Forsaken by Shadows 54: Strange Days

~19. Strange Days~

Mazira, Four Days Later

When Mazira was little, she used to perch on the step of her family’s wagon and watch the grown-ups at their work. Her momma would put on old ratty dresses and pretend to be an unloved step-daughter of a wicked man, played by her papa, who chose the role so he wouldn’t have to shave his beard. Goodie Merria donned iridescent wings and threw down smoke powder, and when the haze cleared, her momma’s ratty dress had turned into a beautiful gown, so she could go to the castle and meet her true love.

But there were demons in the woods, bigger kids with masks who tried to stop her momma from getting to the castle before midnight when the magic wore off. And there were knights and princes and mean step-sisters, too. Every one of the Rivertone Troubadours got involved, dressing up and singing songs, telling a vibrant story just by playing pretend. 

As the cycles came and went, life in Launa had come to feel just like that. Not the pretend demons or the midnight kisses, but the pomp and the performance, leaving Mazira drifting through her days with a strange sense of disconnect. As though her dresses had become costumes and her mundane life a game of make-believe. 

She’d expected things to be different now that Bregan d’Aerthe was here, yet over all, nothing had changed. At least, not at first glance. 

She went to her lessons like she always had. She met Vaylan on the way home and usually kept him for lunch, until he stayed so long Solaurin threatened to put him to work harvesting silkworms. She spun threads for the weaver and kept up his books, and when Rismyn came home after gem-cutting with Jasper, it signaled the end of the work cycle for everyone. 

When supper was finished she and Rismyn vanished into the deepening scarlet, melding into the stalagmite forest beyond the sight of anyone, where together they drew blades, and she gradually learned not to fear the steel in her hand. She was by no means comfortable yet—it had only been six cycles since she’d bought her sword—but she was getting there.

Thus, life in Launa moved on, with everyone pretending nothing was wrong, while mercenaries darkened their docks and Militia patrols crowded their market, having nowhere better to go. People in the streets smiled and put on a show, like her momma and the troubadours playing at something that wasn’t real. 

But, as Vaylan’s father had always said, the show had to go on. Which was how Mazira found herself on her new stage, surveying the actors taking their places. The set was the sword dancing class she’d always avoided, and her role was blushing baby cleric. She clutched her pearlescent saber to her chest and tried not to notice the delighted smiles of girls who were genuinely happy to see her there, while everything in her pleaded for her to run. 

Ever her opposite, Ti’yana stood at Mazira’s side brimming with enough enthusiasm for the both of them. She’d been that way since the early hours of Blue Light, when Mazira had come to the breakfast table and made public her secret aspirations to take part in the Serenade. How Ti’yana had the energy to maintain this level of excitement, Mazira couldn’t fathom. She was already exhausted, and she hadn’t done anything yet. 

“You’re going to be just fine,” Ti’yana assured her, as they awaited their instructors. “I promise.” 

Mazira made a non-committal sound, fixing her eyes on the tapestries hanging around the spherical room. Eight black silk banners, spaced evenly around them, each depicting the silver outline of an elven woman clad in only her ankle-length white hair. She struck a different pose in every panel, arched gracefully with a sword in hand. Her feet balanced on a circle, which grew and lost silver as the weavings progressed. 

Eilistraee dancing on the moon, with every phase represented. As Mazira turned slowly to survey them all, she could almost see the goddess’ elegant sweeps in motion. Perhaps the artwork was meant to encourage the students, but all it did was intimidate her more.

Why had she thought she was ready for this? It had only been six cycles. Half of the time spent in each of her lessons with Rismyn didn’t even involve the sword at all. He’d insisted they needed to do arduous labor, like go for runs, or stretch their limbs, or even lift stones of various weights to strengthen their muscles. He claimed it wasn’t enough to know stances and maneuvers; if she wanted to be effective, she had to train her body as much as her mind and heart.

Sure, the logic made sense. But it was dreadful. The workouts. The routines. The way her body ached and sweated, how her lungs seized and her chest burned after each session. Rismyn pushed her to the brink of quitting every practice, yet when she finally laid on the ground, gasping for breath and swearing she was done, he would hand her a waterskin and her blade, and Mazira remembered why she was doing it. 

She wanted to be strong. She wanted to be fierce. She wanted this.

Those thoughts had been far more empowering when it was just her, Rismyn, and the stalagmites. Now she had to perform in front of women who had been studying the art far longer than her, who lived and breathed the sword. Worshiped it, even. Some of them for longer than she’d been alive. 

She shouldn’t have listened to Rismyn’s gentle prodding to join the sword dance class. All his insistence that it would be good for her, that it would help her improve faster and round out her skills seemed like nonsense now that she was here. 

And yet, she couldn’t deny the facts. 

The Fleet was still coming, roughly two tendays away. Bregan d’Aerthe was contracted to assure their safe return, and the way the Launite players were acting, nothing would deter the Festival—and the Serenade—from happening. 

Not even Torafein’s corpse, should it ever surface. 

Mazira shuddered, pushing the thought away. Until evidence was presented to suggest the contrary, she wanted to believe that Torafein was still alive. 

Even if he would probably be better off dead, rather than back in drow hands.

No, stop. Her fingers flexed around her weapon, as she fought to remember why she was here. 

Sword dancing. Songblades. Festivals. 

Right. She only had twenty cycles left to complete an Ordeal of her own design, some sort of personal challenge that proved her worthy of bearing Eilistraee’s song, then present herself before the Council of Eleven, the Songblades in charge of approving candidates for the Serenade. If they were sufficiently impressed with her and her Ordeal, they would let her become a cleric. Fail to impress them, and she’d fail to be raised, and all this heartache and her brand new hand blisters would be for naught. 

Maybe it wasn’t too late to just leave.

As soon as the thought drifted through her mind, the door to the dance room opened and half a dozen real clerics strode in, some of whom Mazira recognized by name, some by only face. The girls milling about the hall fell silent and moved to stand in rows, everyone seeming to know where to go. 

Mortified, Mazira shot Ti’yana a look, and Ti’yana grinned, taking her hand. To Mazira’s further horror, Ti’yana led her not into the sea of faces, but to the front of the classroom, where they stood together, isolated and apart from the others.

As if Mazira didn’t stand out enough already. She was the only girl in the room without drow heritage in her blood, giving new meaning to the spirit of her name. She shone like a beacon of ineptitude and un-belonging. 

Yet the instructors didn’t bat an eye at her, which in some ways, felt worse. After all the whispers about her not being here, when she finally arrived, no one seemed to notice. 

Mazira trembled as the Songblades fanned out, their hands full of instruments. Small drums, flutes, and lyres. Without preamble or formality, they struck up a rhythmic pulse, and the girls in their rows moved like marionettes, synchronized in stretching their hands to the ceiling and then sweeping down to touch the floor. 

One of the six instructors peeled away from the group and approached, a dark elf Mazira recognized. Forge Mistress Elynia, the woman who oversaw the construction of Launa’s singing swords and sacred armor. Mazira had only met her once, when Elynia had asked her to help with the enchantment of Rismyn’s sword, but though their meeting had been brief, their music and purpose had been intimate. 

She relaxed as the forge mistress stopped before them, settling into the comfort of a familiar heart and the breath of the Weave that accompanied the blacksmith.

“Well met, Mazira,” Elynia said. “Our Songbrother told us to expect you. We are pleased to receive you.” 

She bowed low and formal, and Mazira glanced at Ti’yana, unsure what to do. Unfortunately, Ti’yana was too busy bouncing with delight to pay Mazira any mind. 

When Elynia straightened, her smile was warm and reassuring. “It’s intimidating, yes?” She turned to survey the girls, stretching their muscles to the beat of drums. “When everyone knows what to expect but you. Come, walk with me. Today we will orient you to the class. Tomorrow, you will fit right in.” 

Mazira watched the girls change poses on a cue she didn’t catch, shifting from touching their left toes to their right, and found herself seriously disbelieving the forge mistress’ words. 

Ti’yana squeezed Mazira’s hand. “Have fun,” she said, before abandoning her to go to her spot in the rows. 

“Come,” Elynia said again, and she beckoned for Mazira to follow her to the edge of the dance hall. “May I see your blade?” 

Mazira hurried to keep pace with her instructor, offering her sword with shaky hands. Elynia took it, drawing it from its sheath and peering closely at the metalwork. Mazira’s heart skipped a beat, as though Elynia scrutinized her very soul, and she suddenly doubted whether it had been wise to buy her own sword before consulting the Songblades. She’d done it on an impulse, as much as having to withdraw money from the bank, finding a suitable advisor, and selecting a weapon could be done impulsively.

Elynia twirled the sword in a quick succession of elaborate test swings that sent envy twisting in Mazira’s gut. Belnir had done likewise, when helping her choose a weapon, and they both made it look so easy. She could live her full lifespan and probably never handle the blade with such ease. Worse, Mazira wasn’t sure when she’d started wanting to. 

“This is a fine weapon,” Elynia finally announced. “Dwarven make? From Master Thalbrek’s forge?” 

Relief escaped Mazira in the form of a squeak, though fortunately Elynia didn’t seem to notice. “Y-yes ma’am. Is that… is that okay?” She hadn’t considered if there were rules regarding what kind of sword she had. What if Eilistraee only accepted elven-made blades? 

“Of course,” Elynia said, sheathing the weapon and returning it to Mazira. “Master Thalbrek does fine bladework. Though you might consider pitching the scabbard. White tends to shine in the Underdark.” 

Mazira hugged her new steel companion to her bosom, having not yet found the courage to hang it from a belt like she ought. “I know,” she murmured, more to herself than Elynia. 

Elynia paused, turning back to Mazira, seeming to understand the full implications of what she had said. “That was a careless statement. I’m sorry, Mazira.” 

Mazira stared at her feet. “It’s okay,” she said. She hesitated, drawing courage with her breaths like water pumping from a well. “It’s actually… it’s actually the reason I chose this one.” She lifted her eyes, trying to believe what she endeavored to display. 

Belnir had told her the same thing about the scabbard. White would be a dead giveaway in the darkness. She’d worn white every day of her captivity in Menzoberranzan for that exact reason. All the slaves had, so they would draw attention and be the first to be slaughtered in a house raid.

Belnir encouraged her to choose another blade, though the fit of her selected sword was perfect. When he finally admitted its only flaw was the shade, Mazira’s resolve had sealed. If she had to have a sword, she wanted to have this one. 

Color, or lack thereof, would never define her station again.

As though reading her thoughts, Elynia nodded. “Given your history, I would not be surprised if you were asked about it by the Eleven,” she said, continuing their circuit of the room. “Be prepared to account for it.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Now, Mazira. Look around. What do you see?” 

Mazira peered out at the circular room, the sconces on the wall illuminated with radiant flames. The music had changed, reduced to a slow pulse on the hand drum and a sweet melody of the flute. Three of the instructors danced with blades in hands, spinning in a slow twirl with the arms extended. Still in their rows, the students mimicked their motions. Everything seemed so coordinated and perfect. 

“I see…” Mazira began, unsure of what the right answer was. She saw dancers? Tapestries? A class in session? She grasped for every detail, seeking the trick in the question, and found her gaze roaming the faces of the students.

Two years ago, such a sight would have filled her with dread. Drow and gloam-drow women, with swords in hands, full of deadly grace. But as Mazira took in each girl, each elf she knew by name, who had filled her classes and sung in chorus with her, she could find absolutely nothing to fear.

“I see my friends,” she found herself saying, before fully committing to the answer. Her cheeks tinged a rosy shade. Could she say that? Was anyone in this room actually her friend, besides Ti’yana? Yes, she knew their names, but that was all. A few of the girls, the ones who were close to Ti’yana, had tried to envelop Mazira into their circle, but somehow Mazira felt she never seemed to fit. 

Elynia made a noise that sounded like approval. “Well said.” She stopped beneath the full moon tapestry, and Mazira glanced at it surreptitiously, wondering if it was Solaurin’s work, even though he didn’t possess a loom large enough to have woven these pieces.

“There are two aspects to dancing the sword,” Elynia began, recalling Mazira to the task at hand. “The first is art, the second is efficiency. Observe their movements, their strikes. Every dance step is a killing step, a technique that can be used against a real enemy.” 

Bile climbed up Mazira’s throat, but she nodded. 

“We teach the bautha z’hin style, the same as the Militia,” Elynia said. “Are you familiar with it?” 

Mazira tensed, surprised to find herself asked a question she actually knew the answer to, thanks to her recent lessons with Rismyn. What she had expected from his tutoring was to learn how to fight. What she had gained was far more. 

Rismyn loved the art of swordplay. She’d known it, intellectually. She’d now experienced it fully. In between the posturing and slashing and running, Rismyn had filled every second of silence with words, as though he’d been waiting his whole life to tell someone everything he knew about being a swordsman. Most of it washed over her like Lirdvin, but some of the information stuck, especially when he made it personal. 

“Bautha z’hin is a style that is meant to be used in tandem with allies,” Mazira recited, hardly able to believe the words were coming from her own mind. “It favors superior numbers and quick ambush-and-retreat style tactics.” 

“Very good,” Elynia said, and Mazira preened under the sound of her approval. “The Militia will teach you only efficiency. Songblades are proficient in both. Our blade is our testimony, our dance is our message. We are warriors freed from darkness. We vanquish the shadow and liberate captives. That is what it means to be a Songblade. Understand?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Mazira said. Her heart pounded to the beat of the hand drum, though in triplets compared to the steady quarter notes. Something deep within her stirred at the priestess’ declaration of purpose. Something that drew her in, called her by name, and commanded her to come.

This was no quiet invitation to participate. This was a summons, and Mazira sensed the one who summoned was worthy to be obeyed, though she couldn’t quite articulate why. 

“Mistress…” she said, after a moment. “May I ask a question?” 

“Of course, child.” 

“Why do they move so slow?” 

The dancers spun and slashed as though cutting through water, not air. Artful, for certain. But Elynia had called this practice efficient, as well. Mazira had seen sword fights before, and slow, they were not. 

“That is how we learn.” Elynia beckoned her back into their circuit. “Slow motions train the muscles, creating automatic paths that instinct will follow when battle strikes. As the lesson progresses, the tempo will increase. You will begin here, in this row.” 

They stood beside the back row, and Mazira was relieved. No one would be behind her to see her fail. 

“All first year students begin on the back row,” Elynia continued. “Each year, you move upward, unless you ascend to the sisterhood first, in which case, the class is no longer required, though strongly advised. Solaurin tells me you do wish to ascend this Serenade, yes?” 

Mazira’s blush returned with a vengeance. “Y-yes… that is… I wish to try… M-mother Lara said I… could…” 

She could no longer look at Elynia, too ashamed of her own hubris. What possessed her to go through with this madness? A little bit of self-pity and a polite invitation? That wasn’t enough to make a priestess.

She was a fraud. She had no business being here.

As Mazira stared at her toes, unable to face the judgment she imagined darkened Elynia’s eyes, the drum beat faster, and her pulse thrummed. Her blood tingled in the way it did when she called upon her magic, and she sucked in a sharp breath, for she had not reached for the Weave. 

Mazira. 

Her spine went ridgid. The voice brushed over her skin like a soft kiss, but when Mazira looked around, no one else seemed to have heard it. Elynia wasn’t even looking at her anymore, but instead watched the students dance. 

Had she imagined it? But, no. Her nerves still hummed with more than music. The echoes of the whisper tugged her forward, beckoning her to take up her blade and join the dance, calling her to something she couldn’t comprehend. 

What was happening to her?

“You would not be the first to be raised young in the faith,” Elynia said, tearing Mazira’s attention from the strange anomaly. “Solaurin never once darkened the doors of our classrooms. Mother Lara counseled him personally then put him forward as the first brother to be recommended for our sisterhood. It caused far more of a scandal than you will.” 

The sensation of magic drawing her snuffed out like a candle. Mazira bit her lower lip and kept her eyes cast down. She hoped she didn’t cause any scandals. She didn’t want to be trouble, she just wanted to be useful. 

Whatever her Ordeal was, it would have to be good. Personal, impressive. Something that would unite the Eleven in raising her despite her lack of sword skills. Something that would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she really was called to this, not just a fluke of a half-elf blessed with magic she didn’t deserve.

But what Ordeal could she concoct that would be more impressive than overcoming her fear of walking home alone, or drawing a sword, or even coming to this class, that she would actually be capable of accomplishing? She had only just started work on the little, basic things of life. How was she supposed to take on a real challenge? 

“Do you know why Eilistraee is the goddess of the sword?” Elynia asked, and Mazira jumped. 

Focus. She had to focus. What was the question? 

Bubbles of anxiety rippled through her chest, as the fear of getting the answer wrong threatened to overwhelm her. But as Mazira sifted the words through a careful sieve, she was startled to find that she knew this answer, too. More than that, she was confident she knew the answer. 

“Before her willing exile,” Mazira said, “Eilistraee was tricked by her mother, Araushnee, who later became the demon known as Lolth. Araushnee gave Eilistraee a bow cursed to only fire arrows at Corellon, her father and the god of elves, so when Eilistraee rushed to his aid in battle, she inadvertently struck him with a fatal wound. Afterward, she refused to touch a bow again, and neither should those who enter her sacred order.” 

Elynia nodded, though her expression had grown somber. “You are correct.” Yet before Mazira could feel the joy of her success, Elynia fired off another question. “And why is she the goddess of dance?”

Mazira swallowed, searching her mind for the right order of words. Was this a test of her worthiness? Was Elynia so skeptical of Mazira’s ability to serve that she was going to prove it right here and now? 

Yet there was no unkindness in the blacksmith’s tone. No hard expression of expected failure. She just watched Mazira and waited patiently for an answer. 

“Because,” Mazira said, less certainly this time, even though she was certain this was the right answer. She’d learned it in her classes, and Solaurin spoke of such things often. “Dance is the symbol of unfettered expression, and Eilistraee is the goddess of freedom.” 

“Correct again,” Elynia said. “And I suppose I need not ask you why she is the goddess of freedom.”

Since she didn’t actually ask, Mazira chose not to answer. Best to say nothing rather than risk statements of folly. Yet her hope that this was the end of the interrogation was soon proven to be in vain, as Elynia was apparently only just getting started. 

The hour seeped away in the form of endless laps around the dance hall, while Elynia quizzed her on their faith and the students spun and slashed to the rhythm of the music. Mazira was made to answer for every aspect Eilistraee represented; moonlight, the hunt, beauty, song. She recited the core values of the Songblades, the mission of the clergy, and purpose of Launa. 

By the time it was all said and done, and after receiving no reprimands or corrections in her understanding, Mazira started to think that maybe she could do this clergy thing, after all. 

Except for the part where she had to sword dance. But that was why she was here, right?

The music faded, and the dancers relaxed, breathing hard and smiling wide. Elynia rested a hand on Mazira’s shoulder. “Tomorrow, you will join in the dance. Do not fret over missteps. Everyone of us must begin somewhere.” 

Mazira nodded, murmuring her thanks. She looked for Ti’yana in the crowd, and found her gathering with some of the other front-row girls around a wooden chest. 

“Ah, they have unearthed the festival wear,” Elynia said, smiling as she noticed where Mazira’s attention went. 

The girls collected around the chest were pulling out swaths of brightly colored fabric. Vibrant blues, deep reds, and everything in between. They giggled incessantly. Mazira’s brows knit together, curiosity getting the better of her. She took a step forward, then froze, horrified when she realized she hadn’t been dismissed. 

“Go take a look,” Elynia offered. “You’ll need to decide on what to wear, especially if you’re planning to take part in the Serenade. We shall see you tomorrow.” 

“Thank you again,” Mazira said, then hurried over to Ti’yana, grateful to have survived her first sword dance class with minimal embarrassment. 

One of Ti’yana’s friends was practically squealing with delight as she held up what looked like a pink scarf to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m finally old enough to participate,” she said. “What do you think, Ti?” 

“No, no, definitely not pink,” Ti’yana said, handing her something emerald green instead. “This suits you better—oh! Mazira! Come and see.” 

Ti’yana took Mazira by the hand and pulled her into the crowd, rummaging in the puddle of silk. “Blue is my favorite color on you. Let’s see… Ah! Here!” She held up a small triangle of cloth, adorned with silver beadwork. 

Mazira blinked at the fabric, taking it and turning it over. “What is it?” she asked. 

The commotion around the trunk stilled as the chatter fell silent, and Mazira was acutely aware it had been her question which caused the ruckus to die down, but before she could bolt, the girls exploded into yet another fit of giggles. 

“She’s new! She doesn’t know!” someone said. 

“Oh, you’re in for a treat, Mazira!” 

“Just wait until you see what the boys wear.” 

Mazira turned saucer-sized eyes to Ti’yana, silently pleading for an explanation. What had Elynia said? They had unearthed festival wear? 

Mazira looked again at the fabric in her hands. 

Wear. 

Wear. 

Oh great stars! Was this supposed to be clothing? She couldn’t even begin to fathom what part of the body was meant to be covered with it.

Mazira squawked and dropped the item. “Am I…. am I supposed to wear that?” she gasped. 

The girls doubled over with laughter. 

“It’s more than Eilistraee wears,” said one of them, wiping a tear from her eye.

“As close as Launa gets to the old rites, while still maintaining a safe environment for little eyes,” said another.

Even Ti’yana was giggling, her dark skin flushed as she gathered up the blue triangle and then another glob of matching fabric. “It’s a two-piece. See?” She held the triangle up to her chest, and the longer piece of blue to her waist—a skirt, apparently, though someone seemed to have forgotten to sew the side seams.

No. Mazira did not see. She just gaped at Ti’yana, fighting to control her breathing. Grabbing her friend’s wrist, she pulled her out of the circle. 

“T-ti’yana… do I… do I have to wear something like this? To be a Songblade?” she asked, on the verge of panic. Her hand went to her sternum, to the space where her skin had been pebbled by acid, where the crest of House Tear had been forever etched into her flesh, claiming her as property like a rancher claimed his rothé. 

Ti’yana’s expression went from confused to mortified in the span of a heartbeat. She whipped the blue garments away from her and tossed them back toward the chest. “Oh my gosh, Mazira, I didn’t even think—I’m so sorry. No, no, of course you don’t have to. I mean, it is what everyone wears for festivals, not just priestesses, but I can make you something else, something that covers—” She cut off, her hands waving frantically back and forth.

Something shifted in Mazira’s mind, so real it felt like a tangible pulling of a muscle in her brain. She blinked, and saw Ti’yana differently, as though she had stepped out of her body and observed impassively from beyond a veil. 

This moment was the exact kind of moment she had been trying to overcome. The delicacy. The special favors. The damage that made her different from the girls laughing around the pile of shimmery festival wear. 

As though in a dream, she turned away from Ti’yana and went back to the circle. She reached in at random and pulled out a silver top that would conform too well to her torso, leaving little to the imagination. Her hands trembled as she beheld it, deafening the noise around her as she imagined how prominently such a garment would display her past for all to see. House Tear on her chest, Lolth’s spider on her back. The sword wound on her stomach, and the many smaller lashes and tears she’d picked up from who knew where. 

Her whole history would be exposed for the world to see. She couldn’t even bring herself to be embarrassed about what else would be seen, like a normal girl should be worried about, because all anyone would notice were her scars, her tragedies manifested, and they would shake their heads in pity. 

She was trauma to be managed. A vase to be secured. Delicate. Empty. Useless. 

“Mazira…?” Ti’yana had followed her back, touching her elbow. “It really is okay. Everyone would understand. You don’t have to—” 

“No,” Mazira said, an idea forming in her mind. The thought came to her like the voice that whispered in her soul when she doubted her calling. The idea was absurd. Dangerous. Just thinking about it sent lances of fear spiking through her core. But the more she thought of it, the more right it seemed. 

If Solaurin allowed it, it would make the perfect Ordeal. 

Mazira rotated slowly until she faced Ti’yana, still holding the silver satin in her hands. “I do want you to make me a dress, Ti’yana,” she said. She closed her eyes and saw it clearly, a picture of how she wanted to present herself to the world. She blushed, but her trembling ceased. “I want you to make me the kind of dress your father wouldn’t approve of.”

She didn’t know how else to describe it. Modesty had seemed like such a core value in the Zovarr home, and even in the rest of Launa. Why it was tossed out the window for a festival, she couldn’t say. But if that was the custom of the Launite people—her people—then she was going to embrace it. 

Ti’yana hesitated, like she was teetering on the edge of uncertainty. She held Mazira’s gaze for a long moment, as though searching her for cracks in her composure, but for once, Mazira was cool and calm. 

“Okay,” Ti’yana said. “Let’s talk design.” 

Mazira’s tension eased. “First, let’s go home. I need to talk to Solaurin. I’ve decided on my Ordeal.”

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.