Forsaken by Shadows 21: Allies

To all those who are struggling with writer’s block. I promise you, it does go away. This is not the end of your creative career.

Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Mazira’s point of view.

I’m awoken by a sense of danger, though nothing has actually stirred the silence. But I know something is out there, moving around our hiding place. All I can do is wait and hope that whatever it is, it moves on without finding us.

But I am not so lucky. A pair of boots wanders into my view, and soon enough, the owner finds me. A drow I’ve never met, but he knows my false-name and claims he’s not here to hurt us. More drow appear, all making the same alarming claims. One of them wants to heal us, but I won’t let Lolth’s magic touch us. The other is Rismyn’s teacher from Melee-Magthere.

He says the most audacious things, that he is not really a teacher but under cover, on a mission to find other dissenting elves and save them from Menzoberranzan. I can’t comprehend his words, so I ask him to leave. Instead, he offers to guard us, and asks to speak with Rismyn when he wakes.

Hours go by, before Rismyn finally stirs. When he does wake, he doesn’t seem shocked when I tell him about Torafein. Apparently, it’s not the first time the master has helped him. We agree there is nothing we can do but talk to the drow and find out what they want.

There is little information to learn. Torafein asks us to come with him, though he won’t say why or where. He only says we won’t be harmed and treated with respect. I don’t believe a word of it—how can I? He’s a drow. But Rismyn believes him, and he makes a compelling argument. We can either choose certain death by refusing their help, or choose possible life, on the off chance they are not lying.

So, in the end, we surrender…

~6. Allies~

“Stupendous,” the alleged cleric said, with only a hint of sarcasm and a startling clap of his hands. Even Torafein’s stoic expression slipped as he glanced at him askance. The cleric hardly seemed to notice, however. He had already begun striding purposely towards Rismyn, talking as he went. “Mercy, child, I thought you were going to stand there until you blacked out again. Broken ribs at the very least, I expect. At the very least. Tell me, are you coughing up blood?” 

Rismyn drew back as the drow approached, putting himself between Mazira and the stranger. He realized as he did it how foolish he must look. They had just agreed to surrender–why was he still on the defensive? He glanced over the cleric’s shoulder to catch Torafein’s eye, unconsciously looking for some signal of how to react from his former mentor, but the master had already turned away, busying himself issuing silent commands to the two warriors. 

The cleric raised a brow as he came to stand within arm’s reach of them. “Come now, I don’t bite,” he said. “You’re going to have to accept healing. Not exactly in any condition to travel as you are. We have a fair way to go even if most of the journey is by boat. Now, are you bleeding internally? It helps to know how severe your injuries are, so I know which song to use.” 

The drow spoke very quickly, and his accent was just different enough that Rismyn struggled to keep up. His mind was full of fog, making it hard to grasp the meaning of anything, so out of the whole speech only one thing stuck out to him.

“Boat…?” he asked, trying to wrap his head around the concept. He knew what it was, of course, he’d just never traveled on one before.

The new drow heaved a sigh, but before he could point out how badly Rismyn had missed the point, Mazira peered up at him from over his shoulder. 

“Yes,” she said, though it sounded more like a squeak than a word. “At least, I think he is. He has been coughing blood, and I think that’s what that means. It's all my fault. My master–” she cut off suddenly, giving Rismyn a terrified look before shrinking back. 

Her reaction hurt, but Rismyn couldn’t exactly blame her. Every other time she had slipped back into calling Toloruel her master, he had reacted...poorly, to say the least. Even now, he felt a sharp rebuke poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash out at her in place of the monster who actually deserved his wrath. 

He did open his mouth, but rather than speak he took a breath instead. He wanted to be better than that. He had promised her he was going to be better than that. Rismyn squeezed her hand to offer comfort, but he was at a loss for anything to say. Fortunately, he was saved the trouble of finding words by the cleric.

“My dear child,” the elf began, his entire countenance transforming as he addressed her. He was no longer brisk and businesslike, but suddenly gentle and open. A startling visage on a drow. It usually preceded a stab in the back.

His words, however, were anything but drow-like. “I have only just met you,” he was saying, “but I would wager very few things have ever been your fault in your entire life. You are not responsible for the evil that happens around you or to you. You are safe now, as safe as any creature in this mortal life can be. Do you understand?”

There must be some kind of mistake. The man standing before them couldn’t be a drow, not with words such as that. Mazira’s fingers clutched his shirt and he felt her forehead press into his shoulder, a sure sign that she dropped her gaze. It was hard to say what expression she was trying to hide.

Rismyn just stared at the elf, wondering if the ebon skin and crimson eyes were somehow illusions to hide some other heritage. One that was kinder and possessing of a heart wholly superior to a drow’s in its capability to fathom compassion. Whatever reservations he’d had about trusting these strangers was ebbing away. He was only frustrated he hadn’t thought to say such things to Mazira himself.

As though he needed to make up for it, he turned to face her and managed to say, “He’s right,” before his vision swam and he swayed precariously. The last of his adrenaline had drained away, and he was suddenly incredibly tired.

Mazira’s arms shot around him, keeping him from toppling over. Her frantic eyes darted to the cleric. “Please–can you really heal him?”

“Of course I can,” the stranger said, sounding slightly affronted. “I would not have said so if I could not. Come, young Tear, let me see what I can do about saving your face from permanent marring.”

Rismyn didn’t react when the cleric reached for him. He had finally hit the point of being grateful for the help, even if healing was often just as painful as the wounding. He’d only been healed a handful of times by clerics in Menzoberranzan, and it always burned. Lolth’s punishment for weakness, it was said.

But as the man’s palm rested against his uninjured cheek, he realized something very, very important.

“Wait!” he cried, jerking back. He paid for his outburst with a wave of dizziness. “Wait…” he repeated, trying not to sound as weak and frail as he felt. 

“Beg your pardon?” The cleric asked, in a voice that suggested he was not being polite. “You literally cannot function without my aid.”

“I know, I know,” Rismyn said, gesturing as he tried to formulate his thoughts. “I am grateful for your willingness to help me–us–I truly am. But…” as he started to say it, he realized how stupid his request was going to sound. Nevertheless, it needed to be said. “I don’t actually want my face to be healed,” he concluded. 

The cleric just stared at him. “You don’t want your face to be healed,” he repeated, in a flat tone. 

“No...”

“Rismyn, why?” Mazira whispered, her hand resting on his arm.

“It’s just...I just want it to scar, alright?” He couldn’t tell if his face was hot because he was embarrassed or because his whole body was aflame. 

“You want it to scar,” the cleric repeated again. He continued to study him, his expression a cipher. Finally, he sighed and tossed up his hands, glancing up at the ceiling of the cavern. “Well this will be fun to unravel later.” He clamped one hand down on Rismyn’s shoulder and replaced the other on his cheek. “I’ll see what I can do to oblige the request, but I only guide the Weave as the Maiden guides me.” 

Rismyn didn’t know what that meant, or what he expected to happen next. What he did not expect was for the drow to start singing. Not one of the harsh chants usually offered to Lolth on her high unholy days, but a real, rich, melodic song. The kind of song Mazira used to sing for him, only the language wasn’t one he recognized.

Everyone froze. Rismyn could see Torafein over the drow’s shoulder. He had been speaking in a whisper to the warrior with his hair tied back in a high tail. Their discussion ceased the moment the first notes began, their attention keenly rapt on what the cleric was doing. The other warrior, the female, was the only one who didn’t react, but continued to fidgeted with a smooth stone in her hands, as though oblivious to the happenings around her.

Warmth spread through Rismyn for entirely new reasons. Everyone was just staring at him, while the cleric continued to sing without a care for how sound carried in the Underdark. But just as the feeling of humiliation began to dig in, a sudden euphoria burst through his blood.

It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. His pain was just…gone. Not relieved or alleviated, but vanished, as though it had never been. It was as though he had been plunged into a pool of delightfully warm water, leaving him weightless and free in a way that didn’t seem possible. 

His entire body tingled as though joy literally bubbled up inside of his soul. He didn’t have it in him to care about being stared at anymore, or to worry over what these drow wanted from him. Or, for that matter, that Toloruel was still hunting them. 

Rismyn shut his eyes and breathed deeply, no longer fearing the agony that had accompanied such breaths previously. He expected darkness behind his lids, or perhaps the imprint of the cleric’s face. What he saw instead was like nothing he had ever seen before.

It was as though he had been teleported to another realm. He could still hear the cleric’s deep, resonant voice, but there was another voice singing with him. A female voice, so beautiful it made his heart ache and rejoice all at once. He had thought Mazira had the most beautiful voice in the world. Compared to this unknown singer, she was still a child learning to find her pitch.

And he was cold. So very cold, as a wind stirred through his hair. His breath coalesced into a mist. The ground beneath his feet was covered in a blanket of soft, frozen powder. He had never seen so much white in one place before. It stretched out around him in rolling hills as far as his eyes could see, broken only by jagged stone peaks along the horizon, taller than any stalagmite in all the Underdark.

Then a light glimmered at the top of his periphery and he glanced up. The sight he beheld was incomprehensible.

The cavern ceiling was so high it was lost completely in darkness. But that couldn’t be possible, because the darkness wasn’t dark at all. Great bands of green, blue, and violet light danced above him. Beyond the color ribbons was a glimmering array of a thousand tiny, sparkling lights. No, more than a thousand. A million. A trillion? Was there a number bigger than that? It was all so dazzling, yet as he looked, a greater light began to rise up into the shadows. A grand silver disk, peeking above the hills of the white carpet. He was filled with the sudden urge to run towards it until he caught it and made it his own. 

And then the singing stopped, and Rismyn was back in the cavern staring at the cleric, stunned into silence. The whole experience had probably lasted no more than a few seconds, judging by the way no one had moved. 

The healer gave him a knowing smile and a wink as he released him. “There, see? I told you I didn’t bite.” 

“What…” Rismyn breathed, “What did you do to me?”

“I healed you.” He patted the injured side of Rismyn’s face with the back of his hand. Or rather, the side that had previously been injured. There wasn’t a drop of pain left in his body, though the euphoria had faded. 

“You’ll be pleased to know your wish was granted,” the cleric said, though he frowned as he said it. “Why you wished such a thing is a matter we will discuss later. Now, young lady,” he turned his attention to Mazira. “How might I serve you?” 

Mazira was already pale as she stared at the cleric, her mouth agape. When he addressed her, she snapped her jaw shut and her hand on Rismyn’s arm gripped him tighter. “No, thank you,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m not injured. He kept me safe.” 

“I’ve no doubt he did. But I’m sure you didn’t escape whatever harrowing adventure you’ve had without a single scratch. Come, it will be for your good and comfort, and I would be honored to bless you.” 

Mazira’s eyes were full of uncertainty and it occurred to Rismyn that he should intervene on her behalf. But the memory of the euphoria was still fresh and rich, and he wanted Mazira to experience it as well. “It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. “It’s, uh, a different kind of healing.”

“The healing is the same,” the cleric said, though his expression darkened. “It is the source that is different. You are used to healing from the servants of demons, whose queen poisons her gifts with venom. The one we serve–”

“Solaurin,” Torafein interrupted. “Not now. We need to move. Beltel, scout ahead. Lina, watch our backs.” 

The cleric gave Torafein a sour look and huffed, folding his arms into his sleeve. The warrior with the hightail–presumably Beltel–flashed him a knowing smile and moved on towards the river. The female warrior–Lina–didn’t react at all, but merely stood back, apparently waiting for the party to move on to take her position.

Solaurin inclined his head to Rismyn and Mazira. “After you,” he said. “We’ll continue this discussion when it is safer.”

Rismyn nodded, surprised to find himself eager to continue the talk. He had so many questions, and for once he didn’t fear answers. He covered Mazira’s hand, which still gripped his bicep, and squeezed, willing his delight to transfer from his palm to hers. This moment of good fortune was unprecedented, and he hoped she was in as much awe as him. 

Mazira’s face didn’t register any delight, however. She was crystal white, her jaw clenched so hard he could see the muscles twitch. But she didn’t hesitate when Solaurin bid them to move forward, and Rismyn almost missed a step as she pulled him on.

She was clearly afraid, and clearly determined not to show it. His heart sank, but there was nothing he could do about it. So he just stayed near her, hoping his presence might ease her tension.

Granted, he hadn’t exactly done a great job making her feel comfortable before. Why ever would he start now?

With that glum thought in his heart, they came abreast of Torafein.

‘Silence until we reach the ferry,’ the master signed. Then, glancing at Mazira, he opened his mouth as though to repeat the order aloud.

But Mazira had already nodded, signaling with one hand she understood in sync with Rismyn’s acknowledgement. If her knowledge of the forbidden language surprised Torafein, he didn’t show it. He merely fell into step on Rismyn’s right, while Solaurin took up a position on Mazira’s left.

It should have left Rismyn boxed in, but in truth he felt safer than he had in a long time. On instinct, he fell into the careful steps he had been taught since he learned to walk, pulling his arm from Mazira’s grip but making sure to catch her palm and lace her fingers in with his. He wasn’t about to risk letting her go.  

To his delight, Mazira didn’t pull away from him. Maybe he wasn’t the worst, after all.

They meandered along the bank in silence, Rismyn drifting into his own thoughts. He touched the side of his face absently, feeling the groove that marked the place where his brother had cut him. It was a little surreal, knowing that the scar was a permanent addition to his appearance. He wondered what it looked like, and if it would be enough.

Then his mind wandered to the healing of the cut, and that strange vision that had accompanied it. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that what he had seen had been on the surface. It explained the lack of ceiling, and he remembered Mazira telling him about little lights called stars that appeared when the sun set. He couldn’t quite place the green and purple ribbons of light from any of her descriptions, though, nor could he account for the cold white blanket of powder that covered the ground. He thought he remembered the ground covering was a green plant called grass. Maybe he was misremembering and the green she had referenced had been in the sky. 

He wanted to ask her, but wasn’t keen on carrying on a handtalk conversation in view of his one-time master and the strange cleric. So he filed the questions away at the bottom of his ever-growing list.

The journey continued on, and they were soon out of the blue-lit cavern and into a longer, narrower one. The river picked up its pace. The cool tones of razor-sharp rocks sliced through the currents, making Rismyn shutter. If Mazira hadn’t dragged them out when she had, he wasn’t sure they would have survived this stretch. He held her hand a little tighter, wanting to communicate the depths of his gratitude and affection for her in a single gesture.

If she registered his meaning, she showed no sign of it on her face.  

And then a monstrous shriek rent the air, and all warm feelings vanished.

Torafein had weapons drawn before Rismyn could even think to reach for his own. When he did, his hand closed on nothing. Curse it all, he’d lost his blades in the fight with Toloruel! How could he have forgotten to ask Torafein for a weapon? 

Even the cleric had a sword, a thin and elegant saber, though he didn’t draw it but instead tossed out a hand to stop Mazira from stepping forward. It was an unnecessary gesture, for as soon as the scream pierced the darkness she had latched onto Rismyn’s arm.

Without a blade to grasp, Rismyn drew her in close, prepared to shield her with his own flesh if necessary.

Silence stretched taut in the shadows. The sound had come from the darkness ahead of them, just beyond a turn in the bend. Rismyn kept his eyes on Torafein, awaiting orders from the older warrior. The master stayed still as stone, watching the corridor for a sign Rismyn couldn’t begin to guess at. 

Then, after a moment, a voice called out. “It’s alright. Just a darkmantle. Caught me by surprise, but it’s dead now.”

The tension dissolved at once, though Torafein stabbed his blades back into their sheaths with an angry snap. 

“Beltel,” he growled under his breath, before somehow managing to march furiously and silently at the same time. 

Solaurin sighed and folded his arms back into his sleeves. “So much for silence,” he remarked. “Beltel has angered much worse than a darkmantle, I’m afraid. Come, we should catch up. Are you alright, young lady?”

The question was addressed to Mazira, who had yet to let go of Rismyn’s arm. Her gaze had swept out and around them, and now that Rismyn was paying attention he realized she was trembling. 

When Solaurin addressed her, she turned her eyes on him briefly and then dropped them to the ground. “Yes, sir. I’m alright.” 

The cleric frowned. “Not frightened, are you?” 

“No, sir.” 

Solaurin’s gaze met Rismyn, but if he was looking for support, he wasn’t going to find it with him. Of course Mazira had lied about her fear, but he wasn’t about to sell her out to the cleric. So he merely shrugged, and they walked on. 

They didn’t have far to go before Torafein’s low growl reached their ears. “–of silence do you not understand?”

“Well I had to let you know it was safe,” the scout argued, a statement which almost made Rismyn stop dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe the warrior had dared to say anything at all, with Torafein’s fury bearing down on him like that. 

They rounded the corner and found the two drow standing over a heap of bloody flesh–the dead darkmantle, presumably. Rismyn studied the carcass and noted that it had been felled with only one clean, precise cut, before the ensuing argument caught his interest again. 

“That,” said Torafein, “is what the flute is for.” He twitched his hand and suddenly a small wooden cylinder appeared in his fingers. “Did you lose your flute?” 

If anything, Beltel looked amused. “Got it right here,” he replied, patting a pouch on his belt. “But see, only we’re attuned to the notes. And I didn’t want the little lady to be frightened.” As he said it, the scout glanced their way and flashed Mazira a sly grin and a wink. 

Mazira started and looked away, but Rismyn hardly noticed. He was too busy marveling at the audacity of the scout. This was a level of insubordination even Dreder wouldn’t have dared. At least, not right under the patrol captain’s nose. 

He expected Torafein’s dagger to slit the young warrior’s throat. But Torafein didn’t raise a hand or a weapon. Instead, he heaved a heavy breath and said, “Ten tendays.” 

Beltel blinked. “What?” 

“You’re off the rotation for ten tendays. You can use that time to train with the reserves. See if you can’t re-learn how to follow orders.” 

“Aw, c’mon!” the scout whined. He actually whined. “The darkmantle already blew our cover anyway!” 

“Twelve tendays.” 

The scout rolled his eyes and tossed up his hands, but before he turned back to take his post, he gave Mazira another mischievous grin.

This was it. The moment the scout would get beheaded for his cheek.

But Torafein only watched him walk away, his arms folded rigidly across his chest. 

When the older warrior turned back to them, Rismyn flinched as if he was the one in trouble. 

Torafein’s hands flashed swift and sharp. ‘Let’s give this another try. Silence. Until we reach the ferry.’ He whirled back around before Rismyn could acknowledge the order and started off into the darkness. 

Rismyn couldn’t help but exchange a glance with the cleric, who shrugged and gestured them onwards. So, he and Mazira followed after the master. 

The journey continued far more uneventfully. Occasionally, they came across another heap of blood and darkmantle flesh, though very few sounds of the danger ever made it back to them. It seemed that now Beltel knew the creatures were around, he was caught significantly less off guard. 

Rismyn had to admit he was impressed. Darkmantles weren’t easy to spot when they roosted among the stalactites, and judging by the clean cuts, the scout was extremely skilled. Perhaps that was why Torafein refrained from killing him for being impertinent. 

Whenever they came across a fresh carcass, Rismyn glanced down at Mazira to see how she would react. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t seem phased at all. They had encountered the monsters more than once on their trek through the Wilds, and he was learning that the things that frightened her were not usually what he would have expected. 

Yet something was definitely off with her. Her color had yet to return and her hand in his was slick with cool sweat. He was starting to wonder if she had been lying about not being injured, and perhaps had lost more blood than she would admit. He would've thought she was afraid of Solaurin and Torafein, except that her gaze never lingered on them. Instead, she kept glancing into the deep pools of shadows that surrounded them, flinching slightly whenever they passed a hollow or cavern. 

Finally, he could stand it no longer. Rismyn lifted their joined hands and disentangled their fingers, holding her palm upwards. Slowly and carefully, he traced letters onto her skin, the handtalk equivalent of whispering. He noticed the cleric watching them from the corner of his eye, so he tilted her hand a little so Solaurin couldn’t read the symbols. 

‘You’re afraid. What is it?’

Mazira shook her head once, refusing to acknowledge what he could plainly read on her face. 

‘I know you better than that,’ he wrote. ‘Is it the patrol? I really think they actually mean to help.’ 

She breathed in deeply, releasing a silent sigh. Then she turned her hand over in his and started to write. ‘No. Not them.’ Though her eyes darted quickly to the cleric and back. ‘I’m just wondering...how long until he reveals himself.’

A tingle ran across his skin. He didn’t need to ask who she meant. The scar on his face seemed to throb at the mention of him. ‘What do you mean?’

Mazira’s lower lip trembled. ‘That’s what he always does. He waits until you’re convinced you’re safe, and then he strikes, proving that he’s been there the whole time.’ 

Rismyn stopped in his tracks, staring at Mazira. 

She was right. She was absolutely right. He was a fool for not considering the risk sooner.

Solaurin and Torafein went on for a few more steps before they realized Rismyn had halted. Torafein glowered as he signed, ‘what is it?’

Mazira shook her head, shrinking back, but this wasn’t news Rismyn could conceal. Honestly, he should have divulged it already. They could all be in grave danger. 

‘How good is your rear guardswoman?’ he asked. 

‘One of the best. Why?’

‘Would she know it if...if we were being followed by my brother?’ 

The cleric and the warrior looked at each other, but whatever message was passed between them in the silence was lost to Rismyn. 

‘I have full confidence in Lina,’ Torafein signed, finally. Nevertheless, he nodded to the cleric and added, ‘stay with Solaurin.’ 

Then, he moved past them back the way they came. 

Rismyn was stunned. Part of him hadn’t expected the warrior to take him seriously. He was barely out of childhood, and a failure of a student at that. He was used to his ideas and opinions being ignored. 

But then, Torafein had been the one who taught him to take all threats seriously.

‘Come along,’ Solaurin signaled, jarring Rismyn from his thoughts. ‘We’ve still got a short way to go.’ 

A short way turned out to be an overstatement. Time wore away, and the fresh paranoia that had made Rismyn’s senses sharp dulled. As the minutes turned to an hour or more, he began to grow complacent in the ever-increasing monotony of the trek.

Beside him, Mazira’s steps began to drag. There were shadows under her eyes, and her shoulders began to sag. Guilt tugged at him as he remembered what she said about not being able to sleep after their visitors arrived. Between that and how hard he’d pushed her before Toloruel found them, it was a wonder she had any strength left at all. 

‘Can we stop for a rest?’ Rismyn signed when she had stumbled once again. ‘Mazira’s getting tired.’

Mazira’s face flushed and she shook her head sharply. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. Her gestures were stiff. She had pulled her hand from his to say it, and this time didn’t return it. 

Rismyn’s shoulders slumped. He was only trying to help. 

‘No need,’ Solaurin signaled, his countenance far more cheerful. ‘We’re here.’

As his hands flashed the words, they rounded a bend and the tunnel they had been following along the river suddenly opened up into a wide limestone cavern with an impressive forest of stone columns. Chunks of quartz reflected back to him in his infravision, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that it would have been a lovely natural landscape if they were to light a torch. 

But Rismyn hardly cared for landscape. Instead, his attention was riveted on the structure that bobbed in the water. 

It was a boat–a real boat. Or maybe a ship? He had seen boats in the distance from House Tear as they cut across Lake Donigarten on the edge of Menzoberranzan. But those were smaller vessels used for transporting slaves and the like. This boat was long and narrow with sides that stood taller than him. One half of it appeared to be covered in a little house, while the rest of the deck was open to the darkness. He was sure there were proper words and names for what he was seeing, but watercrafts hadn’t ever been a necessary subject in his education, so he was content to merely define the whole structure as ‘boat’. 

A plank was lowered from the deck, and two figures stood at the top of it, while a third stood at the bottom. From this distance, Rismyn couldn’t quite make out the features of any of them, but since the cleric didn’t seem alarmed, he chose to remain calm, as well. 

“The Good Ship Songbreeze,” Solaurin declared, startling Rismyn as he spoke aloud. “Though the name is mostly all propaganda, for it is neither a ship nor does it sail by the power of wind. Now that I think about it, it doesn’t sing, either. Still, it’s our ride home and I daresay a welcome sight.” 

Rismyn shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. Torafein had ordered silence until they reached the ferry. Did this count as “reaching” the ferry? But it appeared no one else shared his concern, for while he was still trying to decide if a response was even required from him, a female’s voice suddenly hailed them from the darkness. 

“Is that you out there, song-spinner?” she called. “I know you’re not speaking ill of my ship.” 

“Never would I dare,” Solaurin called back, as they drew nearer to the vessel. “Facts cannot be said to be ill of anything, that denies the nature of truth. To speak ill would–” 

“Forget it,” the woman said, as she strode down the plank to meet them. “I’m sorry I said anything. Hello, these must be our two missing elflets. Welcome to the Good Ship Songbreeze.”

The woman made a courteous bow, but Rismyn was too mystified by her appearance to acknowledge it. 

He didn’t know what she was. She stood about the same height as Mazira, with a round human-looking face and long, flowing hair, the color of which would be a mystery until he saw her in natural light. But those were the features he noticed second, after he got over the sight of the two curved horns protruding from her forehead and sweeping back along her skull. Not only that, but the woman had a tail. An actual tail, trailing behind her steps. The only thing he could safely conclude was that she wasn’t an elf. If anything, he thought she might be a demon.

Solaurin nudged him in the side and gave him a disapproving frown. His hand flashed quickly, ‘It’s rude to stare.’ 

Suddenly, Rismyn remembered his manners. “Thank you,” he said swiftly, offering the woman a slight bow of his own. As he did, he glanced to the side and noted the drow who had been waiting by the plank was Beltel. When he straightened, he glanced up at the one who remained on the deck–and then did a double take. That drow was also Beltel. Right down to the same cut of armor and hightail. Rismyn’s eyes darted from one to the other, and was certain it was the same elf. 

“Oh,” the woman said, as she straightened, drawing Rismyn’s attention back to her. “So polite, without being trained. I thought Torafein said he wasn’t sure about him.” 

“He’s always polite,” came Torafein’s gruff voice from behind Rismyn. It didn’t actually surprise him, but Mazira started and clutched his hand again, something he wasn’t altogether upset about. “What’s the timeline on getting out of here?” 

The demon-woman looked startled too, and Rismyn guessed the master had been well concealed beneath his piwafwi. She covered it quickly with a coy smile. “Ready to sail when you are, commander.” 

Torafein brushed past them and ascended the ramp without a second look back. “Then let’s sail.”

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.