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A weary dark elf viewed the caves around him and more and more began to recognize them. The perimeter, he thought to himself. Home at last. It had been an arduous six day travel from distant Ched Nasad after a tumultuous stay. Six days of traveling with a group of hardy, distrustful gray dwarves who only grudgingly allowed the lone drow to accompany them to Menzoberranzan. Not that he minded his dwarven companions, nor did he blame their suspicious attitude towards him. Drow are universally known to betray their allies when, not if, it becomes advantageous to do so. Nevertheless, greed almost always dictates the judgment of gray dwarves, more commonly known as Duergar. So safe passage was only a fat purse away for the dark elf, or "Jrevek" as the dwarves knew him as. Jrevek stared out the side of the covered wagon, unmindful of the bald, four foot stack of muscles watching his every move; his companions holding the reins of the subterranean lizard pulling them along.
"We reachin' the city," the driver nervously spoke to his companion in their native tongue. "If he acts, 'twill be soon."
The second dwarf tried to offer a bit of optimism. "This one's diff'rent. Never known a drow so friendly," he replied. It was true. Not only had Jrevek lacked the typical nastiness of his race, but he had actually been quite helpful to their party, leading a charge against a small pack of goblins and helping them avoid the drow patrols around both cities.
"Aye, too friendly," the driver cautioned. "Be glad to get rid of 'im. Gold or no gold."
The dwarf inside the wagon grew alarmed as the drow slowly began to gather his few belongings, which included two well worn adamantite swords. However, the drow made no threatening moves. "Right here will be fine, my friends," he politely spoke. However only the driver, older and wiser to the many tongues of the Underdark, understood. The cart came to a quick halt and all three dwarves quickly jumped out before the drow stood up. When he emerged, the dwarves stood in a tight triangle, the driver in front, all looking as if they expected a fight. "I must say. I'm saddened by this lack of trust, especially after our uneventful journey," Jrevek announced to the leader.
"Why here, the entrance is far ahead," the dwarf tensely replied.
"There is a little known passageway that opens behind the lake. I prefer to make a discreet entrance," Jrevek calmly replied. He then slowly reached into his belt, to the alarm of the three dwarves. However they were all relieved to see him bring out a small pouch of coins. "Thirty gold pieces and no questions, as we agreed upon," he said, gently handing it to the leader. The leader snatched it and looked inside. Apparently satisfied, he didn't bother counting. "I have one further request. Might you spare an old, ragged cloak? The filthier the better. I'll pay extra if you need."
The request surprised the dwarf, but he found no reason to deny it. He directed one of the others to look and retrieve accordingly, but decided not to ask for more coins. The thirty gold was already vastly over priced. The dwarf handed Jrevek a nasty, torn up cloak they had been using as a cushion. "Perfect," the drow replied. He pulled it over his fine looking uniform, and to the others' shock, when his head emerged he suddenly appeared to be a decrepit, centuries old hag. Amused at their surprise, the old wretch smiled. With the same voice as the young rouge that he'd appeared to be, he spoke. "As I said, I prefer a discreet entrance." Their alarm slowly dissipated as they each concluded that only the drow's appearance had changed. Normally Jrevek would never flaunt disguising himself like this. But he saw little harm this time, since none of them had yet seen his real face anyway.
"I've a cane. It's yers if yer wantin' it," the leader offered. The drow's withered, cracked face slowly bent into a sly smile.
"Something to prop up these old bones? That would be very generous of you," Jrevek mused. Again, the leader directed one of the others to retrieve the item. After receiving it, the drow addressed the duergar leader a final time. "Again, I thank you for providing me passage home, my gray friend. My duties require me to travel often enough, usually alone. I may request your services again." With that, the old drow gave a deep bow, then leaned forward on the cane as that of a diseased, elderly vagrant.
"Yer not like the rest of 'ye kin," the leader offered, as the others began climbing into the cart again. "Me never known a drow so..."
"Trustworthy?" Jrevek responded with a laugh. "We're not all that bad. Some of us are almost respectable. But do not be trusting me too much. Most drow wouldn't hesitate to cut the throat of a conbluth who looks at them wrong." Jrevek warned, referring to the drow term for non-drow, a derogatory term at that. The duergar nodded slightly and then turned to join his group.
"A last bit of advice. The surface elven armor and weaponry you are carrying is highly prized and will bring you a handsome profit," the drow called out. The three duergar were shocked and frightened to here him addressing them in the perfect duergar tongue for the first time. "Or a swift death. Do not underestimate our hatred for the faeries. I strongly suggest you sell it all to one of the large merchant clans, the Black Claw perhaps." While they all heard the advice, each was stiff with fear over anything that the mysterious drow may have overheard during the long journey. "Do forgive my deception. It's in my nature," Jrevek politely assured. "Farewell, and good luck," he said as he turned around to head into the darkness.
As the three duergar watched the drow disappear into the caves the leader wondered aloud to the others. "A drow ye might dare to turn yer back on. Who'da thought it possible." "Surein he's hidin' som'tin," one of the others remarked. "Surein he is," the leader agreed. "Still, I kind'a hope he does ask fer passage again. We should'a been payin' 'im!"
***
A lone orc carefully made its way down a particularly wretched street. In the dead of night there is seemingly no activity in the Braeryn district, more commonly known as the "stenchstreets." But even the hulking, slow-witted goblinoid was keenly aware that he was probably surrounded by silent, unseen enemies. Only the foolish, the most desperate, or the heavily armed of Braeryn's inhabitants would travel the streets alone at night. The streets are almost never patrolled. Thus not only are potential assassins always about, monsters have been known to wander in from the underdark in search of prey. Disease is rampant, cannibalism is the norm rather than the exception and even the sound of coins is enough to bring about a quick and violent death to the unwary. Menzoberranzan, due to its proximity to several large surface kingdoms, is one of the most infamous cities under the face of Toril. For it is the homeland of over twenty thousand drow elves, the evil, twisted, ebony skinned counterparts of their peace-loving surface relatives. Twenty thousand status-obsessed psychopaths locked in a continuous struggle for personal power. Twenty thousand decadent, ruthless fanatics devoid of any loyalties except to themselves, their clans, and most of all, their deity. And in the case of Menzoberranzan, that deity is Lloth, the Spider Queen, a powerful, jealous (and some say insane) goddess who delights in the perpetual chaos generated by her followers. Hubris, lust, and bigotry are in overwhelming abundance in this city of drow. Joy and love are virtually nonexistent.
Unlike the surface elven races as well as most of the other humanoid races of Toril, female drow tend to be larger and stronger than drow males. Thus, in Lloth worshipping societies, females, particularly Lloth's priestesses, wield absolute power over the opposite gender. Menzoberranzan is no exception. Two interdependent classes form the foundation of Menzoberranzan society: the nobility and the merchant class. While the merchant class tends to be gender equal, the power of the nobility is solely held by the ruling matrons and their priestess daughters. A male commoner who refuses the wishes of a priestess invites a swift and painful death. Males of the ruling noble houses only wield the influence that is afforded them by their ruling matrons. And in most cases both noble and non-noble house males are little more than expensively dressed subordinates relegated to the mundane house duties that no female wishes to do.
After little success the orc decided to give up scrounging for food in the streets and began heading towards Donnigarten, a large underground lake on the edge of the city's cavern. This would be very dangerous. Donnigarten is continuously harvested, therefore guarded, by one or more of the lower houses. Nevertheless, Grungran hadn't survived as an escaped slave for six months by avoiding dangerous areas. He'd have starved to death long ago. However, Grungran had failed to notice the two drow standing two hundred feet behind him. He would never know what hit him. The waters and the shores around the lake began to glow and quickly grew brighter. Before he could turn to view the light source he was enveloped by a huge fireball. He burned to death before hitting the ground.
The two drow began walking towards the lake, where half a dozen small fires still burned nearby the orc's roasted corpse. The taller of the two, Dennel, was a seasoned fighter heavily armed and adorned in adamantite drow armor. While he had proudly served several high ranking houses in his two centuries of life, his current lot was the bodyguard and general lackey for the other drow - Krethen Mizzrym, a noble of the seventh ranked house in Menzoberranzan. Dressed in a lavish piwafwi, a magically protected and ornately decorated cloak proudly worn the city's mid to upper echelon, Krethen was a young, recent graduate of Sorcere, Menzoberranzen's academy of magical arts. Like most young wizards, what Krethen lacked in experience was compensated by a reckless desire for mischief. Tonight he was out doing some urban target practicing.
"A fine instrument", Krethen proclaimed while admiring the wand in his hands. "Less then two seconds to cast. It will serve well in battle."
"Indeed", Dennel responded. The response was insincere, though. Dennel had slain eleven mages during his lifetime of soldering. And at that moment he so desperately wanted to add another to that count.
By the time they reached the dead orc only glowing embers remained of the collateral fires. However, the air was ripe with the smell of burnt flesh and hair. The orc had fallen face first, its charred skin and flesh made it barely recognizable. "Turn it over and search it", Krethen commanded.
An immediate surge of anger welled up inside Dennel, but he surpressed it, as he always did. "Master Krethen, I'm sure that it couldn't have..."
"Now!" Krethen shouted. Once again Dennel found himself utterly humiliated by what he considered to be a spoiled brat. How easily it would be for him to slay the noble right then and there, he thought. However, within hours every bounty hunter in the city would be after him. Trading his position in the Mizzrym guard for a life as a fugitive wouldn't be worth this one's throat. Dennel knelt down, carefully rolled the corpse over, and relieved the orc of its bounty of two daggers and the remnants of a dead bat. "Is that it?" Krethen asked as Dennel presented the items.
"What would you expect from an orc," Dennel replied with poorly masked sarcasm. Krethen ignored it, for far off in the distance he suddenly saw a figure slowly approaching the outer edge of the city streets. A drow. An old, ragged looking drow dressed in a dirty, torn cloak, leaning on a cane. The drow was further away from him than the orc had been. Now it was a target as well. "Stand back," Krethen warned Dennel as he outstretched his hand and whispered the incantation. The wand sparked and trembled as a fireball shot out and hurled towards the unsuspecting vagrant. From the distance they could see the vagrant try to duck and cover at the last second, only to be thrown backwards by the six foot ball of fire, which then dissipated harmlessly against the far cavern wall.
"Impressive" Dennel remarked. Regardless of what he thought of the mage personally, he had to admit that hitting a target from that distance took skill, no matter what the projectile.
"Let's investigate," Krethen haughtily said. As the two approached the corpse, they were both shocked at what they saw. The drow had landed on its back. Its clothes had only partially burned and yet its head was little more than a skull with bits of charred flesh still stuck to it.
"What could have happened?" Dennel asked.
Krethen tried to guess, but he was at complete loss. "Search him."
Dennel initially felt the anger return but then quickly realized that he actually was interested to find out more about this unlucky target. He knelt down and began tearing through the clothing with a dagger. Two scabbards, both filled with swords were quickly revealed. "A soldier", he remarked. "At least, a former soldier" he clarified, remembering the drow's apparent age. He was about to begin removing the dead drow's weaponry when he spotted a tarnished, yet recognizable metallic figurine still attached to the drow's collar. Upon further examination Dennel was astonished at the unmistakable conclusion. The collar was of an inner layer of clothing, a piwafwi; the figurine, a house insignia. "Krethen, you've just murdered a noble," Dennel exclaimed.
"He was a noble? Of what house!" Krethen said in disbelief. Dennel stood up and looked Krethen directly in the face.
"House Symryvvin," he coldly uttered. The color quickly drained from Krethen's face as he struggled to grasp the possible implications of this blunder. Symryvvin was the eighteenth ranked house, far below Mizzrym. However, Symryvvin has always been the eighteenth house. They have not been attacked in well over a thousand years, partly because they are routinely bypassed as other houses rise and fall in rank. But mainly because the venerable Matron Hesken-P'aj Symryvvin, the second highest priestess of Menzoberranzan, is firmly in the favor of both Lloth and House Baenre, the first and most powerful house by a wide margin. To make an enemy of House Symryvvin would not only serve no practical purpose, it would be suicide.
"We should leave the area immediately," Dennel cautioned.
"Agreed," Krethen replied. "But first, take his insignia."
"You cannot be serious," Dennel gasped. "If it were known that..."
"A corpse is a corpse," Krethen tersely replied. "No one need know, or will know."
Dennel tried not to imagine all the Bregan D'aerthe spies hiding about, laughing at this fool's arrogance. "Aren't insignias booby trapped?"
"The dweomers die with the wearer. Now hurry!" Krethen was losing patience.
Dennel once again knelt down over the corpse. The instant he handled the insignia he was hit with a violent shock. Dennel's body went completely rigid as paralysis prevented him from letting go. Just then, the corpse sprang to life and shoved the fighter off it, sending him to the ground unconscious. An instant later it was on its feet again and staring straight at Krethen. The horrified mage stumbled back a few steps and raised the wand. But before he could finish casting the undead drow waived its hand and suddenly the wand went cold. The ghoul then started walking towards Krethen. Truly terrified, Krethen began stepping backwards while attempting to turn the undead drow. To his horror, the spell had absolutely no effect. By now the mage's fear had evolved into sheer terror. Panicking and continuing to move backwards, he fumbled around in his piwafwi for his hand crossbow. The ghoul began charging the near helpless mage. He had managed to clumsily draw his crossbow when at the last ten feet it leapt and levitated into the air and into a globe of darkness it had thrown. His heart still pounding, Krethen stared up above while fidgeting for his wand again. Sure enough, the ghoul had only dispersed the one charge. As soon as he could get his thoughts together he let loose a fireball directly into the globe of darkness, and then a second one. Both disappeared as they entered the globe and there nothing audible reported back. Not sure if he had hit it or not, Krethen continued to stare up into the darkness as he slowly moved away from it. The globe was barely visible against the stone backdrop of the cavern. Suddenly the full weight of the ghoul fell directly upon Krethen's head, forcing him to the ground. The ghoul was immediately on its feet again.
"Stupid, arrogant, wizards! Dangerous at a distance but up close totally worthless!" the ghoul screamed, punctuating nearly every word with a vicious kick to the stomach. Krethen was doubled over in the worst pain he'd ever known when another boot came to the face, sending him sprawled out on his back, barely able to move or breath. The ghoul was now standing directly above Krethen, looking down on him, eyes glowing with hatred. The ghoul then raised its hand up and pulled off some kind of magical mask, revealing a young drow male with burns all over its face and neck and most of his hair burned away. The mask broke into several charred pieces once it was removed. After angrily throwing the remnants aside, the drow drew a sword and placed the tip of it into Krethen's neck. "You have no idea how valuable that mask was to me. Make one move and I'll sever your head you spineless..." Krethen had already began casting a spell with his left hand, only to have his fingers stomped on and crushed by the angry drow.
Dennel awoke to his master's screams of agony. Still somewhat stunned, he got up as quickly as he could and assessed the situation. To his surprise, the corpse that had shocked him unconscious was very much alive and had Krethen completely helpless beneath it. Following his first instinct, he drew a sword and rushed to defend his nobleman. Hearing the approaching fighter, the drow spun around to face Dennel. Only then, faced with this heavily burned but otherwise healthy young drow did Dennel realize that neither the old man nor the corpse were what they appeared to be. He dug in for a battle but the other drow did not attack. He just stood there, trembling, in battle stance. Suddenly Dennel understood; he could see it the other drows tearing eyes. While this burned attacker was trying to hide it behind the rage, Dennel could see that he was in excruciating pain. His entire right arm and hand were burned as well from when he tried to duck.
"Kill him!" Krethen wimpered, nursing his broken fingers.
"Choose your allegiance. You will be welcomed into the Symryvvin guard. Which life would you rather save?" While he maintained a rigid, defensive stance, sword in hand, the drow's voice was forced. It betrayed his weakened condition. Dennel could probably defeat him but he weighed the drow's words instead. Go back with Krethen where he'd probably be punished severely for "letting" harm fall upon his master. Or, save this wounded nobleman and possibly join the most secretive house in all of Menzoberranzan. There was no choice at all. Dennel smiled, dropped his sword, then drew his other sword and dropped it as well.
"You treacherous faerie! You're dead!" Krethen weakly tried to shout. Dennel's smile quickly vanished as he ran past the attacker over to Krethen.
"Shut up you little brat!" Dennel screamed, while planting several kicks into his former master's side. "You arrogant little piece of iblith, I should have slit your throat long ago!"
"Enough!" shouted the other drow. "Let him stand" Dennel pulled himself away from the helpless noble and stood in front of his new ally, or master. He wasn't sure yet. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, the drow sign of non-aggression, and bowed. "Dennel, formerly of house Mizzrym," he stated, then stood up again.
"Jarl'ell Symryvvin" the drow returned. "And who is this idiot," he said, gesturing towards Krethen, who was struggling to stand up.
"Krethen Mizzrym, fourthboy of house Mizzrym," Dennel answered.
"Mizzrym," Jarl'ell spat. "I should have suspected. Nothing but a bunch of crooked, double-dealing, faerie-trading iblith!"
Krethen, just barely on his feet again, would normally kill on the spot upon hearing such insult. But all of his evocative spells require hand gestures. He was defeated, helpless, and facing two enemies now that would likely kill him very shortly. "If you kill me my house will never forgive..."
"Silence!" Jarl'ell screamed. A quick turn of the wrist sent a wall of force that knocked Krethen to the ground, shooting pain throughout his entire body. He looked up at Jarl'ell with disbelief. He had never known a fighter to be able to cast spells higher than those innate to the drow, such as levitation or globes of darkness.
"I know a few tricks too. And I also know that Miz'ri considers you to be worthless and expendable," Jarl'ell scorned, referring to the mage's matron. He then turned to Dennel. "Remove his piwafwi. If he resists or attempts to spellcast, kill him," he ordered.
"Gladly," was his enthusiastic response. He bent down and jerked Krethen off the ground by the collar. "This is almost worth having to tend to your miserable hide. You could make it even better by trying something," he growled. Krethen said nothing.
"Be careful not to touch his house insignia" Jarl'ell advised. Dennel shuddered with anger as he ripped the piwafwi off the defeated mage and threw it on the ground, anticipating Jarl'ell's next instruction.
"Spellbooks, wands, rings, anything else, " Jarl'ell commanded. The humiliation was unbearable for Krethen. A lifetime's worth of magical artifacts were being frisked from him and there was nothing he could do about it. By now a dozen or so of the Braeryn's inhabitents were standing in doorways up and down the street watching. Jarl'ell then walked over to Krethen, gripped the back of his hair, and pulled his head back. He then drew a dagger and held it up to the mage's throat. Trembling, Krethen silently whispered a prayer to Lloth. For he fully expected to die shortly. Dennel grew excited with anticipation.
"If I even suspect your hand in any attacks I'll disembowel you in your own house" Jarl'ell warned. Then, to Dennel's surprise and Krethen's elation, Jarl'ell released him. Krethen slowly backed away, eyes transfixed to Jarl'ell's and still trembling with fear. "Go home and lick your wounds, fourthboy," Jarl'ell taunted. When he was certain that the two wouldn't follow him, Krethen turned around and started hurrying away.
"You're letting him live?" Dennel asked in disbelief.
"I'll kill him if he attempts a revenge. The memory of this will be far worse than death," Jarl'ell remarked. Besides, he's not safe yet." Jarl'ell then turned his attention to the streets around him. "To all who are within my voice. The male walking away is Krethen Mizzrym, fourthboy of house Mizzrym. He's the one who has been lobbing fireballs at you. He is unarmed and carrying many coins."
At that moment Braeryn inhabitants dressed in rags began emerging from every door around them and heading straight towards Krethen, who immediately started running for his life. "You're both dead! You hear me, dead!" he was heard yelling over Dennel's laughter. When he turned to address his new master, Jarl'ell had collapsed to his knees. With the adrenaline from the incident gone, the pain of the injuries overwhelmed him. Dennel immediately ran over to assist him.
"I'll be alright...soon," Jarl'ell's cracking voice no longer masked the severe pain he was in. "Wrap up his belongings and help me back to my compound."
***
It's been said that many drow, perhaps one in four, are not evil. However, a society where ambition is the highest virtue and assassination is the preferred method of advancement tends to weed out or turn these exceptions. Jarl'ell Symryvvin, firstborn son of the firstborn daughter of Matron Hesken-P'aj Symryvvin, can best be described as less evil than the vast majority of his kin. The passion and ambition that rules the lives of his race never took hold of Jarl'ell. The passive nature of his house and his being the only one of his generation led to a childhood free from the family infighting that frequently occurs. The males of his house are all wizards of legendary status, often working for weeks without emerging. Jarl'ell showed a proficiency for magic at an early age. However Drisinil Symryvvin, Jarl'ell's mother and preordained heir to the matroncy of the house, had a different plan for him. Rather than Sorcere, he was sent to Melee Magthere, the fighting academy. Matron Hesken-P'aj was nearing the advanced age of two thousand. Drisinil knew that she could assume the matroncy within a few decades and she wanted her house Weapon Master to be of her own noble blood. Since none of her brothers were warriors she felt that Jarl'ell would be the most logical choice. While he excelled at Melee Magthere, the ten years he spent there were the hardest ten years of his life. He hated his fellow cadets for their constant treachery. And they hated him because of his ability. Two attempts on his life were made during his stay, both of which he foiled without help from any cadets or masters. By the time he graduated he had become embittered, paranoid, and very hot-tempered.
During the last year of training, cadets spend time at Sorcere learning rudimentary spells and learning to wield magically enhanced weapons. Jarl'ell, however, far exceeded the magical abilities of his peers. The spells he was able to master usually weren't introduced to Sorcere students until after their sixth year of study. He continued to study magic after his graduation, primarily interested in quick casting combative spells meant for disabling opponents, particularly other mages. However his most useful innovations were the variations he developed on his drow levitation ability. The innate ability that most drow share is limited to slow, vertical-only movement, often requiring needed concentration. Jarl'ell, however, had mastered the innate ability. With minimal attention Jarl'ell could not only fly up or down at twice the speed of the rest of his kin, he had also learned to retain his forward momentum, enabling him a dimension of travel that most opponents had no ingrained fighting strategy for.
Upon his return to House Symryvvin, Jarl'ell quickly found that there was no role for him to fill. He would never be accepted by his hermit-like uncles. They viewed fighting as a lessor talent and had shunned him since the day he returned from the academy. Nor was his leadership needed or wanted within the elite house guard. Oddly enough, it was in his escaping of his lonely house existence that his true talents were born. Hesken-P'aj had been known as "the eyes of Lloth", always carefully watching but never taking part in the city's bloody politics. This was a deserved reputation, for she and her priestess daughters spend much of the time dutifully viewing scrying bowls and keeping detailed records of the conflicts between and inside the city's noble houses. However, this technique only offers a limited scope of information. And, Hesken-P'aj was adamant about refusing to develop relations with any outside information gathering sources, particularly the mercenary band Bregan D'aerthe. Therefore, Jarl'ell's favorite pastime of roaming the city disguised as a commoner played directly into the Matron's hands when he began returning with information that corroborated or expanded on things she had suspected or confirmed. This recreation became duty, and it was a duty that he was only happy to perform. For, a typical night of reconnaissance would involve drinking in one of the dozens of commoner taverns, listening for tongues to wag. Soon his tasks would expand to more covert activities such as infiltration and procurement of sensitive (and sometimes illegal) items. So useful had he become to Hesken-P'aj that she officially adopted him as a son, thereby making him a recognized noble, as only the immediate family members of a ruling matron are considered nobles. While his status within the house was virtually unchanged (due to the resentment of his aunts and uncles), the title expanded his duties to include more formal roles, such as house representative, and occasionally ambassador.
Jarl'ell had been in an uncharacteristically good mood as he returned to Menzoberranzan. Ched Nasad and all that went with it was far behind him, and the duergar had been easier to deal with than most drow. He had hoped that entering the city through the most sparsely populated area would delay news of his return, at least for a little while. But all that happiness and hope was burned away along with his hair and much of his skin. Shortly after embarking for the Symryvvin compound Jarl'ell stumbled and nearly collapsed again. Dennel quickly hoisted him up and for the rest of the way home struggled to carry him as well as Krethen's bounty over the other shoulder.
"There will be a debriefing," Jarl'ell said as the two neared the compound. "It won't be pleasant." This didn't come as a surprise to Dennel. Houses typically subject new soldiers to painful, mind wringing magical or clerical interrogation to flush out spies or potential spies.
"I understand," Dennel grimly answered.
When the two approached the gate they were immediately met by four guards, each with their swords drawn. "What are you about," the guard captain gruffly asked.
"This is your nobleman. He needs a cleric," was Dennel's angry response. The guard quickly realized his mistake and sheathed his sword. He and one of the others then took Jarl'ell from Dennel and led him inside. The other two stood firmly in front of Dennel, weapons still drawn.
"That soldier saved my life. He is to be held and treated fairly," Jarl'ell weakly commanded as the two soldiers carried him away. Dennel smiled as the two guards led him to the barracks of his new employer.
Inside the Symryvvin chapel was a lone priestess kneeling at the alter, praying earnestly. Upon the interruption of the two soldiers carrying a third wounded drow she immediately stood up and spun around angrily. Dureen Symryvvin, Drisinil's oldest younger sister, was quite beautiful by drow or human standards. Dressed in the modest Symryvvin priestly robes, her long white hair flowed evenly passed her shoulders, accentuating her thin and shapely figure. However her pouting face betrayed her extreme irritation of this disruption. "What is it," she snapped.
"Jarl'ell was attacked by a mage on the way back into the city," was the guard's cautious reply.
Dureen's anger quickly subsided as she walked down to meet them. Jarl'ell managed to gather enough strength to shake loose from his assistants in order to stand and face his unpredictable aunt. "Leave us," she curtly said to the guards. They immediately spun around and exited the chapel. "So the master spy is finally caught," she taunted. Jarl'ell wanted to respond but didn't, believing that any smart remarks would diminish her healing efforts. "Well at least you got away with at least some of your skin intact." Dureen could see the mixture of anger and pain in the burned drow's eyes and decided to forgo anymore ridicule. "Bow before me," she commanded. Jarl'ell humbly knelt down. She then placed her hands on his shoulders and began whispering a healing prayer to Lolth. A euphoric, yet chilling warmth swelled from Jarl'ell's abdomen and spread throughout his body as the healing kiss of the Spider Queen swiftly wiped away the pain and erased his wounds. A tear came to his eye. For, the overwhelming euphoria felt almost like what he'd imagined that mythical emotion of love to be. Jarl'ell had never been too devoutly religious. To him, Lloth had always been a distant, unseen mistress that rarely paid notice to males. But for the first time in his life, he truly felt a connection with his peoples' deity.
"I love her," he whispered, still dizzy from the clerical touch.
"Who," Dureen asked.
"The Queen," he whispered. "Lady Lloth." Dureen recoiled in shock to the proclamation. Lloth was to be feared and obeyed, not loved. To utter such faerie talk in reference to the Spider Queen was sheer blasphemy. Dureen drew her multiple snake headed whip, the traditional weapon of Lloth's priestesses, and drew back. But then she noticed the sheer bliss in Jarl'ell's eyes, and the fact that except for his frazzled hair every one of his wounds was completely healed, with no scarring. Moreover, the snake heads which would normally be writhing were calm and unresponsive. The truth was unmistakable, he had been blessed directly by Lloth and she had been the unknowing vessel. She should have felt honored, but was jealous instead. Flustered, Dureen sheathed her whip and turned away from Jarl'ell, who was unaware of what had nearly happened.
"You are very fortunate, nephew," she spoke to the wall. Jarl'ell refocused himself to his aunt. "You have gained Lloth's high favor. Why, I can't imagine. I know of no other male who has been given this honor," Her derisive emphasis on 'male' was not lost on Jarl'ell. "Who attacked you?" she questioned, facing him again. Jarl'ell stood up to answer.
"The fourthboy of house Mizzrym. He was target practicing in the stenchstreets and thought I was a derelict"
"I trust that you killed him."
"No, but he won't be so quick to tangle with me again," Jarl'ell reassured. Dureen was incensed.
"You let him live!" she gasped.
"Only after I stripped him of every valuable he had and dealt him a severe thrashing. The humiliation will be worse than death for that arrogant fool," he tried to rationalize. Although, he could see that it wasn't working. Dureen was furious, but she couldn't ignore the evidence of Lloth's intentions.
"I don't understand you nephew. You were attacked; the honor of House Symryvvin was tarnished. Yet you let your attacker live, bringing shame upon us all"
"You weren't there! That wizard didn't know who or what he was targeting. He only brought shame unto himself and House Mizzrym, a house that receives far less shame than it deserves," Jarl'ell angrily replied.
"Enough!" Dureen shouted. "It matters not what I think. Lloth, in her wisdom, has found favor in your actions. I don't understand why, but I do not question," she said, partly out of self-preservation. "Know this, dear nephew. With Lloth's favor comes Lloth's attention," she warned. "Watch yourself." Jarl'ell stood again and bowed his head subserviently to his aunt.
"Thank you for tending to me, dear aunt," he humbly offered. Dureen turned her head to the side and sniffed. Frustrated, Jarl'ell stepped towards his aunt to make an impassioned overture. "Dureen, you know that I am fiercely loyal. I believe in my work, in what I do for us and for our city. I would never intentionally do anything to bring dishonor or peril to the house. If it is shown that I have done so, even by accident, I will willingly submit to punishment." Dureen turned to face her nephew again. Her icy demeanor softened a bit as she recognized her nephew's sincerity. Jarl'ell turned and walked towards the entrance of the chapel. As he reached it, he turned. "Did you know that in Ched Nasad there is a hierarchy of male priests of Lloth."
"Get out!" Dureen screemed.
Weary from the night's events as well as the several days' travel from Ched Nasad, Jarl'ell took a late meal and collapsed on his bed. It was nearly morning.
***
Jarl'ell woke up several hours later to a very curious sight. Dureen was leaning over him gently wiping his forehead with a damp cloth, her hair draping down creating a porthole between their two faces. Upon seeing him awake, she smiled. "My handsome nephew awakes," she purred. Jarl'ell was completely caught off guard by his capricious aunt, who was furious with him only hours ago.
"Dureen...I"
"Shhhh" she interrupted, delicately placing a finger on his lips. Slowly dragging her finger down his chin, she pulled the cover down and began stroking his chest. "I understand why Lloth favors you now," she said softly. Jarl'ell was trembling. He realized that while he had passed out on top of the bed fully clothed, he was now naked under the blanket. Furthermore, the way his skin smelled and felt strongly suggested that he had been bathed. By now she had tossed aside the cloth. "Relax, dear Jarl'ell. I won't bite," she charmed. "At least not very hard." Jarl'ell's eyes shot open wide as she knelt down and kissed him passionately on the mouth. He felt trapped. To refuse a command or wish, any wish, of a priestess of Lloth was a capital offense. But this was just plain wrong! He began to struggle but Dureen only held him down. Then without warning, she climbed up on top of him and began rubbing his entire chest. "You would sire fine children, worthy of any priestess in the city"
"Doesn't Lloth forbid this?" he asked, his voice cracking.
Dureen sat up and began gyrating on Jarl'ell's middle. "Lloth commands us to be fruitful." She coyly replied. "She doesn't care who with" Her behavior was beginning to sicken him, as was his own undeniable arousal.
"She should," he whimpered.
She abruptly stopped and began laughing quite loudly. No longer speaking seductively she said, "Relax, nephew. I do not wish to be burdened with the jealousies of others"
"What are you talking about" he gasped, completely disoriented from this unusual encounter. The room suddenly was pierced by the stern voice of another.
"Dureen!" They both turned to see Drisinil Symryvvin standing in the doorway. Shorter, reserved in dress and appearance, she was a stark contrast to her willful sister. Dureen looked back down at Jarl'ell and smiled.
"Good luck, nephew. You have an important audience tonight," she spoke as she climbed off him and walked toward the door.
Drisinil wasn't quite sure of what she had walked in on, but she knew both her son and her sister well enough to guess. "Surely you can look a little further for this sort of entertainment," she uttered to her sister. Dureen only looked at her and winked as she left the room.
With the two of them alone, Jarl'ell struggled to pull his thoughts away from what just occurred. "What is she about?" he asked, voice still shaking.
"She's a self-indulgent one," she calmly replied. "I'll speak with her."
Jarl'ell quickly remembered the damaged mask. "The mask...is it--."
"Zraketh has one more replica, but I doubt he'll easily persuaded to part with it," she replied.
"The entire bounty I acquired last night is his if he wishes to trade," Jarl'ell nervously offered. While the mask had initially been a plaything, he had grown to be totally dependant upon it. Though he would like to have learned to cast the wands he'd lifted, most, if not all, of the items he frisked from the Mizzrym mage would probably be either useless to him or beyond his ability to cast.
Drisinil then turned around to close the door. When she faced him again, her demeanor had completely changed. "I want to know why you let that wretched mage live!" she shouted.
Jarl'ell groaned as he found himself having to go through this again. "He had no idea who I was when he attacked. There was no honor to defend," he tried to explain. "Does Lloth command that we kill every one who offends us? There'd be no one left!"
Her son's insolence filled her with rage. She raised her hand to strike him across the face. Jarl'ell submissively turned his cheek, but at the last second she looked at him and suddenly felt a mixture of pity and pride. "No, that is not Lloth's command. If it were, none of our children would live long," she reasoned while calming down.
While he was surprised at his mother's sudden understanding, her answer provided little comfort. "If you would have seen him running off half clothed with the Braeryn scum chasing him..."
"Yes, word of it has spread throughout the city," she said. "And you should have seen Matron Miz'ri humbly request the return of his house insignia. I thought she would burst a vein." Her anger had turned to giddiness. He began to smile for the first time. "That soldier you turned, Dennel"
"Yes, what will become of him," he asked.
"He was a high ranking lieutenant in the Mizzrym house guard. A very disenchanted lieutenant at that. The information he'll provide on the seventh house will prove invaluable," she informed. "His debriefing has already taken place. He will make a fine addition to the house," she said, unable to mask her pride. Then her smile disappeared as she straightened herself. "Now, on to other matters. What did you learn in Ched Nasad?"
"Ah yes, Ched Nasad," Jarl'ell mused as he started to get up. "There is no organized cult of Ghaunadaur rising in Ched Nasad."
"You're sure of this?" Drisinil asked. Jarl'ell stepped out of bed on the opposite side of the door with the intention of dressing quickly. She unexpectedly followed him over to his closet, making him a bit uncomfortable.
"The ancient Ghaunadaur text I studied was very clear as to how and where a temple of the Elder Eye may be built. Virtually every structure in the city would be offensive to the Elder Eye as a place of sacrifice or worship," he reported as he slid on a pair of pantaloons, Drisinil sitting on the bed watching him.
"Our Matron is sure that she saw a priest of Ghaunadaur performing a sacrifice while scrying Ched Nasad," Drisinil stated.
"Yes, and I believed her. After fifteen days of searching I stumbled onto a small band of Ghaunadaur's followers, and nearly paid with my life," he said, obviously shuddering at some dark memory.
"What happened?" Drisinil questioned.
Jarl'ell locked eyes with his mother and spoke in the most serious tone. "You don't want to know." Drisinil, while intrigued, decided not to press the issue, for now. "I informed Matron Nasadra about them and they were all captured, interrogated, and executed. They had recently arrived from Llurth Dreier in hopes of starting a covert following. They failed to convert a single Nasadran to their repulsive sect," Jarl'ell explained, expressing his contempt for the elder eye. The little exposure he had to the cult of Ghaunadaur was more than enough to satisfy his curiosity. Whereas followers of Lloth hold reverence to spiders, which made perfect sense to Jarl'ell, followers of Ghaunadaur have a sickening affinity for slugs, slimes and oozes. As Jarl'ell reached for his piwafwi Drisinil approached him and gently gripped onto his shoulders, maneuvering him to face her.
"You did very well," she spoke, almost praising him. He wasn't sure how to respond.
"I serve my house as best I can."
"I know you do," she warmly replied. "Dureen tells me that you've gained the favor of Lloth,"
"Yes," he answered. "I'm not sure why."
Drisinil placed her hand on his cheek and smiled. "Very few males are ever honored in such a way. You make your mother very proud," she said, beaming brightly. Jarl'ell was confused. Never in his life had he ever received such affection from his priestess mother. But then he'd never been favored by Lloth before either.
"I fear that Lady Lloth may expect more from me than I can give," Jarl'ell confessed.
"Do not worry, my son," Drisinil spoke quietly as she stroked his hair with her other hand. "We priestesses strive our whole lives for what you have been given. And for what? As a means for power and conquest. That has never been in your destiny, nor has it been in your heart. From you, Lloth will only expect what I, my sisters, and our Matron expect - your devotion. And you've always given that freely." Jarl'ell was somewhat comforted by her reassurance, but was still puzzled. He had never faltered in his complete loyalty to House Symryvvin, but he had rarely paid little more than lip service to his deity. "You are very handsome with your hair cropped short," Drisinil spoke, stroking the back of his head. The change of subject startled Jarl'ell. He touched his head expecting to feel the burnt remnants of his once long mane. Instead he found that it had been cut and styled.
"Dureen," he cursed under his breath.
"What of her?" she asked.
"As I slept last night she took it upon herself to undress and bathe me and who knows what else," he grumbled. "And you saw her earlier. What is she up to?"
The smile disappeared from Drisinil's face as she let go of Jarl'ell. Her voice turned sullen. "Bladen'Kerst Baenre has requested that you meet with her as soon as you return."
Jarl'ell's heart sank at the news. Of every drow he had ever met in his life, she was the last one he would ever want to be alone in a room with. Bladen'kerst Baenre was the most vicious, sadistic female in all of Menzoberranzan. She had no temperament whatsoever and had a notorious hatred of all things male. She was known for killing several goblinoid slaves every day, sometimes for imagined infractions. Among priestess circles she was regarded as a buffoon incapable of the simplest diplomacy. But to everybody else, she was simply feared. Jarl'ell had met with her once before and emerged from the meeting covered with bruises. Getting him all primped up for his inevitable beating must have been very humorous for Dureen. "Why," he asked, sounding defeated.
"She did not say," Drisinil answered. "But she made the request six days ago. It would be best not to keep her waiting."
"Of course not. I wouldn't want to hold up her busy schedule of torturing slaves and sacrificing house males," he sarcastically responded.
Drisinil's calm voice suddenly became cross. "She may behave like an ogress but she's a high priestess of House Baenre. She asked for you. You will meet with her."
"That female is deranged," he shot back. Drisinil's face contorted with anger. She instantaneously drew back and backhanded Jarl'ell across the face, knocking him back several steps.
"Don't you ever speak to me in such a tone again!" Drisinil snarled. "And don't you forget your place. That female as you call her is more important than you will ever be. You will meet with Bladen'Kerst Baenre and do whatever she requires of you. Take a vial of healing potion if you must but go there this day!" She then spun around and stormed out of the room, leaving Jarl'ell alone to contemplate on how badly the day had begun. For a moment he had felt compassion from his mother that had never known before. How quickly she had reverted to her usual domineering self. His face still stung from Drisinil's rebuke. He knew he was asking for it with that last statement, but Drisinil was one of the most reserved priestesses he had ever known. She very seldom ever lost her temper like that. It was his disdainful reference to 'that female' that set her off, he knew. In fact, as he thought of it more he realized just how reckless he had been. Had she been in a more sour mood she might have flogged him senseless with her accursed snake headed whip. 'Don't you forget your place', he thought of over and over. He was just given a jolt of the reality of what his place really was. He always knew that while he enjoyed the work he did for his house, he was essentially at the beck and call of his Matron, his mother, and his aunts. Now he was freshly reminded that this scope potentially included every female in the city.
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