Chapter 3
Sab'vrae roused himself from his slumber, rubbing a tired eye. It'd been ten long years since he started training with the house weapon master, Dilaere. He'd been a strict teacher, never going easy on Sab'vrae, but he came out of his harsh training a much better, prepared fighter. Or, so he believed.
The ten years passed well for Sab'vrae, both in skill and physical looks. Unlike most drow, Sab'vrae was not particularly vain. He considered himself average looking, but, by drow standards, his features were to be envied. His deceivingly slender frame was nicely chiseled, an attractive athletic body, not overly muscle bound, like a human berserker or an orc. His long, velvety ivory hair flowed down to a few inches above his waist, contrasting wonderfully with his smooth, ebony skin. Around his defined biceps and thighs wove purple and blue tattoo designs, identifying him as an Aleanani noble. Light blue, almond eyes scanned through the darkness, usually alight red with the radiating heat of ultraviolet vision under narrow, yet slightly thick, eyebrows.
Sab'vrae's elven countenance could appeal to many of almost any race. Extended, pointed ears expanded far from his face without appearing awkward. His chin, long and slender, like most elven features, ended in a rounded point, complimenting his long and slightly narrow nose. Simple, small gold loop earrings adorned each of his dark earlobes. Many dark elf females would find him an excellent choice as a patron, if given the chance.
Dilaere shouted as he walked into the main room, "Sab'vrae! Sab'vrae! Get in here!" He barked. Sab'vrae scrambled out of bed.
"Coming, Master!" he yelled back, quickly pulling on a pair of leather pants and boots. He didn't bother with a shirt; the Underdark was actually quite warm. Drow wore clothes for protection, not modesty. Grabbing his two long swords, Sab'vrae already decided he didn't need the meager protection of a long-sleeved shirt anyway. He walked into the main chamber, prepared for whatever the weapon master had in store for him.
"Pack your things, boy, this is your last day training with me." Dilaere stated. Sab'vrae blinked in surprise, then quickly guessed why.
"It's time for me to go to Barra Velve, isn't it?" He asked. Dilaere grinned.
"It's good to know my student's not a complete wael, a fool. Very good, boy, you are going to the fighter school, Barra Velve. Get your things and we'll get going." Sab'vrae bowed and returned to his bedchamber, grabbing a bag of holding. He shoveled in a few sets of clothing and trinkets. He began to put his sword in, then thought better of it, instead sheathing it to a belt he strapped onto his back. He threw his piwafwi over himself, pulling it back slightly, keeping access to his blade. Sab'vrae reentered the main chamber.
"So, have you gathered your belongings?" Dilaere asked.
"Yes, Master. I am ready to go." Sab'vrae motioned to his pack and blades.
"Good. Now, follow behind me," Dilaere motioned for Sab'vrae to move, " and don't do anything STUPID." He warned as they left the chamber together for the first time.
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"Well, we're here."
The duo walked into an immense hall, teeming with other, mostly male, drow. The ceiling reached high into the air, beyond anyone's perception to see the top.
"Wow. This place is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside." Sab'vrae gaped, staring at the endless ceiling.
"Simple enchantments, my student. You can't avoid them in this city, even in the fighter's school." Dilaere reminded.
"So... time for us to part, right?" Sab'vrae turned to his teacher. He felt no close bond to the older drow, but he had come accustomed to seeing the weapon master each day for a decade.
"Not just yet..." Dilaere hesitated, then lowered his voice, "the standard weapons given out at school are trash. Take this blade to duel-wield with the other one you already have." He handed Sab'vrae a beautiful long sword that let off a dark red glow. Unlike most long swords, the blade was slightly curved, the sharper cutting edge running along it. Obviously, this enchanted sword was designed for clean slashing movements without losing its stabbing potential.
"Wow... this is a nice blade." Sab'vrae held the sword in his hands, inspecting the fine craftsmanship.
"Yes, well..." Dilaere coughed, "it was Nath'olin's, the former weapon master of our House."
"Oh... you mean my dad."
"Yes…" Dilaere mumbled after another brief moment of hesitation. The boy was bright, so why wouldn't he have figured out his parentage by now?
"Heh, I didn't know you were the sentimental type, master." Sab'vrae mocked.
Dilaere snorted, "Hardly. Nath'olin may have been incompetent, but his weapons are worthy for use of my best student. I don't need them, myself. I prefer my katana." He patted the blades at his sides, turning away from Sab'vrae, "Don't make me look like a fool for training you while you're here, understand?" Dilaere warned.
Sab'vrae smirked, "'Good luck,' in other words. Goodbye, Dilaere." His teacher rolled his eyes, stalking out of the academy.
"So, looks like we have a new victim, right guys?" Sab'vrae turned to see a few older students snickering at him. "What's your name, kid?"
"Sab'vrae Aleanani, of House Aleanani." He answered, still clutching his father's blade in hand. His provoking peers tensed slightly at the mention of his name, however. It matched the name of his house, and the insignia on his piwafwi's brooch.
"Lay off, Xunor." A shorter drow warned, "We don't want trouble with any nobles." Xunor, the tallest, sighed.
"This is true… still, be careful here, Sab'vrae. You don't want to make enemies here. Many students never see graduation. Many… accidents can happen." The elder drow waved to his friends, and they all skulked off. Sab'vrae raised a white eyebrow. Xunor's comment passed not only as fair warning, but also as a veiled threat. Though he spent the past ten years in Dilaere's chambers, Sab'vrae still heard news of recent events, and knew all about drow "accidents." He decided then and there while sleeping, his blades remained in his grasp. Thankfully, he already slept very lightly.
Dozens more recruits gathered in the large hallway before an instructor stood at the front of the chamber, yelling for everyone's attention. The noise died down, old and new students alike waiting for the leader's words.
"Barra Velve welcomes its students, old and new alike," he began, "To those of you unfamiliar to the academy, I am the head of Barra Velve, Nalfein Berri'erves." Hushed murmurs arose in the crowd. House Berri'erves was one of the twelve ruling Houses of Ched Nasad. Nalfein, the secondboy, once served as Berri'erves' weapon master, but for the past few centuries, ran the Fighter's Academy.
The head drow was an odd sight to behold. From the waist down, drow plate armor covered him in light blue and silver metal that identified him as a Barra Velve instructor. Only metallic belts covered his torso, intersecting at the middle of his chest and back, where he bore Berri'erves' insignia. A chain mail sleeve, connect to a spiked shoulder pad, ran down his left arm, where it disappeared into his spiked gauntlet. His right arm was bare, aside from the orange and brown tattoos that identified him as a Berri'erves noble.
Perhaps his oddest quality, however, was the fact he kept his long hair dyed a deep, slightly brownish, red hue, spiking the ends of it into long points. In his left hand Nalfein gripped a glowing red short sword, its blade notched into multiple sections, designed to hack into enemies with more damage and pain. In his left, he held a dagger with a zigzagging blade, also meant to cut into opponents with more pain. The dagger let off a small, light green glow, dripping magical acid from the tip.
Nalfein glared at the students, waiting for them to silence themselves before continuing, "Students of the same year will sleep in the same barracks. Keep your rivalries outside of lessons -- anyone caught attempting vengeance on another student will be punished severely."
Many of the students grinned, their light teeth contrasting with their black skin. The key word in that sentence was "caught" -- anyone who managed to kill or maim others without veritable proof usually received silent congratulations from the other pupils and instructors, even Nalfein himself. Sometimes the perfect way to become the best student was to eliminate the worthy competition in their sleep.
"You will only train with those in your same grade level," Nalfein continued, "The only time inter-class mingling is allowed is during religious holidays and during meal hours. While here, you will not only fine tune your warrior abilities, but also improve your academic and arcane skills: even a fighter will find magic useful to him in times of great need. Nothing on the skills of wizards, mind you, but students will learn basic spells that can aide in battle. History, literature, and Lloth's dogma will all be taught outside of battle training, so be prepared to exercise your mind as well as your body." Nalfein twirled his blades, finishing his speech.
"Now, all students, proceed to your proper level instructors. They will take you to your chambers. Each grade will start in different lessons afterwards. The instructors are standing below the grade number they represent. Now, get moving." Nalfein motioned the students onwards. Sab'vrae scanned through the crowd until he found a tall and somewhat chubby drow standing below a large "level one" glyph.
"First year students will be participating in an all-out mock melee combat." The obese instructor explained in a gruff voice, "You will use wooden weapons, not your real ones. Those will be confiscated before you enter the arena. When an opponent hits you in a critical area, or knocks you over, you are out. Our resident mages will ensure this fact by illuminating losers with a blue light. Remain where you are when called out. The last one standing is this year's winner.
"At the end of your next nine years, we will hold these melee battles again to see who has learned the most during the year. Those who keep an excellent winning record will find favor in their respective houses. Now, follow me to the arena." He motioned for his group of young drow, all barely two decades of age, to follow.
Sab'vrae dragged along around the middle of the line, looking about Barra Velve's vast walls.
"Huge, isn't it?" A short, fox-faced drow behind him quipped.
"Indeed." Sab'vrae agreed, but said little else.
"So, you're the elderboy from House Aleanani, right?" The boy continued, "I heard you talking to the older students before Nalfein's speech." Sab'vrae only nodded in reply, "Not bad, I suppose. My name's Alton'rak. I'm the thirdboy of House Noquar, one of the Ruling Twelve."
"I know of House Noquar." Sab'vrae replied, uninterested in small talk with another noble. Besides, Alton'rak's blood red and purple clothes already identified him as one of Noquar's noble born. Sab'vrae cared little for useless information.
"Well, make sure you pay me proper respect. Your house is still only ranked twenty-first in the city. A medium-class noble family. Not bad off, but still far below Noquar's third rank." Alton'rak stated smugly. Sab'vrae withheld a derisive snort, for his own sake. He also cared little for the typical overflowing arrogance of Ched Nasad's high nobles.
The Aleanani noble valued pride, of course, but well-retained pride and those with tact. Arrogance was a common drow trait, but throwing it about carelessly made quick enemies. How Alton'rak survived childhood, Sab'vrae didn't know, nor particularly care.
"Here's the entrance," their leader spoke from in front, "Leave your weapons with the guards. They will be brought to your barracks. Don't try to smuggle in any concealed weapons -- the doors are enchanted to catch them. Anyone caught smuggling real weapons here will be disqualified from this year's melee battle and punished." Some of the students looked wary at the thought of leaving their precious weapons at the hands of the gruff guards.
"Your weapons will be in their proper place, rest assured. Your houses' weapon masters enchanted them with temporary anti-theft charms before you came here," the instructor assured them, as if reading their minds, "The guards won't be able to steal them, and neither will other students who are unsatisfied with their own weapons." He glared at some of the dejected would-be thieves.
"Well, get moving. The wizards and instructors hate having their time wasted." With that, the chubby drow turn and walked through the large doorway into the arena.
Sab'vrae reluctantly turned over his swords and hidden daggers to the nearest guards. He turned to a pile of wooden weapons, finding a pair of mock long swords closest to the length and feel of his own blades. He took a few practices slashes, then proceeded through the entrance.
The arena stretched out about two hundred yards in diameter, enough to easily hold the few hundred new students. Sab'vrae walked out near the center, waiting for the other students to follow into the indoor stadium.