The ne'er-do-well paazin forced me to post this, so here it is. Nothing really happens, but its one of the only times I remembered to save my in-game logs. Unless you care about the musings of a pious sun elf on an ambiguous mission in Ched Nessad, its rather boring and I recommend not reading it.
Masquerade
Daxunyrr stood quietly in an alcove off of the main entrance way of the noble house Valakasha of Ched Nessad. He looked down into his goblet of some foul wine he pretended to enjoy, deep in thought. Thick stone was at his back, and dimly he was aware of brief glances from the nearby servant. Do the servants scheme and plot as well? Is that one watching me for a weakness, for something to report to his superiors which may increase his standing here? Servants have little to lose, after all.
The thought was fleeting, more and more he found he simply did not care what the other drow thought of him. He knew so little of their culture and religion that he had no chance of truely appearing as Ched Nessad native. The divine favor on him made him appear as a drow like any other, but he had been told to say he was from Sshamath, the City of Dark Weavings. He found he knew quite a bit of his false home, but he could not understand why the Sage had chosen a place so heretical to the Spider Queen as Daxunyrr's origin. His time in the city was hopefully to be short, and he would not stay long enough to be discovered. Unless I fail, of course. But what use is my life if I've failed? How could I look upon the beauty of Arvandor knowing what my failure cost? Only Shein'n's opinion of me matters, and she...
Daxunyrr ground his teeth at the thought of it. He was old enough to know the futility of dwelling on mistakes. The Art was his life, and in some ways it was just an exercise in trial-and-error, with mistakes existing only to be learned from. Yet still this mistake haunted him like many others before it. He had refused to bed a priestess of the Spider Queen, a Yathrin, and the very reason he was in this vile place. Perhaps refused was too strong a word, but the effect was clear: What remained of Shein'n's heart was broken even more, being replaced by the vile oppression which permeated this place. Daxunyrr wasn't sure which hurt him more, that this refusal may have doomed the quest the Sage had asked of him, or that he had helped drive out what little warmth remained in a poor girl's soul. Such tiny forces, with such enormous results. Such is the lesson the Art teaches us. There is power in all things large or small, it is just our own failing if we do not see and use it. How far in the future could this mistake echo? From what he knew of how important his task might be, it could echo for a very long time, even as a sun elf regards the years.
Daxunyrr did not fool himself into thinking it was entirely a logical decision. He was terrified of the thought of laying with a Yathrin, even one with part of her heart still with The People and the appearance of an ancient ssri'tel'quess. He did not think the drow associated physical sex with anything resembling affection, but the Yathrin's muffled sobbing as left the room told him the connection was not entirely severed. I was afraid, simple fear. I've shown less fear in the face of dragons, and been mauled by countless beasts spawned from nightmares. Yet its always failure which haunts me. Could I even have kept up my act in bed with her? What would have happened then? How can you show true kindness in a world where it is only pretense for treachery? I cannot even hint of my feelings without fumbling for words. The People were ment to share their hearts, not hide them from each other...
His awareness drifted back farther into his past, as it often did. He remembered a cool, still night in the Cormanthor and a short debate with a ranger there. The other elf had mocked his own abilities in the mundane, citing the power Valdur displayed in the Art. If Valdur ever meets Myrilis again, he shall have to bring this up. There are no details, no gap between magic and mundane, Alandriel had said. Only choices of significance that we cannot grasp. This is what the Livegiver tries to teach us, to see this edge of choice, and the power it can carry into the future.
Daxunyrr pushed the rhetoric out of his mind as a stone door to his left slid open. True or not, it would not fix his error. As he watched the house mage of Valakasha exit the open door, he briefly wondered if such long lapses in attention were ever seen among drow, and what was going through the servant's mind behind him. He likely thinks me easily surprised. Others have made that mistake.
Placing his now-empty goblet on the servant's bar, he quickly entered the door the mage had left. Inside he found only Yazaghar Claddath, an apprentice mage and noble of his house. Daxunyrr wasn't sure if Claddath was a more powerful house than Valakasha, but he suspected so based on the Claddath's poor treatment of a Valakasha Yathrin he'd witnessed. He wasn't even sure of the proper etiquette for a commoner like himself to address a male noble of another house. He had addressed them as he might an equal and not seen anything odd come of it. Even still, he recalled Eälendur Ealoeth's father's hidden rage when a "grey" elf commoner addressed him in a similar fashion. Caramarth Ealoeth was never one to let petty revenge get in the way of his patient ambition, but these drow could be different. They seemed to lack his father's pure calculating nature, with their penchant for cruelty injecting itself into situations at inopportune times.
Daxunyrr did not want to speak with Yazaghar at all. His original purpose in entering the room was a hope of an accidental meeting with Shein'n, but that was not to be, so some excuse would have to do. Instead he thought of some conversation he had some interest in, playing the curious scholar seeking to learn more about an odd slave the Claddaths had acquired. Daxunyrr spoke with him in some length, and was truthfully interested when he learned the slave had escaped, taking the life of a Yathrin as he did so. Evidentially some sort of powerful baatezu was involved, aiding the slave in escaping and then disappearing itself. I wonder, what was the devil's price? How many other souls have sold themselves to darkness to survive in this horrid place?
Daxunyrr has studied nearly as much of history as he had of magic, and he had read many accounts of the Descent of the Drow. It had taken decades of his life, but pieces of lore from Leuthilspar, the Vault of Sages and Candlekeep had slowly let him piece together the events that unfolded so long ago. No sage agreed on every point, and Daxunyrr knew well enough not to take any such ancient history as fact, but one thing had become very clear to him since coming to Ched Nessad: None stood to gain as much from the drow's descent as the Spider Queen did. He no longer had any doubt that her hand was in it, driving the drow underground and into her webs of hate. Undoubtably, the ancient dark elves committed atrocities of such magnitude to warrent their banishment or death, none would deny that. However, the foul Illithyri did not represent the entirety of dark elves, and yet all dark elves were all banished. Could all the dark ones have been so evil? Nae, then I would not be here. Corellon would never banish any of his true children. They were caught like a spider nets a fly, and even the very few who deserve to be free cannot escape. She was the goddess of their destiny, I only wonder how she perverted the High Magic which cursed her people? Whatever the original cause, the effect was clear. The drow were completely caught in her web, in a circle of hatred, jealousy and murder. There was no way out of it, the Yathrin saw to that. Shein'n was being turned and broken like all drow are, and so far Daxunyrr had been powerless to stop it. Truely, the followers of the Black Archer see it clearly. There is no greater foe to any who love life and freedom than the Spider Queen.
Yazaghar had made Daxunyrr realize something else: The male drow hated this place as much as he did. They had little to live for; even the nobles were playthings of the Yathrin. At best one could become powerful enough in the Art to be feared, but then the Yathrin would undoubtedly grow jealous. Yazaghar himself had whispered to Daxunyrr in dark corners, wishing information on the world outside the Spider Queen's webs. Like so many others, Yazaghar was a heretic waiting to happen. But loyal to Lloth or not, he was not one of The People, not one of Corellon's children. Daxunyrr severely doubted his heart could one day be swayed, and he darred not reveal any part of his true self to any more than was necessary. Even still, Daxunyrr decided to give the young mage some hope he might aid him as their conversation ended, but he did not know if Yazaghar had caught the innuendo. Nothing was ever said openly with the drow. As he left the small room and headed out of the building, Daxunyrr couldn't help but remember how similar this trait was with the Ealoeths of Evermeet.
As he made his way to house Valakasha's Chapel, he tried to formulate some plan in his mind. Shein'n lived above it, and there was some chance of a meeting with her there. Such hastey plans were not characteristic of Daxunyrr or the sun elf he had once been, but time was not on his side. Quickly, he tried to think of what would happen if he did end up bedding her. How do dhaerow make love? Clearly they share no communion. How do two people expected, nae demaned, to hate each other share a bed? Do drow even kiss? Such questions were abhorent to him, and brought up painful longings for Erynn, but he knew the answers may be needed.
As he neared the chapel, more and more Daxunyrr hoped she would be content with talking. And what will I say? She is young and I may hope her moods change with the wind, but I have not grown any more charming. Why would the Sage trust a mission of such subtle diplomacy to one who has forsaken all else but the study of the arcane?
This last question had been on his mind before he had even accepted this quest into the City of Shimmering Webs, and it was not one he had found an answer for. He liked to think he had helped Erynn step from the darkness, but it was easier with her. She was a moon elf living under Sehanine's gentle glow, not a dark elf caught in the Spider Queen's webs. Erynn was hard, so Valdur's hard kindness had reached her. But Shein'n was centuries younger, and any kindness seen in Daxunyrr would be thought of as deceit. Nuran would know what to do... Or Orthea, or countless others. What use am I here? How can I sing to her of the beauties of the Night Above, when my voice was made for a different Art?
Daxunyrr breathed a small sigh of relief apon entering the chapel: it was empty. Event still, pretense demanded a reason for his enterance, so he did what most do in chapels: he prayed. He knelt before the altar of the Queen of Spiders, the hated enemy of all he loved, and the place where he had sacrificed the life of a goblin slave in tendays past. Lloth was still silent, and empty symbols meant nothing to him. So he whispered elvish too quiet for any to hear, and prayed to his own gods.
Brothers and Sisters of the Wood, I pray for your guidance. I know as Eälendur of house Ealoeth I failed you, and as the adventurer Valdur I made many mistakes which cost dearly. I fear I do not have the wisdom to succeed in the task you have put before me. I hope... I pray, your faith in me is justified. I will do what ever must be done, for the good of the People.
He paused, but did not truely expect a response. Rising to his feat, he pushed his failures and doubts from his mind like a fruit seller might push his cart through a marketplace. With mental exercises gained from years of near-fanatical devotion to his art, Daxunyrr could clear his mind when focus was needed. Walking quickly and purposefully from the Chapel, he knew he would not see Shein'n this cycle. But that did not mean it should be wasted dwelling on the past. There was magic to be learned, and Daxunyrr had not yet finished plucking all of the secrets he did not know from house Valakasha's arcane library. He may have failed today, but no matter where he went or what mistakes he made, the Weave was always with him. And with the Weave came endless mysteries, infinite possibilities, and limitless power. Power to correct mistakes of his own and his people's, and power to make far more. And yet no lore or spell compares to what Shein'n may bring. Unity again, at long last. What can stop our dreams when the People's hearts are as one?
