Disclaimer: All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

Bah, what to say? How 'bout: "Next time I say chapter's coming out soon, don't trust me!"? And I guess the same goes whenever I say "It'll be a short one." OK, a whole bunch of things were kicking in, writer's block not being the least of them. Everything was going nice and smooth, and then all out of sudden I find my own plots overlapping and getting so out of hand my head begun to hurt! What's worse, every time I solved one thing, three more loose ends came sneaking up on me, daggers ready. However, I think I managed to wriggle my way out of most of it, and I sincerely hope this chapter will prove to be worth all the waiting.

A few words on the chapter itself: Very proud of this one! Very, very proud! Gave myself the liberty to extend Valen's story a bit, think I showed stages of drunkenness in Shi'van's case pretty well and also gave one long-neglected character a bit of a spotlight. I refer, of course, to Karandras who is, in this chapter, actively bugging people. ;) But what I'm proud of the most are the drow interactions, namely Kimmuriel-Seer banter. However, since I am the one writing it, of course it sounds OK to me. I would appreciate your thoughts on it greatly.
Another thing about the chapter: The diapers exchange is stolen directly from The Monkey Island – the coolest point-and-click game ever! The Skullport references are taken from Joseph C. Wolf's Skullport handbook.

Lastly, I'll use this opportunity to say that inspite all the death threats I flung his way, I am not responsible for Shadow's sudden disappearance! Hmmm… or maybe I am? Maybe I bored him to death with this story at last? ;)

Oh, and huge thanks to Lord Onisyr, my appointed editor for this chapter.

The Clash of Shadows

chapter 16

Back From The Dead
part two

Restless Night

Rothe Pens Guard Post…

The human squinted, peering beyond the circle of light that the torch on the bracket beside him provided, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Where the hell was he? What was happening to him? A slave, slave to the duergar, then to the illithids… And now? Rescued by drow! He just couldn't understand it. But then, nothing really made any sense in the past few… Months? Years? How long has it been since he last saw the blessed light of the sun? Centuries? It sure seemed like centuries to him. Centuries, in the darkness.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from all the memories, he squinted again, the surrounding darkness reminding him for the thousand time that this was not his world, not his place… And not his job, he reflected an instant later as the rothe within the pen mooed again. No, guarding the rothe pens was definitely not the duty he fancied much but, apparently, he was stuck with it nevertheless.

A fair-sized herd of rothe which, to him, looked like a curious cross between a yak and a pig, grazed the glowing lichen and fungi. Glowing, just as rothe themselves occasionally glowed. Dim and eerie. Just what he needed to make his bleak mood even bleaker.

For the third time, he squinted and rubbed his eyes tiredly when a sudden commotion within the pen snapped him to attention. A movement somewhere to the left of the gate, just beyond the human's ability to see, made a good two-third of the normally docile beasts start bucking and mooing excitedly. For an instant only, a huge shape, easily the size of the biggest rothe bull in the pen, stepped out of the shadows and into the soft bluish glow of now positively panicked cattle. With a startled yelp, the human jumped back.

"What're ye about…?" a scruffy-looking dwarf beside him demanded, his hand already clutching the handle of an old battleaxe.

"T… The… There…" stammered the human, pointing a shaky finger in the dark shape's direction.

With a grumble addressed straight into his grizzled, unkempt beard, the dwarf rose to his feet and peered with his one good eye into the darkness. A testy drwarvish curse escaped his throat the instant his one-eyed gaze caught the sight of a pair of yellow-glowing eyes and, more pointedly, a huge grinning muzzle of what appeared to be a rather amused dire shadow wolf.

Amused indeed by all the attention he was suddenly receiving, Karandras focused his gaze on the two humanoids fully and gave them a big wolfish grin, his impressive set on fangs fully on display. The shorter fellow ("Dwarf," was it? Not very tasty kind of a bipedal.), responded with something that, Karandras was certain, wasn't overly complimentary. However, he found that to be far more amusing then offending, so he merely grinned even wider and trotted a few casual steps forward.

The taller guy (a "human". More tasty bipedal… though not nearly as soft and satisfying as, say, an elf.) reached for a shortbow… but sadly was too startled to remember to notch an arrow as well. The shorter, bearded one, planted his feet firmly beneath him and gave his axe what was supposed to be a threatening swing.

Karandras stopped short, pulled his head back and cocked it slightly. Now wasn't that sweet, he chuckled. However, his good-spirited snicker got completely misinterpreted by the bipedal duo in front of him. Shorty gripped his axe even tighter and… Growled? Kar's ears pressed back and close to his head. Now, if that wasn't the most pathetic attempt of a growl he had ever heard! My, but that poor biped soul could really use some tips here.

Being a kind-hearted creature that he was, always willing to help others improve, Karandras coughed once to clear his throat and then, enthusiastically, showed the ignorant biped how growling was really done.

"HMGWTF…!" the human stuttered, his shortbow leaving his hands the moment first low tones erupted from the huge beast's throat, his dwarven companion almost losing the grip on his axe as well. Though, in hindsight, the dwarf did prove to be slightly more eloquent as the shadow wolf instructed him in the finer art of low growling.

Karandras gave them both a big smile, having just decided that he likes these two bipeds. They were so sweet. And so funny. And surely, far more amusing then the stupid (yet quite tasty) beasts on the other side of the fence. Why, the only thing his curious sniffing from few moments ago yielded was some mild bucking, even while it did hold a promise of a nice little stampede to follow. Still, amusing as the idea was, Karandras just wasn't in a mood for starting one… Yet. And anyway, who's to say if his mistress would find that stampede to be equally amusing. Once she comes back from her little drinking session, that is. Speaking of which…

Being mentally merged with such a troubled mind was really difficult sometimes, especially lately, as her mood grew even darker and her thoughts more insane by the hour. And when some heavy drinking lands on top of all that… Whoa! You're in for quite an experience then, should you happen to be in Karandras' shoes… errr, paws.

Still, she was fair. Once she begun getting really drunk, she let him go prowl on his own while she went to consume her third (and fourth, and fifth and how many can you count) bottle in the privacy of the Reaper's realm. Generous, really. Getting drunk without even ever licking a drop himself was not the kind of experience Karandras longed for. And she knew that very well, which is why she made it her point to offer him some booze before she left. Truly, a wonderful pack-mate, that girl, more then a decent companion to have around (which is why he chose to stick with her in the first place) and, undeniably, life was never boring beside her. Difficult – yes, but boring…? No way! Just the way Karandras liked it. Though, if she would only sometimes…

/TWANG/

A poorly-shot arrow bouncing off the rock and landing at his front paws snapped Karandras from his contemplations. Lowering his head curiously, he carefully studied the small, pointy object while his nostrils filled with a rapidly increasing smell of sweat and fear emanating from the taller guy. (Not that the short one was much better off, but at least he was hiding it better.) Sparing a moment to consider whether or not he should be insulted by this outburst of completely unprovoked unfriendliness, Karnadras gently picked up the offending projectile into his muzzle, deciding to hold his judgment until he checks if maybe the biped simply made a mistake thinking that shadow wolves might like to play fetch.

Arrow in his jaws and an innocent look in his golden-yellow eyes, the elegant beast merrily trotted up to the, now strangely frozen-looking, bipeds and wagged his tail.

To the best of his deductive abilities, this had a potential to turn into a very amusing night indeed.

Courtyard Shadows…

Numb. That's how she felt – Numb. And given the amount of liquor she just poured into herself, it was about a bloody time too. And she still wasn't drunk properly. High alcohol tolerance… Thank-you, streets of Calimport and all the years of drinking there. And drugs. Don't forget the drugs. And before that, the snakes, and after the snakes… But that's another story. Or no. It was not another story! It was her story.

But she didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to remember. Sadly, her memories didn't give a rat's ass about what she wanted or not, and surfaced regardless.

Guess the saying is right after all – "That which doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger." She snickered at the notion. "In my case," she mumbled, "it's more like what did kill you…" And made you numb.

Numbness… Tips of the fingers, losing their touch; head, feeling as if it was going to float off and away; reflexes, slow… Should anyone wish to kill her, now would be the perfect time to strike. Or would it? She took another swig. No, not yet. Still not drunk enough to be taken down so easily. So no, the question wasn't could she defend herself now – the real question was would she. Would she have the will to do so? Or a reason? Any reason at all?

It wasn't the numbness of the body. It was the numbness of the soul. And that numbness grew, regardless of any drink, of any poison she (or anyone else) might choose to stuff her with. The soul was long poisoned already. Poisoned, with ashes.

Damn you, tiefling! And you too, Imloth, you damnable bastard! And you, Halaster, you crazy old fuck! Damn you, above all others, you nutcase… You… You…You know what?" she said, addressing the image of the wizard of the Undermountain in her mind's eye, "As one insane Bleaker-case to another – Fuck you!"

She downed the last drops of her liquor and corked open another bottle. She hardly noticed when it became half-empty. Or half-full, as some would say. To her, it was half-empty, with a prospect of becoming completely empty real soon. Empty… Like her.

And just when she was starting to get better again. Just as she was about to give life another shot…

Which one was it? Second? Third? Yes, third. Those few moments between coming out of the womb and having a knife across the throat can hardly count, can they now? She rubbed her neck absentmindedly and gripped the bottle tighter. So third it was then. Three lives… Three deaths. Violent. Every time. And still, her body just kept moving on. But what of the soul? Or the mind? …Or the heart? Provided she even had any of the three.

Drogan… Yes, those were the good times. The quiet times. Or maybe not all that quiet, but still, times of peace. Times of calm, of mending, of healing… of restoring… Times of certainty. Of sanity. Or whatever was left of it anyway. Hells, even with that stupid little paladin around, it was still all well and good. Six years… And now it was all gone. Shattered. Crumbled. Again. As ever.

But she healed. She survived. It didn't break her. Not completely. And she put it behind, all of it, and was ready to start anew. A new life. A new… hope? Was it hope? No, no it couldn't have been hope. Hope is for fools. A new chance then? Yes, a chance. Fought for and seized as a prize. A chance for a new life. A fresh start. In Sigil. It would've been so good… had it ever happened. Only it didn't. Lured by the promise of easy cash, she ended up here instead – Deep down in the darkness where the Fate, that fickle bitch, replayed the history for her… Again!

Sinvyl… The attack… Destruction… Death. Then slavery… Again. Different masters, same game. And dead, once more. Dead.

She clutched the dagger tightly, a shaky hand not quite able to press the bottle to the lips, as the assault of memories and mixed emotions rushed through her head.

Anger… Pain… Fear…

Her father… The traitor… The attack…

One night, one single furious night… But disasters hardly ever take longer than that.

And now? Here and now? It was happening again, all over again – a small band of drow, various rag-tags in tow, and Sinvyl, coming in for a kill.

Fuck! She slammed the bottle hard on the ground. And then, suddenly, grinned - A sick little grin, straight out of the lands of insanity and onto her liquor-wetted lips. Yes, the void was strong inside her. But so was the anger. Not as strong, but still there… Still enough. For now. That should keep her going a while longer. That, and the pain…

Funny that, that pain thing. First you hate it, then you try running away from it and then, after you succeed in escaping, you find yourself so far away that the very same pain you ran away from now became the only thing that can pull you back. Weird. But true. Not even Drogan could explain it fully. A paradox. A loop… A double-bladed weapon, just like everything else. Run from the pain, enter the state worse than pain. That which doesn't kill you…

Oh, to hell with it all! And to hell with them all, the damned wizard and the bloody tiefling first… Though, in hindsight, the tiefling's likely been there already. Well, may he go there again! He was the one who brought it all up, he was the one who pried and poked… he was the one who made her remember… who helped push her over the edge… into emptiness. And according to Karandras, right now, he too was drinking, somewhere near the river bank. And likely doing a bit better job of it then she did – For all his size and constitution, she was certain she could still drink him under the table any ol' day. "After all, I'm a 'professional'," she thought dryly. Her bladder capacity might be a bit wanting compared to his, though… Bah! Whatever! May he pee himself!

And with that final image of a a certain tiefling wetting his pants, Shi'van activated the relic and stepped through the binding, her drunken mind vaguely realizing that, should she stay here a while longer, someone might as well trip on her… and that would not be pretty, for either of the parties involved.

Dark River Dock…

"I hope he gets back in time," Rizolvir mumbled leaning back on the fence and staring at the empty dock. For a while, the Dark River's gurgling was all he heard until at length, Valen spoke.

"Don't trust a marraenoloth, Rizolvir. Never. Even if he is an outcast… which, by the way, I doubt."

"A what-loth?"

"Marraenoloth. A yugoloth… Boatmen of the Dark River…" the tiefling's voice trailed off.

Rizolvir looked at him, completely puzzled. Did the tiefling perhaps forget that he was surrounded by drow and not planars? What in the name of Vhaeraun was a "yugoloth"? And what's with those… whatever they were, and the Dark River? He was about to ask, but one look at the tiefling made him change his mind. Valen leaned heavily on the fence (which in turn squeaked dangerously) and stared at the river so intently that Rizolvir doubted his question would even be heard, let alone answered.

Shaking his head, he left Valen to his thoughts and strolled back to the forge to join Nathyrra again. Whatever Cavallas was, he just hoped he'll be back in time with that final shipment of fire bombs.

Back on the dock, a lone tiefling still stared at the Dark River… but not at the one that splashed and gurgled in front of him. He stared at another river, ironically enough, one of the very same name, that flowed through the places he'd rather forget. He stared back at the river Styx. The more he stared, more memories came back to him. And more he tried to push them back, the more persistent they became.

The splashing of dark waves echoing through the vastness of Outlands, the growling of fiends on the deck, the screams of slaves from below… and a silent, cloaked figure at the mast, effortlessly navigating the treacherous currents, calm and undisturbed, bringing the disorderly lot to their destination… to yet another battlefield. Valen's tail stiffened. How many times had he seen that scene? How many times was he aboard those vessels of death? Too many. He still remembered clearly the first time he sailed the Styx. …His first battle.

He wasn't older then maybe fifteen… and he was scared. His mentor, an older tiefling and a veteran of these trips, stood beside him, grinning in anticipation. He paid his young student's trembling no heed at all. Was it because he saw so many feeling the same before their first (and most often last) big battle or was it that he simply didn't care, Valen didn't know, but he did know that showing his fear too openly would do him no good – not in the battle and not before the battle either, should his mentor happen to pay some attention after all. Jha'naif was not known for his kindness… or patience. He was as fine a mentor as one could wish for as far as fine arts of combat went, but his methods of teaching and installing discipline in his students often had quite lethal consequences. At that point in time, Valen was one of the three that survived this far. After the battle, he was the only one which, he recalled, surprised both him and Jha'naif more then a little. Back then, Valen still didn't grow into his full size and coming from the streets of Sigil where he, like countless others, led the life of a small-time rogue left him pretty skinny and not terribly strong. Hard to believe that now, but back then, Valen was the smallest and the weakest of the three. But as the years went by, that too has changed. In just a few years, Valen grew both in strength and size, even above Jha'naif himself. And Jha'naif wasn't, by any measures, of small stature. But more then in size, Valen grew in power. And with him grew his battle lust. …And cruelty. And rage.

At twenty-odd, he was no longer a small, frightened boy clinging tightly to the ship's fence and staring in amazement at the dark waters beneath him. No, he was standing upright on the ship's deck, flexing his now-broad shoulders and casting an occasional glance at few youngsters who stared at the river, hoping to catch them letting their fear show so that he can give them a hard smack or two… or maybe even toss one overboard if the mood hits him. Later that day, his flail sticky with ooze and gore of his fallen enemies, he walked over their mutilated corpses on his way back to tanar'ri encampment, his only regret being the lack of more creatures to slay that day. Yes, at twenty-odd, Valen had grown into a true abyssal warrior – enduring, powerful, unruly and blood-thirsty beyond measure, just the way his master wanted him to be. And pleasing his master was all that mattered to him then. A pleased master rewarded his servants well.

Valen's hands bled as he clenched the dock fence so hard one of the bars snapped in two, the splinters stabbing into his palms. He looked down and shook his head, wiping the bloodied palm on his vest absentmindedly.

Why was he remembering all that? Why now? …Why at all? The river had been here all along, ever since he first came here, leading the rebels' retreat, and it never bothered him before. So why now?

"Shi'van," he muttered, realizing the true source of this sudden memory flood. Or no. Not the source – the cause! There was a profound difference. Shi'van was what caused it, her and that last… "talk" he had with her, but the source, the reason behind all this was himself – his own very self; his frustrations, fears and doubts; things that were piling up inside him for a long time indeed; things, that he refused to recognize even existed… or, to be more precise, existed still.

Blood War… Blood War, with all the carnage and bloodspraying splendor he so reveled in. Blood War, and all the scars it left him with. The sweet taste of blood, the pungent smell of death… And the joy of tasting it. The abyssal warrior, hungry for slaughter and with a heart of a beast.

His muscles tightened at the memories. He breathed in deeply, sucking the air in through his gritted teeth. Heart of a beast… The rage of a monster… A monster, that he strived so hard to get rid of. But a part of him nevertheless.

How do you get rid of something that, in the end, is you? How do you control it? How do you…

His head snapped up, tail stopping in a mid-lash and eyes turning two narrow slits. "Something that is you." Can it be that he had finally admitted that, at least to himself? Admitted that he truly was a raging beast, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, to control it and to bury it?

No. No! That wasn't right! It can't be right! It was just a matter of control, a matter of how able he was to keep the beast in check, to use its power without letting it rule him.

Only… if his temper-control was any measure of how successful he was, then it might as well be that the beast was ruling him already.

Frustrated, he pushed himself back from the dock fence and slumped down, an almost-empty bottle in his hand giving a sound clank as it hit the ground. He stared at it for a few moments and then flung it with all his strength straight into the river.

Dammit! He wasn't thinking straight. He was drunk. Or semi-drunk. Either way, the liquor wasn't helping him think at all. And there were things he definitely needed to think through and sort out, once and for all.

House Maeviir…

"Bah!" A spell book went flying across the room, flipped open in mid-flight, lost a few pages and then crashed into the wall, dangerously near a shelf filled with bottles. Tarnash grinned. The wizard was really upset.

"What are you smirking at!" Gulthrys snapped.

Tarnash merely shrugged. Yes, Gulthrys was upset. Very upset. And Tarnash found the sight of usually so smug and self-assured wizard to be a very amusing one. He casually placed his hands on the hilts of his swords… "…and like I said, being an off-hand weapon in hands of a left-handed fighter is really…" …and snatched them back instantly. Old habits die hard. However, this old habit of resting his hands on sword hilts will have to die very, very swiftly.

Seeing the Weapon Master wince brought an amused half-smirk on wizard's face. Tarnash narrowed his eyes. Usually, Gulthrys would have at least one poisonous remark flying his way by now. The fact that he barely found the will to smirk told him beyond doubt that things was indeed serious.

"You should've let the Eilistraee follower rot, damn you! We would've found our way up on our own!" Gulthrys raged, "Bah… That's what you get for associating yourself with rivvin… And female at that!"

"Half-drow," Tarnash corrected him somberly.

"Whatever!"

Gulthrys grumbled and then his gaze fell on Tarnash's sword. For a moment, he thought he saw a reddish glint emanating from the blade. Sensing his gaze, Tarnash slowly drew Enserrick (giving the sword a mental note that, should he say but a single word…) and presented it to Gulthrys.

Gulthrys glared at the weapon. "How…?" he begun, taken completely off his guard. This was clearly the shadowdancer's weapon…. And one she was known not to ever part with. What did the this bloody fool of a weapon master do now?

"No, she's not dead if that's what you're asking," The Weapon Master chuckled.

Gulthrys raised his eyebrows questioningly, waiting for further explanation.

Tarnash chuckled again, "She gave it to me."

The wizard didn't seem convinced.

"As a present really. …Must be my birthday or something…" the cocky Weapon Master continued. "A fine blade, don't you think?"

Gulthrys stared at him incredulously. Yes, a fine blade all right. And readily recognizable by any and all in Lith My'athar. To flaunt it around so openly was as sure a way to invite trouble as squishing a spider in front of a high priestess' nose! What in the Nine Hells was the Weapon Master thinking? …If he was capable of such a complicated mental process at all. Gulthrys' face contorted in fast-rising anger.

"Wael!" he hissed

In an instant, Tarnash had the weapon pressed to wizard's throat. "Watch your tongue," he suggested, "Lest I take it out."

Gulthrys' eyes became two slits of wrath as he locked gazes with the Weapon Master. For a moment, he considered reaching for his wand, but the coldness of steel at his throat made him decide against it. "And how 'bout you try this trick with our respected Matron?" he snarled.

Tarnash pulled the sword back. "Soon," he promised grimly.

"Soon," grumbled Gulthrys, rubbing his throat, "But will it be soon enough? Before she kills every last one of us? She's insane!"

Tarnash shook his head, his long white hair flying over his face. "Always was. What else is new?" he smirked

"You're insane too… "

Tarnash sighed. "And so are you for associating with me on this. But that's not really news, is it?"

Gulthrys mumbled something under his breath and begun tapping his fingers. "And just how do you plan to explain to Zessyr that you're wielding that iblith's sword and the iblith still draws breath?"

Tarnash grinned widely. "That's what I'm here for."

It took Gulthrys several moments to realize what the Weapon Master had in mind. Shooting Tarnash a particularly sour look, he motioned for him to unsheathe the sword and put it on the table. When Tarnash complied, he began an incantation, carefully tracing the blade's edge with his finger. He grinned slightly when out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarnash griping his other sword, Shebali, tightly. Well, not that he could rightfully blame him for his paranoia. After all, Tarnash was a fighter and although he, as every drow, had some basic knowledge about magic and could probably manage several cantrips himself, he still had no way of knowing wetter the wizard's soft chant will end in an offensive spell or not. And for a brief moment, he considered doing exactly the thing Tarnash feared he might do, but once more, decided against it. No point in slaying him... yet. Not until this whole mess was over anyway. And besides, as powerful as drow wizards were, they still bled much like everyone else (a fact that Gulthrys was reminded of all too keenly yesterday morning – courtesy of Matron Zessyr and her whip). Yes, even wizards were vulnerable sometimes, and at such times it was always prudent to have at least one fighter standing in front. So no, better that he keeps Tarnash as an ally then to add him to an already remarkable collection of stains on his carpet Gulthrys decided and kept his chant low and to the point, casting an elaborate illusion that would alter the sword's looks somewhat and hide it's aura.

Half the way through the spell though, Gulthrys begun to wonder was perhaps Tarnash setting him up …And at his own game at that. Just as he was about to begin the most complicated part of the spell, he thought he heard a faint voice somewhere in the back of his mind. A voice that, to his utter displeasure, obviously had many less-then-complimentary comments about his spell-casting skills. A glance to the side revealed him an all-too-smug look on Tarnash's face. His suspicions rose instantly.

"I forgot to mention," the Weapon Master said with a smirk, "He's quite chatty for a sword. Ex-wizard, I gather, who got himself stuck in there somehow. I thought you might enjoy some friendly advice while you work… And by the looks of it, I'm guessing he just begun giving you some."

Though he did hear a story or two about the strange water-dwelling creatures, Gulthrys had never seen a shark in his life, so he couldn't be really sure. But something told him that he just saw how does one look when grinning.

"You'll pay for this, Tarnash. ...Dearly," he promised darkly and went back to his casting, doing his best to ignore the annoying voice in his head.

After several long and, for Gulthrys, quite agonizing minutes, the spell was finished and the sword lying on his table now looked no different then the sword Tarnash previously had. The Weapon Master grinned, satisfied with the result, put Enserrick back into it's scabbard, and gave Gulthrys a friendly pat on the back.

The wizard jumped away and yelped. "Damn it! Can you be friendly with something else then my whipped back, you fiend?"

"Whoops. I forgot."

"I didn't," the wizard grumbled darkly, his thoughts once more flying back to yesterday morning. He was in a foul mood as it is and Zessyr's face in his mind's eye instantly put him in an even fouler one. Still grumbling, he shook his head and scanned the room, looking for something, anything, to look at so that the image of Zessyr would go away.

His eyes fell on several scrolls lying scattered about. He scanned them angrily, then picked one up and showed it to Tarnash. "Look at this."

The Weapon Master cocked his head curiously, though his hand already closed over the hilt once again in case the wizard planned to do something more then just show him the scroll.

"Finger of Death," Gulthrys said. "And this," he flashed another scroll "Summon Greater Shadow. And this," another scroll got shoved into Tarnash's face, "Hold Monster…"

Tarnash's patience was waning fast. "Your point?"

"My point?" Gulthrys pushed the scrolls aside. "My point is that it's all useless!"

Tarnash raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes! No spell called 'Hold Annoying Monster Of A Weapon Master At Bay' or 'Summon Bloody Shadowdancer When You Really Need One' or 'Finger Of Matron's Death' …Useless I tell you!"

Tarnash stared at the wizard open-mouthed. A clear mental image of a large thumb squishing Zessyr like a bug sprang into his mind. He burst into laughter.

"Gulthrys… I knew there was a reason why I always stop myself from killing you. "

"Mainly because you'd be dead before you even knew it," Gulthrys grumbled a half-hearted threat.

Tarnash leaned on the wall laughing even harder. "Yes. That must be it."

"Oh, great!" Gulthrys exhaled resignedly, slumping into his chair, "Dungeon full of his supporters, rest of the House forces' loyalties dwindling and changing faster then the priestesses mood, plans for Matron's downfall ruined, new ones not even beginning to come together and all he does is stand there, laughing like the biggest darthiir idiot! Honestly, Tarnash, sometimes I wonder if you even stopped wearing your diapers yet."

"Why? You want to borrow some?" Tarnash grinned back, ducking away even as the last word left his lips, deftly dodging a random object that predictably went flying his way. Gulthrys could be so amusing when pissed. Still, the Weapon Master decided against provoking the dangerous wizard further. Not only that he needed Gulthrys on his side in the oncoming coup, but also the next thing that will get launched in his direction would very likely be of far more explosive sort then the paper-weight that just made that nice little hole in the wall behind him. Tarnash was pretty sure he wouldn't enjoy spending the rest of his life (which was to say, both seconds) as a living torch before all that's left of him is a lovely pair of smoking boots.

"Tomorrow evening," he said, all traces of mirth gone from his voice at once.

"And then what?" the wizard snapped back.

Tarnash clenched his jaw while his gaze begun wondering aimlessly around the room. And then what indeed…

Originally, the plan was simple: Couple of hours before the Valsharess attacks, Shi'van was to kill Zesyyr and drag her body away. Then, he and Gulthrys could swiftly step in, claiming that Matron and few of her closest associates (who Shi'van was also to kill, aided, to some extent, by Gulthrys) lost their nerve and backed out at the last possible moment. It was plausible and believable and the rumors to back it up were already planted, long ago. Rumors that, Tarnash reminded himself sourly, were one of the reasons for the torture chambers being so full lately by the way. Anyway, in such situation, he and Gulthrys would have no problems organizing Maeviir troops under their command, if for no better reason then because they would be the fastest to do so.

Normally, what most of the Maeviir soldiers (him and Gulthrys included) would prefer to do would be to simply back out themselves, leaving Lith My'athar and the Seer's forces to their own doom. After all, who in the sane mind would risk their lives fighting a battle lost in advance and against a foe so clearly superior at that? But trying to escape would undeniably provoke a retaliation from the Seer and her lot, so that idea got discarded very early on. Changing sides, like Zesyyr just did, wasn't an option either – Changing one slavery for another didn't really make much sense, did it now? But bearing in mind that most of the troops wouldn't share such view and would just want to get away from here one way or another, their original plan was made specifically to prevent that from happening: Having Shi'van deal with Zesyyr barely hours before the attack would give them ample time to reorganize their forces, yet leave too little or no time at all for said forces to try and run for it. That, and having Zesyyr live till the last possible moment also prevented the potential deserters from trying to evacuate alongside the slaves earlier. Good plan, all in all. But Zesyyr's betrayal turned it completely upside down.

First of all, other high-ranking members of the house aside from Gulthrys and himself were by now informed of the change of plans. The commoner majority was left out of it, of course – their role was merely to follow orders of their superiors as they came without question, no more (or less) than that. Since siding with the Valsharess was the best possible survival option they all had right now, Tarnash doubted that many (if any) other commanders would oppose the idea. In fact, they were most likely to support it fully. And that presented a problem. A major one.

If Zesyyr dies, their chances of switching sides in-battle would lessen considerably, due to the fact they would no longer have a Matron Mother to coordinate their actions with those of the invading force and without that, Valsharess's soldiers would likely kill off more then half of them before they realize they're on the same side. On the other hand, having other commanders know of the switch-side plan made the story of Zesyyr escaping completely implausible, for now her position was secure as it could be and she would have no reasons whatsoever to run away any more; quite the opposite, actually.

Having Zesyyr simply assassinated wasn't the best option either, for the assassin could only come from within the House or from the Seer's camp. Should the blame be laid on the Seer, she wouldn't take too kindly to it and would also lead to an all-out bloodshed almost immediately, thinning the ranks of both forces beyond usefulness. Should the blame be laid on the assassin from within on the other hand, it would point a direct finger either on him. Or, on Cahlind her assassins...

Cahlind, an assassin priestess, was as influential in the House as she had ever been. And currently, she supported Zesyyr fully. However, Tarnash had no doubts about his twin's ambition, so having the blame of Zesyyr's death fall on her would only provide her with the opportunity to go through with such a scheme fully and seize the leadership of the House herself. Born a commoner like him, she was still a female and a high-ranking priestess at that, thus already a few ranks above him; more then enough to be the most logical successor of the House instead of him. Surely a huge precedent, for no commoner could ever advance beyond her own birth-rank, but once the last one of the noble Maeviir bloodline is no more… And with Cahlind already being the highest-ranking female of the House, second only to the Matron herself… Yes, should Zesyyr die, Cahlind would undoubtedly impose herself as the new Matron.

For a brief moment, Tarnash and Gulthrys discussed the possibility of including Cahlind in their plans, but quickly decided against it. For many reasons, first and foremost being that Cahlind would beyond doubt simply continue where Zesyyr had left off and the betrayal plans would just go on unhindered. Which all together meant once Zesyyr dies, Cahlind would have to follow immediately. But even so…

Having both females killed was not undoable. However, it still didn't solve the major problem they were facing: how to keep the troops from betraying even after the coup, either right after or during the battle against the Valsharess? Surely, even if Cahlind is killed (a thought Tarnash found extremely pleasant), most of the commoners would still be against them. After all, their planned coup was not only blasphemous but would also, one way or another, ultimately ruin their chances of switching sides or escaping all together. What could they possibly say or offer to the bunch of drow with strong sense of self-preservation and finely honed survival instincts in order to prevent it? What threats or promises could they launch their way to get them to stay here and fight? That, and to prevent them from killing him and Gulthrys in the first place.

That was something Tarnash and Gulthrys simply had to figure out, even while making preparations for Zesyyr's overthrow tomorrow. And that was what they spent the remainder of the night discussing. In the end, no matter what little things they managed to come up with, most of them heavily relying on Tarnash's reputation among the troops, it seemed that their prime hope of succeeding remained that the Masked God himself would pop up and lend them a hand.

The Temple…

Kimmuriel observed the female as she slowly tapped her fingers on the table, her mind furiously at work, nervous and frustrated by all the damning information she had just received. Nervous and frustrated, yet possessed of a commendable amount of calmness and self control in the face of the oncoming disaster. Kimmuriel's respect for the female had grown considerably in the past few hours, and it was only adding up.

More than three hours had passed since she stunningly quickly regained her composure after the initial shock at his sudden, unexpected appearance, and ushered him into her private quarters where they could discuss the matters at hand in private. That act alone told the psionic volumes, further confirming the opinion he had already formed about her.

"Kimmuriel Oblodra," were her first words to him, spoken in calm, composed tone that revealed nothing of her true feelings at the moment. That was a good start. She recognized him, of course, and in truth, Kimmuriel couldn't deny he was pleased by that – After all, being constantly in the shadow of his former leader wasn't really all that pleasant. But this time, he was recognized instantly, and not as merely a former lieutenant, but as a true leader of the mercenary band. Was it, he wondered, an honest nod to his rank, or was the Seer merely placating him in advance? Well, if it was the latter, Kimmuriel, ever a pragmatic, had to admit that it worked. Completely. Score one for the Seer.

Next score, she earned immediately after by inviting him into these secure chambers before even asking about Maeviir or even his reasons for being here… let alone just how he got here in the first place. Smart move, and obviously guided by a very swift mind. She knew who he was as well as (he had no doubts about it) who had enlisted his band at the time. And yet, she showed no signs of hostility, not even curiosity, but recognized the need for utter privacy instantly – Cutting a deal with the rebels would land him into very serious trouble should Sinvyl ever find out about it, so less people know about it, the better and less chances for this semi-treachery of his to get revealed.

Semi-treachery, for he wasn't trying to ally himself with the rebels, but to try and play both ends of the war. Such was the way of Bregan D'Aerthe ever since they were founded, and the change of the leader didn't mean the change of such a successful policy at all.

And this Seer knew that as well as he did.

"So, it would appear that Tarnash and Gulthrys have betrayed us after all," the Seer opened the first round.

Kimmuriel leaned forward raising an amused eyebrow while he considered her words and all the implications they carried. She assumed that he had been here for a while and thus, already knows about the covert war between her and the Maeviir matron. But does he know about the supposed alliance between her and the Weapon Master and the High Wizard too? That was for his answer to reveal. And, Kimmuriel knew, no matter what he says, she will be one bit of information richer. He had to consider his answer carefully: put up a pretence of ignorance, or come out blunt? Or, how 'bout option three...

"Followers of Ellistraee and," he paused, making a small show of pretending to fish for the right word, "…her brother, rarely rub elbows, do they now?" Yes, he did know about those two, but no, he wasn't giving any more then she was giving him. No more, but no less either – his pointedly not mentioning the god's name, or even one of his aliases, a small nod of respect on his part.

"Not under normal circumstances, " came her reply, "However, times in which… their mother… is absent, arch-devils walk the streets of Menzoberranzan and Bregan D'Aerthe serves as a war party can hardly be called 'normal'. "

Kimmuriel's eyes narrowed. Yes, she understood what he meant perfectly – by saying that Ellistraee and Vhaeraun followers usually don't get along, he had in fact reminded her that Vhaeraun and Lolth followers do so even less, so no, Tarnash and Gulthrys did not betray. And what she said to him was that, while understanding his meanings perfectly, she understood his situation equally well. And by bringing that up that early in the game, she had also told him that, since time was short for both of them, they better not waste it on too many word games. But what she told him above all was that her own information-gathering network was no less successful and active than his own. A warning and a subtle threat, increasing the pace of the banter and opening round two. "Very well," he thought to himself, "Gloves off it is then."

"No. And times in which one's entire defense structure is about to come crumbling down are called 'dire'. And in times so dire, one needs all the allies one can get, " he said, returning both the threat and the warning equally.

"Agreed," she nodded with a small smile, obviously understanding that his words were aimed at her as much as at himself. "However, with allies so quickly turning into enemies lately…"

He noted her eyes were hard as she spoke the words, even while her smile remained. Another small threat flung his way, an early warning that she will not tolerate any more backstabbing, from anyone, least of all him. He remained calm, however. Not for a second did he feel his life was in danger here; for being here maybe, but not while here. With her so-called allies all holding a knife to her kidneys on one hand, and with all the information he had to offer and his entire band behind him on the other, Kimmuriel knew his position here was perfectly safe. If nothing else, dangerous and potentially hazardous as he was to her, he was still a much preferable option then Yasvyrae taking over Bregan D'Aerthe, which would surely come to pass should anything happen to him.

"…one must choose her allies carefully," he finished her sentence pointedly, his words with as many implications and meanings as they could ever be. And a small bait on top of it, for what implications she chooses to observe mostly will tell him much more then she might wish to tell him. Or, he reflected, exactly what she wants to tell him.

"As Bregan D'Aerthe was always known to do," she countered instantly. "So, let us talk business, shall we?"

And so it went on, throughout the night, information trading and favor-exchanging, games of "give a little, gain a little" and "I know that you know that I know, but I want you to tell it to me anyway," weighing every word and making sure that every little bit of information and counter-information were worth it. The Seer, well-versed in such games as she was, didn't disappoint Kimmuriel at all. And she drove hard bargain indeed.

Kimmuriel had already seen her in action, observing her tactics from the mind of a Maeviir guard earlier that day. But that was a child's game compared to this. What went on in House Maeviir was merely some clever cuddling of one vain Matron Mother's pride, while this, on the other hand, was the real thing – A big league. Clash of professionals. And the psionic couldn't deny he enjoyed it. Well, most of it anyway. Some parts, however, proved to be utterly disappointing, even while fully expected. Like the ex-slaves issue, for instance. Fodder, in his mind, and anything but in hers. Such was the price of firm beliefs and strong morals her faith dictated, he knew, and morality was ever a damning thing.

The wisest and tactically the best thing to do would be to forego all the plans for their rescue and keep them within the city to serve as a fodder for her troops. One, Sinvyl now knew their planned escape routes and would undoubtedly place some troops to wait for them there and two, the Seer's army was heavily outnumbered to begin with. Yet she would hear none of that. She refused to even consider the option. In her mind, those iblith were to be rescued and that was it. Ridiculous, Kimmuriel thought, risking almost everything, the lives of her own drow troops, the city itself, over mere slaves! Should she go through with her last desperate rescue plans, Lith My'athar would fall in the matter of hours. And that was something the psionic was not about to allow.

Sinvyl knew their escape routes now, but she didn't know about all of those. The Seer was wise enough not to reveal some of them to Zesyyr. However, she had no way of knowing if Zesyyr somehow found out about them (and it was safe to assume that she had) and she knew which ones exactly Zesyyr knew about even less. Kimmuriel knew precisely which ones, but firmly decided not to tell. If the Seer believes all the escape routes were imperiled, then she would have no choice but to seal them all and keep those slaves within the city after all. And that, in turn, would strengthen the city defenses, whether she likes it or not.

"Her mind was crushed before I could learn more about it," he told her, referring to the Red Sister he had interrogated. Her look clearly told him she wasn't buying it – after all, a powerful psionic such as him surely wasn't so clumsy as to crush his victim before she could reveal the most critical information. "I hardly had time to waste," he added in his defense.

"I see. Well, it is only fortunate then that there are still at least two other minds who hold that information," she replied.

Kimmuriel looked at her curiously, scanning her words for every last meaning they had. And more he thought about it, the more he liked it. What she just did was to ask him to mind-scan either Cahlind or Zesyyr and both females were far too powerful to be scanned without noticing. So, a logical conclusion would be that they had to be imprisoned first and that in turn meant that the Seer was more than willing to move against Maeviir openly. A dangerous plan, for it would likely mean an all-out bloodshed within the city even before Sinvyl and her forces arrive. Then again, waiting for the battle to begin wasn't an option either so the Seer had no choice but to act as soon as possible. And she needed his help and cooperation for that, she needed a favor and she was asking for it fully knowing that the psionic would collect. So, he mused, she knew his price would be high, yet she made it clear she was willing to pay it. But how far was she willing to go?

"I was planning to leave the city in the morning," he stated casually.

"I don't think another day here would make that much difference to you," she countered, telling him, in fact, that she was certain House Maeviir would fall tomorrow. Tarnash and Gulthrys would take care of that. She didn't even have to check; the two simply had to, if they truly wanted to go through with their own plans. Basically, the only thing she had to do in all that was to somehow get the message that they should leave either Cahlind or Zesyyr (or both) alive. Alive for interrogation.

Kimmuriel almost chuckled at the thought. Interrogation always meant torture, and torture was not something the Seer stood for. In fact, she was adamantly against it. Mind-scanning, however, could be tormenting as well as subtle and barely damaging, and if he would perform it for her, both her hands and her conscious would be clean. Oh yes, she was asking for a big favor indeed.

Maeviir fall… It was going to happen regardless of what deal he cuts with the Seer. And whatever comes out of it, the consequences would be dire. Kimmuriel's mind quickly ran through all the possible scenarios, the very same scenarios, he was certain of it, Tarnash and Gulthrys were discussing at the approximately same time. One needn't be a mind-reader to figure that out – one only needs to be a drow. And this Seer, in spite of holding the ideals more suited for some darhtiir, most certainly was one. And a wise one at that, which meant she was perfectly aware of just how much was at stake here. In that light, her stubborn insisting to risk everything just to get a couple of dozens of mere iblith to relative safety only served to fuel the psionic's anger further. But it also made him curious. And also weary. Could it be that she has some other plan up her sleeve, another angle that he himself wasn't even aware of? It could very well be so. Or, he scolded himself silently, he was simply reading too far into this.

"I have contacted Lords of Waterdeep a while ago," she changed the subject abruptly.

Kimmuriel's senses sharpened immediately. Agreed, better to let that slave matter drop for now, but he knew better than believe she was willing to let it pass all together. The trick she just used was known to him all too well: change the subject, discuss another matter, and one that concerned him far more then it concerned her right now at that, and then just loop around on him when his guard goes down a bit and extract what she wants from him anyway. He silently reminded himself to stay alert and showed only mild amusement at her words.

"They have agreed to send their aid. In fact, I believe they have already approached their contacts and prominent fractions and figures of Skullport to that end," she continued casually without missing a beat.

Kimmuriel's hand stopped short, glass of wine half way to his mouth. For a moment only, a venomous shade colored his eyes. Skullport – the most unruly place he had ever known with about as many fractions and clans as there were spiders in L'loth's temple. And his band was barely a week from entering it. "To infiltrate," Sinvyl had said, but she might as well had said "to get killed" instead. True, Bregan D'Aerthe had its own contacts in the Port of Shadows, but none too strong or overly important. And even if their ties in that city had been strong, still no fraction there would ever be interested in being enlisted in any take-over plans. Not out of any patriotism of course, for in Skullport there was none, but out of pure merchants' pragmatism - Too many had their interests in that city, steady and lucrative trade business that none was ready to imperil. And Sinvyl's plans for using Skullport as a base for launching further attacks on Waterdeep meant exactly the thing.

Normally, a drow or any other enthusiastic invading force wouldn't worry the Skulkers too much – The Skulls would deal with any such threat swiftly and efficiently. This time, however, the threat to the city was not normal. One of the highest ranking pit fiend generals of Cania was marching alongside the invading army, and by the time they reach Skullport it was very likely that the arch duke Mephistopheles himself would join them. Powerful as they are, Kimmuriel doubted that even the Skulls were a mach for him.

It didn't take long for him to put it all together and conclude that, in these circumstances, the most unlikely thing to ever happen was about to become the most likely one - An alliance! An alliance between all Skulkers' fractions, lords of Waterdeep and possibly even the Skulls themselves, coming together with the common goal of preventing Sinvyl's advance. An alliance that was likely being forged even as he sat here thinking about it, and by the time Bregan D'Aerthe reaches the city the first defending troops would already be ready and waiting. And that, put bluntly, meant that Bregan D'Aerthe is screwed. Big time.

Unless, of course, they were allowed to proceed as he had originally planned, pretending to prepare the terrain for Sinvyl's arrival in order to fool Yasvyrae, while in truth setting her and her red Sisters for disaster. It was a task he could very well perform, of course - after all, one can hardly better a psionic in mind games – but a task that would be made considerably easier (and far less lethal) should the Skulkers be informed of it in advance, something that the Seer could very well do and… And he had just been looped!

The thought made him both pissed and amused at once, and he struggled briefly with the desire to slap and congratulate the Seer at the same time for pulling her trick off so efficiently on him.

With such an army waiting for Sinvyl in Skullport, getting her severely crippled here was suddenly no longer a top priority. And that meant they could well afford not to have those iblith slaves here as a fodder. Of course, that might also mean that his interest in Lith My'athar holding out as long as possible was no more, but Kimmuriel knew better then to play on that card. Given the fact that he and his band will be in Skullport at the time of Sinvyl's arrival, more crippled she gets there, the better. And, the realization hit him, he will still be able to play this out to his advantage.

Should he now learn of some of the safe escape routes and should Lith My'athar fall and the Seer and her lot get killed, then he and he alone would be privy to some perfect slave-harvesting spots. And those slaves would fetch a rather fair price in Skullport, not to mention it would give him the opportunity to further strengthen his ties within that city, especially the Iron Ring. And should the Seer and hers, by some miracle, survive all this, at least long enough to join the Skullport forces… Well, wouldn't Lith My'athar make a perfect outpost for Bregan D'Aerthe?

Yes, the city was the prize in and of itself. And after another hour or so of heavy bargaining, Kimmuriel had won it. There was only one important matter left to discuss.

"And now," he said, pouring himself some more wine and leaning back into the soft cushion chair more comfortably, "About the Z'hinrret female…"

Elsewhere…

Wisps of red smoke emanate from the walls, curling and twisting like coils of her whip. Flickering flames and droplets of frost merge together behind her sensual form. Frost and flames, so much like herself, but she pays no heed to it. Her attention focused on two naked bodies beside her, around her, inside her, moaning and shifting in the games of lust. Games she can afford. Games that she likes.

So, she muses as she caresses the female below her, they believe they have an edge now? They have defeated her allies, have they not? She chuckles, softly, at the thought. But have they not also thinned their own ranks in doing so? And her own forces still outnumbered them at least ten to one. And shall outnumber them even more still, her gaze falls on the muscled figure standing impassively a bit further away. He shall see to that.

The muscled one smirks lightly, guessing at her thoughts and nods, confirming what they both knew will happen, starting this very night. As soon as she's through playing her lecherous little game.

The female beside her, her prized Red Sister, moans with pleasure. She's given special attention this time, as a reward for her success earlier that day. Success that shall bring another edge to her mistress in the oncoming battle and a nasty surprise for those fools that dared oppose her.

The male stifles a scream of both pleasure and pain. He knows full well he likely won't live beyond tonight, knows full well his only purpose in being here is to heighten the pleasure of two females around him. And the two found pleasure in lust as well as in death. His looks and stamina that got him through life so far will also be his death before the night ends. And he knows it, so he sets himself on living the last moments of his life to the fullest. After all, there's nothing else he can do.

Hours later, as the dawn breaks somewhere high above in the lands of the light and a bloodied male corpse is dragged out of a chamber in the lightless lands below, a huge muscled figure offers the ice-and-fire one a smile. And as she turns and begins an incantation to make contact with a portion of her forces returning from Drearing's Deep, he turns away and focuses on making yet another contact – a contact that shall ultimately spell the impudent rebels' demise.

And wisps of red smoke begin emanating from the walls once more, flickering flames and droplets of frost, merging together in a dance of death.

Everything Changes, And Nothing Is Truly Lost…

"Ardency of life forsakened
time will gather the source of thy secrecies
Ardency of life forsakened
in swarthy hours thou ponder still"

Tristania, "Lethean River"

...X

Jewels, precious and rare, fall out of the trembling hands, slipping through fingers like grains of sand.

Precious. Precious and rare. So hard to gain. So easy to lose. Polished… Perfect…

Rubies, red, like drops of blood. Emeralds, green shine of poison. Sapphires the blue of the depths. And diamonds, faceted diamonds the color of ice. And harder then steel. Icy and hard, unyielding and sharp. Polished, perfect, glittering softly. Glittering softly in layers of mud.

Lost! Lost to the mud! In a moment of weakness, by uncertain hands. In the moment of weakness, by wavering heart.

A trembling hand, reaching into the mud. Slippery, slippery jewels, eluding the clutching fingers... Until the trembling stops. Until there's resolve again.

To gain again what once was lost. Precious and lost… But glittering still.

Well, thank you all, both for the reviews and for bearing with me for so long! ;)

Wolf-Kin: Poor Tarnash indeed. /grin/ What can I say? - I like him so much I just have to land him in trouble. And since you like long chapters, I hope you enjoyed this one too.

Lord Onisyr: Thank-you. My, and I thought previous chapter was a bitch to write! I'm beginning to think that the biggest disaster I'm setting up here is my own! ;) Glad you liked the kobolds. Also, hope you found Kim equally good here.

Penname wa Silver B: Yep, Cahlind is Tarnash's twin. Glad you noticed it. And yeah, Shi'van and Valen are back… however, how useful they are right now, especially to themselves is an entirely different matter all together. ;) And yeah, there is a reason behind "Darkblade". After all, didn't her last name always seem a bit… cliche? ;)

Night Vendiviel: Well, I think if you read this chapter carefully, you've seen who is here instead of Mephie as well as whose side Kimmureil is really on. Well, his own, of course. ;) As for valen's answer, think you'll have to wait another chapter or two for that… as ever. /evil grin/. Btw, playing BG2 is good.

euphorbic: Yeah, those two drunk asses are pathetic, aren't they? ;) Oh well, guess things just naturally led to that happening. Jansori… I'll have to remember that. It's Enserrick all right. /grin/ Yep, I bitch about your cliffhangers –at least you were privy to a sneak-peak of this chapter.

Fatpanda: Well, glad you had the nerve to read all of it. Not many care to read stories from the start when they're already more than 20 chapters long. Thanks! Yeah, I did try to keep everyone in-character… or, at least, the way I think their characters should be. ;)