A Land Far Away

The blanket of darkness did open
To the darkest of blossoms new blooming
With petals of hues everchanging
The shadows of her people perfuming
The fragrance of Death and of Dancing
The Lover, the Beloved consuming.

She leans and she shies from the water:
The still patient depths ever waiting;
The snow that knew heated embraces
Drawing hate into love into hating,
And the butterfly tears that were captured
To feed hunger that never knows sating.

Soft fronds to shelter hard people.
Thornpricks for the hands of the tender.
Roots sunk too deep for uprooting
Digging down to return to the sender
Who planted the seed of undoing
In the heart of the wierded defender.

The flower is ever a flower,
Whether balsalm or poison its pollen;
Be it weed in the gardens of others
Or purloined posy to be stolen
For a lover's leaf-tearing scrying
Till the last of the petals has fallen.

Some only the thorns shall remember
Some perfume all too intoxicating
Some black petals pressed unto warm lips
A healing balm invigorating
Others but a song with a question
Unanswered for reply ever waiting.


So singing, Tottespiel withdrew his long fingers from the stings of his lute, and slung the instrument gently into its place on his back. Reaching into the lapel of his evening jacket, he removed the black orchid that was pinned there. Drawing it to his nose, he inhaled deeply the dark cinnamony sweetness once more, a half smile playing across his dark lips as he considered the powerfull poison and mind altering drug that might be distilled from this rare blossom of the Underdark. He pressed it once, lightly to his lips, and cast it into the waiting waters of the Sargauth river, knowing well where the waters would take it.
"Farewell, dear lady. I hope this loose tongue of mine has in some way, given you comfort. They won't understand. They never do, you know. Not really." He watched the flower spin and drift in the waters, carried by the underground currents and eddies until it drifted beyond his sight.
Adjusting his collar, he turned, and headed back alone to the Spider's Silk. He did not look back.

Wow!
Deeply intoxicating, dear spinner of smoke.
Please give us some more, we who are addicts to your siren voice.
/FF

Many miles to the north east of Skullport, Sheyreiza watched Tottespiel play his lute and sing his song through the blood of her scrying bowl. She stood motionless listening to every word, every note, and every pause. She watched his fingers play across the strings and she watched his eyes play across the water. His verses brought visions of the past to her mind’s eye; the snows of Hartsdale where she first met death; the docks of Skullport where she found the Butterfly, built the Spider’s Silk and heard the song of the bard for the first time; the frozen North where she learned of love, and of true betrayal; the Promenade, where she survived but where all hope died; of the Shadows, and of the dire bargain she made with the darkness so that the light could live; of the altar where she lost the Butterfly, her child and her soul; of her return to Ched Nasad cloaked in the dark glory of her own treachery and wickedness; of her rise to the heights of power as a Matron Mother on the ruling council, and of her terrible fall. She remembered her houses; Auvryndar, Valakasha and Tlabbar. She remembered the goddesses and gods she had seen, the dragons, the liches and the vampires. She remembered the strongholds she had razed, and the castles she had defended; she remembered the war in Lonelywood against the plague druids of Talona and she remembered the war against the Shades where she fought side by side with her bitter enemies against the hunger that would have consumed them all. She remembered the betrayals and lies and treachery. She remembered the fear of facing the demon-lord Wendonai, and the ecstasy of riding the dracolich Shurtallistryl. She remembered her stand against the darkness in the Promenade, and she remembered her return to darkness in the temple of Mantol Derith.

But above all these, she remembered the people; Amenia, her Oak, who stood by her and protected her no matter the cost, the cause or the god; Moilir, the duergar, who demonstrated the worth of the iblith races; Hartex, the slayer, who taught her to fight only to have her betray him; Jain’n the man, who taught her about love, and Jain’n the Vyshannti scion, who betrayed her; Mariianna, who taught her the ingratitude, bigotry and hypocrisy of the fairy-elves; Vraja the warrior who was the only fairy-elf she ever really understood, whose fate showed Sheyreiza the cruelty of luck; Rilralia, the patient fairy-elf, who knew duty, service, silence and, Sheyreiza thought, a suffering no other knew; Nylo, the fairy-elf ghost, whose steps were never heard and whose hands were never seen; Tottespiel, the bard, whose song was the perfect accompaniment to her dance, but whose life would never accompany hers; Tazzen, the merchant, whose only god was coin, and who was thus the poorest rich-man she ever knew; Gryndal, the Moonshadow, who in darkness had been a weakling, but who found strength in the light and became a champion whom none could turn back to evil; Qilue Veladorn, the greatest priestess of the Maiden in Faerun, and the greatest disappoint in Sheyreiza’s life; Arzit’el, the half-blood, whose courage, spirit and independence matched Sheyreiza’s own; Sadei, the doomed child whom even the Maiden could not save from an untimely death; Hignar, the dwarf-king, whose will to save his people equaled Sheyreiza’s own dedication, even if it cost his soul just as Sheyreiza’s dedication had cost hers; Nikie-Stitch, the shadow of the dwarf-king whose eyes and mind were ever-moving; Alustriel, the light of the surface who turned to the darkness within Sheyreiza when the surface fell under shadow; Faerylene, the daughter of a rival who came as an assassin but stayed as an acolyte; Tanias, the son she gave to Lolth, and Shein’n, the daughter she lost to the Seldarine; Shyntlara, her mother, Auvryndar’s Matron, Lolth’s Yorthae and now, the new embodiment of the Goddess; Pharun, the survivor, who lived through the fall of House Oblodra, flight from Menzoberranzan, war in Ched Nasad and the horrors of the abyss, but who did not survive Sheyreiza; Vedo, the sword, whose very life was a weapon for the one who wielded his loyalty; Hartex again, this time as the demon, sometimes a slave, sometimes a master, always an enigma; and last of all, the Butterfly, who was the water to Sheyreiza’s fire, who Sheyreiza loved, and who Sheyreiza destroyed.

As the song ended Sheyreiza ran a hand over her breast-plate, over the spot where she had been stabbed so long ago. She felt the engraving there upon her armor, the mithral plate forged by the dwarves of Clan Battlehammer and given to her by Jain’n for a bonding-present in what seemed like another life-time. Years later, Qilue had layed even greater enchantments upon that armor and years after that, Lolth re-made the armor in her own wicked image just as she had re-made Sheyreiza. Now the breast of this armor bore the engraving of a thorny-rose entwined by a spider’s web. It was the heraldry of L’Olath’anon, the Dark Flower.

Far away, along the banks of the Sargauth, Tottespiel kissed a black orchid and threw it upon the waters. “Farewell, dear lady. I hope this loose tongue of mine has in some way, given you comfort. They won't understand. They never do, you know. Not really.”

Tears filled Sheyreiza’s eyes. “No,” she replied, though he could not hear her, “no they probably will not ever understand, but your song does give me comfort.” She kissed her hand and blew the kiss towards the picture of Tottespiel in the scrying bowl. The bard did not notice the kiss of course; he just raised his collar, turned from the river, and walked out of Sheyreiza’s sight. “Fare thee well my friend, we shall not meet again, but so long as I am in your song, I am immortal. For that, dear bard, I thank you.”

Oh Goddess....

Very powerful. Comforting to know I was there at the beginning and hopefully there for the end.