Forsaken by Shadows 27: Sanctuary

To Matt, my first Dungeon Master. I only got into this hobby because of you, and now it’s basically taken over my life. Thanks for the dice obsession I didn’t know I needed.

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Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Rismyn’s point of view:

Mazira’s dislike of tea might possibly be the most adorable thing since her dislike of pomegranates. And while I do feel a stab of guilt over the fact that she only dislikes it because she’s never had the chance to learn to love it, I can’t help but admire her efforts to convince the others she enjoys it when she so clearly does not.

This time around the table is easy and relaxing, and I’ve never laughed so much at one time in my life. If this is a taste of the future to come, then I cannot wait to get there.

But as we settle in, it becomes more and more apparent that the woman, Lina, is not a normal drow. She acts like a child, playing with her sugar and tea things and ignoring the rest of us. I admit I am curious, but it is Mazira who is caught staring. She is not reprimanded but instead invited to ask about it.

Mazira is clearly uncomfortable with the question, so I ask, and we are told a sad tale. Lina’s history is shrouded in mystery. She was found on the brink of death by a Sanctuary Guide, and over the course of time revived. Yet though her body recovered, her mind has never been the same.

Yet even though she has reverted, she has been given a second life that would be impossible in Menzoberranzan. The charity of these people is astonishing. We learn that after she attached herself to Beltel and Belnir, the twins chose to adopt her as their sister, taking on the responsibility of her care and wellbeing.

We then learn their story, how they were born second and third sons in their family, but no one can remember which was which. Third-born sons are meant to be sacrificed to Lolth, but a conveniently timed house raid left their Matron unable to remember which child was meant for the altar. Out of fear of offending Lolth, both were spared until one proved to be worthier than the other.

This, for obvious reasons, didn’t sit well with them. Rather than compete for their lives, they worked together to ensure they both survived, eventually leaving home. One thing led to another, and now we are all about to be home, at this place they call the Sanctuary…

~12. Sanctuary~

Rismyn’s heart thrummed as Styx’s words reverberated through the cabin.

We’re home.  

Well, they were home. He and Mazira were nervous guests, eagerly anticipating the next step in this mysterious voyage.

Actually, scratch that. He was nervously eager. Judging by Mazira’s waxen pallor, she was just nervous. And probably afraid.

She had been doing so well, too.

Rismyn took a breath, biting back the tides of rising frustration. Time, Torafein had said. She just needed time. She would get there, and after the past hour or so of conversation, Rismyn was more optimistic than he’d ever been in his life that this place, this Sanctuary, would be what she needed to get there.

Oblivious to Mazira’s distress, Beltel and Styx leaped to their feet, the tea cups all but forgotten. The tiefling waited for no one, but bounded for the door, nearly tripping over a jar in her haste to get to the deck.

“It’s about time,” Beltel said, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. “Not that this little excursion hasn’t been fun, of course,” he added with a glance Rismyn’s way. “Totally worth almost getting eaten by a turtle. Wait.” He frowned. “Turtle doesn’t sound right. We can’t take that story back to the Cove.” 

“You should go take a look,” Belnir cut in. “The Gates are quite a sight.” He started to rise as well, then wobbled and dropped back to his seat with a groan.

Lina flung her arms out to steady him, and the mirth faded from Beltel’s eyes.

“What’re you doing?” he chided. “You’ve been ordered to rest.”  

“I have rested. I am rested,” Belnir grumbled, waving Lina away. “It’s just the resurrection sickness, or whatever Solaurin said. I can handle a bit of sailing chores.” 

Lina’s eyes grew sharp and shrewd and she shook her head. She latched onto his arm as if she intended to hold him there.

“I can help,” Rismyn offered, desperate to do anything to prove his worth. “So you can stay with her.” 

Belnir tried to smile, but he was still attempting to shake Lina off. “That’s very kind of you, but this is probably the one and only time you’ll get to sail into our harbor as guests. We’ll put you to work next time. I promise.” He glanced at the woman and sighed. “Will you let me up if I promise not to do anything too taxing?” 

Lina considered for a moment, then shook her head.

“She knows you better than that,” Beltel said. “You can come watch, but if I see you so much as look at that rope I’ll drag you back here myself.”

Belnir rolled his eyes, but Lina released him. There was no wobble when he got to his feet this time. “And here I thought I was the captain,” he muttered, which struck Rismyn as an odd thing to say, with Torafein so clearly in charge.  

“Not on this patrol,” Beltel grinned. “Make sure he behaves, Li-li.” And with that, he followed Styx onto the deck.

Belnir trembled as he moved around the table, with Lina lurking close to his side. It might not have been a bad idea for him to rest more, after all, but Rismyn kept his thoughts to himself. It wasn’t his business. 

Instead, he moved to follow, taking two steps before he realized something vitally important. 

Mazira hadn’t moved.

She remained seated at the table, her gaze dropped to her lap.

His shoulders slumped. “Mazira, don’t you want to see?” 

Mazira sat quietly for a moment, then lifted doleful eyes to him. She took a deep, tremulous breath, and said, “Yes.” The word came out a little breathy, and she swallowed. “Yes,” she repeated, stronger this time. “I’m ready.”

Though she shook as much as the recently-revived Belnir, she rose straight and tall, squaring her shoulders. The soft glow of Styx’s cabin tangled through her dark curls, threading glimmers of light through her strands, and Rismyn remembered Beltel’s words about all the range of color and texture the surface-folk were blessed with.

And it was like seeing her again for the first time, when he beheld her in the light of the chapel’s faerie fire. Her skin smooth and polished like quartz, contrasted with the ebony adamantine the mercenaries had clad her in.

And her eyes. Her dazzling, lavender eyes which caught the light of the cabin and danced the color about, like amethyst in candlelight.

Rismyn stood frozen, struck by just how beautiful she still was. Even after everything they’d been through, the wear of battle and survival only seemed to accentuate her natural glory.

Maybe it was the tea, or this new burgeoning optimism that filled him with such hope, but Rismyn couldn’t keep this thought to himself. “Wow,” he found himself saying, “I was wrong. Your eyes aren’t faerie fire at all. They’re too beautiful for magic to replicate.”  

Mazira went stiff and rigid, her jaw dropping as she stared at him like a cornered kobold who’d wandered too close to dark elven shrines. “What did you just say?”

Her voice was almost a whimper. Panicked, Rismyn snapped out of his mesmerized daze. What had he said? It was suddenly very warm in the cabin, and Rismyn’s hands went scrubbing through his hair. “That is–what I mean is–” but there was no getting around it. By the look on Mazira’s face, she had heard quite plainly what he’d said, and she didn’t receive it as the compliment he’d intended it to be. Flustered, he tried to dig his way out of this collapsing tunnel. “I just think you’re beautiful, and I thought you should know. Like, you know, Lina…”

But as he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Mazira’s jaw clicked shut and the color drained from her cheeks. She turned her face away and, to his astonishment, pushed past him to make a break for the deck.

It was the first time in their lives she had proceeded him anywhere. The first time she’d moved on alone.

Rismyn just stood there, watching her go ahead of him, feeling all the weight of his brash stupidity.

What.

Was.

Wrong with him?

Whatever had possessed him to open his mouth in the first place? Not only was he walking in the same shameless footsteps he’d just judged Beltel for, he had done so to Mazira. Mazira, who probably still hated him, despite recent evidence pointing to the contrary. Or at the very least, just didn’t want to be reminded that he had once tried to love her. Or still loved her. Or whatever this godsforsaken obsession really was.

Whatever it may be, it didn’t give him, a lowly male who had contributed to her scars, the right to think he could just tell her how beautiful she was. No, that privilege was reserved for someone else, some mysterious man of the future who could hold her heart and piece it back together for her.

How Rismyn hated that future mysterious man.

With his newfound optimism thoroughly trounced, Rismyn stalked to the deck, hardly remembering why he wanted to see this Sanctuary in the first place.

He shut his eyes as he crossed the threshold, leaving the world of the natural spectrum behind in Styx’s cabin. When he opened them again, the caverns were awash with cool blue stones and warm red bodies.

Mazira had made it as far as the first few steps beyond the door, where she stood now, looking uncertain. When she saw Rismyn, her temperature spiked, but at least she didn’t bolt away from him. Rismyn glanced around, looking for somewhere else to busy himself so as to not make her even more uncomfortable, but he was at a loss for what to do.

Belnir sat slumped against the cabin wall, exactly where he and Mazira had rested earlier. Beltel and Lina coiled rope at the prow and Styx and Torafein stood at the helm. Their conversations were lost to the sound of the river, which thundered alarmingly louder than the last time he had been on the deck. 

“Feeling rested?” Solaurin asked, catching Rismyn off guard as he came to stand in the gap between himself and Mazira.

Mazira tensed, but rather than drop her gaze, she kept her chin elevated, knotting her hands together in front of her.

The priest didn’t wait for an answer but was already rambling on. “I, for one, feel as though rest has only made me more tired. And still so much to do. Ah, well. At least we’re returning to civilization. On that note, I advise you not to try and take it all in at once. There will be plenty of time for that later.”

For as tired as he claimed to be, the cleric’s words came at their usual swift pace. At least the accent was getting easier to discern. It was tempting to ask him where he was from but now didn’t seem like the right moment.

Instead, Rismyn considered the events of the last day, or however long it had been. Everything from being rescued and the strange vision of healing to meeting the others and fighting a monstrous dragon turtle. Singing warrior women, strange goddesses, and Mazira wielding magic and hating tea.

He’d experienced more vibrancy of life in the last few hours than he had in all his twenty-five years. It was hard to believe anything else could phase him now.

“I think I’ve met my capacity for strange wonders in one day,” Rismyn said, quite truthfully.  

Solaurin’s lips twitched in amusement. “Well I do hope you prepare yourself for more. Our city may be fairly small, but its capacity to shock outsiders is becoming legendary. Much like yourself, young Tear.”   

Rismyn grimaced. The last thing he ever wanted was to become “legendary”. Legends had a way of inviting challengers, and Rismyn had no desire to be challenged for a title he had neither wanted nor earned.

Solaurin must have read his thoughts. “Not to worry,” he said, with a clap on the shoulder. “Should anyone try to idolize you, I’ll be sure to describe in great detail the sorry state I found you in.”

It took Rismyn a moment too long to realize the comment was meant to be lighthearted. By the time he figured it out, the cleric had moved his attention to the front of the boat.

“Oh, and you should know, no matter what your eyes perceive, don’t panic.”

 “What? Why?” Rismyn asked, immediately panicked.

Mazira gave Solaurin a startled look and edged a little closer to Rismyn. Unfortunately, the priest still stood between them, so that she couldn’t quite close the distance without rudely cutting him out of the conversation.

If Solaurin noticed he’d alarmed them, he didn’t show it. “The transition through the Gates looks terribly dangerous. I assure you, nothing is further from the truth.” 

“What does that–” Rismyn began, but the boat gave a sudden, violent rock, sending everyone staggering. 

“Brace yourselves!” Styx called. 

“A little sooner, next time,” Beltel hollered back, rubbing his hip where it had smashed against the railing of the deck. 

“Sorry! But maybe just…yeah just hold on tight.”

The current picked up and their vessel shot along. Beltel and Lina hunkered down by their coils of rope, and Belnir reached up and grasped the window sill. Solaurin nodded as if this all made sense to him, lowering his own center of gravity as he knelt, gripping the door frame. 

Rismyn took his cue from the others. He grabbed Mazira by the wrist and pulled her back to the cabin door beside the priest. They stooped together, Rismyn keeping her safely encircled in his arms as he held onto the frame. 

The boat rocked again and the back of her skull smashed into his chin. Rismyn grunted, and it was all he could do to hold on as the boat continued to thrash them about. His muscles burned with the strain.

When at last there was a lull, he muttered in her ear, “You’re too stiff. You need to relax or the motion of the waves will keep throwing you.” 

Mazira turned her face just enough so he could see her baleful glare, catching him completely off guard. He knew he’d upset her earlier, but he hadn’t realized how much. Chagrinned, he was tempted to let her go and give her the space she clearly wanted, but the irrational thought that she might be flung overboard if they hit another rough patch kept him adhered to her side.

Sure enough, the current sent their vessel careening through the air once more. Rismyn was ready this time and managed to avoid another unpleasant collision with the already-livid-woman-he-loved. 

When the next break in the jolting came, he glanced at Solaurin. “You’re sure this is normal?” 

“Normal?” the cleric said, unperturbed by the rapids. “Of course not. This is by design.”

“Design?” Rismyn echoed, but his question was lost to the tumult. And then, looking ahead, he saw why. The river ended abruptly. There was nothing before them but the blackness of a wide-open cavern. 

They were headed straight for a waterfall. 

A massive one, by the sounds of it. Rismyn whipped his head back to the cleric, whose placid features were set in stark contrast to what Rismyn’s own eyes beheld. Looking around, he realized no one was concerned. Or, if they were, they were doing a marvelous job hiding it. 

Rismyn did his best to take his own advice and relax his muscles, but he couldn’t get the sight of imminent doom out of his mind. He pressed into Mazira, hoping to shield her from whatever collateral fallout was about to come their way. 

As the boat thrashed ever closer to the end, Rismyn’s doubt skyrocketed. Maybe Mazira was right. Maybe they shouldn’t have trusted these strangers so easily. Their kind words could have been lies, after all. The drow were capable of remarkable levels of treachery, he definitely should have asked some far more important questions about their destination–

The thrashing and turmoil ceased as the boat shot out into midair. For a brief, horrifying second, they hung suspended. Rismyn reached for his innate levitation magic, but the need to catch himself never came. One moment, the boat was hovering in blackness. The next, gentle lapping returned as they sailed through calm, still waters. 

“See? Perfectly safe.” Solaurin rose and dusted off his robes. 

Rismyn sat back, blinking as his eyes adjusted spectrums yet again. Somewhere behind the boat, the waterfall pounded away, but before him was a wondrous sight. Dusky, orange-tinged light suffused the entirety of the chamber, displaying a city that stretched between the stalactites and stalagmites like strands of black pearls. Even from this distance, Rismyn recognized the fine curves and angles of drow architecture. 

More than that, however, he couldn’t yet see. Most of the view was taken up by what he assumed were the Gates. An ebony wall, probably twenty feet high, surrounded the civilization. The ends of it came together in the center of the river–which had tripled in width–each edge punctuated by a gargantuan statue.

Rismyn got to his feet, staring in awe. The figure on the left was an elegantly carved female, clad in armor and clasping a sword thrust downward to her breast. Her other arm, the one facing towards the water, was missing, rounded off at the shoulder.

The second statue was her mirror image, except for one very significant detail. The figure was male. In all his life, he had never once seen an idol fashioned after a male. He couldn’t help but stare up into his somber, stoic features as the boat sailed toward the gap between the figures.

“They’re called the Watchers,” Solaurin said, noting where Rismyn’s attention had gone. “When they raise the Gates, their images are complete; outstretched arms to bar the way to those who would do us harm. And judging by the light, I daresay we got here just in time.” 

They passed between the solemn figures and Solaurin waved acknowledgment to soldiers who stood on the walls.

“Ah, that reminds me. The light,” the priest continued. “The color is important. It is how we tell our time. See how it is orange, now? It is the equivalent of what the surface-folk would call evening. It will bleed slowly into red–our night–to blue, our morning, and so on. You’ll catch on. The streets are always lit, since not every being who lives here is blessed with our own natural abilities of sight–ah, are you alright?”

Solaurin had finally looked their way, and judging by his tone Rismyn hadn’t done a very good job covering his surprise. That or he was concerned by Mazira’s spellbound expression, a level of emotion Rismyn hadn’t seen from her in a long time.

They had sailed into a harbor. Or at least, that’s what Rismyn thought these docks and boats meant. He’d only heard of the concept before. The streets on either side were lined with small buildings–shops and taverns, even some residences.

And among those establishments were people. Dozens of people. So many more people than Rismyn could remember ever being surrounded by, even though Menzoberranzan could easily have swallowed this cavern whole.

But after four months of utter silence and near solitude, the sudden bustle and noise of a thriving community was jarring, to say the least.

Yet more shocking than the light and sights was the sound. Music radiated throughout the chamber as an echoing chorus of voices and instruments. Torafein had said that where they were going everyone sang, but Rismyn didn’t realize that he meant everyone. With a cacophony this great, he doubted there was a single voice unraised.

Except, of course, for Solaurin, who still stared at him with increasing concern.

“Sorry,” Rismyn said, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Yes, I’m alright. It’s just…”

“A strange wonder?” The cleric finished for him, his eyebrow quirked. “Gracious, if only someone had warned you.”

Rismyn was about to be offended when he caught the amusement in the other drow’s eye. This wasn’t an insult, it was a jest. He bit back the retort he had summoned for his defense and instead let his eyes return to the scene before him, taking in this extraordinary new world. Unconsciously, he reached for Mazira’s hand, and had grown so used to finding it there waiting for him that his heart lurched when she moved it away.

Oh, right. She was still mad at him.

“Speaking of strange wonders,” Belnir said, as he pushed himself to his feet. He grunted as though the effort pained him, but waved Solaurin away before he could say anything. “It appears the Songbreeze is drawing a crowd.”

Rismyn turned his head to follow Belnir’s gaze, focusing more deliberately on the people individually and less on the city as a whole. Belnir wasn’t wrong. As Styx navigated towards an empty stone dock, several were pointing them out, whispering amongst themselves. A crowd began to gather and follow along their course.

“Told ya you were famous,” Beltel said, joining their circle. “Let’s hope some of that glory rubs off on us. We did all the charity work, after all.”

“It’s not charity if you expect to get something out of it,” his brother replied.

“Wait, this is because of me?” Rismyn asked, aghast. The gathering crowd was increasing to a swarm.

“Well, probably not just you,” Beltel said. “There was much lamenting and song for your darling companion when Torafein came back with the tale of what we all assumed was her murder. This is exactly the kind of heartwarming resolution that’ll be touted here for centuries.”

Mazira flushed under the orange light, but though she stared in horror at the sight of the milling crowd, she didn’t draw near to Rismyn for comfort.

He’d really crossed a line with her.

“Now, now,” Solaurin said. “It could also be the very blatant and obvious damage to the ship. Don’t trouble yourself over it.” He folded his arms into his sleeves. “They’ve all got their own business to attend to. Once they get their look in they’ll mind it.” 

“That’s optimistic,” Beltel quipped. “Small towns do like their big gossip.”

“Hey, Do’ar,” Styx called from above them. When both twins and Lina looked her way, she sighed and added, “The loud one. Quit jabbering and tie her off!”

The boat bumped into the dock, and Beltel tossed Styx a sarcastic salute before returning to help Lina with the ropes. Belnir excused himself and disappeared into the cabin.

“Solaurin,” Rismyn muttered, now that it was just the three of the again. “What happens to us now?”

“Now?” Solaurin shrugged. “Well, that’s for the Reverend Mother to decide. I have my suspicions but I don’t dare speak for her.” 

Rismyn was suddenly very cold. “The Reverend…Mother?” he repeated.

“Indeed,” the priest said, regarding him with a calculated look. “Does that trouble you?”

“No,” Rismyn lied. The phrase sounded entirely too much like Matron Mother for his comfort.

Solaurin’s flat expression told Rismyn he wasn’t believed. He tensed, expecting a sharp reprimand, but all the cleric said was, “It would understandable if it did. It is true that much of our society is different from what you left behind. Yet much of it mirrors the structures those who founded our community grew up with, as well. I think rather than tell you all of what to expect, you’d benefit best from experiencing it yourself and drawing your own conclusions.”

“Right,” Rismyn mumbled, shifting awkwardly.

Fortunately, he was saved from the need for a more articulated response by the reappearance of Belnir, who emerged from the cabin with a fresh piwafwi over his ruined armor and a pack slung over his shoulder. He carried two more by the straps in one hand, which all amounted to far more weight than Rismyn thought he ought to be carrying in his condition.

“It’s never lost on me,” Belnir said, glancing out over the harbor, “how wonderful it feels to be happy to be home. Thank you for the honor of your Hunt, Solaurin.”

“Thank you for the honor of your presence,” Solaurin replied, bowing over his folded arms. “May the Dark Maiden brighten your shadowed steps.”

The exchange felt something like a ritual, and Rismyn looked away. Though he knew nothing of the deity they called upon, the fact that they called upon one at all made him uncomfortable. And though Solaurin said this same deity gave Mazira her magic, Rismyn wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet. He liked these people. Trusted them, even.

But deities, he could not trust.

Yet before he could fret over it further, Torafein jumped down from the upper deck and landed deftly beside the cleric.

“You and I are going straight to the temple,” he growled to Solaurin. He turned his red gaze to Belnir. “You and your siblings are dismissed. Thank you for a job well done.” 

Solaurin inclined his head, producing a coin pouch from the folds of his robes. “My share of the ferry fee,” he said, handing it to the commander. 

Belnir produced a similar sack, though his was considerably larger. “For all of us of the Do’ar clan.” He, too, inclined his head respectfully. 

Then they both walked away, leaving Rismyn and Mazira alone with Torafein. For one terrifying moment, Rismyn feared that the warrior was about to turn to them for payment, but he merely set the contributions aside and crossed his arms over his considerably broad chest. 

“We’re going to the Temple of Eilistraee,” he said, and Rismyn felt that same sense of dread as when the boat had shot out over the waterfall. “The Reverend Mother will decide what becomes of you and Mazira. Emmalara is her name, but you will address her as Mother, or Reverend Mother. Not matron.”

“Yes, sir,” Rismyn said, as if he had never left the halls of Melee-Magthere behind. 

Torafein nodded, and Styx hopped down beside them.

“All set,” she declared. “A pleasure doing business with you, Torafein. Though next time I’m charging double in case of any undisclosed hazardous dragon turtles.” 

Torafein’s expression never moved. “For every patrol who wishes to book your ferry or just mine?” 

“Definitely just you.” She flashed him a smile. “Give my love Tsaria.”

“If you plan to linger, I’m sure she’ll visit.” Torafein handed her the coin purses he had collected and one more, presumably his own payment. Rismyn didn’t know how much was in those sacks, but the thought that they might be full of gold and not silver left him a little sick.

How many resources had been spent on recovering them?

“If you have any belongings to gather, gather them,” Torafein said. “Otherwise, we’ll go and join the others.”

He disappeared into the cabin and re-emerged a moment later with a rucksack slung over his shoulder. The others had moved onto the dock, not wandering far from the boat. The crowd had gathered at the end of the pier, a mass of hushed whispers and pointed stares. From within their ranks, a smaller figure pushed through, bustling towards their party.

Rismyn, of course, had nothing to gather. He glanced down at Mazira and offered her his hand, but she shook her head, her expression steeled over. Disappointed, he settled for staying near her as they followed Torafein off of the boat. 

They joined the others at the same moment the small man from the crowd reached them. At least, small as far as height was concerned. The portly creature stood about half as tall as Rismyn, with stone-colored skin and a round, bald head. With a start, Rismyn realized he was a deep gnome–a svirfneblin, as they were called. One of the most hated enemies of the drow.

Yet if the gnome knew his species was loathed by dark elves, he didn’t act like it. He didn’t seem at all troubled to be surrounded by drow but instead peered up at them with a dour expression, until he noticed Torafein.

 “Ah, commander,” he exclaimed, in a much deeper voice than Rismyn would have expected. “Pleasure it is to see your expedition successful. All is well and good?”

“Well enough, harbormaster,” Torafein replied. “The journey has been long and we are tired.”  

“Yes, yes. There is, of course, the matter of the Questioning.” The gnome cast curious eyes toward Rismyn and Mazira, before looking back to the commander. “Shall we commence?”

Torafein nodded.

The harbormaster reached into a pouch and produced a smooth stone orb about the size of his palm. He held it aloft and spoke a foreign word, igniting the orb with bright, brilliant light. Rismyn flinched, but after a moment he adjusted to the glow.

“Travelers,” the gnome said, gravely. “You have been outside our gates for a considerable time. Before we welcome you back into our fold, we must have your confessions. The Orb of Truth will sift your words. State your true name for the record.”

At the svirfneblin’s request, a strange feeling washed over Rismyn. Like a tugging on his soul. Though he had intended to linger back for this unknown encounter, he found himself compelled to answer. As the others all spoke their names, Rismyn added his own voice to the chorus.

“Rismyn Tear.” 

Even Mazira gave her name, her eyes wide and startled as she spoke it. The only one who hadn’t spoken was Lina, who wore an odd, strained expression. 

In the moment of silence that followed, Belnir spoke for her. “We do not know her true name, but we call her Lina Do’ar.” 

“Very good, very good,” the gnome grumbled. “Now then, have any of you knowingly been bewitched, bribed, or otherwise compromised by one of our enemies?” 

Before Rismyn could even work out what was being asked, he found his lips parting as they all spoke at once. “No.” 

This time, Beltel spoke for Lina. “She has not left my company. I can attest to her surety.” 

Again, the gnome nodded. “Have any of you willfully returned with malignant intent for Launa, the city we call Sanctuary, or any who call this place their home?” 

“No.” 

The svirfneblin looked them each up and down, before bobbing his head with satisfaction and pocketing the orb. With the loss of the light came a feeling of relief. “Welcome home,” he said, with a little bow that Rismyn thought might topple him over. “I must conclude with your ferrywomen now.” 

There were murmurs of gratitude as the gnome moved around them.

Torafein set off at once for the street.

“Ah, I can’t wait to be home,” Beltel said, as he gestured for Rismyn and Mazira to go ahead of him.

Rismyn obliged, and though the stone beneath his feet seemed solid enough, he still felt the swaying of the Songbreeze in his steps. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on keeping his path straight.  

 “We timed this expedition perfectly,” Beltel continued. “A full night’s rest and then back to patrol tomorrow–” 

“Don’t you mean training for you, novice?” Belnir cut in. 

Beltel’s face fell. “He told you?” 

“Twelve tendays, I heard. And you better believe he’ll make sure Anders knows about it before Blue Light, so no patrol-hopping. What’d you do this time?” 

“Nothing at all!”

“He broke the silence and argued about it,” Rismyn said, before he realized he probably should have kept his mouth shut.

Beltel shot him a withering look, but Belnir broke out in laughter. 

“Why did I even ask? I could have guessed that.” 

Beltel merely sighed, tossing up his hands. “C’mon, you’re not really going to enforce that on me, are you?” 

“Of course I am,” Belnir said, looking affronted that Beltel would insinuate otherwise. “I’m not going to undermine another captain’s orders.”

“But you’ll be a warrior short,” Beltel whined. “Who’re you gonna call up from the reserves to replace me?”

“Maybe I’ll call up Rismyn,” Belnir said, with a wink his way. “He held his own against Mendroktovin.”

Beltel put on a dramatic show of looking pained. “What? You would take an elflet over your own kin?”

“In a heartbeat,” Belnir deadpanned. “But, if you behave well, I’ll see if I can lessen your sentence.”

“Wait,” Rismyn said, as he stitched together the implications of the conversation. Suddenly, previous comments started to make more sense. “Are you…a patrol captain?” 

“Unfortunately,” Beltel muttered. “What’s the point of serving under your brother if you can’t even abuse the privilege?” 

“You defied orders,” Belnir shot back. “Unlike you, I know how to follow a command.”

The two fell into bickering, but Rismyn was too busy working through the revelation to notice. It didn’t fit into his understanding of power. He’d never met a captain who had willingly set aside their own authority to yield to another’s. There was no precedent for this that he could call on.

“So, if you are captain,” he said, not realizing he was interrupting their squabble, “then that makes him…?” he nodded to Torafein’s back. 

Belnir shrugged. “He’s whatever he wants to be, in between tours. The Guides get that sort of privilege since they’re usually away from home for so long.” 

“Which is just further proof that he should have no say in my future,” Beltel interjected.

But Rismyn wasn’t listening to him. He was too busy plumbing new depths of unconventional behavior. “So then”–his hands worked in little circles as he tried to figure out how to word his question–“you didn’t…he didn’t…none of you had to do any of this?”  

“Had to?” Beltel echoed, still sulking. “No one has to do anything. Except me, apparently.”

“We told you,” Belnir added, gentler than his brother, “This mission was special. Solaurin requested it, Torafein planned it, we volunteered, and everyone pitched in to hire Styx and her ferry.” 

“Though between you and me,” Beltel added, his voice lowered, “Solaurin could have funded the whole expedition with his pocket change.”

But Rismyn didn’t care about that. He froze, unable to process the newfound emotion blooming in his soul.

They’d said before they had volunteered for this mission, but just because one volunteered didn’t mean they actually had a choice. Hadn’t Torafein said he’d come for them because it was his job? Rismyn just assumed he ordered the others to go along with him.

But if what they were saying was true, then that meant they not only had no obligation to anyone to risk their lives for him, they’d actually wanted to. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, and at great personal cost to themselves, these strangers strolled out of their safely walled city on a quest to locate him.

Well, locate Mazira, if the priest was to be believed. But if he were, then that was even more unfathomable. What sort of drow went out of their way for a faerie?

 “I don’t understand,” Rismyn said, before they got too far ahead. “Why would you do all of that…all that coin and your time spent, not to mention how dangerous the Dark is…just for us?” 

The brothers stopped and looked at each other, seeming just as baffled by his question as he was by their statement. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Belnir asked. 

“Because it’s what we do here,” Solaurin said, making Rismyn jump as he came up behind them. “Now do keep moving. Torafein is going to be rather perturbed if he has to wait for us.” 

“Sorry,” Rismyn mumbled, hurrying forward to take his place next to Mazira. His hand twitched to take hers again, but he stopped himself just in time. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection.

They reached the stairs at the end of the dock and Rismyn glanced up into the waiting crowd, hoping to find an anchor for his reeling heart in the normalcy of society. What he found instead was more reason to be astonished.

There were dozens of people waiting there, and only half of them were drow. The other half was so varied that Rismyn’s head spun as he tried to take in all the details at once. Creatures he’d been taught to hate on sight now muttered and pointed at him, but rather than suspicion or hostility, there was relief, joy, and curiosity etched onto their faces.

It was the strangest assortment of beings he had ever encountered, and he was suddenly quite self-conscious.

All too soon, they had crested the top of the stairs, and if the pointing and muttering made him self-conscious, it was nothing to the sudden burst of applause and shouts of acclamation.

“Welcome home!”

“You survived!”

“Is that the Tear boy? He’s very tall.”

“She really is alive. Praise Eilistraee!”

Of that last phrase, there were many voices echoing. Praise Eilistraee. It sent shivers down his spine, which felt strange in contrast to the heat that burned through his blood.

Rismyn edged as close to Mazira as she would let him. Never, in all his life, had he received so much attention. Unless he was being publically humiliated in front of his class, a rite that every student experienced at least once, no matter how unobtrusive they tried to be. Somehow, this was entirely worse.

Mazira must have felt it, as well. When his hand brushed hers, she latched onto it, her fingers squeezing his so tightly his bones popped.

Beltel, however, seemed to recover his spirits completely. “Ah, my adoring fans,” he sighed, with an exaggerated bow. “Do, go on.”

There was laughter at that, and a few playful insults which only added to Beltel’s preening.

“Tell us what happened!” Someone cried out above the din. “We heard there was a dragon outside the Rim.”

“It’s true, I saw the Songblades go out myself.”

“My dear people, please,” Solaurin called, his sonorous voice ringing with disapproval. He stepped forward and the crowd hushed noticeably. “You act as though we don’t have protocols to follow. You know we must give our first report to Mother Lara and the Council.”

The people called their complaints at once, something about having a right to know if there was a dragon threatening their community. Rismyn merely took the opportunity to sink behind the others, wishing the stone would open up and swallow him.

“He is right,” Torafein called, and this time there was no argument shouted back. Though no one flinched the way Rismyn would have had the commander addressed him in that tone, they did stiffen and a few looked a little ashamed. “Go your way. There is no danger. Mother Lara will give the news at tonight’s Evensong, if you permit us to make it to the temple before Red Light.”

And with that, the people began to disperse, though many were still offering their well-wishes. Torafein glanced back and nodded his head, indicating Rismyn and Mazira were to follow him. Grateful for his chance to escape, Rismyn wasted no time in obeying.

They had only made it a few steps before Torafein halted abruptly, his eyes locked on a woman who stood noticeably still as the throng moved around her. At her side was a girl who looked just on the brink of escaping childhood. 

“I’ll catch up,” Torafein muttered to Solaurin, waving them on.

Solaurin nodded, then tipped his head in acknowledgment to the woman. He pressed a gentle hand to Rismyn and Mazira’s backs to push them onward.

Rismyn went, though his attention was entirely rapt on Torafein as he went to the woman. Though her features were softer than the illustrations Rismyn had seen at Melee-Magthere, he recognized her as a faerie elf, fair of skin and hair. The girl at her side, however, was something else.

She was almost a drow, with her crimson eyes and colorless hair, but her skin was too light. All ash and smoke, not deep darkness. Had Rismyn not already met faeries to compare her to, he would have thought that’s what she was.

And, maybe she was. Hadn’t they just talked about all the different shades of surface folk?

As Torafein drew near them, the girl suddenly skipped forward. For a split second, Rismyn thought she was attacking the commander. That was usually what sudden movement indicated. Yet as her arms locked around his waist in a tight embrace, Rismyn realized she had done something far more alarming.

She’d hugged him.

And rather than shove her away, Torafein put his arms around her, before stepping out of her grip and doing the same to the faerie woman.

Rismyn gawked, craning his neck as they moved past them on the street. The three of them stood close together, speaking in low voices. As Rismyn watched, the woman put her hand to Torafein’s face, rubbing her thumb over the cut he’d opted not to have healed, her expression tightening with concern. Torafein’s hand covered hers, and then they were lost to his view as Solaurin shifted into his line of sight.

“It’s rude to stare,” the priest said, lightly. “And terribly dangerous to walk without looking where you’re going. You wouldn’t want to fall into the river again, would you?”

Rismyn snapped his attention forward. “Sorry,” he said, an automatic response. “It’s just…that woman and the girl. Who are they?”

“Who?” Solaurin sounded surprised. “Why, I thought it would be obvious. Didn’t Torafein tell you about his wife? I thought he was going to.”

Rismyn nearly tripped over his feet. His wife. That was her? The famed woman who had saved his life and turned his heart upside down? Rismyn started to look back again, but remembered the priest’s rebuke. Somehow, he’d imagined someone more…formidable, for lack of a better term. Not that she hadn’t stood proud and tall. But she seemed so…soft.

“Oh,” he said, trying to cover his surprise. “Right, he told me. I just wasn’t expecting…”

But whatever it was he wasn’t expecting, he couldn’t say. So he let his words trail off.

“She’s a lovely woman,” Solaurin remarked. “Makes the best Hazelnut Crumble in all the Underdark if you are fortunate enough to have a chance to try it. Ah, but I suppose you haven’t had anything hazelnut before. It’s not a common import. Never mind, you’ll enjoy it. Oh, and the girl, of course, is Sabraena, their daughter.”

Mazira jumped noticeably and Rismyn gasped. Whatever he had expected Solaurin to say of the child, it wasn’t that.

“Daughter?” he repeated, and this time he did swing his head around, but the multitude had completely blocked the family from view. “He never said anything about a daughter.”

“No?” Solaurin shrugged. “I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. He does like to keep things private. They have a son, as well, but he is grown and away at the moment.”

“Right, of course,” Rismyn said, reeling. But, he supposed it did make sense, in a way. Hadn’t Torafein said he’d been married for two centuries? Certainly, he would have fathered children in that time.

But it was one thing to father children. It was an entirely different thing to know your children and relate to them, as well. It broke every social convention Rismyn had grown up with. He wondered, very briefly, what it would have been like to be hugged by his mother or acknowledged by whoever his father was. The thought made his skin crawl.

It was just…weird to think about.  

Solaurin was chuckling now. “Dear me, I didn’t expect that to be such a shock. I apologize. I suppose to save you from more unpleasant surprises, I shall inform you now that I have a daughter, as well.”

Somehow, that shocked less. Perhaps because Rismyn had only just met Solaurin and hadn’t fully formed his opinions about him yet. “Oh,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Is that…normal?”

What he meant, of course, was to ask whether it was normal for fathers and daughters to relate to one another in this community. But as Solaurin burst out into deep, rich laughter, Rismyn realized how foolish his question sounded.

“Children are never normal. Hopefully, you will get to meet her soon. She is about your age, actually. I think you will like her, Mazira.”

Mazira jumped again when he addressed her directly, her face flushing. She muttered something incoherent but Solaurin didn’t seem to notice.

They had just rounded the corner onto a new street, leaving the riverfront behind, and Rismyn got his first real glimpse of the city they called Sanctuary.

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.