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DYNAHEIR
Though Dynaheir, hathran of Rashemen, relied upon her connection to the Hidden One to perform her arts, it was not to the one that Faerûnians called Mystra to whom she felt the most visceral connection this evening. Bhalla was a goddess of abundance and fertility, earthen and joyous, and though Dynaheir respected her it was to Khelliara – Mielikki to the other humans of the continent – the goddess of liminal wild spaces that Dynaheir felt a most acute connection to that night. Though Khelliara was known by another name and presumed to be goodly and kind – Jaheira, the druidess, held her in high regard – that was simply not the Khelliara that Dynaheir knew. Bhalla’s sphere was agricultural, more human, more ‘kind’ insofar as Dynaheir was sure she understood what that word meant; she was actually unclear on it, and only did her best to do unto others what she would like done unto her. For Khelliara was a goddess of nature itself, of the night, of the hunt, of the wild and untamed, of the merciless rivers and snows, of the pitiless mountains and winds. There was nothing ‘goodly’ or ‘kind’ about her, in truth. Nature did not give such labels unto itself.
As Dynaheir stepped into the placid waters of a stream that strayed from the mighty Chionthar river, as the cold kissed her dark feet, she thanked Khelliara and Bhalla for their abundance that night. They would have a full meal of game that Filvandrueth and Jaheira had successfully hunted, and lentils grown and purchased outside of Beregost. Their fire would be big and bright, and their recent triumphs in the wilderness were by Khelliara’s grace. She felt the presence of the Triune with her, under the clouded light the moon and her trailing tears.
Dynaheir thought she knew their language, before she had ventured out on her dejemma. She had learned so much in such a short span of time, and was still learning – everything had new names, and the language she had learned was more archaic to the ears around her than she had anticipated. It did not limit their understanding of her, but it singled her out as different, as foreign.
As she took off her clothes and stepped waist-deep into the gentle waters, she accepted herself as she was. Dynaheir’s fingers ran over her skin, cleaning it of the dirt of the road and left love in their wake – if she was different, let her be different. If she spoke strangely, let her speak strangely. All knowledge was valuable in the dejemma, for ultimately it was a quest to learn more about oneself, to find oneself through the pursuit of valuable knowledge.
Minsc slept soundly, and continued sleeping soundly back in the camp as she approached wrapped in a blanket, her hair still damp from the river. She smiled at his form and could not help but to keep smiling and remain motionless as a terrifyingly familiar feeling flooded her entire body.
Abruptly her mind reeled back to the first time she’d had such a spell cast upon her, when the hathran had tried to force her mind to learn how to resist domination. She had gradually grown desensitized to it and learnt to resist, but she had been struck entirely unaware by it this time and had not even seen her assailant. She stood back up and involuntarily shivered, settling into a place in the back of her mind where she could only watch what her body would do. She prayed to the goddesses, to the Hidden One, to release her and have mercy.
Perhaps they had answered her, in a roundabout way; Xan and Dru stepped out of the thicket across from her, Xan’s fingers outstretched momentarily in an arcane gesture as the enchantment took a hold of Dynaheir’s unguarded mind. She internally cursed herself at her own foolishness – trusting strangers was dangerous. Now, she would be at their mercy and had to endure whatever happened next.
“It took hold,” Xan announced quietly in his ever-dreary tone, “but don’t make me regret this, Filvandrueth,” he added with a side-glance at his companion. Of their number, he was the only one who preferred to speak Dru’s full elven name.
Dru’s pointed ears involuntarily twitched at hearing his full name spoken by his lover and placed a comforting hand on Xan’s shoulder that ended up becoming more of a clap, causing Xan to briefly stumble forward. For an elf, Dru was particularly stocky, and more prone to leaping into battle with Minsc than spellcasting. “Oh, er, sorry,” the young elf apologized. “No, don’t fret – you’re so awfully worrisome, Xan. I’m not going to hurt her. We’re just going to have a chat, Dynaheir! That’s all. Take a seat by the fire and get comfortable,” Dru instructed, pointing to the dwindling flames and approaching them himself with a stick picked up from the ground, stoking the flames and rearranging the logs.
Dynaheir’s feet and legs against their own volition moved forward to the fire as she bound the blanket tighter around herself and sat down on a stump they had found to use as a stool. She glanced around – Jaheira, Khalid, and Branwen were all passed out, oblivious of Xan and Dru’s actions.
Dru sat next to her, and Xan on his other side. Xan’s eyes were on the fire, but Dru regarded her with curiosity. He stared at her, his green irises bright as beryl in the firelight as he considered her carefully before speaking. “I hope you won’t be terribly mad after this, although you probably will be, since we did enchant you. Really, though, we’re just here to ask questions – since our encounter with Edwin, we’ve had quite a few running through our minds and you didn’t seem keen on answering them when we originally asked. So, try to forgive us Dynaheir, and explain yourself. Who are you? Why are you really here?”
Dynaheir’s lips numbly moved as she spoke, even as she tried to bite back the words that unfurled from her tongue: “I am Dynaheir, a witch of Rashemen. I and my comrade Minsc have been sent by the Wychalarn to determine if the prophecies of Alaundo are true. We search for the spawn of Bhaal.”
Silence followed this statement as Dynaheir’s heart pounded in her ears. Dru’s next question surprised her, as did his confused expression. “Wait, which prophecy? He’s got several, he’s rather known for them. I always liked that one about the lizards.”
Xan had placed his moonblade, still in its sheath, point-first upon the ground and leaned into its hilt then with a heavy sigh. “Obviously, the one concerning the Children of Bhaal,” he told Dru tiredly.
Dru made a noise of understanding. “’ The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sewn from their passage. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.’ I find it hard to imagine he called himself the ‘wise Alaundo,’ although I’ve met Elminster and that is definitely something someone like him would do,” Dru concluded after reciting the prophecy from memory in a particularly mocking tone.
Annoyed at her circumstances and still under the spell, Dynaheir could feel her patience with the situation wearing thin. Until she was asked something, she could not speak. Xan turned to Dru with a peculiar look – insofar as it was peculiar to see anything other than misery or apathy contorting his features. “Did you memorize all of them?” He wondered with a tone of rare amusement.
“I had to,” Dru huffed, “Gorion made us, and it was boring and horrible!”
Xan’s attention turned to Dynaheir, his expression more serious. “You are searching for the spawn of Bhaal, yes? Why have you remained with us?”
Though she wanted to bite her tongue, she was still seated in the back of her mind, her body held against her will. The only thing she could do was tug the blanket around her closer and say, “Dru may be one of the spawn of Bhaal, as is the man in the horned helmet that you hunt. We have remained because we have been welcomed with friendship, and wished to observe and assist him as he hath helped us.”
Xan, rather unexpectedly, starting laughing. “You think—he’s one of the—the Lord of Murder! Bahahaha!” Xan tried to finish his thought but couldn’t get past the idea. Dynaheir certainly hadn’t expected to be mocked for this and thought privately that Xan was perhaps biased in his regard of Dru. Dynaheir, up until this point, had admired their leader for his decisions and she respected him – she did, however, keep internal track of all those who fell to his hands. Beasts, men, and everything in between – Dru slew whatever challenged him in his path and had been cutting a swath through the Sword Coast since they had met. Branwen in particular praised him for the battles he had wrought; a priestess of Tempus would have much to admire about such a warrior, after all. Xan’s thoughts might have followed along a similar train as he caught Dynaheir’s gaze on the sleeping Tempusite, and his expression grew thoughtful as he turned back to Dru.
“What?” Dru wondered, irritably. “I would know if my father was a dead god. Gorion would have told me. Wouldn’t he?” Dru seemed to question this himself, and then seemed unsure of himself. He stared down at his hands in confusion, and then growing alarm.
Xan’s arm found his way to Dru’s shoulders. “Filvandrueth,” he spoke, getting his lover’s attention with the gentle drawl of his full name. “You are not your father, whoever or whatever he is,” he insisted.
“But we agree I’m not a spawn of Bhaal? Do we agree on that?” Dru asked, worriedly. “Just because we happen to kill a lot of—that doesn’t mean I’m son of the killer-god!” He concluded, panicked, wringing his hands together.
Dynaheir was silent, because he had not addressed her, and Xan was silent in his consideration until he cleared his throat. “It is a possibility we should investigate,” Xan finally answered.
Dru stared at him in suspicion. “The Greycloaks didn’t send you for the same reason, right?” He asked. “To find the Bhaalspawn?”
“No,” Xan answered easily, “I was sent to investigate the activities of the Iron Throne, and the source of the brittle iron and bandits in the region. By luck, or fate, they are all seemingly connected. Perhaps . . . perhaps there is a connection here as well – for if the man we hunt is a spawn of Bhaal, and you share his parentage . . .” He trailed off as his thoughts became too rapid to be voiced, while Dru seemed to panic internally.
“It’s not possible,” Dru insisted. He looked back to Dynaheir. “Are you certain that is what I am?”
“No,” Dynaheir answered, as she had to. “It is a personal theory,” she corrected.
“A theory she considers worth pursuing across the continent,” Xan added.
Dru stared between them in despair. “Shit,” he concluded eloquently.
The spell wore off in moments, during which Xan largely attempted to calm Dru down and Dru panicked about possibly being one of Bhaal’s numerous children. Dynaheir went back to her tent when it was over and sulked for a time, at least until morning. She did not sleep and donned her robe before morning’s light to go for a walk and clear her mind.
She did not stray far from camp, but by the time morning rolled around, Jaheira found her to inform her that they were about to leave, and that Dynaheir should return soon. Dynaheir thanked her and followed the druid back to their camp. She did not met Xan or Dru’s eyes, for irritation.
It was not that she was truly angry with them for their actions; they had done nothing untoward, indeed nothing she might not have done in the same position as they. Their questions were not overly personal or perverted – the elves were concerned with information she had deliberately withheld, which did indeed concern them. She could find no fault in their actions, even as the spell of mental domination had wrongfully stolen her will from her.
Once the camp had been packed, Jaheira proclaimed that they were to be divided. Dru was at first confused and perhaps a little hurt at her suggestion, but when Jaheira pointed out her intention was to investigate Cloakwood while his was to investigate the bandits, they became split ideologically. Jaheira had sensed something wrong about Cloakwood and wished to pursue, while Dru thought the search for the man in the horned helmet was more important.
Dynaheir, surprising Dru and Xan perhaps but not herself, chose to stay with Dru. Minsc naturally went with her without question, for she decided the path of their dejemma. The hathran had given her that responsibility. Imoen naturally followed her foster-sibling, while Branwen decided to go with Jaheira and Khalid. They would stop by the Friendly Arm’s, Jaheira said, to amass more people before her investigation into the Cloakwood mines. Dru wished her luck and health, and parted ways amicably.
Dru had saved her life once, and Dynaheir had not forgotten. He had spared her a short and ugly death at the hands of violent gnolls – or possible lifetime of slavery, Dynaheir was not sure which fate was worse. Regardless, she still owed him a debt despite the incident last night. She had vowed one day to repay it. Honor was a serious matter amongst the berserkers, and Dynaheir knew Minsc would agree with her on this even if he knew what had transpired that night. She also knew that he would not see the nuance in it, and would likely react before thinking, so she elected not to tell him. What he did not know, in this circumstance, would bring harm to no one.
As they marched through the woods toward Peldvale, Xan lamented their fate now that they were missing their cleric, just as a high-pitched scream pierced through the thicket. Dru abruptly drew his sword, as did the others their weapons, and followed their young elven leader through the woods toward where his ears had led him. Dynaheir gathered her skirt and likewise followed, knowing someone’s life was now potentially on the line – for this was why she followed him. They had saved many lives, perhaps more than they had ended. It was for this reason that she believed in Filvandrueth, not because he was one of the spawn of Bhaal, but because he was himself in spite of it.
VICONIA
There were two of them. Darthien – Viconia noticed their slender, pointed ears with a repressed sneer. One older, pale and dark-haired, quite dour, and certainly not a fan of Viconia judging by the wretched scowl on his face when he glanced her way – how she wanted to pluck out his eyes and feed them to him. The other his total opposite, young, red-haired and sun-kissed with strange spots of color on his skin, effusive, and gregarious in manner. This one bafflingly grinned as if he were excited to meet her, a reaction that Viconia had yet to face amongst the rivvin of the surface, and certainly from no darthirii barely into adulthood. It fitted his face wrongly.
Despite the scowl on half of his company’s faces, this one smiled brightly as he took her in and noticed out loud, quite daringly, “You didn’t try to kill me! I guess you’re not all that evil after all. Shows what Volo knows. I’m Dru, and you are?” He introduced, holding out a hand. He had taken off his glove, which had been sticky and wet with blood. His hand was pale and freckled, unassuming.
She had seen this amongst the rivvin – Viconia knew they were to clasp sweaty palms with each other and grip them in friendship. She did not wish to presume such an unfamiliar, rivvil concept as ‘friendship’ with whom she had just killed several guards that had been chasing her with. Her luminous hammer dissolved in her hands – a gift from her goddess – as Viconia eyed the outstretched hand with a raised golden-white eyebrow and did not comment upon it. Instead she answered, “I am Viconia DeVir,” in the rivvil nomenclature. She hesitated upon uttering the shortened name of her household but did not wish to give it up even if it had given up on her. It was irrational, she knew, but she could not deny herself this small thing even after so long. She would not forget who she was.
“Pleased to meet you,” he greeted in a pleasant way, withdrawing the hand after she did not shake it. She stared at him, at his weapons, and the blood that had drenched his front and his smiling face and eyes. He was a strange, frightening sight for a moment, for she knew that this party could easily overpower her no matter her prayers to Shar. She was at their mercy and had happened upon them in the wilderness by coincidence.
“I am a priestess of Shar,” she dared, tossing her white-gold hair back that had drifted over her shoulders in the battle. She had no desire to conceal her faith and expected that – like the color of her skin – she would be reviled for it. “You have saved me from a most unpleasant death,” she went on, when Dru said nothing in response to this, “and I would repay your kindness. My weapons, my will, would be yours,” she offered in what she thought was generous terms.
He nodded, his brow scrunched in distress, and he then said, “Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all.”
“But I thought—” came an objection from a bright pink-haired girl in a magenta hood and mismatched brown-and-black leather armor, but Dru cut whatever she was about to say off.
“No, I mean I don’t have that sort of relationship with people,” the strange elf named Dru tried to clarify. “We’re either friends, or nothing,” he challenged, and stuck out his hand again. “If we’re friends, I’d be happy to have you along, Viconia. I can promise that as long as you don’t hurt me or mine, and you don’t make a habit of going around mindlessly murdering people, we’re going to have a grand time together.”
“Don’t we basically already do that?” the pink one scoffed with a trill of laughter. “I mean, there was that cursed sword, and that one guy. Look, all I’m trying to say is killing people mindlessly or otherwise isn’t something we make a habit of judging people for.”
“Maybe you don’t,” the dark-haired sneering elf criticized.
“We do what we must to defend ourselves,” said a dark-skinned rivvil, whose complexion rivaled that of Viconia’s. She was immediately impressed, and also intrigued, having never seen rivvin of her like. “Thou hath a dark sense of humor, Imoen,” said the dark one with a disapproving frown. Her archaic grammar amused Viconia unexpectedly – for she spoke better Common than this woman, who must be a foreigner to these lands, and she actually chuckled, somewhat involuntarily. She stopped herself when she realized she had essentially let out a giggle.
“Oh, you and Imoen are going to get along like thieves,” Dru anticipated with a waggle of his coppery eyebrows.
“Is that a commentary on my profession? I’ll have you know I come by my gold honestly,” Imoen huffed.
“So honestly,” Dru rolled his eyes. “So very, very honestly.”
“It’s true,” she insisted, exuding mock-sincerity.
“You are fooling no one,” criticized the dark-haired, dour elf.
Viconia felt strange listening to them and watching them, and suddenly could not imagine herself a part of this odd group. What was she, an outcast drow priestess of Shar, even doing with these people? But then she looked down at the cooling bodies of the Flaming Fist mercenaries that had cruelly beat her and chased her down when she escaped their custody . . . and she spat on their corpses. “Phindari,” she muttered.
Dru’s eyes lit up. “Too bad Branwen took off with Jaheira, she would’ve loved you too,” he told her cryptically. “Though I don’t know how Tempus feels about Shar,” he mused aloud, tapping his chin.
Viconia’s red eyes narrowed as she considered this young, unconventional, rivvil-like darthiir. “How do you feel about the Night Mistress?” She asked of him, since as their leader, his opinion was the only one she was concerned with.
“Well as long as she doesn’t turn out to be my real father, Shar and I won’t have any problems,” Dru assured her in such a way that it was not at all reassuring.
“Sharrans have quite the reputation,” the pale, dark-haired one said. “Perhaps she will simply sacrifice us all in our sleep. That would at least be an appropriate ending to our doomed mission.”
“Don’t be so gloomy, she’s fun,” Dru chided with a smile. “Besides, I always wanted to meet a civil drow. I have quite a lot of questions about the Underdark! But, they can wait until we’ve treated your wounds and you’ve gotten food.”
Viconia felt the pain in her back from the whips then and noted that she had almost forgotten in the rush of battle and quick conversation. With a whispered prayer to Shar, she healed her own wounds as a blue-violet glow of light settled over her for a brief moment. “Pretty!” Imoen commented. “I guess gods make different colors, eh? Branwen’s was reddish orange, remember?”
“I am skilled in healing,” she assured the young elf and company, and then her stomach growled. She glanced away from his eyes and admitted carefully, “I would not be opposed to a meal, however. It has . . . been some time.”
His eyes did not hold pity when she looked back at him, and she noticed how very green they were, the color of the grass under the most hated sun. She glared at him challengingly as he just smiled and told the others to strip the Flaming Fist mercenaries of valuables.
One of their warriors had been knocked unconscious in the fight, and it was requested of Viconia by the dark-skinned rivvil that she tend to him quickly. When this rivvil awoke, he was boisterous and surprised by her, but not overly rude. He carried a small rodent that she did, however, find rude and was determined to avoid his stench.
Some distance away by a copse of trees, they started a fire from wood that Imoen and Dru gathered from the woods. Viconia initially – instinctively – trailed after him without thinking about it, but then corrected herself and sat herself down next to the dark-skinned rivvil that she had found to be polite and nice-smelling. Dynaheir was her name, she discovered – and though they did not speak, they sat beside each other in contemplative quiet, and tended to the fire side-by-side. She did not sense judgment from the other woman, thankfully. Dynaheir showed her how to prepare their meal and put Viconia’s hands to work. For the first time since Viconia could remember, she felt suspiciously content.
For decades, Viconia languished in shadows of the Underdark, trapped in stone. For this reason alone, she escaped her family’s shame, and became dobluth without ever realizing it when it happened. When a drow patrol freed her from her imprisonment, and subsequently attempted to sacrifice her to Lloth for being a survivor of a fallen premier House of Menzoberranzan, she had thought herself abandoned. Erased. She rejected Lloth that day, for not answering her prayer and instead shouted out her pleas to any god that would answer her.
It was just her there, under the Spider Bitch’s sacrificial knife. Her, and the darkness. And the darkness answered.
Shar had never asked her for much since that day. Viconia had walked out of the Underdark by herself, yet not alone, and beheld the starry backdrop of the night sky for the first time under a new moon. She had bound herself behind veils and clothes and seemed a foreigner to the rivvin, knowing they would despise her regardless of her status. She had not met any other drow, or any civil rivvin, save perhaps the traveling merchant who had lusted after her. In her experience, her people were either despised or fetishized. She had seen both ends of the spectrum and chosen to walk her own path.
It was not until she met the Bhaalspawn that she realized she had needed company and hated the feeling of loneliness in his absence. She had not known what to make of the young darthiir, and still did not know. So much about him had seemed haphazard, reckless, and incomplete – very much like the rivvin he surrounded himself with. Still, she had no desire to be a tool of the state and had left him accordingly as she believed she must. Beregost had taught her a bitter lesson after that, and Athkatla was the seal on that lesson – to never trust rivvin. Trust is for the foolish and dead, as the saying went.
As the rivvin jeered and spat at her form, Viconia felt disconnected from her body in a manner she had felt only a handful of times before. She thought of Dru and his company in the moment that her hands became bound by spell-binding cuffs, and the mob closed around her, pushing her to the front. They shoved, they tore, they scratched until she did not care any longer. She whispered a prayer to Shar, not for mercy for Shar was not at all a merciful goddess, but for retribution upon her aggressors. Shar was the shadow of night, the blessed darkness, and the violence and vengeance that was committed therein.
The mob bound her arms up and wrapped rope around her body, cruelly tight to the wooden stake. They gathered faggots of wood and lined them at Viconia’s feet, enclosing her lower half in them as she stared out at the faces of the guards in the distance, who did nothing to help her. They maintained their posts and watched.
A voice like Imoen’s in her mind declared Athkatla to be a shit city, and Viconia agreed with it wholeheartedly. Perhaps, she mentally corrected, there were fewer differences between the Underdark and the surface than she had initially thought. Both were savage, pitiless places. “You rivvin are mad!” She spat. “I have done nothing to any of you! I only sought to make my way without molestation!”
And indeed, she had not. The irony of it made bitter tears sting in her eyes. In another life, she would have them all flayed for her pleasure. She had attempted to walk into Baldur’s Gate and trade for food and goods, only to be beaten by the Flaming Fist and chased out for simply existing. Thereby Shar had led to her Filvandrueth in the woods, only for Viconia to turn away from him when he needed her out of fear. In Beregost, she had attempted to live by her means with her hands and tried to find another way to appease Shar. In the end, only her vengeance against her abusers had pleased her dread goddess. She had attempted to trade in Athkatla, believing her disguise would spare her only for someone to see right through her and dragged her off to the prison. For no crime at all she had languished in the jail, for ‘her safety and the safety of others,’ as the guard had told her, until a mob had broken in looking for her blood. The guards that had not simply looked the other way, dropped their weapons and ran for their lives. She had done as she thought she should, or must, to survive. Nothing more.
“Done nothing? You are drow!” An armor-clad man who seemed to be the mob leader yelled, foul spittle from his mouth hitting her face from his closeness. His breath was rank and made her want to gag. “Your sins are too numerous to count! That is enough to condemn you to burn!”
She could not refute him, because in a sense he was not wrong. Her crimes as a priestess of Lloth were innumerable, and even her worship of Shar would not save her, for Shar was in some places equally reviled. She was an outcast twice and could not find the words that would persuade him or appease him. He wanted only her death.
She prayed to Shar and began to mumble the words out loud. He struck her in the face twice with his gauntlet, and she spat out blood. Still she prayed, silently this time, and stared him down with all the ferocity in her body emitted through her crimson gaze.
The crowd became restless, and suddenly parted before her. Against her better judgment, hope began to flame in Viconia’s chest as she recognized the man in front of her that had pressed through the crowd to approach her. He was different, certainly – his hair was shorter, there were new scars across his face, and his eyes were more molten gold than green and blazed furiously in a way that she had never seen before. He drew his sword and approached, leaping onto the pile of wooden fasces, and wordlessly challenged the armored mob leader to try and stop him.
“Filvandrueth? Is that you, or have I gone mad as well?” Viconia mumbled through her split lip. Dru met her gaze for a moment before circling around the stake she’d been tied to and cut through her spellbinders with a single stroke. Before she could fall forward from the strain of being tied up, he caught her and helped her down off the pile, wielding his sword out in front of him toward the rivvil leader. Dru was strong, and sure, and warm.
“Praise Shar, she has sent you to me again,” Viconia murmured into his ear as she attempted to right herself with his aid.
“Praise Bhaal then, for squirting me into my mother’s business,” he shot right back, and she could not help but laugh at this for it was so characteristically ‘him’ that it nearly made her choke in amusement.
“Stop them! They interfere with the judgment of Beshaba!” The armored priest leading the mob crowed and pointed. He drew forth his mace and snarled, “You will join her on the pyre, you elven traitor!”
“No thanks,” was all Dru had to say before striking down the un-helmeted priest right through his skull with his enchanted and very sharp broadsword, as its length erupted into flames once it struck. Blood blossomed out of the wound as it caught aflame simultaneously, and Viconia, feeling very much in her element with the fearsome and strong elf at her side, murmured a prayer to Shar for healing and for strength. Her wounds closed as a glowing flail materialized in her hands, and she turned a wicked smile onto the mob that started to close around them.
In the midst of the mob, violence erupted from presumably Dru’s allies. If she knew him, the great Rashemenic oaf Minsc, the darkly amusing Imoen, and her friend Dynaheir should be still with him. She did not wish to think of the half-elven wretch and her worm of a husband but considered that they might be amongst the crowd too when she began to hear a wildcat howl and panicked screams erupt from the crowd.
Filvandrueth and Viconia worked together seamlessly, defending one another and themselves as armored rivvin from the crowd began to attempt to approach. Some began to scatter immediately, fleeing into the city – and some had done so the moment that Dru had killed the Beshaban fanatic. Others were cut down where they stood. Viconia observed a hardness to Dru’s eyes and a pleasing mercilessness to his attacks, which seemed to suit him more than the defensive style he had once displayed. Whatever he had gone through in her absence had made a finely honed weapon out of him, and he did not hesitate to strike down a mob member that had suddenly thrown down their weapon and suddenly cried for clemency. He hadn’t even let the man finish his sentence before sending his sword through his neck.
Dru let his allies – Jaheira in wildcat form most certainly, and the great warrior Minsc, along with a small foreign man, but no Khalid, no Imoen, no Dynaheir in sight – finish off the rest of the mob that had chosen to fight. He flicked the blood off of his flaming sword as its fire died down, and he met Viconia’s gaze evenly.
It struck her again that his countenance had changed, perhaps aged. There was still a youthfulness to him, but it was diminished behind scars and a pale hue that had developed from lack of sunlight. His hair was still a bright and merry red though roughly shorn from its previous shoulders-length, and there was less gold in it than there had before. In his eyes was the starkest difference from the young elf she had known. The irises were now more gold than green, as if the flecks of molten gold that had once been in them had grown to take over his eyes. “I know I look different, but I swear it’s me,” he offered, and she knew he was not lying. His voice, at least, had not changed. “I’ve, uh, been through a lot these last months. It’s really good to see you, Viconia, but not in these circumstances of course,” he rambled on somewhat nervously, “I thought—”
She interrupted him with the assurance, “I would know you anywhere, no matter what you looked like. I owe you my life once again, abbil. I cannot repay it . . . but perhaps, will you allow me to travel at your side once again? We work well together,” she offered as her heart began to pound in her ears. He could easily refuse her, for the trouble she had brought him, but she knew that there was safety in numbers, and that Shar would not have sent him her way without a reason.
He smiled as if all was right in the world, even though it wasn’t and never would be. “I’d love that. I need all the friends I can get. Abbil, you said? What’s that one mean?” Dru cocked his head to the side curiously.
She had slowly over time began to teach him Ilythiiri, but she had not addressed him as such before. As they had traveled the Sword Coast, she would teach him the odd word or phrase, primarily insults as those were what he was chiefly interested in. She looked forward to their future lessons and took a deep breath. “Abbil means ally or trusted one. We have no word for friend. It is the closest one we have,” she told him.
He bowed at the waist in an uncharacteristic gesture of respect, with his hand over his heart, and it was not sarcastic for once. “I’m honored,” he said warmly. “Let’s go and get you some better clothes and armor, abbil. Let those useless sacks of shit guards sort out this mess,” he digressed once he righted himself, and glared in the distance and the guards posted at the gate, who had done nothing to help Viconia.
It was a blasphemous thought that she reprimanded herself for but could not suppress—as she followed behind his bloodstained form, thought of his easy smile, and hardened eyes—that he might one day become a living god. For was that not the purpose of the Bhaalspawn, to tread after their father’s footsteps? And was he not closer to that power than the others, given all the death he dealt at his hand? Every life taken brought him closer to his destiny. She briefly entertained the fantasy that one day, he might ask her to be his priestess.
She worried then for a moment that she had angered her own goddess with such thoughts – for she lived by the mercy of Shar – but no cosmic punishment arrived after that. She still answered Viconia’s prayers, granting her even more powerful spells over time.
She mourned for Dynaheir once she heard of the woman’s death, and expressed the proper condolences to Jaheira even if she did not sincerely miss the stuttering warrior Khalid that she had only briefly met. Still, they had both been her allies once and defended her as she had defended them, and their group was less without them. Viconia understood that, even if she did not understand surfacer grief or ‘friendship.’ Jaheira at least accepted her remarks and requested they speak of it no more, and Viconia was happy to accommodate them. She listened to Dru’s tale of Imoen’s abduction and their capture at the hands of the mage Irenicus. In the tale, she sensed a divine mission of retribution – for Shar was also a goddess of the condemned, the victimized, and the vengeful. She committed herself to Dru’s cause, whatever it may be, knowing wholeheartedly that this was exactly where she was supposed to be. After all, she would not set Viconia in his path again by mistake.
ANOMEN
There had been a time – really, only a moment – when Anomen Delryn had once initially thought them all bloodthirsty cowards. Filvandrueth and his company eschewed noble men like Sir Keldorn and kept company with drow, tieflings, berserkers, vampires, and mad gnomish inventors. Of their rotating company, only Lady Nalia and perhaps Aerie had seemed in good moral standing, and Lady Nalia had stayed behind at her keep while Aerie kept following, perhaps strung along by their strange elven leader’s talk of friendship and the tiefling’s blatant interest.
Though that had only been a short month ago, already Anomen felt himself a changed man by their ventures. He had thought that, had he not achieved his dreams of knighthood, there might be nothing for him. He had placed himself wholly into his dreams, only for them to shatter – he felt as though an illusion had been cast over his eyes, of a shining paragon of justice who would ride out for the glory of the Order of the Radiant Heart and astound their enemies with his power.
And what of his power? How was it that his prayers were still answered? How did his spells still work, when he had lost (forfeited) his place in the Order, and what did it say about them that Helm still looked upon him with some fair amount of favor? What did it mean, that he had never felt more like himself than he did now? These questions seized him as he followed Filvandrueth through the streets of the Bridge district toward the Five Flagons on their way back from the dark business of Umar Hills. It had been their first ‘adventure’ since he had murdered the man who killed his sister, and he found it marvelous that he regretted nothing at all.
Viconia was an intuitive drow maiden, so perhaps it was not by coincidence that she asked Anomen, “Anomen, tell me, what drew such a handsome, powerful, and charismatic individual like yourself to the dreary, hectic life of adventuring?” Her tone was drawn out, but not entirely disdainful.
He could not help but turn a smile on the Sharran. One thing he found he suddenly did regret was that he had once treated this lovely woman with such disdain on account of her past deeds, and race. He vowed not to make such a mistake again. “Handsome?” He repeated, pleased. “Viconia, I’m flattered. What drew me? What I do is not for whim, prank, or jape. It is not because of duty or allegiance.” He paused and thought about his answer. It had taken him some time to understand where he stood with his god, but after Umar Hills, he had understood. He had watched Dru take the life of a woman possessed by a shadow demon, as the woman plead for her own demise in a moment of lucidity. He understood right then what it all meant. As they walked, Anomen told her, “I am an instrument of justice, a redeemer of the weak, protector of the righteous and the fallen alike. I do this because I am compelled by forces beyond my ken. You?”
Her smirk revealed what she thought of his answer, but she seemed pleased by the question. “Well, noble one, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” she replied sardonically. “And it seemed to me that all the most muscular and attractive men were doing it, so . . .” she trailed off, casting him a look underneath her eyelashes that was unmistakably interest.
Her attention startled him for a moment, as he knew that she and Filvandrueth had grown close even if they carried no labels beyond strange drow words for each other. He knew he might have been flustered by her attention at some point, but he also knew Viconia’s attention – and occasional verbal malice – were fleeting and largely half-hearted. Even her jibes with Jaheira lately had grown a little stale, and they seemed to have gained an understanding of one another. Dru had paused to regard them both with interest, but there was nothing heated in his eyes, only curiosity.
Anomen turned the charm onto Viconia, honestly enjoying the flirting, and said, “Well, Viconia, you don’t have to sleep so far away next time. Your hands across these muscles would be more welcome than the brush of canvas, I’d venture.”
“Can you at least wait until we are inside the inn before tearing off each other’s clothes? Some of us have no energy left for such games,” Jaheira commented with a tired note in her voice, followed by a large yawn.
“I am not surprised you half-breed mongrels tire so easily,” Viconia could not help but comment.
To Jaheira’s credit, she blinked, yawned again, and gave Viconia a rude gesture rather than her characteristically sharp tone.
“Jaheira? Too tired to verbally bite back? Surely that’s a sign of – of something!” Jan piped up from the back of the group, staring up at the druid in alarm as if she were an omen. “And Viconia? Flirting with Anomen? Ye gods, what is happening to the world!” He grabbed at his hair in alarm, nearly tearing at it. Aerie chuckled at him through reddened cheeks, and Haer’Dalis looked upon her fondly.
“Anomen,” Dru suddenly cut in, and Anomen’s heart nearly leapt into his throat. But rather than seem upset, Dru was grinning wildly, and his golden-green eyes flashed with something like eagerness or glee. “You’ve just given me a wonderful idea!” the elf nearly shouted and started dragging him into the inn by one of his vambraces.
Viconia and the others trailed after their erratic leader, looking slightly tired, confused, and amused in the drow priestess’ case. Anomen had no choice but to follow the surprisingly strong elf as Jan called behind them, “Well, at least Filvandrueth is feeling like his usual self. I thought that Shade Lord business might have burnt him out a bit, but he’s just as chirpy as usual. It’s always inspiring to see our fair leader leading the way.”
“One can never be burnt out of new adventures, Jan!” Dru chimed back and grinning, dragged Anomen to the bar where the halfling co-owner stood on an elevated platform to service taller patrons. Jaheira wordlessly trailed off upstairs, and Minsc took it upon himself to at least make sure she made it to a bed safely in her exhaustion. Jan pulled himself up right next to Anomen and ordered mead, while Dru piped over Anomen’s shoulder and requested, “One drow mushroom magic juice, please! What is it called, Viconia?”
“Morimatra,” Viconia called from Anomen’s other shoulder. Having them both so near his eardrums and the skin of his neck gave him an involuntary shiver.
The halfling bartender, Samuel Thunderburp, passed up a bottle from beneath the bar that was made of glass black as night. He smiled at Anomen and passed him a glass of a brew so dark it was neither ale nor wine, nor any color he could accurately perceive. He looked over at Dru who grinned at him from between him and the equally smiling Jan, and then over at Viconia who had taken to sit down next to him and regard him quietly. “You will not regret it, but it will make you see things you have never seen before, and perceive the world in a new way,” she promised him. “You will not be the same. It is the favored drink of my people. I am pleased with Samuel’s vintage,” she added, looking to the pleased halfling who also passed her a glass. She clinked hers against Dru’s, as Samuel poured him one as well, and they both touched theirs to Anomen’s and took hefty drinks.
Jan declined one for himself and ordered a mead instead, but declared he’d be there for the ‘beginning of the show, if not the end,’ for whatever that meant, as they were not in the downstairs playhouse. Anomen took one more look at his drink, gave it an experimental sniff – it smelled like rich earthy loam and alcohol, a strange and heady combination – before taking a drink. His god so far had not expressly forbid him from enjoying his life, after all.
“To failing your paladin exam!” Dru suddenly shouted and stood, nearly spilling his drink as he lifted it enthusiastically toward the ceiling.
Anomen nearly spit out his drink at the toast. He had mixed feelings still on the subject but could not deny that his supposed ‘failure’ did not feel way he had expected. Nonetheless, he still felt himself – more than ever – and also felt compelled to speak his mind. “I failed nothing,” Anomen declared. “In truth, I feel more liberated than ever,” he confided, and drank with his elven friend.
Dru joined him, while Viconia took a more moderate sip from her own glass out of the corner of her eye. Jan piped up from behind Filvandrueth and informed Anomen, “If you had succeeded, we would all be drinking in mourning for what could have been. If failing paladinhood means that the aresehole who murdered your sister is well and dead, I say bravo!” Jan Jansen, the strangest gnome Anomen had ever met (though everyone that followed Dru was very odd by some kind of unspoken rule), tossed up his mead and guzzled half of his mug’s contents down and smacked his lips.
He had never thought to hear his ‘failure’ summarized so succinctly. “Still, I wonder why . . . why it is Helm continues to answer my prayers. Perhaps it is not him I failed, but the men – the egos – of the Order of the Radiant Heart.”
“And can I say again how glad I am that you’re not one of them? A toast!” Dru declared and drank more morimatra, practically snorting it down.
“Pace yourself, ussta’chev,” Viconia murmured into her own cup.
Dru coughed a little bit after his guzzle, leaning on Anomen’s shoulder before he could right himself. He did not remove his arm and instead pulled Anomen close as he confessed quietly, “The gods are all ponces, Anomen. Well, most of them are anyway. I can’t speak for the watchful guardian god, but you’re my friend, and I’m not about to abandon you just because you killed a man for a noble cause. After all, I’ve killed dozens for much more petty reasons, and yet here you are, fighting my battles with me!”
“With how many of your wounds Shar has seen fit to heal in her incomprehensible mercy, I should hope you do not think of her in such terms,” Viconia drawled with a sly upturn to her lips.
“Shar’s never done me wrong, but I stand by ‘ponces,’” was all Dru had to say after finishing his drink. “Lord Thunderburp! Another!” He ordered, causing the bartender and owner to roll his eyes.
Anomen thought about this as he took a sip and started to notice how colors seemed brighter to his eyes. He felt pleasantly inebriated. “Torm, maybe,” he concluded upon reflecting on who was the ponciest of all the gods. “Or Siamorphe – those worshippers are the worst! There’s at least one Siamorphe knight I know of in the Order. Just the ponciest ponce you’d ever think to meet.”
Filvandrueth laughed uproariously. “You’re alright,” Jan decided collectively for them all, and finished his mead. “You’re looking a little . . . wide in the eyes, there, Anomen,” he noted eagerly, and chuckled. “Hehehe, feeling it yet?”
“I think I am,” Anomen concluded, as his body seemed lighter and heart felt lifted from the heaviness that had been imposed upon it for so many years. “Now more than ever, I wish to laugh, and live, and do as I like – and, by Helm I shall!”
“That’s a toast if I’ve ever heard one,” Dru said as his refilled drink was delivered to him. “To laughing, living, and doing as we please!” He raised his glass more gently, spilling none this time, and knocked some of it back with Anomen.
By the time Viconia had finished her glass, Anomen had reached the bottom of his second thanks to Dru and Jan’s encouragement. Jan left at a certain point presumably to get rest; Anomen turned his back for a moment and the gnome was suddenly gone, and Filvandrueth had taken his seat. The world around him became alive with blissful patterns and colors that boggled his eyes and mind, and he declined the third drink simply to stare about the tavern in wonder. Samuel’s shirt was the fiery red of fire lilies and looked like a blur to him as the bartender moved up and done his platform to service patrons. Dru seemed more elven than he ever had, his eyes nearly glowing in their golden hue as he laughed with Anomen who pointed this out. ‘I’m the least elfy elf I’ve ever met,’ was what Anomen remembered Dru answering in response to this, before his night began to fracture into fragments.
Clarity came back to him in moments. He remembered looking at Viconia, certainly – and how she had dazzled him in her black-as-night scaled armor, with her long unbound golden-white hair cascading in a fall over her pauldrons. Though he could not ever mistake her for a priestess of the dreaded Spider Goddess, she nonetheless seemed very much the part of a servant of Shar, even as he could have thought her to be a Sunite for her beauty. He wondered if she would be flattered or offended by the comparison.
He recalled Dru lamenting his lost sister for a moment, and Anomen shared feelings about his own sister that he had never shared with anyone before with the elf. This somehow led to them leaving the tavern and relocating to the Bridge outside, to overlook the river Alandor as it flowed out into the Sea of Swords. They had missed the spring floods while out in the countryside but had not missed the rains – one thing Anomen did recall was getting annoyed by the sudden deluge of rainfall that night and insisting on going back inside if only to take off his armor.
He had stumbled back arm-in-arm with Filvandrueth, laughing joyously in a way he hadn’t since he was a child. With the swirling patterns and colors in his vision, he had ended up requiring Dru’s help to detach the plates of his armor – or at least he had thought it was Dru until he locked eyes with Viconia suddenly and observed her deft, obsidian fingers swiftly unlacing his vambraces.
Anomen handled the surreal sensation of the two of them working in tandem to undress him and was pleasantly surprised when he woke up in the morning sandwiched between the two of them, still-mostly-clothed but thoroughly warm and comfortable. A part of him felt disappointed they hadn’t taken advantage of him in his stupor; another part of him realized that there would be other times, and future adventures to be had. This was hardly an ending – it was a new beginning, an opening door.
The rain poured down outside, filling the world with the smell of petrichor. Anomen’s life was full of chaos and battle, but there at least was one thing that was steady and permanent. He shifted in his position on the massive bed he’d somehow ended up on, squished between two of his dearest friends, drawing an arm over Viconia even as Dru reached from behind him to cuddle closer to him in his sleep, and mumbled something under his breath about gnomes and cheese. Viconia was dead to the world. Both of them were full of the kind of life he’d always desired, and it felt beautifully freeing to finally be able to admit it to himself. He let the rain lull him back to slumber and closed his eyes.