Della
The darkness was pervasive. Della's back was pressed against an overturned table, but she could not see it. She couldn't see anything but the violet flames that licked up her arms. There were screams of fear, and pain, and she felt incredible heat surge over the room, as if flames were pouring over the inn, but still the darkness remained. Her hand was still on Deekin's shoulder, clutching him close. She heard Durnan shout something, but his voice was muffled, the words obscured by the din of panicked cries. She closed her eyes, and whispered in her mind.
Syolkiir, I need your sight.
There was that familiar rush, the creep of magic down her spine, and then a weightlessness. She opened her eyes again, and they were the golden slits of a dragon.
The room was awash in colors. It always dazed her at first, the depth with which Syolkiir saw everything. Her own sight was paltry, a blind man's dream of color in comparison. Syolkiir fluttered next to her, alighting on the edge of the table, and obediently flitted his gaze around the room.
Durnan was guiding guests to the exits as best he could, finding his steps on memory alone. The drow were flooding into the common room, cutting down all the unfortunates that stood in their way. Some were standing and fighting, but they were losing. How could they fight when they could not see? Drow were born in darkness; it was no hindrance to them.
She saw one woman bent down, kneeling next to man, trying to staunch the tide of blood from his side. Her lips were moving in a murmured prayer, and then a light so bright it almost stung her borrowed eyes flooded from her fingertips, the wound knitting back together.
Perhaps it was the prayer, or perhaps the light had penetrated the darkness, but a pair of drow surged forth from the mob, swords drawn. The woman stayed near the man, her eyes still shut in concentration.
There was no use in hiding. The flames still flitted about her form, merry and malicious— they would see her soon enough. And what had she to fear? She gripped the amulet about her neck, where it pulsed warmly in time with her quickened heartbeat.
Death could not stomach her.
She surged to her feet, brushing off the familiar dizziness that came from moving while still borrowing Syolkiir's sight. She turned his head, focusing his gaze on the drow that drew near the cleric.
The Weave hummed at her touch, the threads pulling themselves around her mind, around her tongue as she spoke, spinning the words around him like a cocoon.
Kill him. Kill him, take his place. No one need know.
The second drow stumbled briefly in his approach. His mind felt red, and slick, so used to betrayals that her own words took root as easily as if they had ever been his intent.
Perhaps they had been.
He lunged forward, gripping his companion tightly about the shoulder, and shoved the blade forward. It slipped easily through, finding the seam in the armor as if he had practiced the motion a thousand times. The other man never even screamed. His eyes went wide, and then empty as he fell to the ground, blood dripping from his lips.
There. So easy. No one even saw.
She flicked her gaze to another drow, close to him, but hanging back from the rest. The drow was breathing a black prayer of her own, paying no heed to any of her party. Betraying a priestess was death— who would dare?
She whipped you, didn't she? Not even a fortnight ago. Look at her, so proud, so beautiful…she would never even think that you might be her better. Show her.
Della felt the rage well up in her own breast, and she took a breath, forcing it down. It was not hers. It had no dominion here. The drow had turned to the priestess and approached her, stepping near as if to stand guard. She never even glanced his way, so certain of the protection her status granted her. When the blade slid into her ribs, she had only the briefest of moments to look shocked. The drow stood over her as she fell, with a smile of grim satisfaction.
He had wanted that, even before she whispered in his ear.
They know what you did. They will kill you. Sacrifice you. Flay you alive, cast you into the spider pits. You must kill them first!
His face clouded over at her words, panic drawing near as he realized what he had done. She felt a cold wave rush up her back, her heart beating faster, faster as the man turned to face his former allies. Della pulled back on the Weave, snapping the thread binding them together. He wouldn't need any encouragement to turn on his party— her words were true, and he knew them to be so.
There were still so many. But she had turned the tide from the cleric, at least, and they had one more ally now, for what little time he had left in this life.
The woman had stood, and pulled the wounded man to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, his face pale, but his side was stitched and no blood poured from it. She held him close, steadying him, and Della heard her chanting. Her voice thrummed with power , then light poured off of her in waves.
She flinched in pain at the sudden brightness, and released Syolkiir's sight. The drow retreated, covering their eyes, taken aback at the loss of darkness. Her drow seized upon the advantage, his back turned to the light to face his comrades, and cut down another before they had rallied.
Durnan had managed to herd most of the unarmed to the doors of the Yawning Portal and waved them through, thundering out orders. A scattered few still remained, huddled behind tables or crouching behind the bar, too panicked to recognize their chance.
She reached down and pulled Deekin to his feet. He looked at her, wide-eyed with confusion and clutching his lute to his scaled chest as if it were a lifeline.
"Deekin," She said, leaning close and speaking as calmly as she could manage, "These people need to get out before they're hurt. They're too scared to listen to Durnan. I need you to help calm them down enough so they can follow orders."
He stood on the tips of his clawed feet and peeked over the table, eyeing the battle. The drow were on the defensive now, fending off the renewed attacks of the mercenaries who had answered Waterdeep's call for aid. The drow she had commanded lay dead on the floor- either at the hand of one of his own, or an overzealous adventurer. It was a better fate than he might have had, if he had survived the ambush and returned to the Underdark.
Deekin looked at her once more, then hissed in a breath and darted around the table, strumming his lute as he went. The jangling music rushed over the room in golden tones, washing away the bitterly black fear pervading the hearts of the huddled men and women. It lifted her own heart as well, suffusing through her being like a warm cup of tea on a bitterly cold day. For all the bards that she had met in her lifetime, Deekin was perhaps the least musically gifted, but she had never met any that could play with such spirit or joy. His stories were his incantations, and the strings of his lute the Weave— she had always wondered if he possessed a touch of sorcery, passed on in the traces of draconic lineage.
Wherever he drew his power from, it was stronger than he recognized. The cowering people stood and rushed for the doors. A few of the drow attempted to break off from their group and go after easier prey, but found themselves quickly rebuffed by the sellswords. They were being slowly forced into a retreat— those that were on their own had been cut down, and the rest were trapped, with each step they took bringing them closer to the well they had crawled out of.
If only Durnan had not insisted on so much wood when he built the Yawning Portal— a well-placed fireball could solve all of their problems. As it was, she was going to have to pull some darker threads on the Weave.
She sought them out in her mind, felt them writhing in the darkness, and willed them into being. The tentacles erupted through the wooden floor of the inn, wrapping themselves around the legs of the drow and dragging them down to their knees. Some cut desperately at the tentacles, their swords slashing through the roiling inky black, but it had no more effect than a hand trailing through water. A scarce few were able to flee and plunged back into the well, without even a single look behind to those they abandoned. Most found themselves dying a slow death, their bones breaking as the eldritch tentacles squeezed ever tighter. The rest were granted the swift mercy of a falling sword.
Della breathed deeply as the battlefield quieted, then forced the tentacles back from the shadowy plane they had been drawn from. It was a struggle— a wizard could simply dismiss them with a word. Her command was more tenuous. The Weave had been what brought them into the Prime; she had merely borrowed its energy. Most conjured beings, she had found, firmly believed that technicality was the death of authority. Without a strong will, they could be correct.
She brushed back a sweaty lock of hair, and collapsed into the nearest chair. Syolkiir alighted on her shoulder, and he nuzzled into her neck with a trilling cry. Images filled her mind— Murt, pulling her out of the blood-soaked mud and into a hug, nearly crushing her with the strength born of worry— Whiptail dealing a hand of cards, then laughing brightly as she slipped one up her sleeve—Luskan, and the Moonsea, and even Zhentil Keep— family, home. She stroked a finger down his scales and whispered back to him.
I know, my sweetling. One day, we'll have all that again.
She dreamed of a time when the day would start with the sun waking her gently from slumber, not the blade of an assassin. But she couldn't start that life— not now, when the one she loved most could still be hanging in the balance.
"Boss? You be okay?"
She opened her eyes again wearily. Deekin looked up at her, his scaly brow furrowed in anguished concern.
"Just tired, Deeks. The day has been…taxing."
And not even half past breakfast yet, with Undermountain and Halaster looming in her future still. With drow and who could even know what else lurking in the dark depths the Mad Mage had conjured up. Still, it could have been much worse. She could see only a few dead, and the injured were already being tended to. Drow skirmishes rarely ended so well.
She cast her gaze back down to the little kobold, eyeing him carefully. His hands shook a bit, the claws clicking together anxiously, but she couldn't see any wounds on him.
"What about you, Deekin? Are you alright?"
He had drawn out his quill and journal and was scribbling rapidly, his shaky hands making the letters scratchier than normal. Deekin glanced up when she spoke, his scaly nose scrunching up in consternation.
"Deekin be okay." He shivered for a moment. "But Deekin not likes drow much. And Deekin's notes got mixed up."
"Nobody likes drow much. Not even other drow. " She reached down and took Deekin's quill and journal for a moment, and carefully scrawled in an empty margin— Deekin fought bravely against the drow, and saved the lives of many guests of the Yawning Portal . —before handing it back to him. "There. Give yourself credit when you write your book, Deeks. Most people would brown their breeches at the sight of a drow, let alone a whole hunting party."
Deekin ducked his head bashfully, his foot pawing at the floor.
"Aye, kobold. Listen to her. She's got the right of it."
Durnan clapped a hand down onto his shoulder and gave it a companionable shake, nearly toppling Deekin over with the force of it.
"Without you and your kobold, lass, it would've been far bloodier. "
She smiled up at him, and took his proffered hand to stand. "He's his own man, Durnan. And the day has hardly begun. It will be bloodier still by the end of it."
He returned her smile wearily, and for the first time, she noticed how much he had aged since she had first met him. What little hair he had left was greying, and his skin was deeply lined and weathered . Even his great height had begun to be stooped. She swallowed thickly against the sudden lump in her throat.
"I suppose I can't convince you to stay clear of this whole business, can I?"
She shook her head at Durnan's words, not trusting herself to speak without a tremble. He pulled her into a sudden tight embrace, heedless of the blood and sweat on both their clothes. His voice was a low, choked rumble when he spoke.
"You keep safe, my girl. I won't be the one to tell Murt that I let you vanish into Undermountain without so much as a letter his way."
Della closed her eyes tightly to keep the tears from falling, and returned his hug with all the strength she could muster. She smiled when he released her, squeezing his shoulder warmly.
"I always come back, Durnan. I'll even be sure to come back in one piece."
A/N: Undermountain next! It's going to be different from the games as, frankly, Undermountain was never very interesting to me from a writing or reading perspective.