Dark Flower, Book II - Chapter 9

[Mikayla]

Dark Flower, Book II – Chapter 9

[Author’s note: Once again I find myself trying to recount a series of events without the benefit of logs, so I beg the forgiveness of those players whose characters are featured herein. I have done my best to capture the essence of the conversations as well as each person’s demeanor.]

***

The smell of fish assailed Sheyreiza’s nose as she walked towards the Murkspan Bridge. She spared a glance at the Burning Troll inn that lay to her right. She had spent many a cycle there once, in another life. That life had been brutal, debauched, depraved and murderous, but it was easy to understand, unlike her current life. However, her current life demanded her immediate attention no matter how confusing it might be. Sheyreiza pushed the old memories back and focused on the present.

Beside the armored priestess walked Inthara and Tottespiel. The beautiful sorceress was weaving a delicate braid of her extraordinarily long white hair as they walked. Tottespiel, ever charming and talented even though scarred and one armed, was chatting with Sheyreiza about the Pack, the Xiith, their respective establishments and the death of Delaruleth. His conversation was not an idle one, though, and soon he came to his point.

“Instead of leaving the Port, you could use the Spider’s Silk to do your Goddess’ work.” Tottespiel suggested.

“How so?” Sheyreiza asked, genuinely curious.

“Many, many people come to the Spider’s Silk. Many of them need help, or at least, could use it. You could be there, giving aid to those in need.”

The seriousness and enormity of Tottespiel’s offer caught Sheyreiza off guard and she tried to casually dismiss the idea with a slight shake of her head. “No, the Skulls would not allow it. They do not allow temples inside the city nor do they allow preaching.”

“You do not have to build a temple. You could, perhaps, just build a simple shrine and conceal it. And as for the preaching, save that for the Promenade. When you find a soul in need, send them to the Chosen and Qilue.”

He was right, it was possible. Still, Sheyreiza would not do it. She stopped walking and turned to look at the bard. “I cannot send anyone to the Promenade in good conscience. I believe in the folk there, but not in Qilue.”

“Qilue is not Eilistraee.” He noted somberly.

“I am not sure I have faith in Her anymore either.” Sheyreiza turned and resumed walking.

Tottespiel nodded his concession. “I see. That is most unfortunate.”

“How did Delaruleth die?” Sheyreiza changed the subject. She did not want to discuss the crisis of faith she was undergoing with anyone, especially other drow. Few trusted her as it was and what trust she garnered was only because she was a priestess of Eilistraee. If others knew that her faith in Eilistraee was fading, their trust in her would fade with it.

“I am not sure.” Tottespiel said, allowing Sheyreiza to guide the conversation. “I believe he was off on a quest to do something ‘good.’” Tottespiel looked at Sheyreiza with a wry expression. “I think in response to something you said to him.”

Sheyreiza walked over to one of the market stalls and looked over the river-fish that lay upon the zurkhwood planks staring up at her with dead, cold eyes. “Something I said? What do you mean?”

“I believe you chastised him for whore-mongering and I believe he set out to do something noble to redeem himself. I think he may have been trying to free a slave.” Tottespiel’s words were an accusation of sorts but Sheyreiza found no spite in them. She did not know how the bard truly felt, but his veneer of civility had not been tarnished in the slightest by his friend’s demise.

“I am sad he died.” Sheyreiza replied. “But, I am glad that if had to die, and we all have to die eventually, that he died trying to do something good.” She looked up from the rows of gleaming fish to Tottespiel’s sparkling eyes. “I always thought Delaruleth had a noble soul. I never understood why he choose to live in such darkness when he could walk upon the surface. When I found out he was going to become a common whore-monger, I was disappointed. Now, while I am sad that he is dead, I am no longer disappointed.” She tilted her head and smiled softly. “I am sure that is little comfort to you though. Your friend is lost and my opinion, I am sure, means very little.”

Tottespiel smiled in return. “Quite the contrary, I value your opinion greatly. Who would not?”

With a little laugh Sheyreiza turned from Tottespiel. “Ever the flatterer.”

“Truth is not flattery, priestess.” Tottespiel remarked. His smile faded. “The Port is losing its rarest flower, not too mention its most beautiful butterfly.”

Inthara turned at her mention to find Tottespiel smiling at her. She cut the long, thin braid she had been working on from her hair. “For you, Tottespiel. A memento.”

Tottespiel took the offered gift and bowed. “A beautiful memento from a beautiful woman.” He regarded the braid a moment, running his thumb and forefinger over its tightly woven, silky strands. “If I might ask, where do you intend to go?”

“We have not decided yet.” Inthara replied.

“Perhaps Westgate,” Sheyreiza added, “or the islands.”

“The ‘islands’?” Tottespiel asked.

Sheyreiza shrugged. “We have heard there are islands on some sea beneath the sun where the people, who are called pirates, do not hate our kind. It is said we might be able to live there in peace or at least not get killed simply because of our race. We have heard the same of Westgate though that city is rumored to be almost as filthy and evil as this one.”

“It is.” Tottespiel said flatly.

A thought crossed Sheyreiza’s mind. “You could come with us Tottespiel.”

It was Tottespiel’s turn to be dismissive. “I am not of your faith, priestess.”

“So what?” Sheyreiza asked. “I may not even be of my faith. Besides, unless you mean us harm, it matters little to the Lady. She loves your songs whether you call her your Goddess or not.”

“I…” Tottespiel’s voice trailed off a bit and he stopped walking. “I cannot leave. I have duties here, responsibilities. The Spider’s Silk is one.” He looked down. “And there is something more. There is one I love, but she comes and goes and calls no port home. If I am not here when she comes again, she would never find me and I could not live with that.”

“Love is a good reason.” Inthara commented. “I stayed in Lonelywood for love of my son, and when they took him from me, I came to Skullport for love of Flower. Who is it you love? She can come with us.”

“She would not come, and you would not want her to anyway. Amy is not drow.” Tottespiel replied somewhat abashedly.

“Amy? Who is that?” Sheyreiza had never heard of anyone in the Port by that name.

“Amy is Willow.” Inthara answered. Tottespiel nodded.

A smiled formed on Sheyreiza’s lips and she looked upon Tottespiel with as much compassion as she was able. “We understand bard. Your songs will be missed by us, but, all in all, perhaps its better. The children of Skullport need your voice more than we do. You are the one good thing they have here.”

A hint of purple appeared in Tottespiel’s black cheeks. “Now it is you who flatter me, priestess.”

“Truth is not flattery.” Sheyreiza mocked, though with nothing but good will.

The trio began walking towards the Murkspan again. A well armed, dark haired Halfling woman appeared striding quickly down the near side arch of the bridge. Sheyreiza recognized the hin immediately as Willow whom she now knew was also called Amy. Tottespiel’s scarred face brightened as he saw her, his mouth breaking into a misshapen grin.

Amy came upon the trio quickly and was clearly a bit out of breath. Tottespiel embraced the diminutive girl. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. How were your travels?”

“Hello Willow.” Sheyreiza said with a smile. “We should let you two be alone. I am sure you have much to share.” Looking to Inthara, Sheyreiza asked “shall we?”

Before Inthara could reply, Amy gasped. “Wait.” Sheyreiza looked to the pretty woman. “You are the reason I came back early. I have a message for you.”

Sheyreiza’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “A message? For me? From who?”

Amy shook her head. “Not here. Someplace private.”

“How about the Silk?” Asked Tottespiel.

Sheyreiza agreed and few minutes later the foursome reconvened in a secluded corner of the newly renovated Spider’s Silk. All but Sheyreiza sat upon the plush couches behind a wall of lush greenery. Sheyreiza stood apart from them ever reluctant sit down in the Silk for fear of assassination. As she often said, those who sit unwisely often never rise again.

Amy leaned back on one of the couches next to Tottespiel. “A dwarf sent the message. He says he wants to arrange a meeting with you.”

Her eyes narrowed, Sheyreiza regarded the Halfling suspiciously now. “What dwarf?”

Amy’s face contorted a bit. “Well, he did not exactly tell me to keep his name a secret, so, well, it was a dwarf called Hignar.”

It took Sheyreiza a moment but then she remembered the name. A dwarf calling himself Hignar Jilker-Ironstar had visited her in her cell in the Battlehammer dungeons. He had claimed to be a high priest of Moradin, a Sonnilor or some such thing. Others had said he was a king in his own right. Sheyreiza did not know the truth of any of it. All she saw was a very pragmatic, note taking dwarf who asked a lot of questions about the old Netherese empire once he found out Sheyreiza was from Ched Nasad. Though he came to interrogate her, the dwarf had not once resorted to torture or magical compulsion. Naturally, Sheyreiza thought the pleasant interrogation was just a prelude to the unpleasant one. A good interrogator is not going to miss the chance to get as much free information as possible before resorting to coercion. The coercion never came though. No dwarf or elf ever tortured her or sought to use magical compulsion to extract information. Many dwarves made threats of course, but that was just because of their rather bitter feelings towards the drow. The elves of Lonelywood, likewise, did not ask many questions. Indeed, most of the Lonelywood elves seemed far too self-absorbed to be concerned with other people or the outside world at all. Living in their isolated, protected and primitive village, the Lonelywood elves were an insular and provincial bunch.

“I remember him, from the Battlehammer dungeons.” Sheyreiza admitted. “Why does Hignar wish to meet me now?”

Amy shook her head. “He did not say. He just asks if you will meet him. He says you can pick the time and place if you are worried about security.”

“I would like to know why he wishes to speak before I agree to a meeting or set the terms.” Sheyreiza paced a bit around the couches. “Is he near? Can you ask him to clarify?”

Again Amy shook her head. “He is overseeing some trial in the pirate isles.”

Sheyreiza smiled. “Really?” Her grin grew larger. “Then we shall go to him.”

“What?” Amy asked, betraying her surprise.

“We were leaving Skullport anyway, bound for either Westgate or these pirate islands. It seems Hignar has helped us decide.” Sheyreiza stopped pacing and looked down at Amy. “Can you guide us there? We do not exactly know the way.” Tottespiel’s face fell even before Amy answered. Sheyreiza saw the crushed look and immediately realized her error. “I am sorry, I should not have even asked. You only just now returned, I cannot ask that you turn right around and leave.”

Amy turned to Tottespiel and they began to discuss. It was clear that Tottespiel cared very deeply for Amy and that he did not want to be separated from her again, but it was also clear that he did not want to put her in a cage. Sheyreiza admired him all the more. Though beset by every kind of ill fortune Tottespiel remained generous, unbowed and undemanding. That kind of fortitude was worthy of respect, even if Sheyreiza could not fathom an elf loving a Halfling the way he did. For her part, Amy seemed willing to return to the road though exhausted from many days of travel. This impressed Sheyreiza with the importance of Hignar, if not his as yet unknown message.

Plans and preparations were made and within the cycle Amy, Inthara and Sheyreiza left Skullport bound for the pirate isles. Amy proved a remarkable guide. She led the two drow through the crowded city streets of Waterdeep and across the deserted wilderness of the Sword Coast with equal ease. Whenever possible she steered the trio clear of settlements and when not possible, she always provided advice on how to pass by such places without attracting unwanted attention. More than once during the journey she also proved her skill at arms. With Amy’s aid, the surface journey that would have been a confusing, treacherous and likely ill-fated experience for two drow was transformed into a relatively uneventful trek.

The trek ended with landfall at a busy, sun baked port called Immurk’s Hold. Sheyreiza had thought Waterdeep was a typical example of how low human culture could descend. The so called “City of Splendors” was in truth a giant scab upon the face of Faerun. With landfall in the islands, however, Sheyreiza immediately realized the error of her thinking. Waterdeep was the veritable pinnacle of human development. Immurk’s Hold was the low point; the rundown, ramshackle buildings were smaller, the uneven streets filthier, the unshaven, lice infested people smellier. The relentless heat and humid air magnified the oppressive atmosphere and pervasive stench to the point of nausea. To Sheyreiza, Immurk’s Hold was far worse than the scab of Waterdeep; the hold was a dead, gangrenous wound that lay rotting in the tropical sun swarming with the human maggots called pirates. It was no wonder the folk here were rumored to be tolerant of the drow; they had no need to fear the dark elves. What drow would bother raiding such a cesspit? What was there to take? Had Sheyreiza still been a priestess of the Spider Queen, she doubted she would even capture slaves from such a place as this for fear of disease.

Amy, on the other hand, showed familiarity with the port not disdain for it. Casually, she bounced down the ship’s gang-plank and onto the wooden, tar soaked dock headed for the brick and stone lined street running along the main wharf. Sheyreiza and Inthara followed, the priestess squinting against the fading light of the setting sun, the sorceress wearing her customary blindfold. The Halfling led the Drow through the docks and up the hill through the haphazard, twisted paths of the city. Turning back towards the dock, Sheyreiza had to admit that the sight of the ocean in the sun’s setting light was a beautiful one. Orange, red and yellow light blossomed across the pale blue sky above and were reflected in the deep blue ocean below. Sky and sea merged in an explosion of color, something the drow in their nearly lightless world were unused to. Even Sheyreiza’s time on the surface did not adequately prepare her for such a sight; the far north, with its long, dark winters and perennial white snows was almost as colorless as the depths.

Ahead, a dwarf and a human female talked in hushed tones atop a plateau along the rising street. Sheyreiza recognized the dwarf almost immediately but the woman was an unknown. Sheyreiza pulled her hood down low and approached behind her Halfling guide. The dwarf prattled on for a moment before noticing the trio that had walked up behind him.

He turned with a frown. “Amy? What ‘er you doin’ back so soon, lass?”

The Halfling gestured over her shoulder at Sheyreiza and Inthara.

Hignar looked up at the two but there was no sign of recognition on his face. Sheyreiza was not surprised. When last they had met, Sheyreiza had been recovering from her fight with the elves and had been garbed only a light green gown. Now, she was armed and armored like a Ssri-tel-Quessir warrior-princess of old, an Ilythiir tableau of the Crown Wars come to life.

“’oo ‘er they then?” Hignar asked.

Sheyreiza answered for the halfling. “Its been a long time, king of dwarves.”

The dwarf’s frown deepened and then his eyes widened with recognition. “What ‘re you doin’ ‘ere? I said I’d ‘ome to ‘ou.”

“We came to hear your message, king of dwarves.”

“’ells, this is quite a surprise.”

Beneath the folds of her hood, Sheyreiza smiled. “Yes, I believe that was the point.” She purred.

***

Surprised by the appearance of the two drow, Hignar hastily lead them away from the city, beseeching them not to reveal their faces to any who passed. Though the isles were rumored to be tolerant to drow, Hignar’s view was substantially different. They headed west along the shore, then north to a small village called Grogsong. Grogsong was surrounded by a tall wooden palisade that Sheyreiza thought was probably more for peace of mind than actual defense. Inside the wooden wall, however, a large golem-like thing lumbered about. That was a real defense. The settlement was built along the sea shore of a small bay and along that shore were narrow wooden docks running out into the gentle surf where they met with the quays in various states of repair. Fresh timbers lay beside rotting posts and dripping hawsers wrapped around both. Boats of all description were moored along the quays. Heading inland the docks and sandy shore gave way to a grassy field spotted with human built structures. Most were wooden, but a few were stone. One such stone building was a tall, slender tower near the waterline. Sheyreiza imagined it might be one of the ‘light houses’ she had learned about that helped human sailors who lacked adequate night vision. The other stone building in the village was a large, rambling construction that Sheyreiza deduced was an inn and tavern. It was not a difficult deduction; drunken humans stumbled and staggered in and out of its doors, lapping at the kegs of ale and bottles of wine inside not unlike the waves lapping at the beach. Beyond the stone buildings was a forge with an attached house. This, it seemed, was their destination.

The house and forge had apparently been built by a lost warrior and was now owned by his former lover, a human woman called Nikie Stitch. Hignar explained that Nikie would be their hostess for the moment. The interior of the house was comprised of four side rooms, including a kitchen, centered on a main room. The décor and furnishings were unlike anything Sheyreiza had ever seen. They were minimalist in the way that the quarters for warrior-novices at Zhennu Orbb and yet they easily conveyed a sense of calm, a quiet confidence, that traditional furnishings, drow or human, did not. In the central room was a central table, built low to the ground and surrounded by pillow-like mats, not chairs. Hignar, Amy and Inthara sat but Sheyreiza remained standing, positioning herself between the others and the door. She was a long way from anything friendly and without allies so if things went badly here, there was likely no escape but that did not mean she had to make it easy on them.

“Well then,” Sheyreiza started, “what is your message for me, king of dwarves?”

Hignar frowned again. “Why don’t ye sit lass? ‘e ain’t gonna bite.”

She shook her head softly. “Thank you, no, I would prefer to stand. Sitting will come in due time.”

“Have it yer way.” Hignar pulled his boots off, unstrapped a greave and began massaging his knee. “I hate growin’ old, I do.” He looked up at Inthara and then to Sheyreiza. “You know about the Netherese?”

Sheyreiza nodded. “Yes, I heard they returned from the plane of shadow not long ago.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “You questioned me about Netheril last time we met, if you recall.”

“Aye, I recall. No ‘ard ‘eelings I hope. Just doin’ my job. Speakin’ o’ which.” The dwarf picked up one of his leather bags and fished out a quill. Sticking it in his mouth, he rummaged through the bag some more until he found a book. With thick, calloused fingers he opened the book and thumbed through numerous scrawl filled pages until he found a blank one. Taking the quill from his mouth, he wrote a few words.

“No, no hard feelings. No reason for them.” Sheyreiza said with a shrug. “You just asked questions. You never tortured us or tried spells to force us to speak.”

Hignar looked up from his writing. “Saw na point in it lass. I found ye can usually get what ye need just fer the askin’.”

“So what is it you want to ask?”

The dwarf’s face took on a grim pallor. “The Shades ‘ean to attack the Marches for long.”

“What has that to do with us?”

“The Shades ain’t gonna stop ‘ith just the Marches lass, they’re aiming to take it all. This ‘ill be a war to the knife. You know that ‘eans?”

Sheyreiza’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know that means.” She began to see where this was going but she wanted the dwarf to spell it out. “If they are so powerful and determined, there seems little I can do about that.”

The dwarf sighed. “You have links to your people, an’ I want you to help me forge ‘n ‘lliance between your people and the Marches.”

Sheyreiza shook her head. “The Promenade would be willing to help, but they are in no position to. A recent fight decimated them, and they were never strong to begin with. Qilue, the high priestess, will want to help, I am sure. But there just are not enough of the Chosen left to really matter.”

Hignar nodded. “Aye, I would like their help, but them’s not all I am lookin’ to speak ‘ith. You have links to, what do ye call ‘em, the houses, in Skullport, Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad, right?”

Sheyreiza nodded, her eyes narrowing further. “Yes.”

“I want their help too.”

Sheyreiza did her best to control her facial expression as the shock of what the dwarf was asking hit her. A priest of Moradin, a Sonnilor, a supposed king of dwarves, was asking the drow for help, and not just any drow; he wanted Lolth’s daughters and sons to fight his war with him. It was absurd, surreal even. He could not mean it, but he clearly did. Such an alliance was unthinkable. An alliance between dwarf and elf, or dwarf and human, to fight the drow would be possible, and so would an alliance between drow and illithid or drow and beholder to fight the dwarves, but drow and dwarf fighting beside each other? Not in all the years since the descent ten millennia ago had such a thing happened that she knew of.

For the first time since she had heard about the Shades’ return the magnitude of the threat to Faerun was made real for Sheyreiza in Hignar’s words. For a dwarf king to ask the help of the drow gave undeniable testament to the desperation of the surfacers facing the Netherese. Nothing short of total extermination could possibly move the dwarves to make such a request. The dwarves did not possess drow or elven arrogance but they were a proud and fierce people none the less. For many millennia their stout warriors had locked their shields and raised their axes against any and all who would dare tread in their mines and caverns. This was not a weak race, like orcs or goblins, which would run at the first sign of danger, or cower before a strong master. These were stout bodied, strong armed, thick headed folk that Sheyreiza did not like but definitely respected. Drow progression through the Underdark was marked by a long trail of fallen dwarven Kingdoms from Ammarindar back to what was now the Great Rift. Menzoberranzan itself had been founded on the bones of the dwarven Black Axe clan who refused to yield their caves save in death. But Sheyreiza knew all to well that the progress the drow had made had been paid for in blood beyond reckoning. No where did dwarves simply yield. No where did they bargain and negotiate like the simpering orcs and ogres whose great and powerful bodies belied their small minds and weak character. The dwarves had made the drow fight to the knife for every inch of the Underdark the drow had taken from them and not once in their history, so far as Sheyreiza knew, did they ever sue for peace, ask to negotiate, or contemplate surrender. The unprecedented audacity and desperation of Hignar’s offer made it seem as if the fate of the very world was at stake.

And, for the first time, Sheyreiza began to believe that perhaps it was.

[Zakharra]

Very good Mik. *hugs Mik*

[Virvaldin]

Very very good *sm00gles teH Mikayla*

[Vendrin]

*waits patiently for the really good chapters*

[Misty]

Well done, well written and *looks to Ven* I knew it!

*impatiently waits with Ven*

[Zakharra]

*waits patiently for the really good chapters*

He's right. The chapters that I know will make me cry are coming up.

[Mikayla]

Thank you for the compliments everyone.
As for these....

Ven:

*waits patiently for the really good chapters*

Misty:

*impatiently waits with Ven*

Zak:

He's right. The chapters that I know will make me cry are coming up.

I hate to think of some of my chapters as mere filler between the 'good stuff' but in this case, well...even I feel that way. Still, I cannot write about the good stuff until we get there, and to get there, we have to go through all these events that lead up to it - the calm before the storm as it were. If we do not know about or recall the good times, its hard to understand the tragedy of the bad.

[Killthorne]

I'm just waiting patiently, to post any more from my side, since I already jumped a little ahead of you.

Love your story Mikayla!



~Killthorne~