So, this chapter, like the last one, originally turned out to be longer than my university dissertation is likely to be, so here's the first half :P - also, speaking of university, the return of such obligations as unconscienable amounts of work might slow down my writing-ahead tactic quite badly, so this is also my attempt at combatting that...

The Drow language, as kindly spoken herein by Mae'rillar, was acquired from the website 'Chosen of Eilistraee'.

The Sunken Flagon had looked just the same. Isaviel had stood in the door, a dark-cloaked figure all but invisible against the night-time city, Lord Halueth Never's longsword heavy on her hip in its patterned oak scabbard. Once the healers had done their work – leaving behind a scar on her right hand to add to the others, Nasher had bestowed it upon her for the duration of her service to Neverwinter – a reminder of her duty. He had spoken of war, of her duty to gather together the allegiances of the surroundings peoples, and had paraded her out in front of the city's nobility in the newly-cleaned throne room to have her knighted in ceremony.

As soon as night had fallen, Isaviel had been on her way to the Docks District, to gain the ingredients for Mephasm's summoning. That had turned out to be a satisfyingly simple task – Sand had left a great deal behind in his shop, and though the place was well warded, his guardian golem had retained its instructions to trust Isaviel. She had just walked into the building and taken what she needed. His construct had even closed the door helpfully behind her as she left for The Sunken Flagon.

Watching Duncan sharing the stories of his youth with a few of the sailors staying at the inn for the winter, Isaviel felt a lump in her throat. With the tavern hall so bright, so warm and busy, and all of her companions gone from his life, Duncan seemed much happier; far more at ease. Leaning on the bar with a tankard in one hand, dressed in his typical overalls, he was joking rowdily with one of the older men, gesturing towards the hunting trophies on the walls. It would have been very easy to forget the promises of war with some mysterious King of Shadows, the guardian of a lost empire. It would have been so easy to walk inside and greet her uncle, order a drink from Sal and just sit and listen. But…that was just a dream. She would have to talk to Duncan of Shandra at least, and of the hints she had heard about her mother and father. Her presence would only have stolen his mirth and sobered him from his drink; she had surely caused him enough worry and cost him enough coin. He had been a better father to her than Daeghun had, and she knew she was always welcome in his home, but there was so much more for her to do…and none of it needed to involve him.

Thus with the weight of that unfamiliar sword dragging her down, Isaviel had turned away, her eyes catching Sal's across the room just as she moved – he had sent a nod, and she knew he had seen her. Hardening her heart once more, Isaviel had joined the armed escort Nasher had insisted she accept at the city gates, as well as a fresh horse. The weather had eased a little and the journey back to Crossroad Keep with her unfamiliar travelling companions had been a quiet one. They seemed more content to joke together and treat her with the respect they would their commanding officer.

In the settled snow, after a day and a half of travel on horseback, Crossroad Keep was an impressive sight up on its cliff ahead as Isaviel approached. Its walls and the keep ramparts had been completed by now, and there were men visible at their posts from this distance. It was an enormous construction of functional grey stone, draped in white snow with long, glittering icicles like teeth around its ugliest ridges. Still, at the sight of her current base rearing up before her when at last they reached the top of the winding path up to the hill, Isaviel allowed herself a small smile of relief; she could see the main gates already opening up for her as they crossed the frozen farmland. She had sent a pair of riders ahead to inform the keep of her imminent arrival, and she found herself uncommonly excited to be reunited with her friends. It had been a very hectic few days.

The Moon Elf was not disappointed as she dismounted her horse in the main bailey of the keep, seeing so many of her companions waiting for her expectantly. Sand was the first to greet her, pulling her into a swift hug and holding her tightly enough that she understood he had already been informed of the events at the castle.

"Isaviel!" the half-Elvish wizard cried when he stepped back, holding her out at arms' length, grey eyes shining with affectionate relief, "I – we are glad to see you safe. We have been informed of the attack on the castle…"

"Nasher isn't dead yet, Sand," Isaviel told him wryly, "And neither is Nevalle…unfortunately."

She regarded him with a little surprise – through his slightly embarrassed expression, she could see that he looked more rested than he had in many tendays. A slightly crooked, pensive smile had appeared on his face at her irreverent words and she found herself doing a double take as she continued to regard him, the others approaching with greetings of their own; she had not really looked at him for so long. His Elvish side was almost imperceptible – evident only in the points of his ears which, as ever, were unashamedly adorned with colourful gems and rings, many undoubtedly enchanted. Otherwise his heritage was betrayed only with her knowledge of his true age, for at over sixty years he appeared as a handsome man in his late thirties. His black hair definitely held even more strands of silver than it had before, even after such a short time away, and that unsettled her.

Tearing her eyes from Sand, Isaviel smiled to Neeshka as the Tiefling arrived at her side. Still pale from the injuries she had acquired at Ammon's haven, but evidently much healthier than she had been those days ago at the New Year festival, Isaviel's friend gave her a bright smile - but her pink eyes were sadder than they had been.

Grobnar was there too, finally able to walk without a limp, his bow on his back and his lyre in his hands, his blonde hair a wild mess, singed in several places, bobbing as he chattered noisily about something to do with metal and joints. Qara lingered further away, her arms folded across her vibrant green robes – a colour which clashed violently with her red hair. In spite of her derisive expression she was a stunning sight, her pale face angular and delicate in just the right ways, large eyes full of feeling as they always were – though whether good or bad, it was hard to tell. Just beyond Qara stood Daeghun, watching the scene coldly with his bow in hand, Mae'rillar and Bishop just striding past him. It looked like all three of them had been in the practice yard.

"The others are not back yet," Sand informed, a slight frown appearing on his face, "I would expect them by tomorrow evening, perhaps."

"Better still, maybe they won't return at all," Bishop suggested dryly as he arrived, staring at the wizard with clear distaste before regarding Isaviel with a measured air, "I see our captain made it back in one piece after all." Something flickered in his expression at that – was it relief? Or something…else?

"The soldiers will be glad for your return, as we are," Mae'rillar offered diplomatically, resting his arms on his twin sword hilts after raising an amused eyebrow at Bishop's tone until his eyes fell to the weapon on Isaviel's belt, "You have a longsword, Isaviel."

"Really?" Isaviel faked surprise, "I hadn't noticed." He smiled a little too dazzlingly at that.

"Is it yours?" Neeshka demanded in disbelief, "Isaviel, did you bang your head in the fighting at the castle? You've never fought with anything bigger than a kukri before!"

"I know," Isaviel agreed, smiling to her Tiefling friend and feeling oddly euphoric at the excuse to feel something other than stress and sadness, looking back to Mae'rillar, "I was hoping you could help me get used to it, if I'm to try to wield something so…unwieldy."

"Hmm," the Drow laughed at her doubtful tone, unexpectedly leaning forward and pulling the sword from its sheath on her hip, its rune-carved blade singing with the movement.

Mae'rillar's amber eyes widened in surprise as he regarded the unusual weapon, juggling it between his hands, stepping back and performing a few worryingly adept manoeuvres, blurred in their speed. Tossing it into the air he caught its blade in his gloved hand with careful precision so as not to touch the edges, and proffered the hilt back to Isaviel.

"This weapon is a special one indeed," he told her softly as she took it, startled by its lightness – most of the weight she had felt had come from its scabbard, "It is enchanted in many ways and sharper than any weapon you are likely familiar with. Yes, I can teach you to use this."

"Thank you," Isaviel grinned at his words, admiring the weapon with new hope, seeing how its silver blade glinted with a blue sheen in the light.

"Though three of our fellows are absent, perhaps a little celebration is in order?" Sand offered, "A toast to your safe return if nothing else?"

"Oh no wine for me, thank you!" Grobnar piped in as the group began to move towards the keep doors for the banquet hall and the promise of warm food and warming drink, "It ruins my singing voice, really…and it went straight to my head last time…"

"As if it could get any worse," Isaviel muttered to Neeshka and the Tiefling grinned and nodded…but still, there was less sincerity in her mischievous look than there had been once.

They were all glad to shed their fur cloaks and compulsory gloves, stamping the snow from their boots as they entered. Sand and Grobnar moved toward the kitchens to ask for food and wine for the group, while the rest headed for the banquet hall. Bishop reached Isaviel in the corridor as she was going to join her friends, dragging her around the corner and not bothering to say much, pushing her against the wall and kissing her fiercely. He groaned against her when she pulled him closer, and in a moment his lips were gentle and lingering against hers; she matched him easily, wondering if she would have been able to stand had he let go of her.

"Miss me that much, did you?" Isaviel teased as the ranger drew back, eliciting a glare from him though he did not let go of her.

"I promised to throw you into my bed, didn't I?" he growled.

"You did," the Moon Elf acceded, running a fingertip along the stubble of his jaw, "Although I have not come back from my battles unscathed," she pulled aside the collar of her tunic to show him the bruises on her neck, then pretended to flutter her eyelashes at him innocently, "Be gentle, oh noble warrior. And first, I have some friends to keep – and wine to drink."

It certainly had been a welcome relief to relax with her friends, and Isaviel's heart felt just a little lighter. There had been so much pain and suffering – she could not help but wonder why it was that those amongst her companions such as Qara or Grobnar lingered at the keep. But the sorcerer seemed happy showing off her arcane skill to the wizarding recruits, and was full of stories of it once they had given her enough wine. Under Duncan's watchful eye nothing stronger than water had been the fiery teenager's fare, but Isaviel had realised the way to Qara's heart was through patronisingly clear acts of equality. So they had all drunk and laughed and joked and tried very hard not to think on Shandra's death or the threat of war. The new year festival should have been like this, but with the attack of the Shadow Reaver on that very night it had, for Isaviel at least, been a long time without peace and happiness. It felt very ironic after all her childhood dreams of escaping West Harbour for adventure and mischief in Neverwinter or some other idealised city.

In spite of the lull, Isaviel could find no rest, and several hours after the mirth in the banquet hall had died down she lay wide awake in Bishop's dark, bare room, tracing absent patterns across his stomach with her fingertips. The comfort she found in lying like that with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the swell and fall of his chest as he breathed was terribly bittersweet. Watching the play of moonlight on the ranger's skin Isaviel breathed a world-weary sigh and felt Bishop's hand shift a little where it rested lightly on her back.

"You should be sleeping, Captain," he murmured, still keeping that sardonic edge to his voice even in half-awakening, "Your friends should be back tomorrow, and then you'll need to start organising things around this place."

"Haven't I already done that to your satisfaction?" Isaviel pretended to sound hurt, biting her lip when his hand drifted over her skin.

"Don't try to fool me," Bishop warned, "It won't work. Come on, Captain…you're worrying about what comes next. We've got a big bad army heading our way, and you'll be needing friends. Powerful friends…" his voice lulled a little again as he neared sleep, but Isaviel pinched him and he hissed, "What was that for?"

"Stay awake. You're starting to prove useful," Isaviel smirked, pressing kisses on a path to his lips, leaning over him so as to watch his eyes in the feeble silvery light, "What do you mean by 'powerful friends'?"

His arms closed around her waist and he grunted in satisfaction as her lips settled over his, bringing a hand up to brush her hair behind her ear, and tangling his fingers in the strands to hold her there and deepen their kiss. He smiled with rare sincerity when the tip of his tongue touched hers and she moaned involuntarily. When they parted Isaviel had all but forgotten their conversation, but it seemed that Bishop had not, even as he lay beneath her, watching her with all the lazy, graceful strength of a resting feline predator.

"Well if you're going to line the cloud with gold like that instead of silver," he smirked, quirking an eyebrow when she pouted at him, "…I'm thinking good old Ammon Jerro might have some more answers for us than he's volunteered so far. He should know where to start, since he's done this before. The Gith might have some answers, too, if you can understand her drivel."

"There are others on this stretch of the Sword Coast!" Isaviel smiled broadly now with realisation, kissing him again in thankful relief before resting her head on his chest as she had before, "The Dwarves in the mountains around the Mere, and Elanee's Circle. If the threat Nasher's claiming is true, then we'll need their help…and perhaps it will be enough."

"Hope all you like, Captain, this won't be easy," Bishop told her, his tone surprisingly soft; she could feel his hand running slowly through her hair as he spoke, but from the rhythm of his breathing she could tell he was falling asleep again.

"Bishop?"

"Hmm?"

"What…what happened between you and the girl we met in the tavern in Port Llast…Malin? What really happened?"

When no answer came – not even abuse or something equally vitriolic – Isaviel was almost relieved. It had been many weeks since her violent run-in with Malin…perhaps it was better left out of mind. For now. There were other things to think of that night as she slipped out of the bed; Bishop shifted a little and grunted but did not awaken, turning onto his side with his back to her. Smiling at his obliviousness, Isaviel leaned back and pressed a kiss to his shoulder before moving to her belongings and pulling on her tunic and leggings. Her hands were shaking a little with anxiety as she buckled on her weapon belt and slung the bag for the shards between her shoulders. What she intended to do was probably punishable by death in Neverwinter laws – and it was not even for the furthering of the cause against the King of Shadows. This was personal.

Karnwyr was growling in his sleep by the dying fire in the next room – which was equally bare of possessions. Bishop owned little more than his travelling gear and weaponry; the only ornament in this sitting chamber other than a simple chair by the hearth was his black longbow, propped up by the door. The wolf did not stir at Isaviel's passing, either, and she stepped through the door into the corridor on silent booted feet.

Only the guards on the door to the stairs leading down to the basement noticed their knight-captain's presence as she headed through the doors beyond them. A few apparently interested questions about how they found life at the keep and how their shift was going put them at ease and one of the two men opened the door for her. They were probably assuming that she would be intending to speak to the man on duty by the pantry, but that one did not even see her as she moved down the stairs past his post, a shadow in deep darkness.

She was glad to find that some fool had left a torch burning in the sconce at the very bottom of the stairs and took it with her, moving swiftly through the old laboratory. She surveyed that room with only a cursory glance; it was still dusty, with low-hanging cobwebs, untouched. That boded well, and it spurred her on, to find that her suspicions had been correct – those who had removed the bodies from the large stone chamber for Garius's ritual had not dared touch his runic circle. It continued to glow with a disturbingly constant pale light all of its own, though the four braziers, one at each corner of the room, were cold. Isaviel lit them again, mentally ticking off each of the carefully listed instructions Ammon Jerro had left for himself.

If Isaviel had not overheard his conversation with Qara during the New Year celebrations, this would not have been possible without attempting to force the information from the warlock – something she severely doubted she could do. However, he had rather callously informed the sorcerer on that night that it was possible to perform a summoning with the circle left in the basement. All one would need was the correct ingredients to burn on the pedestal…and the correct name.

Isaviel did not pause to think as she placed the ingredients she had stolen from Sand's shop in Neverwinter onto the pedestal at the centre of the circle, touching the torch's flames to them until they ignited with a foul-smelling puff of dark smoke. Jumping back, Isaviel placed her torch into a sconce, taking a deep breath and staring at the odd purple flames for a second before whispering the word, and seeing the air ripple and shudder around the circle before her.

"Mephasm."

A rumbling sound filled her ears, and Isaviel watched the ground within the summoning circle split and rip apart, save for the central pedestal, giving a view of barren, scorched red ground far below, as she had witnessed at both Mephasm's departure from the Githyanki and from Ammon Jerro. She heard the rush of air – but did not feel it – from the beating of strong, otherwise silent, wings, and Mephasm rose into her view, an altogether too triumphant smirk on his face.

"Isaviel Farlong. Would you believe me if I told you that I was just thinking of you?" he greeted as the stone floor reappeared beneath him, closing his wings and dropping gracefully to the ground, holding out a hand to her, "Will you not come a little closer?"

The fallen Deva's wolfish smile only grew when Isaviel flinched and frowned at his words, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the wall by her side. His perfect teeth, save for his two red-tipped fangs, glinted a dazzling white even in the reddish glow from the braziers, his eyes a sharp yellow. Though he blinked as any human would, with those sharp red lashes and those snake-like pupils he was leant the unsettling air of one who stared far too long.

"Well?" Mephasm prompted when Isaviel continued to hesitate, gesturing around himself, rustling his lustreless black-feathered wings, "Will you not tell me why it is you have thought to summon me into your lovely presence, Wild One?" he glanced around the room, narrowing his eyes and nodding to himself before meeting her gaze again, as if he had gleaned something important from his surroundings, "And at such a late hour. Does the ranger not warm your bed as well as he should?"

"You know very well why I summoned you here," Isaviel snapped now, stepping forward only a little, and Mephasm raised his hands in surrender, allowing his expression to settle into a more pleasant smile, so the Moon Elf continued, "You know about my father – so does Ammon Jerro. But I think you will take great pleasure in telling me the truth."

"Ah, you have come to accept it then," Mephasm agreed, stepping forward as well until he was at the closest point within his circle, "From what Qaggoth-Yeg, Hezebel, Ammon and I have told you…you have come to accept that the truth is not a happy one. Rather…it is bitter, and desperate, full of misery and pain."

"Yes," Isaviel gritted out, "Tell me who my father was. He does not live – Qaggoth-Yeg told me as much." He still raves about your mother's screams, even in death.

"He is dead," Mephasm concurred, "And he was once a Rashemi priest, who followed his father into a new…state of being…only to scorn the god who gave them that boon, and, following his father once more, he rebelled. They led an army to the gates of the City of the Dead."

"He was…human?" Isaviel could not help but sound surprised.

"Once, millennia ago. When your mother came upon him he was something…else. A creature much the same as I. He had been changed when he ascended to his god's greatest favour, and it is the deva he became which is echoed in you. In your eyes, and the wings which my former master's uncouth demons cut from you during the Battle of West Harbour."

"But…" Isaviel felt an involuntary shudder run up her spine at these revelations, her eyes lingering on the sight of Mephasm's shadowy wings – glorious, even dulled as they were, "The grasping force which comes from my scar…I felt it each time I fought a Shadow Reaver, and it seems to be the root of my worst rages. How can any of that explain this hunger in me? I can tear out the Reavers' spirits," her voice was forced now, her manner more than a little imploring in her frustration.

"You are afraid," Mephasm surmised softly, and when his fingertip came up to touch beneath her chin, Isaviel jumped in surprise – when had she approached so close? "It is undeniable. Your beautiful eyes shine with it," he did not withhold his evident exultation at that idea, his stare holding hers and making her heart race despite herself, "I promise you, Lovely One, the truth will only make you fear more."

"I have to know," Isaviel told him firmly, stepping back out of reach angrily.

"Very well," Mephasm shrugged, still smirking, his eyes roving over her form before meeting her glare again, "The hunger you feel is a curse, one which was given first to your grandfather. When he died, his accursed soul separated and…infected those of his human sons, and their children. He had lived a long time, you see, and though he loved only once with his heart, his passions were more…flawed. Your father inherited the worst part of the curse because of his greater complicity, and was left to his torment, to feel as though he were starving without the souls of the living to devour. It drove him mad, imprisoned by his god in the cold earth with only rats to eat. Your mother came upon him that way, in his starving madness, and he…begot you, on her. She killed him for it."

His lips twitched in amusement, but Isaviel felt her blood run cold. From the way Mephasm's eyes twinkled with a genuine smile she knew she had grown paler, unable to hide the horror in her expression. Crossing her arms more tightly about herself, she began to pace in front of him, as if that might alleviate her frustration and her anger and her fear and her horror.

"Why would my mother have come upon my father at all? You said he was imprisoned – in the ground. It can't have been a chance meeting. Did they know each other before…that point?"

"Oh, no, they did not," Mephasm told her flatly, "Although Esmerelle of Evereska knew of Eveshi. It was his sword she needed, the one that his father wielded in his rebellion. Your sword of Gith, now. His soul, the substantial part of it that resides in you, it remembers the blade…and it saved your life, holding onto the shard in your chest without allowing it to reach your heart. A piece of a darker soul than your own to stir the embers of your rage when they are kindled, and…for now…a brutal guardian of your life. It is responding to the pull of the gathering shards as their power increases, and also to the poorly stitched forms of the Reavers," Mephasm acceded.

"Wait," Isaviel stopped pacing, staring at the fallen Deva with narrowed eyes, "How do you know all of this?"

"Ah, a prudent question, Wild One," Mephasm nodded, reaching into a pocket in his robes and extracting a narrow leather bound journal with dark-edged, uneven pages, "It is all written down in here. You can thank Ammon for that – although he has been rather cryptic about how he knew all of this. Somehow it resulted in his acquiring the sword of Gith. And Esmerelle of Evereska, presumably, fled the scene and bore you."

Isaviel took the book carefully as Mephasm proffered it, mindful to keep her fingers away from his. It was hard enough keeping a straight head looking into his eyes, or even at his disturbingly beautiful form. She half expected him to pull her into the circle and drag her back to Nessus, but he just bowed a little and smiled, letting her take the book and retreat from him once more. His raised eyebrows proved to her that he understood her trepidation.

"My father's name was Eveshi," she spoke the word evenly, though she felt her stomach twisting itself into knots at the realisation that she was a product of rape, that her mother had killed her father for it, "I have heard of Akachi and Eveshi's crusade. Was he…was he that Eveshi?"

"Yes." There was a strange gleam in his eyes that she did not like.

"And Ammon Jerro knew my mother; he told me they looked for the sword of Gith together…and that he repaid her poorly for it."

"Yes. Though I may not speak of such things," Mephasm claimed, his smile growing too broad again, and his eyes flickering to watch something moving in the deep shadows behind the Moon Elf, his tone changing to one of mocking surprise as he addressed another, "What is it that leads you to skulk in the dark? Do you miss your homeland so much?"

Isaviel whirled about to see Mae'rillar stepping into the light from the corridor leading back the way she had come. His eyes glowed crimson in the low light, and his twin longswords were drawn, held deceptively limply by his sides. His lips were set in a hard line, his brow furrowed into a frown as he regarded Mephasm.

"I felt the stench of your power from beyond the walls of this keep, Devil," the Drow spat , his accent, normally very cultured, was so strong now that Isaviel could barely make out the words, "This should not be. Ussta ilhar jousus ulu ussa areion ilta ser'lech nindel naubol bwael rin'ov chu dal lar'aen d'dosst valyrin."

"So kind of you to say so, dobluth," Mephasm responded sarcastically, "Did your mother's stupidity, that which you call 'ilta ser'lech' not also teach you to be a little more polite to 'my kind'? Mephistopheles does not forget that shame you brought him. He will come for you one day, Drow. Anger me, and I will help speed his path to you."

"And I will be ready," Mae'rillar responded frostily, hefting his two swords for emphasis, still with that unfamiliarly aggressive look as he reached Isaviel's side, "And when he does, I will kill him again for what he did to me and to my friends."

"What is this? How do you know each other?" Isaviel demanded, glaring at Mae'rillar distrustfully when he sheathed one sword and took hold of her elbow, his own expression stern.

"We do not 'know each other'. But word travels easily through the Nine Hells, evidently," he spoke with quieter urgency now, glancing briefly at Mephasm's calmly watching form, "I understand your motives, Isaviel, but you must send him back to his own plane. The longer he stays here, the more likely he will be to pull you from the path you truly wish to walk."

Looking into the Drow's determined eyes, Isaviel knew he was right and with a sigh and a nod she turned to face Mephasm.

"Mephasm, I once more banish you to your native Hell," she told the fallen Deva, and he inclined his head to her.

"Until we meet again," he promised as the portal opened beneath him and he descended.

Once Mephasm had gone, Isaviel's shoulders slumped and she looked sidelong towards her Drow companion guiltily, turning the worn journal over in her hands. She was surprised to see that Mae'rillar was regarding her with a small, understanding smile – a gentle, genuine look very much at odds with Mephasm's cruel insincerity.

"How much did you hear?" she asked softly, her gaze dropping to the battered journal in her grasp.

"Enough to know that you have learned the painful truth Ammon Jerro would have kept from you," Mae'rillar admitted, his hand still on her elbow as he guided her from the room back into the abandoned laboratory, "I feel I can sympathise a little, for my mother was …singularly unlovable."

"What did Mephasm mean?" Isaviel asked, stopping and turning to face him, her voice hollow in spite of her curiosity, "How did he know of you?"

"I must admit that I have not been entirely open with you," Mae'rillar smiled, "You may have heard of the troubles in Waterdeep several years ago…"