed, with no sign of a break-in.

"There once stood a silver dish upon that altar, filled with water," Mae'rillar gestured to the centre of the room a little half-heartedly, also still trying to catch his breath after their struggle with the levers, "The sunlight was refracted in all the colours of the rainbow. It was here that I met the Seer, and she healed my wounds – I was her captive then, though briefly. She looked at me…" his expression grew thoughtful, his eyes staring ahead as if seeing something far away, "She looked at me with that smile of hers…"

"That one that says, 'I know what you want in life, but I won't tell you because there's more fun in keeping you guessing'?" Sharwyn suggested, and Mae'rillar glanced at her with a grin, in spite of the memories this place brought him.

"Yes, that look. And she told me that I would come back to this place. I never thought that it would be in violence," he scrubbed at his face with his gloved palms, and Sharwyn nudged him with her shoulder.

"No matter what you say, it's not your fault. I know you've said before you played a part in this place's destruction but I know you, and I know it can't be as simple as all that. The Seer survived, for one," Sharwyn pointed out, nudging him again when he did not respond, "How long do we have before our…friends…arrive?"

"An hour, maybe?" Mae'rillar made as if to say something more, but then paused, glancing at his bard companion in understanding, "You wish to know it all? After all this time?"

"We have a spare hour," Sharwyn shrugged, "And you're not half so well suited to that mysterious game as our Seer. Your attraction comes from other sources." She flashed him her best smile when he arched an eyebrow at her flippant tone.

"Very well," the Drow agreed after a moment, "What better place to tell this story than where it began."