Chapter Three

Jorlan's Gambit

1485 DR / Day 2

Jimjar was correct—the drows' idea of chores was less necessary labor and more of a way for the dark elves to get their kicks. For eight hours a day, the prisoners were worked in various areas of Velkynvelve. Basic tasks involved filling barrels at the waterfall, meal preparation, dishes, and laundry, as well as cleaning all parts of the outpost—dirty or not. Less exciting jobs included moving and stacking rocks, Jimjar's despised coiling and uncoiling of rope, and the meticulous organization of the dark elves' supplies. If anything fell below what the drow considered to be 'standard,' the prisoners were forced to do the work over again.

At present, the great shrine of the Spider Queen loomed before the drow pair—dark, and tall, and terrible. Fraeya and her reserved male counterpart had been tasked that day to clean but not touch the statue. A job that was given deliberately to remind them of their patron goddess's greatness.

"How are we to clean it if we cannot touch it?" Fraeya hissed to dark-and-broody.

She'd become rather fond of Jimjar's nickname for the other drow. It suited the male well. For no matter her best efforts, he had not uttered a single word. He huddled in his self-proclaimed corner of the cell and glared at anyone who dared to look upon him. Fraeya was starting to fear he truly was both mute and inept.

"You are a resourceful one. No doubt you will find a way," a chilled female voice, not male, replied from the shadows of the room.

Fraeya whirled around towards it. "You!"

The priestess was cloaked in a globe of magical darkness, an inherent ability of the drow.

"Why linger in the shadows like a coward instead of facing me," the prisoner spat with a venom that surprised everyone in the cramped room. The male drow wisely tried to make himself scarce, recognizing the brewing argument went far beyond that of mere criminal and warden. Fraeya continued her angry mouth ahead of her reasoning. "I am still chained! What can I do to harm you?"

"Again, you are a resourceful one," Asha responded, her sharp voice oddly disembodied in the dark. "Do not think I will fall for the tricks you picked up from your former friends."

"Bregan D'aerthe has the favor of House Baenre, first house of Menzoberranzan. That is far more than you can claim," Fraeya shot back, aiming to strike at the junior priestess's pride. "Whose favor do you have? Ilvara of house Mizzrym, only fourth house of the city. She will have you ever groveling at her feet."

"That band of mercenaries has house Baenre's favor, not you. You—Fraeya—are no one!" Asha cried fanatically. This was the fight she had been waiting to have for tendays. "No family to back you, no name. It's no less than you deserve for selling secrets."

A false smile tugged at Fraeya's lips. "It was all too easy," she replied.

The male drow prisoner watched the escalating quarrel in his trademark silence—though he felt part curiosity, part disbelief that the two would dare to lose control so easily, spouting names and houses and loyalties. Had they forgotten he was there? They squabbled like children! They were both young, he reasoned, too young. He was not as inept as Fraeya might have feared. His mind was quite sharp…most days. There were times when he—no, that did not matter.

He filed the information they had freely given away for later.

"Be glad that I am not in charge of this outpost. I would have immediately fed you to the spiders for insulting a high priestess as you did yesterday. Alas, I still get the last laugh! An 'eight-leg' you shall be," Asha sang mockingly. The sly threat stripped all confidence from Fraeya's face. She knew now what terrible fate awaited her in Menzoberranzan. The priestess wasn't finished, however. "Lolth has smiled upon me for this is to be my Test."

Even the silent male drow could not hold back his shiver at Asha's warning. For the reference she had made, eight-legs, was another term for drider—aberrant drow who had been transformed from the waist down into a spider, both a punishment and living testament of the Spider Queen's power. They were outcasts of drow society, lower than even a slave, bloodthirsty hunters, and tormented by the memory of their former existence. All driders had a death wish but even death would not release them. Forever they were caught in Lolth's venomous web.

Fraeya forced her mouth shut, biting upon her lip so hard she could taste an all too familiar metallic twang in her mouth. How badly she wanted to have the last word. But she knew that the priestess was already reaching for the handle of her vicious snake-headed whip, though she could not see through the protective barrier of the black globe. Fraeya did not desire more lashes. The previous day's reminder of the scourge's power lay on her back, neck, and jaw. The thin gashes stung at all hours. Not to mention, they had begun to puss. Infected, she knew, but nothing could be done. Nothing could be done about any of it.

The resigned prisoner turned back to Lolth's statue, wanting nothing more than to smash it to pieces.

"What are you doing?" Asha spat.

"My task," Fraeya bit back.

Before Asha could offer another reply, a young warrior hurriedly stepped into the room. He was momentarily confused by the globe of darkness but knew that only a priestess would be assigned to watch prisoners in this particular chamber. He obediently dropped his gaze, waiting to be properly addressed. Asha relinquished concentration of her spell though kept a watchful eye on her rebellious prisoner.

"You may speak," she told the male.

"You are needed at the waterfall, priestess," the warrior said. "An argument has broken out between the dragonborn and the orc. They are…smashing chamber pots," he added regretfully.

"And you could not handle them yourself? Foolish male," Asha grumbled under her breath as she furiously swept past him. "On your head—it will take weeks to get replacements for those pots. Our supply wagons are already running late." The male dropped his gaze even lower, effectively chastised though in no way had the fight been his fault. "Stay with these two. I will handle it."

The guard nodded and took up a post near the door.

He couldn't say why he did it. Perhaps it was pity for the terrible fate that he knew awaited her or regret at seeing a living fire that had once burned so brightly utterly drained. But as soon as Asha left the chamber, the drow prisoner who had been stringently silent up until now turned to Fraeya and whispered, "Sarith."

Fraeya's silvery eyes shifted from the wicked statue. "What?" she asked, confused.

"My name," was his only reply.

—

Zelyra furiously scrubbed at a plain clay dish, careful to keep her eyes on the sink and only the sink. The intimidating form of Ilvara loomed behind her, snake-headed whip in hand and sharp eyes observing the young druid's progress. Zelyra finished the dish she was working on and keeping her gaze averted, held it out for the commander to examine.

"Again!" Ilvara demanded, returning the dish. "You missed a spot, just there!"

The half-elf resisted the urge to scream. No spot had been missed; she was sure of it. For this was the sixth time she had cleaned the same dish. But Zelyra said not a word. Whatever Mistress Ilvara asked of her, she would do. Whatever it took to survive.

Still, she breathed a sigh of relief when Ilvara eventually moved on.

At the other end of the dimly lit Main Hall, Kazimir found himself grinding bluecap mushrooms into flour to make something the drow called 'sporebread'. One of the male guards had given him brief instructions on how to prepare the bread in broken Common. He wasn't sure what sort of masterpiece they were expecting, but Kazimir predicted the result would prove unappetizing.

Then again, the very name of the bread didn't give much promise to begin with.

The tiefling's gaze keenly swept over the room as he continued to grind away at the bluecaps. Four male drow sat around one of the circular tables at the center of the room. A tray of dried fruits and cheeses was set out before them which they absentmindedly munched on while entertaining themselves with a game of dice. A lone quaggoth servant attended to them.

Kazimir himself stood at a table near a heavy iron brazier that would be used to bake the bread. At the other end of the chamber was a large sink where Zelyra stood with her back to him, still scrubbing at dishes. They were the only two prisoners within the Hall, as the others had been tasked in separate areas.

The last person within the Hall was Mistress Ilvara herself. Kazimir had watched, cringing occasionally, as the commander berated Zelyra over and over again. The selfish part of him was glad it was her, and not him. So far, Ilvara had left him alone. But the commander now stalked towards the table of males, her gaze locked intently on one in particular—Shoor, the arrogant, decorated elite warrior who had dutifully flanked her the day before.

The beautiful but dark high priestess came to a stop just over Shoor's shoulder and purred, "Are you winning, soldier?"

"Of course, Mistress," the elite replied, catching her tone immediately.

The others caught it too. Two of the warriors began returning dice to pouches at their belts, already expecting what was coming next. The third, none other than the scarred Jorlan, crossed his arms and seethed in silent jealously.

She was to do this here? In front of him? Would her seditious conduct never end?

More than ever, Jorlan longed for a way to embarrass the priestess as deeply as she continuously saw fit to embarrass him. He'd thought on it, long and hard, the night before and had just come up with the beginnings of a plan. But now, as he watched his former lover seduce his rival, an even better idea came to him. He'd bide his time. Just a few more days. Then enact his plan.

Oblivious to Jorlan's plotting, a different kind of smile found its way to Ilvara's thin lips, not mocking or cruel, but rather pleased. "Excellent. You never fail me, do you Shoor?" The priestess let her dress slip just the slightest bit and said, "Escort the two prisoners back to their cell, then meet me in my personal chambers. You have a duty to fulfill."

At the sink, Zelyra resisted the urge to gag. How anyone could stand to be intimate with someone like Ilvara was beyond her. But then again, she had caught on enough to the way the drow females treated their males to know that Shoor likely had little choice.

How very cruel and strange the dark elves were.

Kazimir meanwhile was extremely confused when he was pulled from his breadmaking before he'd even had a chance to form a dough.

Shoor promptly escorted the pair back to the slave pens, rushing the wizard and druid over the ever-swaying spider silk bridges in his eagerness to return to the Mistress. The elite knew of the surface dwellers' imbalance on the difficult terrain but hurried them, nonetheless. If they fell into the webs below—well, he didn't care one way or the other. He doubted the Mistress would either. More food for her precious spiders.

Fortunately for Zelyra and Kazimir neither lost their footing. They made it safely to the cell, the first ones back from chore duties. The only other creature within was something that resembled a walking toadstool about the size of a small dog. Both gave it a wide berth—not knowing exactly what it was. Small did not necessarily mean harmless in the Underdark.

"What was that all about?" Kazimir asked, still shaking his head over their impromptu return. "You understand their Elvish well enough, I take it."

The blonde rolled her tongue, trying to find the best way to answer. She knew Common well, but it wasn't a language she spoke frequently. "He was to escort us back and then fulfill his duty to Ilvara in her personal chambers."

Despite himself, Kazimir let out a bellied laugh. "Oh—oh—gross."

"I agree," Zelyra echoed his laughter, her nose scrunched.

They dropped to the cavern floor, sitting side by side. Zelyra eyed the tiefling out of the corner of her eye. Kazimir's horned features were as alien to her as the drow and yet, she felt safe with him. She had wondered, based upon the robes and staff he had carried before the drow confiscated them if he might be some sort of mage. The druid now felt comfortable enough to ask, "Do you feel it? The oppression of this cell? I feel wholly unconnected to the earth here."

"I mean, you're surrounded by stone—" Kazimir started, not understanding her meaning.

"You—are you a mage?" she pointedly asked instead. When Kazimir nodded, she continued, "I too have access to magic, but it is my connection to nature and the First Circle, to both the living and decay, which gives me my power. I sense you are different. But either way, my magic…the well within me, I can't feel it here. I wondered if you were the same."

"Oh, there is an anti-magic ward upon this chamber," Kazimir easily explained away. "I felt it as soon as we entered. Not that I would have been able to cast anything of consequence anyhow—they took my book!" he added bitterly.

"Your book?" Zelyra asked.

"My book of spells, of research, my drawings, everything!"

The druid's brow furrowed, still not quite understanding. "The book gives you power?"

"Yes, and no," the wizard replied. "It just makes it easier. There are some spells that I have read the incantations for so many times they come naturally. Others, I need a refresher. What about you? The First Circle? Your magic sounds…strange."

"The First Circle are the nature deities, both good and evil for all must be appropriately revered. Nature is neutral. An ever-going process of life and death. One cannot exist without the other," Zelyra recited, unconsciously channeling the even voice of the Master of Lore. For so many years he had driven that basic concept of the druidic magics into her mind. It was hard not to think of him in the moment, even afore Laucian's teachings.

Kazimir merely blinked. "Ah—okay, then."

Zelyra frowned, "You do not agree?"

"All magic is based upon the Weave of Mystra," the wizard retorted.

The druid shook her head, "We make it out of this place, and I will show you that magic exists outside this 'Mystra'. I could have healed Fraeya's lashes in an instant for not this enchantment. There are many things I could do—still can, outside of this cell," she murmured. The thought of shapeshifting and running away came to mind, but Zelyra knew she would not get far. Her transformations lasted only an hour, maybe two, at most. The drow would find her.

The wizard, intrigued by knowledge of new magic, held out his hand. "To new discoveries," he said.

The druid accepted it, smiling. "New discoveries."

They settled again against the cavern wall but a strange noise from afar, an inhuman shriek, drew their attention to the barred gate. Both quieted and held their breath, waiting, but the noise did not come again.

"How do you reckon we make it out of this abysmal place?" Kazimir asked after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We wait for an opportune moment. Do you know a spell that might help us?"

"As I said, I would need my book for that," the wizard returned, annoyed at the reminder of its loss. "What about you?"

Zelyra thought long and hard, going through the handful of spells at her disposal. A memory came to her. A giant tree, its center twisted away to reveal a tall auburn-haired elf in flowing emerald robes as they stepped through a swirling vortex of energy. But not even Laucian had mastered that spell. Only Ansron, the Circle's Master of Lore, could perform it.

"There is one but…" she paused, heaving a regretful sigh. "It's far too advanced for me."

"Well, that's not going to help us then, will it?" Kazimir snapped.

"Then we must wait for an opportune moment and hope a plan comes to us."

Neither could have suspected that moment was already close at hand, lying in the hands of a scorned lover who desired nothing more than to watch Mistress Ilvara's carefully constructed hierarchy of power crumble around her.

—

One by one, and occasionally in pairs, the other prisoners returned from chore duty.

Balasar and the hulking orc sported numerous lashes upon their backs, courtesy of Asha Vandree's vicious scourge. The timing of their disobedience had not been in their favor as Asha used their punishment to release a well of pent-up anger from her argument with Fraeya, making her strikes fall twice as often and twice as hard.

Balasar found himself still seething over the disrespect that the orc had shown. The worse part was that the orc bully had not even insulted him—but rather, a lady—and that was unacceptable to the dragonborn. He had been minding his own business, performing the unfortunate duty of emptying the outpost's chamber pots into a specially designated pool, when he overheard the orc's spiteful and increasingly lewd comments towards Eldeth Feldrun.

The dragonborn was surprised at just how quickly the anger had washed over him. Before he even knew what he was doing, Balasar had rushed the orc and furiously headbutted him back into the pile of chamber pots that had yet to be emptied.

The fight escalated quickly from there. The smaller drow guards had been wholly unprepared for the sudden all-out brawl that broke out between the two seven-foot-tall creatures. One rushed off to find a priestess. Upon Asha's arrival, the pair had been severely punished. But Balasar wore his lashes with pride, knowing that he had gotten them in defense of another. He took note that Eldeth seemed to admire them as well.

"That was an impressive display of strength," the dwarf remarked heartily. "Though, I am more than capable of defending me-self. I am a shield dwarf of Gauntlgrym! If I had me axe—" She shot an accusatory glance over at the orc who now sulked at the other end of the slave pen, far from Balasar and Eldeth, his pride unquestionably broken. "That one would be in pieces."

"It doesn't matter," Balasar responded gruffly. "No one talks that way to a lady."

Eldeth raised an auburn eyebrow. "Ye think I'm a lady?"

The dragonborn's gaze reflexively dropped to her ample bosom. A fiery blush broke out upon his bronze scales. "Well, I—" he choked over his response.

"Again, I say to ye, give me a battle-axe, and I'll show ye the kind of lady I am."

Balasar heartily grinned in response. "Is that a challenge?"

"Yer damn right it's a challenge!" the spirited dwarf declared.

"I happen to be the champion fighter of the Forge in Gracklestugh," the dragonborn boasted, though it wasn't a title he was particularly proud of considering he'd been forced to fight for his life during his captivity among the grey dwarves. Truly, he just wanted to impress Eldeth.

A champion fighter? The shield dwarf was indeed impressed but did not want to further stroke his ego. Eldeth fought to hide her smile, sensing a kindred spirit within the dragonborn. She could not resist teasing him, "One day, I hope to observe yer prowess, champion. It must be a sight to behold!"

Balasar puffed out his chest, missing her jest. "A sight to behold, indeed!"

The shield dwarf shook her head and lost her battle to hold back her smile.

Zelyra once more found herself in the company of the strange Prince Derendil. He sought her out immediately upon his return, eager to speak with someone in his native tongue. Their conversation was quite pleasant. The prince entertained her for much of the evening with stories of his beloved city and his family, particularly his father, the king, and his younger sister, Gilziriah. He was polite, well-spoken, and overtly cheerful despite their grim surroundings. Zelyra found it a nice distraction.

"Your father is truly called 'the man of many mustaches'?" she asked incredulously, never having seen a full-blooded elf with facial hair before. "But what is his true name?"

"You may ask him yourself when you visit, as my guest of honor," Derendil replied boldly. The invitation took Zelyra by complete surprise, but she nodded her head in agreement regardless, not wanting to insult someone who, though he did not look it, was far above her in terms of station. "Should we ever escape this place, I plan to immediately return to Nelrindenvane. Our court wizard should have no issue removing this curse that had been put upon me."

The druid bit her lip and dared to ask, "Do you mind me asking what happened?"

Derendil frowned. "I truly do not remember. My last memory is of a pleasant morning walk through one of the palace's many gardens—my mother had a fondness for flowers and all things green," he commented offhandedly. "The next thing I know, I am here, in this cell, and trapped in this ghastly form."

It made some sense. Zelyra herself still had many gaps in her memory. She could not remember anything that happened between her arrival in Gauntlgrym and her capture. And the prince spoke with such conviction that she found herself wholeheartedly believing his every word.

"Did your father have any known enemies?" she wondered aloud. "Anyone who would have tried to use you to get to him?"

The prince shook his head. "None, at least that I am aware of."

"Your kingdom sounds very beautiful, peaceful."

"It is," Derendil agreed with a wistful sigh. "I wonder how my family fairs in my absence?"

"Well, from what you've shared with me, I do not doubt they miss you very much," Zelyra told him.

"And what of you? Is there anyone that is missing you?" he asked curiously.

Zelyra's stomach churned with guilt. "No—no, I don't think so."

"Not even the Laucian fellow you spoke of?"

"He wouldn't even know I had gone. For he is here, trapped somewhere in the Underdark," the druid admitted quietly. She became desperate for a change in subject. "Tell me more about your palace's gardens! I too have a fondness for flowers."

The prince happily obliged and thus Zelyra was able to push the dark memory of her desperate escape from her village and the face of the one she had betrayed in the process deep to the recesses of her mind.

Fraeya and Sarith were the last ones to return from chore duty. They had not spoken further after the male finally shared his name. Fraeya sensed that was the way he'd prefer it, to be left alone. So when Sarith returned to his self-proclaimed corner in the furthest reaches of the cell, she let him go. The drow was curious about him, however. Jimjar's claim that he had been charged with murder ever cycled through her thoughts. Who had he murdered, she wondered? Someone from a rival house? How unfortunate that he had been caught. For in the City of Spiders and among the drow there was only one rule—don't get caught.

She too had failed at that one.

Fraeya spent the rest of the evening silently observing her fellow prisoners. It kept her from worrying about Asha's warning. The half-elf and quaggoth talked for hours. Kazimir drew in the dirt of the cavern floor with his finger. The orc glared daggers at Balasar whenever the dragonborn wasn't looking. Their lashes did not go unnoticed by the drow. Jimjar was preoccupied with the twin deep gnome children instead of peddling for more coin. The others kept to themselves.

It was shaping up to be an uneventful evening—until it wasn't.

Jorlan had volunteered to bring the prisoners their meal that evening, a tasteless thin mushroom broth. The prisoners were fed only once a day. Thus, the sight of the drow holding a large metal pot and a stack of small clay bowls had most of them rushing for the gate. Fraeya bid her time however and was the last one to receive her meal. It proved to their advantage for Fraeya was just the person Jorlan desperately wished to speak to.

As the disfigured elite slid the clay bowl through the narrow gaps of the gate into her waiting hands, he whispered the fateful words, "If you had means to escape, would you?"

Last revision: 11/05/2021