Disclaimer: mature themes, character death
It's been a while, almost three weeks for this chapter, some Bhaalspawn just really want to stay evil.Kendris, Treymane-thanks for the reviews. This chapter should give more of an idea where Shann's path will take her.
Heritage of Evil:Sacrifice
The ruins of the last refuge of the N'evarn Drow had almost stopped smouldering before the slaves realized they were free. Some seemed dazed, and would do nothing without being prodded, while others reacted with a dangerous level of exuberance; indulging in a wild orgy of celebration. A small group, led by the priest of Ilmater, Jonell Shanter, and his acolyte, the dwarf Berthild, did their best to restore order to the colony.
Berthild was in the newly designated temple, what used to be the Drow officer's quarters, preparing the salvaged bodies of the dead, slaves and masters alike, for the death rites, when she saw the neck pouch of one of the dead Drow floating in the air. She frowned and walked over to the pallet where the corpse lay.
"Do you desecrate the dead now, Shann?" Berthild asked quietly.
"I'm only taking my due," Shann said as she dropped her invisibility spell, and pocketed the house insignia of the dead Drow. "Why do you bother with death rites for filth like this? Let them rot where they died."
"The dead, all dead, should be respected. That is what separates us from the animals," Berthild said. "Why have you remained hidden? You succeeded in destroying the masters, though the price was high; many decent people died that should not have."
"Lectures, it's always lectures with you," Shann complained, and hunted through another Drow pouch, ignoring her Grandmother's pained expression. "I'm not done yet, there's still one Drow to eliminate."
"One left?" Berthild said, and her face grew pale. "Do, do you mean yourself?" She asked.
"Watch your mouth, old woman," Shann snapped. "I am no Drow, and if you dare to suggest that again, I will ...," she swallowed, and narrowed her eyes as she looked at Berthild. "I see, you were hoping that I did not know about the whelp. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I won't be killing myself anytime soon."
"Shann, wait," Berthild called, as Shann turned and hurried out of the temple. Berthild stood for a moment, nervously wringing her hands, and then picked up her skirts, and ran towards a small hut on the outskirts of the camp.
Shann scowled as she left the temple. Why did I speak to her? Now I have to eliminate the dark elf before the old woman interferes. She saw no one outside the small, run-down wooden shack that housed the last N'evarn Drow. Many of the former slaves shared Shann's hatred of the dark elves, and tended to shun the occupants of the hut.
A tired looking human woman with lank, dishevelled blond hair looked up when Shann entered her home. Her soft hands, and well-fed plumpness, suggested she was once treated better than the other slaves. Now she was busy sewing a patch onto a leather jacket, and a pile of other clothes were mounded in a heap beside a rickety table. A small child sat cross-legged on a pallet on the floor, idly playing with a handful of buttons.
"If you've mending for me, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you. I've several days work already," she said, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the bright light that streamed through the open doorway.
"I've come for the dark elf, stand aside and you won't be harmed," Shann said.
"Vel'gar?" She said, standing up and scattering the clothes. "Why do you ... no. You are the assassin, the hidden one. Vel'gar," she said, turning to the boy who was looking at her with a confused and worried expression. "I want you to run when she moves away from the door. Go to Jonell, he will help you."
"Why protect him?" Shann asked, puzzled. "You have lost the privileges that being a nursemaid once gave you. The boy is a burden to you now. Just another Drow; born to evil and better off dead."
The child's guardian's hands shook, but her face grew stern, and she brandished the only weapon she had, a poker from the fireplace. "I will not let you harm him," she said firmly.
"You can't stop me," Shann sneered, and started chanting as she prepared a spell. A cylinder of flame began to form between her hands. "You may consider yourself privileged again, this is the first time I've used this spell," she taunted as she flung an arrow of flame at the defiant woman. The boy shrank into a corner as his nurse fell moaning to the floor, trying to quell the flames that were burning a hole in her stomach.
Shann stepped around the writhing woman, and drew her dagger as she approached the whimpering child. No spells for this one. I want his blood to mark my blade. She turned at the sound of footsteps at the door, and saw Berthild standing there, a dark figure framed by the sunlight.
"Accursed child, I will not let this go on," Berthild said, and raised her voice in a prayer to Ilmater.
"What are you doing, Old woman?" Shann snarled, turning until her back was against the wall. "Grandmother?" she said, with a touch of fear as something seemed to press against her, making it hard to breathe. "Grandma?" she whispered in a child's voice as Berthild reached out to touch her, and they both fell senseless to the floor.
Shann awoke in a panic, and tried to sit up, but fell weakly back onto a hard bed. Where am I? She moved more slowly this time, and grasped the bedpost to pull herself up. The room was dark, and Shann automatically tried to use mage light, but could not make the magic work. Cursing, she shifted to her night vision and tried to make out her surroundings. The room was sparse with no furnishings, save the bed, and Shann saw nothing she could use as a weapon. She tensed when she heard the latch to the door being pulled, and tried to calm her racing heart.
"Finally awake," a quiet voice said. And a thin, pale man entered, carrying a candle. "I greet you, Shann Lightfoot."
"That's Shann Drowkiller; I've earned that name," she corrected, and then frowned when she regarded the Ilmater priest. "Jonell Shanter," Shann said without warmth, and her eyes narrowed as she shifted back to day vision. "I remember you. As foolish as Grandmother in your choice of worship. What has she done to me? I demand you tell me," she said angrily, though weakness made her voice falter.
"Berthild has tried to save you," he answered sharply.
"Save me! The bitch has made me weak. All that I have strived to learn, my magic, my connection to my Father, all gone. I can sense it. She has destroyed me," Shann wailed.
"Fool child," Jonell admonished. "Bhaal's strength was an illusion, and you were far too eager to give your soul over to his wicked lies. Berthild petitioned Ilmater to intervene, and sever Bhaal's hold on you. I do not know why, but Ilmater, in his wisdom, saw fit to grant Berthild's prayer."
"Damn her. Damn him," Shann whispered.
"Not likely," Jonell replied, and his face was grim. "Berthild has earned her place in Ilmater's realm."
"She's dead?" Shann said, her voice emotionless.
"A sacrifice she chose to make, and Ilmater accepted," he said, and searched vainly for a sign of sadness in the face of the young woman who watched him with open hostility. He sighed, and handed Shann a letter. "She wrote this for you, you should read it."
Shann looked listlessly at the letter in her hand, then deliberately held it against the burning candle. The paper caught on fire before the startled priest could move the candle away, and Shann threw the flaming paper on the ground. "I did not ask the old woman for help," she said, turning her back on the priest. He shook his head, and walked out, carefully closing the door behind him.
Jonell did his best to take care of Shann, in memory of Berthild, though it was clear he did not like her. The others in the community were divided in their opinions. Many, even some who had lost family due to her campaign against the Drow, approved of her actions, while others considered her an evil murderer. Even people who came to thank Shann for their freedom watched her warily, however, and Shann became used to seeing rooms empty whenever she entered them. They are all afraid of me, she thought, with both pride and sadness.
As soon as she could walk unassisted, Shann asked Jonell for her weapons, and left the colony. I'm better off alone. That's how I'll get strong again, she told herself, and went back to one of the camps she set up when she was hunting the Drow. For many days she did little except wander the woods, and hunted no more than necessary for her food. She tried to use magic, and found that with study she could cast basic cantrips again, but had no desire to spend time relearning all her old spells. Why bother? The masters are dead, and there is nothing more for me to do.
Bhaal was silent, and sent no dreams or feelings to Shann. I was weak, and he has abandoned me. Tentatively, she tried to reach out to her father, and could almost hear him as though he was calling from across a vast distance. I can get him back, become strong again, she realized, but hesitated. I was powerful, but reckless. I could have died because of my bloodlust.
For eight years, Shann had focused on gaining the power to return to her birthplace and destroy the N'evarn Drow. She never thought of what she would do once they were dead. She considered finding other Drow to hunt, but was beginning to understand her Grandmother's distaste at her recent campaign of terror. I relished the fear I created. My cruelty made me no better than those I hunted.
Soon the welcome warmth of spring came to the valley, and the paths down the mountain began to clear of snow. The former slaves started preparing for a long march away from the colony; hoping to leave nothing but empty buildings to puzzle the Drow traders that would come for the winter's inventory from the mines. Shann watched the activity, and finally walked into the camp, barely noticing people flinch when they saw her; some even made signs to ward off evil.
"Hello, Jonell," she said, walking up to the priest of Ilmater who was directing the packing of the temple supplies.
He looked up, and waved a hand to dismiss the people assisting him, and then turned to Shann. "Have you come to join us in our journey away from here, Shann Drowkiller?" he asked in a cold voice.
"No, no I will travel alone," she replied, and shifted nervously. "I..I just wanted to know if you knew what Grandmother wrote in her letter to me. I wish I had not destroyed it."
"I see," Jonell said, and his voice softened a bit. He turned and leafed through a box of papers that was stacked nearby, ready to be loaded on a cart. He came out with a short, bitter laugh, and then passed a note to Shann. "Berthild said you might destroy her letter, so she wrote a second copy."
"Oh, thank you," Shann said, and turned to leave.
"One moment," Jonell called, and Shann turned to look at him. "Your mother named you Lightfoot. I believe both her and your Grandmother would prefer you use that name, rather than Drowkiller."
"Perhaps," Shann murmured, and walked away. She waited until she was alone to read her letter:
Shann, beloved daughter of my daughter,
I have waited for you to come forth now that the masters are dead, but I fear you will not, and have been lost to the dark desires of your cursed father. If you are reading this, then my prayers to Ilmater have been fruitful, and your father's influence has, I trust, been diminished. Before you ask, yes, my sacrifice was necessary, remember: the gods cannot grant favours without demanding a price, or mortals will grow slothful and greedy.
I am sorry I have not the gift of writing, and cannot make my thoughts clearer. Remember that neither your mother, nor myself, loved you less because of your sire. The blood of evil runs in your veins, but you have it within you to deny that blood, and follow whatever path you choose. I understand the lure of power that led you to accept your father's 'gifts', but keep this in mind: Would an evil god really want to be replaced by his offspring? No, he would be more likely to make plans for his resurrection, than lay the path for a successor.
Compassion is strength,
Berthild
She preaches even beyond the grave, Shann noted, with a wry smile. What am I supposed to do now?
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"What are you going to do now, whore?" a harsh voice demanded, and Shann looked up at a red-faced mercenary clad in a tattered leather jerkin. He was flanked by two men who looked as though they had not changed their clothes in a year.
"Not a whore," Shann mumbled, and looked unhappily at her nearly empty mug. "Want to buy me a drink, handsome?"
"I did that yesterday, you stupid ..." he growled, and struck the table in front of Shann, who jumped slightly and grabbed her mug off the table. "Gods, drunk already, and the sun's not even down yet," the mercenary said with disgust.
"What were you thinking, Risto?" one of the mercenary's friends laughed. "This half-breed's worse than any whore. A whore don't give it away for free."
"Neither did this one," Risto said angrily. "Where's my money?" he roared at Shann.
"Don't blame me if someone picked your pocket," Shann said, as the scent of danger started to sober her up a bit. "I don't need to steal; I'm rich 'cause I killed a whole colony of Drow." I was rich, but it's amazing how fast money disappears in these Waterdeep taverns.
"No one believes that rot you spout," Risto snarled, and pulled out a small club. "I'll take my losses out of your hide," he said, and swung at Shann's head. She threw up an arm to block the strike, and the club hit her forearm with a sharp crack.
"Uh, Risto, do you think you should ...," one of his friends said, then stopped and stared at the empty space where Shann had sat a moment ago. "Mages, I hate friggin' mages. Let's just get out of here, Risto. You learned a lesson, leave it at that," he said, and led a fuming Risto out of the inn.
Shann stood in the corner watching them leave, holding her aching arm. At least she had not lost her ability to turn invisible, though she could no longer use her ability more than once a day. Shann winced as she tried to move her arm. I think it's broken, she sighed. Time for another trip to Tymora's temple. At least I have money for healing. That mercenary was carrying a small fortune.
A sailor walked into Shann as she headed away from the inn. She cursed him angrily, before she remembered she was invisible, and chuckled as the poor man blanched, and stumbled on his way. She dropped her invisibility when she reached the temple doors, and stepped into the familiar waiting room. The two priests on duty were busy, and Shann sat down to wait her turn. Her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep.
"Good evening, sister, may Tymora's luck shine on you," a cheerful voice said, waking Shann up. "Are you in need of healing?"
"Yes," she said, smiling at the young priest in front of her. "I think my arm's broken."
"You're new here," Shann said as the priest laid his hands on her arm, and called for Tymora's blessing.
"My first posting," he replied. "This wasn't an accident," he said, frowning. "If you need help ..."
"No, I do not," Shann said firmly, as she counted out coins to pay for the healing.
"Ah, Korac, I see you've met Shann," the older priest said as he walked up to them. "You'll see a lot of her; she's been a regular for almost three months now. Comes in with a different social disease every week. What was it this time?"
"Just a broken arm," Shann snapped. "And I always pay for my healing; you've no cause for complaint," she yelled as the priest walked away. "I've only been in a couple of times, well, no more than four or five at the most," she muttered to Korac.
"A working girl then," Korac said. "There are ways to protect yourself from the hazards of your ... profession. I am surprised you don't already own an amulet that will shield you from the worst of the venereal diseases."
"I am not a whore," Shann said, for the second time this evening. "Please don't start listing your wares, I don't want any protection."
"You're relying too much on luck. Sooner or later you'll get something that can't be cured," Korac said sadly. "The Calimshite Disease, perhaps, or the Thayvian Rot."
"Probably," Shann said with a shrug.
Korac sighed and rubbed his temples. He could sense the woman in front of him was deeply troubled, and felt it was his duty to try to help her, but had no idea what to do. "Tymora can help you with whatever troubles you have," he said softly, and put a hand on Shann's shoulder. "I don't know what you are doing that brings you here so often, but it will likely lead to your death."
"So?" Shann said, and stepped back. "What business is it of yours, Tymora's, or any of the gods, if I want to kill myself?" she demanded angrily before storming out of the room.
But I don't want to kill myself, she thought abruptly as she headed for the exit to the street. Shann stopped, and looked at her image in the silver symbol of Tymora that hung on the wall beside the doorway. I look ... old, she thought, tracing the outline of her face. She reached for a strand of her hair and stared at it, unblinking, for a moment. When did it start to go grey? What have I been doing? Did Grandmother die so I could drink myself senseless, and sleep with any man who asks me? I don't even like being touched by them. Why do I do it?
Soon after her meeting with Korac, Shann gathered what remained of her belongings, and signed on as a guard for a caravan that was headed for Baldur's Gate. I had friends there, once, she remembered. It will be better this time, for I will no longer be obsessed with Bhaal's promises. I have no Father.