Part 2: L'Yathallar

"Vith," Entreri swore, taking a certain strange pleasure in using one of the drow swear words with his 'terrible accent'. Circumstances currently called for it anyway - Hierathe had pressed something on the 'snuffbox' and they'd been immediately teleported into a pitch-dark chamber. An enclosed space - the word reverberated hollowly for a moment, then faded into silence. It took a second for the infravision ring to kick in, and Entreri immediately got a headache.

He hated seeing things in the gaudy, amorphous heat colours, especially abruptly after having used normal vision. As far as he could tell, Hierathe was standing next to him, and there were mixtures of greys and blues around them. Nothing else that he could tell, couldn't see the furniture, couldn't see any bloody thing - though he knew from painful experience that in Menzoberranzan, that usually didn't mean anything, since most dark elves liked buying magical items which hid them from the infrared spectrum. Come to think of it, what he hated more than infravision was magic-induced infravision. Without the natural training from birth of those who were born with infravision, it was like trying to see one's way around a manifestation of an abstract painting.

"Don't swear in a yathallar's presence," Hierathe murmured. Entreri couldn't tell if she was warning him, or making a joke. Since the latter seemed unlikely, at least to him, he closed his mouth tightly.

"I do not offend easily," a feminine voice said in accented Common, somewhere behind him. Entreri spun around sharply, focusing on the source of the sound, but all he saw were greys and blues, and the quickly fading residual heat his passage left in the air. It was extremely unnerving, and he grasped the hilts of his weapons warily.

"Malla Yathallar? It seems that the rivvil needs a bit more light before he starts hyperventilating," Hierathe observed with good cheer.

Entreri began to realise that nothing about his present situation surprised him any longer. Pretty-faced half-drow could pop up and offer him weapons of power in drinking pits and show him a weird home, everyone could speak Common, High Priestesses could talk out of nowhere, half-breeds could address High Priestesses without permission, and bloody magic infravision gave him a bloody headache.

The High Priestess chuckled indulgently, then a yellow-orange ball of light flared up next to Entreri's ear, and the assassin found out he could, actually, still be surprised. With a startled gasp he instinctively flinched away, nearly bumping into an amused Hierathe, trying to blink away the spots that exploded over his vision and adjust back to normal vision.

He was near the approximate centre of an irregularly shaped room with an off-centre domed ceiling, from which hung some sort of metal-and-leather winged craft, the leathery wings drooping to cast ominous shadows against the light stone walls. The ground was a mass of chaotic-looking runes and symbols traced in silver on black marble that was chipped badly in places, as if something sharp had been rammed against it repeatedly at some point in time. There were some maps of the Underdark and the Surface World that had been nailed to the otherwise undecorated walls, their edges frayed, some yellowed with age, some relatively new, some misaligned such that parts of the parchment bulged out, red circles occasionally inked onto some of the maps.

Strange tubes and cables seemed to snake out of several organic-looking machines placed in some unknown pattern in the room of which purpose Entreri could not discern and was not sure if he wanted to - the machines looked as though they could be alive. The cables were of different colours and thickness - some as thick as his finger, some as his arm. Some anchored themselves like leeches into the underside of what looked like a beautifully carved metal table on a round dais, the surface set with stained glass depicting harsh patterns in sharply clashing colours.

Beside the table, one elegant hand resting on it, was a dark elven priestess of surprisingly small build, about a head shorter than he was. Her face had the cold, mask-like beauty of most drow females, though her lips seemed slightly too full and her pale grey eyes were oddly large, giving her an incongruous appearance of innocence that certainly didn't fit with the obligatory body-hugging, low-cut, high-slit, purple-red robes of a priestess of Lloth. Other than that, she wore comfortable-looking soft dark leather boots, a piwafwi caught at both shoulders with matching silver spider clasps, and a plain silver circlet over her brow that pushed back the silvery, waist-long hair. Hung at the hip with a gold-chain belt was a snake whip, which was steadily silent, all three cobras staring at Entreri with flat, cold reptilian eyes.

Behind her, suspended a few feet above the ground by cables and delicate jointed metal supports was one of the strangest sights Entreri had ever seen. It was the nude body of an extremely handsome male dark elf, handsome nearly to the point of being pretty, supple muscles developed but not to the point of being muscle-bound, velvety under the black skin, a perfect statue in his stillness - the elf did not seem to breathe.

From the shoulders sprang two white wings with deep chocolate bars across the primary flight feathers and the tips of the others, spread out in stark contrast against the elf's skin by more supports placed in such a way as not to damage any of the delicate feathers. The shape of the wings seemed to be a cross between that of a swan's wing structure and the wing structure of some fast-flying bird of prey, beauty with the promise of grace.

The elf had long hair that reached his rib cage, carefully combed, flaxen in hue with a weird bluish tint. His eyes were amber, wolf-like, though they stared out into space blankly. No one in.

Entreri realised with a start that the creature seemed to combine a peculiarly exquisite mix of several elven races. The black skin wasn't totally black, but was an odd blend of black and bronze. A dark elf with a gold elf, avariel in the wings, lythari in the eyes, moon and sea in the hair... and probably a few more traces that he couldn't identify. Around his neck, on a white gold chain, hung a pendant of the same metal, a beautifully made dream-catcher, the intricate pattern on the thumb-sized circle picked out, and the hair-thin metal strands beneath it with the small white gold feathers.

"Not yet," the High Priestess said, tapping her fingers idly on the stained glass table. "His name is Artifice. You look on centuries of concentrated effort."

"You can give life?" Entreri found this remarkably disturbing. Perhaps because it was the antithesis of his own 'profession', but the thought of an individual having the power to cause something to live - to feel, think, learn... seemed somehow wrong.

"Artifice is a Crafting - something unique to my House - House Qaer'rys. Within certain limits, yes, we can give life, and we can give sentience to our creations. With Artifice, I intend to go as far as I can - though his intelligence would probably be slightly retarded, it would hopefully be higher than my two previous Craftings." She spoke with the weary scientific detachment of someone who had repeated the lines several times before to different people. "But we are not here to discuss Artifice, but L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin, yes?"

Entreri nodded. He forced his eyes to hold the Priestess' eyes instead of wandering off to stare at the creature and its disconcertingly blank eyes. "I believe your lackey is not telling me everything."

"'Everything'?" the Priestess echoed mockingly. "To tell you everything would take a lifetime, rivvil. Ask her questions, if you will - but later. Now I wish to know if you are accepting the weapon."

"Place your jewelled dagger here," the Priestess interrupted impatiently, and tapped the stained glass table with one long-nailed finger.

"I'd like to see the 'weapon' first," Entreri said coldly, knowing he was pushing his luck, but the Priestess just glanced at Hierathe, who shrugged as if to say that she couldn't do anything about that demand.

"Vel'bol doerus d'khaless?" the Priestess asked whimsically as she walked towards a veiled glass jar to the right of the suspended elf.

"Xun naut l'Ilythiiri... kal, 'Khaless nau... uss mzild... taga dosstan'?" Entreri managed, stumbling over the words.

"Passable, but your accent is atrocious," the Priestess said, carefully levitating the jar in front of her as she returned, placing it on the table. With a dramatic flourish, she pulled away the crimson veil, to reveal the gauntlet that Entreri had seen in the drawing. Immediately, the fingers of the thing twitched, and the Priestess smiled in satisfaction. "It appears that you are the wielder after all, Artemis Entreri. Place your dagger next to the jar, and put on L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin."

Entreri barely heard her. He was suddenly bombarded with alien images of winding, dark tunnels and sudden bursts of crimson, bloody flowers, the gleam of swords and weapons, the whistles and thumps of crossbows and their bolts, the hiss of arrows, the harsh ringing of metal against metal... Numbly, he stepped forward, as if walking in a dream, removing his dagger and placing it on the table, then placing his hand on the glass dome of the jar.

There was an immediate reaction - the glass jar shattered violently outwards, away from his hand, fragments tinkling onto the ground and bouncing off some sort of force field that had been placed around the Priestess and the creature behind her. Dimly he heard Hierathe suck in a sharp intake of breath and leap behind him somewhere.

Entreri picked up the gauntlet, strangely warm under his touch, and put it onto his left hand, sheathing it to the elbow, a frighteningly perfect fit, a second skin. There was a rather unpleasant sensation of things probing through his flesh and into the bone, though no pain, and he did not know why he could not seem to react, and only just stared at it blankly. It hummed in pleasure, and then he felt a very faint tug on his arm, too faint to discern where the thing wanted him to go, though.

With rising panic, he realised his left arm and fingers didn't respond to him anymore - though if he wanted to move his fingers, they eventually did - moved by the Weapon with a split-second delay. He grasped the gauntlet with his right arm, blindly intending to pull it off, but only pulled his left arm forward, as if the gauntlet had melded itself into him. Metal strands curled themselves up past his elbow to trace alien designs on his skin, and even as he flinched at the disconcerting sight, his opinions were suddenly washed away by a wave of rightness, as if it had always been meant to be this way. For a man who did not believe in destiny, this was highly disturbing.

The hum gradually began to intensify in volume and complexity, until it seemed to drive out all thought, all sensation... until he lost consciousness.

Hierathe watched dispassionately as Entreri crumpled to the ground in an unfortunate manner - the poor man was going to have a headache when he woke up - and then turned to the Priestess, waiting for instructions.

Her Mistress - Rys'Zaer, second daughter of House Qaer'rys, intelligent, whimsical, powerful, currently ignored them, turning the jewelled dagger over with delicate fingers, as if fascinated by its design, carefully tracing the sharp blade with a painted nail. She abruptly straightened up, as if realising they were both still in the vicinity, and nodded at Hierathe. "Take the rivvil away, and brief him when he wakes."

Hierathe nodded. She only felt a vague interest in what Rys'Zaer wanted to do with the dagger, and decided it was none of her business. Placing a boot gently against Entreri's leather armour, she used the teleport box.

Rys'Zaer waited until Hierathe had gone, then summoned and sent a communication disc to her eldest sister Rys'Itae and the third sister Rys'Jaes, informing them that the Game proper had started with the initiation of the last Player. After receiving confirmations from them and the obligatory wishes of good luck, she continued on what she had intended to do, something more important to her even than the Game which had started a century ago, her heart beating faster until it seemed to be attempting to jump out from her chest. This could be the culmination of all her efforts on this Crafting, and Rys'Zaer was sure the anticipation was making her light-headed and dizzy. She stood for a moment, closing her eyes to take deep, meditative breaths.

If she was correct on the dagger - if decades of research had been correct - it siphoned off pure life force to the wielder, no attached memories, instincts, points of view. If the wielder was alive, it gave healing. But if the wielder was not alive... now that was the gamble.

She put her left hand palm-down on the stained-glass table, and the various cables and support moved their disturbing puppet, lowering him to the ground near her, arms stiffly stretched in supplication. Rys'Zaer handed the dagger over hilt-first, and nodded absently as Artifice held it with mechanical care using both hands.

Rys'Zaer walked over to the only door, and told the guards to get the prepared slave. This promised to be highly entertaining, if nothing else.

Entreri woke up on Hierathe's couch in the living-room platform with a bad headache and nausea. His stomach rumbled, attempting to focus his attention on getting food, and then rumbled again when his nose detected something deliciously fragrant somewhere close. Yawning, he attempted to rub his eyes - and nearly poked his left eye out with the Warrior weapon. It hummed, as if in happy greeting, and Entreri absently stroked it as he would a pet - it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. Since he'd sacrificed quite a bit to get the Weapon, it made no sense to resent its presence now, and Entreri was usually a practical person, except on the matter of Drizzt, but he had some reason for that. And as for finding the Rogue...

The weapon twitched and the volume of the hum went up a notch, and Entreri frowned at it. "I will start looking for the Rogue after I eat. Now stop making noise."

It subsided, though the dagger-design on the back of the palm pulsed a sullen red for a moment before returning to gold. Entreri shrugged, and walked as steadily as he could towards the table in the living-room platform, where he could see a pie of sorts, plates, and cutlery. Food...

"Awake at last?" Hierathe walked towards him from the kitchen platform, holding two goblets and a bottle of wine, followed below by koi. "Have a seat."

The pie was of some sort of mushroom and rothe meat, and hunger heightened his appreciation of it such that he answered Hierathe's questions towards his well-being in monosyllables. Manipulating the cutlery was awkward, but he managed. Finally Hierathe gave up and concentrated on eating.

When he'd finished on the pie, and his headache cleared, he decided to ask his own questions. "Is this 'Rogue' a thief, or a bard, or an assassin?"

Hierathe shrugged, pouring him some wine. He was glad to see it wasn't the sort that glowed green - dark elves had peculiar tastes sometimes regarding the finer foods. "May be any, may be none of those. But you've met the Rogue before."

"Great," Entreri muttered. "And the tug is too faint for me to actually know who this Rogue is."

"Faint as in how faint? Can you tell whether it's trying to pull you in a distinct direction?"

Hierathe pursed her lips. "Then the Rogue is probably out of the city, somewhere in the Underdark."

Entreri sighed. "I had rather hoped it was Jarlaxle, or someone in Bregan D'aerthe." The weapon kept silent, with no change in the intensity of the tug at the mention of any of the names. Pity. He'd quite wanted to kill one of those.

"I have a suggestion - the weapon may react to places where the Rogue has been and lingered... so we can go walk around the city. Can't get you into Tier Breche, though that's the best place to look if the Rogue is a dark elf."

Entreri felt relieved, actually. He had no intention of going into Tier Breche. "So we just walk around the city?"

"Detective work," Hierathe grinned. "We can start with Manyfolk - if the Rogue isn't a dark elf, that's probably where he or she would be."

"The city is very big... and there are some sections where I cannot venture into, remember?"

"Which is why you're going to need some disguise that won't trip magical alarms. We'd dye the skin of your arms and face black and your hair white, then I'd give you a piwafwi and armour that would hopefully make you resemble a dark elf enough for you to pass as one. The ears will be a bit of a problem, but I think I have wigs somewhere that can be put over your hair and your ears. Then you won't need to dye your hair either."

Hierathe smirked. "Sometimes my clients like to play dressing-up." She chuckled when Entreri wrinkled his nose at her answer. "Or would you rather dress as a commoner? A patrol soldier? Or the Archmage? Or would you like the robes of a Priestess?"

The body of the slave was removed, and Rys'Zaer ordered the guards out of the chamber. Clinically, she took the dagger carefully from Artifice's grasp, and placed it on the table before allowing herself to contemplate her Crafting.

The awakening of sentience always took time, but she could tell in this one it was already accelerating in process - its heart had already begun to beat, and it had just started to breathe. She could not tell if this was a welcome or a disastrous outcome to using the dagger to insert pure life force into a Crafting instead of the normal lengthy and somewhat unstable rituals.

The wings quivered, the feathers flaring slightly in their restraints. Rys'Zaer put her palm on the table, and the cables and supports carefully lowered Artifice such that he kneeled on the ground, wings folded behind him. Rys'Zaer watched as his eyelids fluttered close, and his mouth parted gently for a moment before closing as well, his head tilting back suddenly in a jerk then drooping forward bonelessly, and his fingers twitching into claws before relaxing. She liked watching this part of a Crafting, the slow crawl towards life and awareness that never failed to be something unique and awe-inspiring. Pure power in the creation of life - where for a moment one shared more fully in the understanding of the Divine.

Rys'Zaer sat down in a pool of robes in front of Artifice, preparing restraining spells in case his last awakening was violent and he injured himself. It was useful being born to House Qaer'rys - one was well versed in both divine magic and dark arcane magic, and Rys'Zaer could not imagine a life without Crafting, like all her sisters. No blood brothers in Qaer'rys - something that the Matron Qaer'rys was proud of, believing it a sign of favour from the Spider Queen, that the Qaer'rys line was untainted by male descent. The weapon master and the patron were both adopted.

Artifice tilted his head, as if listening to something, but Rys'Zaer knew that his senses were probably still being awakened - first hearing, then taste, then smell, touch, and sight last of all. That reminded her of the Crafting of his brain - the part that had taken her the better part of a century, all the intricate details. She rather hoped that she had done it correctly - there was never surety in such things - and that all the 'programming' had worked. That had to be done with slavish use of divine-arcane magic that had landed her in bed for a week. Speech was also difficult.

The snakes at her belt rubbed themselves against her reassuringly, as if sensing their mistress' anxious mood. She smiled quickly at them and stroked one, causing the others to bump at her hands with their blunt snouts for equal attention. Now the snake-whips were divine Craftings, gifts from Lloth to High Priestesses, rather miraculous - the living melded into the non-living, scales into an adamantite handle. Lloth the Queen was glorious and all-powerful. As she observed her Crafting, she caressed the snakes - something both comforting and therapeutic. All that would happen now would be Lloth's will, she decided, and gave herself up to it, repeating formulas of praise in her mind and pleas for blessings.

That was surprising - speech and language usually were marks that the last awakening was at hand, but if that was so, Artifice's awakening was even faster than her estimation. Perhaps pure life force had its merits after all.

Abruptly his chin jerked up, and his eyes snapped open with a choked sound, as if waking from a nightmare, twisting in his restraints. Rys'Zaer spoke a word of command, and the supports and cables withdrew, causing Artifice to fall to the side. Instinctively, he prevented himself from falling with his arm and a graceful flare of the wings - a good sign that his stimulation-to-environment reactions were normal, Lloth be praised.

Rys'Zaer found her Crafting was unabashedly staring at her, registering her presence, and there was, to her satisfaction, some intelligence in the eyes - they focused, and they seemed to understand - no sharp intellect by any means, but that suited her. True intellect often turned out with strange side effects, as one of her sisters' Craftings had proved.

When Artifice realised that she noticed his staring, he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor, trembling, closing his wings against his back as if trying to shield himself from possible disapproval.

"Artifice." Rys'Zaer commanded, and he looked up sharply to her, though he did not meet her eyes, concentrating instead on some point on her neck. At least he knew his name - and his position, so some of the programming had worked. "Come here."

Artifice seemed both unwilling and eager to move closer to her, but he did so, eventually kneeling at arm's reach from her. She stood up and walked slowly around him - all movements seemed to be normal, at least. "Stand up and walk to me," she told him, striding some distance away. Artifice obeyed, his movements fluid without the childish, awkward stumble of most Craftings when they first moved, though his first step was a bit unstable, he seemed to gain confidence until he stood before her, eyes studying the ground, a head taller.

"Hmmm. We'd have to test if you can use these later," Rys'Zaer walked around him and stroked the base of his right wing, smiling when he shivered in pleasure and moaned when she lightly scratched him. That had worked as well. Idly, she massaged his shoulder muscles, his wings drooping languidly as he hesitatingly gave himself over to the pleasurable sensations. "Do you know who I am, Artifice?"

"My... my Mistress." Artifice paused when Rys'Zaer stopped touching him. "Mistress?"

A sharp blow from behind and he fell off balance, wings extending inexpertly, falling onto his rump. Wide, frightened eyes looked up to see Rys'Zaer holding an evil-looking black riding crop in her right hand, eyes flashing. The snakes at her hip hissed in menace.

"Your first lesson, Artifice - you belong to me. It does not bind both ways." One foot on either side of his body, she bent down and forced up his chin with the riding crop. "Do you understand?"

She smiled, allowing his head to drop back to rest, all velvet again, kneeling down such that the silk of her robes glided over his muscles as she sat carefully on his stomach. Artifice bit his lip when he realised she wasn't wearing anything underneath the robes - by the confusion on his face, he didn't particularly understand his body's instant reaction to the spot of slick warmth. "Good. And what are you here for?"

That was the amusing thing about Craftings, Rys'Zaer decided. The power trip one felt from the creations. It was probably unhealthy, and it certainly made Crafting an addiction, but it was highly satisfactory. It was akin to the pleasure priestesses felt when they had their snake whips, but somewhat different - perhaps it was the knowledge that Craftings were more intricately attached to the Crafter than the whips were to priestesses - after all, though the whips may turn on priestesses if Lloth was annoyed, the Craftings would not.

She rather looked forward to showing off this one to her sisters, but discussions on technique may have to wait, since she regretfully remembered that she had to give some attention to the Game. Rys'Itae had made a good choice with her player, and as to Rys'Jaes, her choice had been surprising, giving its controversy, but also competent...

Still, it probably would not hurt to pleasure herself for a few hours. Rys'Zaer smirked as Artifice's breath hitched when she rubbed against him. Time for another test.

"Strange," Hierathe commented, as they looked upon the mass of twisted rock and metal that had once been the ruin of a House. L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin had started humming here, which meant the Rogue had been here before, or the Rogue weapon.

The rest of Manyfolk had not helped, unless one counted food and all the nibbles they'd bought from the nearby Bazaar to eat on the move. So far they'd successfully avoided trouble, though it had been a near thing in one part of the Bazaar when Entreri had walked too close to one of the patrols.

"What is this place? Entreri asked, unwilling to approach. At points, the rubble was scorched, and he could see the occasional broken weapon and some dark shape underneath a heavy block that looked like an old corpse. Bones.

"You look at the ruin of House Teken'duis," Hierathe's voice dropped at the last two words into a barely audible whisper from the murmur they used whenever communicating - it would seem strange for dark elves to be speaking in Surface Common, if they were overheard. "Destroyed by the Academy for having failed a raid on another House. Most of the city attended the destruction, so this is hardly helpful. Just means the Rogue was here - or the weapon - sixty or so years ago. Or at any time, perhaps, considering this is hardly a restricted area."

"Probably drow, then." Entreri said hopefully. Besides, he didn't know any humans who'd been to Menzoberranzan lately. Now that left... about twenty thousand suspects. Right.

"I did tell you it was," Hierathe seemed particularly anxious to get away from the ruins, and since Entreri didn't see what further help it could be, he allowed her to lead him away.

"No... I meant it in the sense that what you mean by Players..." Entreri paused, collecting his thoughts. "I doubt your Mistress is the only one watching the game, is she?"

"No, she just aids one Player. There are two other Game Masters for the other two Players." Hierathe grinned in feigned surprise. "Hey, you're quite intelligent."

Entreri shrugged. "Since there was a reaction to this ruin, I believe we should look at the others. Perhaps there would be some sort of pattern."

"If you mean the publicly destroyed ruins - well, that'd only place the age of your Rogue. If you mean the covertly destroyed ones... that would be quite a headache. Not to mention I don't see how they'd help, since the Rogue could have passed by those ruins anytime, and may not have belonged to either the destroyed House or the raiding House. And I don't understand the indicative measures taken by your weapon."

"I don't suggest, great leader," Hierathe winked. "I will criticise. It's far more entertaining - and annoying."

"Fine. We look at ruins," Entreri said decisively, again wondering why he found it so easy to enjoy her company even though most of what she did was to try and irritate him. Maybe it was some sort of training on her part. "What's the next ruin of?"

"Closest to here? Hmmm, let me think... ah yes. I think it's the late House Do'Urden."

Notes and Translations:

Vel'bol doerus d'khaless: What came of trust

Xun naut l'Ilythiiri kal, 'Khaless nau uss mzild taga dosstan': Do not the Drow teach, 'Trust no one more than yourself'

Jabbress: Mistress