To Drizzt Do’Urden, whose epic tales inspired me to create my own tormented drow to scoop up out of the land of shadows and deposit into marvelous light. Rismyn exists because of Drizzt, and I will forever love these tales of Dark Elves.
Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Mazira’s perspective,
Everyone was exhausted after the fight with Mendroktovin. Everyone, that is, except for me. Torafein ordered us all to rest, so we split up to find our own little nests. Torafein kept watch while Beltel and Lina took Belnir into the cabin. Rismyn and I huddled together under the cabin’s window, and it wasn’t long before he fell into one of his elven trances.
But I couldn’t sleep. Not with Solaurin’s words echoing through my head. I still wasn’t convinced I hadn’t dreamed it all up.
But they keep staring at me. Not directly, but I swear Torafein and Solaurin keep looking my way, then averting their eyes when I notice. The longer this goes on, the more concerned I grow. What did I do wrong? Unable to bear it any longer, I wake Rismyn to ask.
I try to be subtle, but Rismyn doesn’t seem to understand the need for silence. His whispers might as well be a shout, and it’s all I can do not to clamp my hand over his mouth. He tells me to quit worrying, but I can’t. And then, when it happens again, I try to grab his attention.
Somehow, I manage to grab Beltel’s attention, too. He flings the window open and tells me I’m not wrong, but if anyone is staring at me it’s because I’m an anomaly. I’m shocked, and I don’t know what to say, but fortunately, Rismyn comes to my aid. He accuses Beltel of eavesdropping.
Beltel argues he is not guilty of eavesdropping, but of theft, stealing brandy from Styx’s private stash.
I still don’t have words for what happens next.
The tiefling flew into a rage, and Beltel locked her out of her cabin. She tries to elicit help from the commander or the priest, but they ignore her, so she orders Rismyn to kick the door in, which he does. She then proceeds to chase the drow around the cabin, while I follow Rismyn because I don’t know what else to do.
In the end, Styx gets her brandy back and refuses to let Beltel into it. Instead, she offers tea, and what seemed like a violent altercation is over. Tables are righted and chairs collected, and we sit together like civilized folk.
And I am seated at the table, as well. Like I belong there. So when Beltel asks if we have any questions, I dare to utter one myself. I ask what he meant about me, and while everything turns to bickering, I am finally told that clerics of Eilistraee are not often gifted with magic, which is why he called me an anomaly.
Then Belnir asks me a question; he asks me about my eyes. Then he asks me about his eyes and it is all a trap because the next thing I know I’m staring drow in the eyes and I’m mortified. But they bid me not to look down, and promise me no one holds that custom where we are going.
My head is in a swirl. I don’t know what to think or do or say, but I decide to give it a try. Solaurin called me ‘sister,’ Belnir bid me not to lower my eyes. And when I speak, they listen and don’t rebuke my words.
And then the tea is served, a drink I’ve never tasted. Mama always said I had to wait until I was older and it was never allowed for slaves. I used to wonder about it when I served it to Mindra and her sisters, but after my first taste, I no longer wonder. It’s awful.
The twins argue other whether I should drink it with or without sugar, and once more Rismyn comes to my rescue, taking over my cup and deciding for me so I don’t offend anyone. And now, they wait for my judgment…
~11. Sweetened Tea and Bitter Stories~
The Good Ship Songbreeze rocked and leaned, swishing Mazira’s tea around the cup with every sway of the river. Mazira eyed the dark liquid, silently wishing they would hit a rough breaker that would send the drink toppling over so she would have an excuse not to sip it. Rismyn claimed it was better with sugar, but as he set the teacup back before her, she found herself with serious doubts. It looked no different and the bold aroma threatened to crinkle her nose.
But she wouldn’t dare let her displeasure be known. Once more, silence fell, as the twins leaned in for her final assessment on which tea was better. So, resigned, Mazira lifted the porcelain to her lips and drank.
It was just as awful as before, but in an entirely new way. She bit her tongue to keep from gagging as she swallowed and schooled her face into cool neutrality.
“Well?” Belnir asked as she set the cup down. “The sugar makes it better, right?”
It was all she could do not to let her distaste show, though one sidelong glance at Rismyn told her she hadn’t hidden her feelings from him. He wore that same irritating smirk he had as when she forced down the pomegranate. The one he got when he knew what she was really thinking, but chose to play along.
It was no wonder drow liked tea so much. They had a fondness for terrible things.
But the others were still waiting on her answer, apparently unable to move on until she rendered her final judgment.
“It’s very pleasant,” she said at last.
“Pleasant,” Beltel echoed. “But which way do you prefer?”
The muscles in Mazira’s fingers twitched, aching to fold up and draw in, but she fought the inclination. These drow didn’t seem to want her quiet and reserved. They wanted her eyes raised, her hands strong. They wanted her to believe she was some sort of cleric–what was it Beltel called her? A Songblade?
Preposterous. She couldn’t be a cleric for a deity she’d never heard of, let alone worshipped.
Could she…?
It was all so confusing. And worse, her heart was betraying her common sense. It wanted to believe what Solaurin said. But wanting didn’t make reality. She’d wanted a lot of things in life. What she got instead was a thin rug and a scratchy wool blanket, and a master who fed his soul on her blood.
But that wasn’t the reality before her now. Now, she had two squabbling brothers, an amused Tiefling, and Rismyn. Rismyn, who kept staring at her with eyes that saw beneath her disguise.
She didn’t know how to navigate this. All she could do was play along.
“I don’t prefer either over the other,” she said, quite truthfully. “Both are unique and really not comparable at all.”
But that, unfortunately, wasn’t good enough for the twins. They began clamoring at once, prodding her for more details. Her heart thumped a little faster as she did her best to dodge their questions without telling outright lies. She didn’t dare risk making an enemy out of one or the other by offering an opinion they didn’t like.
But just when she thought she couldn’t restate her neutral stance in any other way, they suddenly changed their target, starting in on Styx for her opinion.
Relieved, Mazira settled back. No, she was more than relieved. She was content. She’d succeeded in avoiding any horrific trespasses and still seemed to be welcomed at the table. She glanced again at Rismyn and found him watching her, something glowing in his wine-dark eyes that warmed her all over.
Mazira’s traitorous heart betrayed her yet again, sending a small smile to her lips. Yes, he saw through her, but whatever he had seen had obviously pleased him. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was pleased to have pleased him. It mattered significantly more to her than appeasing Beltel and Belnir, and she couldn’t pretend it was entirely about survival anymore.
What was wrong with her? He was dangerous.
She averted her gaze quickly, trying to pretend his attention had no effect on her.
But Rismyn nudged her knee with his own, drawing her attention back. Beneath the table, he signed the words, ‘You don’t have to finish the tea if you don’t want to.’
And that was all it took to sever the warm feeling she was trying to quash. Mazira’s brows shot up, but she managed to keep her jaw from dropping.
Was he trying to sabotage her? Or was he just crazy? Of course she had to finish the tea. It was given to her. The insult to Styx and the others would be unforgivable. He must know that.
By way of making her point, Mazira lifted the teacup and choked down another sip.
Mercy, it was awful.
Rismyn rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, fixing his attention on the others. But as he settled, he raised his arm and draped it across the back of her chair. And though he didn’t actually touch her, Mazira was acutely aware of his presence.
And there was that warm feeling again, back with a vengeance. This time it crept into her cheeks, but thankfully, no one was paying her any direct attention. The twins were still arguing with Styx, and Lina was still fussing with her sugar cube stack. She grew more and more frustrated as the rocking of the boat sent her creation clattering to the table.
Each time it happened, Belnir would pat her shoulder, not breaking his concentration on the conversation at hand, and she would visibly calm.
It reminded Mazira of how Rismyn treated her. Small gestures, gentle proximity. Little ways to keep her reassured of his presence protecting her.
Of course, Rismyn wasn’t always gentle with his proximity. She needed to remember that, to keep her heart a safe distance from his. She couldn’t let herself be drawn into a false sense of security ever again. A lion might be tamed, but it was still a wild beast. So it was with dark elves.
No matter how silly or gentle or kind or self-sacrificing they pretended to be.
Yet as Lina’s tower of sugar crashed down once more, and Belnir patiently helped her gather the cubes to start again while Beltel smiled endearingly at them, she found her conviction wavering.
When Belnir looked up, his eyes met hers. “You’re wondering about Lina,” he said, with a sad smile.
“What?” Mazira jumped, tearing her eyes away from the woman. “No, I–”
“It’s okay,” Belnir assured her. “Lina is different. It’s no secret. You can ask about it.”
Mortified, Mazira squirmed under the weight of their gazes, shrinking in on herself. Despite what Belnir said, it seemed terribly rude to ask. She struggled to find words to protest when Rismyn brushed his knuckles ever so gently down her shoulder.
“Why is she like this?” he asked in her stead, apparently unphased by the bluntness of his words.
The mood tangibly altered around the table, like flames dying down to embers. Belnir tapped Lina on the shoulder until she finally focused on him.
“Lina, can we share your story with Rismyn and Mazira?”
She tilted her head to the side, and when she turned her gold-flecked eyes toward Mazira, Mazira saw something different in them. They were no longer dulled and unfocused, but bright and intelligent. She looked to Rismyn, then back to Mazira, and then her eyes unfocused again. She bobbed her head, returning to her sugar cubes.
“Hey, she likes you,” Beltel said, a little too brightly. “That’s a good sign.”
Belnir tried to smile too, patting her shoulder. “No one really knows exactly what happened to Lina. We don’t even know that her name is really Lina. It’s just what Seldsar called her.”
“He’s the one who found her,” Beltel interjected. His brother glared at him, and Beltel tossed up his hands. “Just helping.”
“Anyway,” Belnir said, “Seldsar found Lina in the Wilds. He’s one of our Guides, you’ll probably meet him eventually. Anyway, he was on his way back from his tour in Eryndlyn and he just stumbled across her out in the Dark.”
“She was hurt real bad, they said,” Beltel interjected again. “Worse than you when we found you blacked out under that crystal.”
Mazira flinched, picturing the awful bruises that had covered Rismyn’s chest. How could anyone have experienced worse, and lived?
Then again, she had experienced worse, and lived. A dull throb echoed across her stomach, and she placed her hands over the scar concealed by her clothing. The place where a sword she didn’t remember had pierced her through, eviscerating her gut yet leaving her still alive.
“He thought she was dead,” Belnir said, with another pointed look at Beltel. “And she should have been dead. But she wasn’t, so he carried her all the way back to the Sanctuary.”
This time it was Styx who intervened. “It took the clerics weeks to heal her.” When Belnir turned his glare on her she raised her brows at him over her teacup. “What? I was actually there. You two chickadees didn’t show up for another decade.”
“Yes, but I’m telling the story.”
Styx rolled her eyes. “So protective.”
“It took the clerics weeks to heal her,” Belnir repeated. “They finally recovered her body, but her mind was still in pieces. She had to learn how to do everything all over again. How to walk, how to eat. It’s like her mind reverted back to infancy.”
Mazira’s hand went from her stomach to her mouth as she sucked in a breath. “How awful,” she breathed, before she could stop the words from escaping. She had been wrong; whatever Lina had suffered was infinitely worse than her darkest days at Toloruel’s hands. She, at least, had retained her senses. Every last torturous one of them.
“What did it to her?” Rismyn asked, his knuckle stroking her shoulder again, as though he sensed her thoughts.
Belnir shrugged. “No one really knows. There are lots of theories, though. Some have suggested an illithid attack, because of her mind. Others think some other unknown horror was lurking in the cave. But–”
“But we all know the truth,” Styx said. “All of us who saw her. Her wounds were too precise to be made by anything other than drow. Whatever they did to her, it was so traumatic her mind protected itself the only way it could–by reverting.”
Mazira looked away, shocked by the swelling emotion in her chest. She didn’t think she’d ever feel such pity for a dark elf. It was inconceivable, yet as she imagined what Lina must have gone through, her throat tightened over a lump of cold sorrow.
Rismyn reached for her hand beneath the table, but Mazira suddenly found herself desiring not to be touched. She moved her hand away and leaned forward, so the arm draped over her chair couldn’t smother her.
Did she imagine it, or did Rismyn’s lips purse, as though disappointed in her movement?
He drew his arm back, wrapping both his hands around his teacup. “I’m very sorry,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “When Mazira…when I thought…” He glanced at her and then shook his head. “I’m just very sorry.”
Mazira recoiled, her arms slipping around herself out of habit. What was it that he was going to say about her? Was he, perhaps, imagining the same memory as she, only with the discomfort of actually being cognizant of what was going on? Did he hear this story and ache in the way she ached, proving him capable of all the fathomless depths of compassion she’d sworn he couldn’t feel?
These were questions she didn’t want to answers for. So instead, Mazira forced her mind to contemplate the woman they were supposed to be discussing.
She’d never met anyone like Lina before, probably because no one in Menzoberranzan would have spared Lina any mercy. If anyone thought to spare her anything, it would be by finishing the job her unknown tormentors began. The fact that these people, this Sanctuary, had taken the time and patience to teach her how to live again was about as miraculous as Mazira spawning sudden magical abilities. It didn’t make sense in the backdrop of the Underdark.
But, she realized suddenly, if she’d been told this story on the surface, at her family’s campfire, she wouldn’t have doubted a word of it. Because there, it would have made sense. There, she could envision the kindness of strangers showing mercy to a broken woman.
So why couldn’t such kindness be true down here, within a community of dark elves?
Mazira didn’t grasp for one of her bleak platitudes this time. She just let the evidence linger before her eyes, unhindered, mollifying her aching heart.
“It happened a long time ago,” Belnir said with a shrug. “About what, twenty-five years now? We’ve been with the Sanctuary for fifteen. By the time we got there, she’d already recovered much of her physical abilities. You couldn’t tell anything was off with her until you tried to speak with her. We actually thought she was one of the Songblades. She was always at patrol training, though never armed and only watching. I just thought she was supervising. And then this one had to go and open his brazen mouth–”
“I was not being brazen,” Beltel cut in. And then, of all the people at the table, he caught Mazira’s eye and made his case to her. “All I said was ‘hello, gorgeous,’ and that’s a standard greeting in my book.”
“Because your intentions are standardly impure,” his brother sighed.
Beside her, Rismyn tensed, and she thought she understood why. A comment like that, unsolicited from a male, was brazen behavior in drow society. Not that she’d had an up close and personal witness to drow courting practices, but she’d waited on Rismyn’s sisters enough to know their expectations of how a proper suitor ought to behave.
“That is slander,” Beltel argued. “Mazira, do not listen to him. I am a perfect gentleman. All ladies deserve to be told they are gorgeous. I’m doing a service to the female population.”
Why he was still addressing himself to her, she couldn’t fathom. What did the opinion of a faerie matter to a drow? She blinked uncertainly, at a loss for what to say, and glanced nervously at Rismyn. Unfortunately, he was busy taking a sip of his awful tea.
“You mean you’re a perfect liar,” Styx said, rolling her eyes. “And leave Mazira alone. She seems quite content with Rismyn. Quit trying to garner a good opinion you don’t deserve.”
Rismyn choked on his drink, slamming the porcelain down with startling force as he coughed, pounding his chest with his fist. “That’s not–we’re not–” he spluttered, but he coughed again and couldn’t finish his statement.
Beltel straightened, a wild gleam coming into his eyes. “Wait, really?” He looked between them, a wolfish grin coming upon his lips. “Because, you know Mazira, there are options.” He looked her over as if considering her for the first time.
Until Belnir punched him in the arm. Not gently, either. “So help me, Beltel, I will throw you into the river and make you swim home, you deplorable leech.”
Beltel made a sound somewhere between a groan and grumble as he rubbed the spot where his brother hit him. “Alright, alright, fine. Honestly, none of you have a decent sense of humor.”
Mazira sat rigid and tense, her eyes bouncing from Rismyn to the twins. Something had just transpired, something she didn’t comprehend. She played the conversation back in her head, starting from Styx’s comment, trying to understand what had elicited such violent reactions. She held her breath, fearing the force would escalate, but the others returned to their contented states.
The others, that is, save for Rismyn. He had recovered from his coughing fit and somehow managed to move his chair closer to hers surreptitiously, his arm draped once more over the back. She couldn’t quite escape his presence this time, and tension radiated from his body as he stared expressionless at Beltel.
What exactly had Styx been implying? Were they discussing her future under a new master? But everyone told her she wasn’t a slave anymore. Maybe they called it something else in the Sanctuary, and let the faeries choose who they wanted to serve.
But even as she thought it, she dismissed the idea. It didn’t feel right. So what else could Styx have meant about being “content with Rismyn?”
Surely it wasn’t…
Her face suddenly burned as understanding ignited.
No, it couldn’t be that. She was a faerie! Beneath the notice of drow. Maybe Rismyn, once, but not the others, not Beltel…
But it would explain Rismyn’s reaction. It was the second time today he had been accused of feelings for her that didn’t exist. He must be getting tired of the insinuations.
Her thundering heart sank beneath the waves of gloom. If he didn’t want to be associated with her, then he ought to move away. Then people wouldn’t make these assumptions, and Beltel wouldn’t tease him so.
That had to be all this was. Teasing. She was a faerie, after all. And not even a pretty faerie; Toloruel had said so.
“Anyway,” Styx prompted, with another roll of her eyes. “Where were we?”
“Beltel making Lina cry,” Belnir supplied.
Beltel sighed dramatically but wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “Go on, then,” he said instead.
“Oh don’t sulk,” Styx chided. “You might be uncouth, but for once it actually did do some good. Because for the first time in ten years, Lina showed emotion.”
“And,” Belnir added, “even though it was uncontrollable sobbing, it was a breakthrough, of sorts. Though the Songblades were livid, and I definitely thought they were going to kick us out. We’d only been a tenday off probation.”
“Probation?” Rismyn asked, sounding curious despite his flat stare.
The twins exchanged glances with Styx.
“Never mind that,” Styx said, with a pointed look to Belnir, who seemed apologetic. “The point is, it worked out. Whatever it was about Beltel, it was exactly what Lina needed. She pretty much attached herself to him, followed him everywhere he went.”
“And I was mostly at the Cove,” Beltel said, “That’s where the patrols train. And since she wanted to be my afterimage, I thought, why not? So I gave her a sword. Terribly controversial, that was. But turned out to be the best thing for her. She wanted to train, so she did. And now look at her–a fully functional member of the Militia. Well, maybe not fully functional. But you get the point.”
Mazira studied Lina, who had given up on her sugar stack and was now fussing with her sleeve again. Strange as it was, she felt a sort of kinship with her. Both of them were abused at the hands of the drow, both of them fumbling to make sense of what remained. Mazira may not have lost her voice, but she had lost much in other ways.
A small part of her envied Lina. There was innocence in her mannerisms that Mazira couldn’t match. Lina had reverted to the childlike wonder Mazira had lost, and yet she managed to uncover strength. She had faced down a dragon turtle without flinching, had recovered Belnir in time to recapture his soul. She’d shown tenderness towards her fallen comrade and was clearly loved by those around her.
Lina lost her voice, but she got to keep her heart.
Mazira thought she might have burst into tears, too, if Beltel had called her gorgeous. No one ever had before. What wonders would it do to her heart to hear such words directed at her?
“So, long story short, we adopted her,” Belnir concluded. “We’d thought at first she only took to me as well because she couldn’t tell us apart but actually, she’s perceptive. Ask her ten times to point to which one of us is which, and she’ll get it right all ten times. And believe me, we’ve done our best to fool her.”
“And it didn’t feel right, you know?” Beltel added, with uncharacteristic solemnness. “Not having a sister in the house. I mean, don’t get me wrong, our actual sisters are dreadful squawking harpies. If I ever see them again, it’ll be too soon. But some customs don’t let go no matter how long you’re out of the mire. A house isn’t set right without a female to set it so.”
Mazira couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but to her utter astonishment, Rismyn was nodding along, as if he understood the sentiment. Yet in all of her experience, Rismyn’s sisters were atrocities. She lost count of the number of lashes on Rismyn’s back she’d applied balm to over the years. Even Toloruel had suffered their whips, though far less often than Rismyn. Yet he, her vile tormentor, had merely grit his teeth, baring the pain and humility until he could release it all on her.
How could anyone, let alone a male, miss having a drow sister around?
“I don’t understand,” she found herself saying before she could stop herself. She bit her lip to stop the rest of the words from tumbling out, but it was too late. They were all looking at her. She gritted her teeth, wishing she had kept to herself, and forced her question out. “Your sisters…were they…kind to you?”
That brokered a genuine laugh from both of them, and even a grin from Styx.
Mazira flushed. Stupid question! Beltel had just said he never wanted to see them again. What was wrong with her?
“Gods, no,” Beltel said. “We have three elder sisters, and their entire purpose in our lives was to decide which one of us they wanted to keep and which one they wanted to give to the spider-bi–” He cut off suddenly, giving Mazira a rueful look.
“Wait, why?” Rismyn asked. He seemed to have recovered his good humor, though Mazira noticed he hadn’t touched his tea again since the coughing incident. She privately thought the incidents might be related. “Wouldn’t they want you both? That’s twice the strength for one labor.”
“Ah, you would think so,” Beltel said, straightening and leaning forward eagerly. “But alas for poor us, mother dearest already had one son. Who can also go walk himself into an acid pit, for all I care.”
Rismyn’s eyes went wide, and Mazira’s heart skipped several beats. Even she knew of the curse of the third-born son, the one who went from womb to alter with no exceptions. Rismyn had often used the phrase, “at least I’m not a third-born,” when he tried to be optimistic about his lot. On his worst days, he had told her he wished he was.
“I see you understand,” Beltel said, nodding sagely. “Well, my perceptive friends. Can you tell which one of us was born second and which one was born third?”
Mazira looked between them as if she actually expected to see some sort of marking to indicate their birth order. But of course, there was nothing. They were identical in every way, save for their souvenirs from Mendroktovin.
“Of course you can’t,” Beltel said, saving her from wondering if this was a trick question. “And, fun fact, neither could our dear sweet mother.”
“But…wouldn’t it be…obvious?” Rismyn asked.
“Normally, yes,” Belnir said. “One child is born, set him aside. The other child is born, fire up the braziers. But fortunately for poor us”–he raised an eyebrow at his brother as he repeated the phrase–“our house was attacked the exact moment we were born.”
“Which, understandably, caused a bit of a distraction,” Beltel continued. “By the time our loving family got back to celebrate our triumphal entry into the world, no one could remember which of us was born first.”
“And since the house had only narrowly defended itself,” Belnir said, “no one wanted to offend Lolth by sacrificing the wrong child. So, they decided to raise us both and let Lolth decide who to take.”
“That is…” Rismyn began, but he trailed off as though he couldn’t find the right word.
“Ridiculous,” the twins supplied together.
Mazira was thinking more along the lines of, ‘terrible,’ but she said nothing as the story unfolded.
“Ninety-three years and we’re still waiting for Lolth to decide which one of us she wants to eat,” Beltel said. He seemed a little too proud, and Mazira flinched involuntarily.
If anyone noticed, they didn’t acknowledge it.
“Our sisters told us this story constantly,” Belnir went on. “Hoping to drive us to compete for glory or kill each other off ourselves and save them the trouble.”
“But, stupidly, they raised us together,” Beltel said. He leaned back and threaded his fingers behind his head. “You know what bonds comrades together faster than anything else? A common enemy. Plus, I like Belnir. Even if he is no fun.”
“And I tolerate Beltel,” Belnir said, completely straight-faced.
This time, Mazira didn’t miss the subtext. She’d seen the devastation on Beltel’s face when Belnir fell in battle. Their swipes and jabs at one another only convinced her further of their deep, brotherly affection for one another. Though she herself had never had a sibling, she’d seen the way her friends behaved with theirs. It was eerily similar, another relationship she didn’t believe dark elves were capable of.
“So, we made sure to be careful that neither of us outshone the other,” Beltel said. “You know, so they couldn’t pick a favorite. It worked, for a while, but when we started to sense them getting impatient with both our hearts beating, we decided it was time to go.”
“How did you escape?” Rismyn pressed, clearly riveted by the tale. “Did you just, leave?”
“Hah! Of course not,” Beltel said. “Naturally, we stood up to our mother’s reign of tyranny and tore the regime down from the inside.”
Belnir shook his head in exasperation. “And by that, he means we faked our deaths in Menzoberranzan and fled to Ched Nasad.”
“See? Absolutely no fun.” Beltel sighed and tossed up his hands helplessly. “But you know what else isn’t fun? Guarding merchant caravans. Which is what we did for about twelve years.”
“Which is how we met–” Styx began.
“–and it was love at first sight–” Beltel tried to interject.
“And I needed extra guards for my shipment,” she said over him. “Expendable guards,” she added, with a pointed look. “But they turned out to be not so bad. Even hired them a few more times. Little rough around the edges, but most untamed drow are. But I liked them, and I took pity on their misery. So, I dangled promises of a better life in front of them until they were ready to swallow the hook.”
“The hook?” Rismyn asked.
“The Sanctuary,” they all said together.
“They don’t just let anyone in, you know” Styx continued. “Tests have to be passed, characters have to be proven, et cetera, and so on.”
Despite the returned good nature of the crowd, Mazira’s blood ran cold. There were going to be tests? What if she failed? Worse, what if they accepted Rismyn but not her? Would she be cast out alone into the Wilds?
But before she could completely unravel, a sharp whistle cut through the cabin. Mazira jumped, and so did the others. Beltel, Belnir, and Lina touched hands to hilts, and Rismyn’s arm left the chair to snatch her protectively.
But Styx only smiled, setting her teacup down.
“Finally!” she exclaimed. “We’re home!”
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.
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