Stories by Sarah Danielle
Stories by Sarah Danielle
Forsaken by Shadows Chapter 12: Bregan D'Aerthe
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Forsaken by Shadows Chapter 12: Bregan D'Aerthe

Rismyn returns to the city of his birth in desperate search of supplies...

~12. Bregan D’Aerthe~

A tenday passed. Or at least, by Rismyn’s count it had. There was no actual way for him to know without Narbondel to count the hours for him. So, he made up his own system of timekeeping. It was very simple; when he succumbed to sleep and awoke again, it was a new day. 

Of course he knew this wasn’t accurate, but it was necessary. The counting of days contributed to his sanity as endless lonely hours confined to one cave threatened to undo him. It was something rhythmic, something normal. Something he could control. 

The constant fear of discovery by drow or worse didn’t help, nor did Mazira’s continued condition. When her wound closed so miraculously, he had believed she might wake up that very hour. But of course, that was too good to be true. After the first of his ‘days’ passed without her even stirring, he began to despair the five berries he had eaten himself. He should have only taken the one, realized their power, and given her the rest. Now he had wasted an entire enchanted resource and was left with nothing but dripping water. 

Or so he thought. 

When he awoke the ‘day’ after he discovered and used the berries, he went to gather water from the crevice and found two new berries had grown. Delighted, he plucked them at once and fed both to Mazira. She still didn’t stir, but gradually, the color returned to her flesh and her heartbeats pulsed stronger. 

The day after that, two more berries appeared, and though Rismyn was growing weaker with hunger, he gave both berries to Mazira again. She had developed a fever over the ‘night,’ and was clearly in need of their healing powers more than he. He could suffer hunger a little while longer for her sake. He distracted himself by practicing his forms with the short sword, until sleep finally took him again.

When the third day came, Rismyn was so hungry he couldn’t fight the temptation. He gathered the berries and told himself they were both for Mazira, but the sugary sweet scent of the fruit was too much for him to resist. Though guilt threatened to turn the berry sour, he ate the one and gave the other to Mazira, whose fever had yet to break. 

The sunberries were nothing short of miraculous. Each ‘day’ two would appear, and the one would be enough to sustain his appetite until the next day. Gradually, Rismyn became more and more restless, as the same training forms became as dull and unending as everything else around him. Mazira’s condition never changed, and though that concerned him greatly, there was very little he could do about it. 

At least, very little that didn’t involve signifcant risks. He could think of several possible solutions, but all of them revolved around going back to Menzoberranzan, leaving Mazira alone for hours while he hunted for supplies. 

Yet As the ‘days’ whittled away, those risks became less and less unappealing. By the sixth day, Rismyn couldn’t bear the sight of the same smooth walls anymore. He covered Mazira’s body entirely with Torafein’s piwafwi and ventured out for a bit of scouting. He wasn’t gone long, and he found nothing of great interest. Aside from his own little cave, the stone passages were smooth, long, and bereft of resources. 

This didn’t bother him, until on the seventh day, he awoke to no more sunberries. 

At first he wasn’t alarmed. He didn’t actually have an accurate count of time, anyways. Perhaps he just hadn’t slept as long as previous days. But when no more berries grew on the eighth or ninth day, he realized his luck had run out. Mazira was still unconscious and feverish, and he couldn’t subsist on water alone. He scouted further into the caverns and came up with nothing but stone and darkness. 

He needed resources, and he could only think of one guaranteed place to get them. 

Rismyn stood over the dark hole which would take him back into Tier Breche. He had some semblance of a plan, but as he looked down into the chute, it felt like a very weak and suicidal plan. The chances of anyone lurking around the cavern ceiling waiting for him after so long was unlikely, but how far had news of his flight spread? Surely his mother would have endeavored to keep it silent, but with eighteen of his classmates as living witnesses, it was impossible. As the second son of the fifth house--one of the leading houses--the news was likely to be all over the city by now. It was exactly the kind of shaming gossip the drow loved to spread around. 

Which meant his mother was definitely going to try to kill him. The question was, how many resources was she willing to expend on it? 

The thought of leaving Mazira alone as he tested fate was disconcerting, but then, he was only leaving behind certain death for possible death. He wasn’t sure which would be more merciful, starvation or the drow. 

At least he had a chance with the drow. 

That thought did little to comfort him. With a heavy sigh, he stepped into the shoot, allowing his levitation spell to catch his fall. 

The dark tunnel didn’t seem as long as he remembered it being, as he drifted slowly downward. Far before he was ready for it to end, he found himself inside the illusionary stalactite, looking down at the familiar structures of the Academy. 

It was hard to believe that just days ago, this hole was his home. Even harder to believe was the very dramatic way he had left it. He could see specks of heat below, students going to and fro, carrying out their business. He had been one of those specks once, desperately trying to claw his way to the top, to become something more than what he knew he was; a disappointment to his mother. Strange how much had changed in just a few days. 

Rismyn stayed as close to the ceiling of Tier Breche as he could, drifting his way towards the main cavern of the city. This much of his plan had remained the same as his original intent. Enter the city, touch down in an alley. From there, he could probably walk the streets safely. It was unlikely his mother had sent his face out for the whole city to condemn. She would want this covered up as quickly as possible. 

As if it would make a difference. House Tear’s reputation would never fully recover. 

By the time Rismyn set down in an empty alley, he began to wonder if his ego had been overly inflated. Thus far, everything had gone according to his weakly laid out plans. He had yet to be set upon by briggands or assassins, and as far as he could tell, no one was even stalking him from the shadows. He checked several times, glancing over his shoulder so often he might as well start walking backwards. Tense and on edge, he lifted his hood and kept his head down as he entered the more populated streets, but a low cowl was hardly unusual attire in Menzoberranzan. Most drow preferred not to be seen or recognized on the streets. It was just good sense. 

Yet as he moved through the streets, he couldn’t help being slightly disappointed that life moved on around him as if nothing had changed. Patrols and house guards, commoners, merchants, even a few nobles, all moved passed him without a second glance. After so long with nothing but the dripping of water and the sound of his own breathing to keep him company, the hustle and bustle of even the reserved dark elves seemed cacophonous. Yet no one paid him any mind. It was as if the city herself hadn’t bothered to care that one of her wayward children had returned. 

This should have been wonderful news, but it left him feeling a bit empty. His escape into the caverns above the city had been the most important and dramatic event in his life. He’d feared discovery and execution every waking minute and had nightmares of his mother’s wrath while he slept. Every day that he woke with his throat un-slit was a gift, perhaps even sheer luck. 

But maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe the reason he hadn’t been discovered yet wasn’t because he was lucky--it was simply that no one cared to look for him. 

What an odd thing to be depressed over. 

Rismyn pulled his cowl lower and stalked on, making his way towards a chasm he had only heard of and seen from a distance. The Clawrift, the deepest and darkest crack in the city, was not a place he’d ever hoped to find himself in. Full of monsters and kobold slaves, it was a dangerous place for a lone drow to be. 

But there were drow there. Drow that Rismyn needed to find, if he hoped to survive the Underdark and see Mazira safely back to the surface. He’d once heard Dreder speak of the place, bragging about a visit he had made to the secret location Rismyn now sought. He could only hope that for once, Dreder hadn’t been lying about his experience. It would be a long and perilous search if he had. 

The chasm itself wasn’t terribly difficult to find, considering its generally centralized location in the city. Still, Rismyn had never been this deep into Menzoberranzan before. He’d never had the opportunity to. He had gone from House Tear to Melee-Magthere, and there was no occasion to venture into the city otherwise. He knew from his general education that the district surrounding the Clawrift was called Duthcloim, and that his family members often said the name with a scoffing tone to it. It was the home of commoners, the weak blooded creatures that were born to serve those who had received Lolth’s highest favor. 

No one had ever mentioned how colorful it was.

As he rounded the corner onto the first of Duthcloim’s streets, he couldn’t help but stop and stare. This couldn’t possibly still be Menzoberranzan. It was too bright, with dusky colored lamps hanging from the stalagmite shops and houses. Merchants displayed their wares while creatures from all the reaches of the Underdark moved through the streets. To his left a troop of duergar traders were causing a ruckus in front of a tavern. The scent of roasting meat and baked bread almost made Rismyn turn aside, before he remembered he carried no coin. 

He moved on as his empty stomach protested, almost knocking over a kobold and two goblins, without chain or collar to mark them as slaves. Even more strange, none of the drow commoners who made up the majority of the crowd seemed to notice or care. 

Of course, the armed patrol in their midst probably had something to do with their good behavior. Rismyn ducked down another street as soldiers moved his way. He’d only gone a block before another patrol stepped into his path. Trying to remain calm, he kept his eyes lowered and let them pass, hoping no one would take notice of him. 

Unfortunately, the crowds were thick with patrols. This, he supposed, was what attracted so many foreigners to Duthcloim. Less chance of getting harassed with so much illusion of law walking about. He dodged out of the way of as many soldiers as he could and kept his gaze down when it was too suspicious for him to suddenly change direction. Of course, this could all be ridiculous and overcautious, but he couldn’t risk anyone recognizing his face and knowing his recent crimes. 

A door to another tavern burst open and out came an armored drow, laughing with his arm around a woman. Rismyn hardly noted the male’s carefree attitude or the telltale swaying of too much drink in his step. All he saw was the insignia on his shoulder; a crescent moon over a teardrop, surrounded by spindly spider legs. 

He was one of House Tear’s soldiers. 

Rismyn turned so suddenly the drow woman he nearly trod on cursed and shoved at him. He didn’t pay her any mind, but hurried down a narrow side street, glancing back over and over again. The soldier didn’t appear to be following him, but panic refused to let Rismyn think rationally. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The soldier must have been there for him. He must be following along somehow, stalking him in the shadows, waiting for his chance to strike. 

It was all over. He should have scouted the Underdark instead of risking this stupid, wreckless plan. He needed to get to the Clawrift and off of these cursed, drow-riddled streets. 

“Whoa--watch it!” 

Rismyn’s eyes had been over his shoulder again, so he didn’t see the woman until he crashed into her. Fear spiked as he blundered, and he reached out to steady her. “My apologies,” he murmured, not even glancing at her as he tried to move past. 

He didn’t make it far. 

The woman reached out and snatched his wrist. “Hang on, what’s your hurry?” she said, with a touch of amusement in her tone. 

Now Rismyn did look at the woman, and then wished he hadn’t. She was dressed as most drow women usually dressed, with one very notable fashion alteration. Every scrap of fabric that wasn’t covering something important--and she seemed to have a very loose idea of what was important--appeared to be sheer black, revealing what lay beneath in subtle yet entrancing ways. He looked away quickly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he tried to pull himself loose from her grasp. 

“I have business to attend to,” he said. “For my matron mother,” he added, hoping that the reference would earn him a faster escape. When he had looked up from her uncanny attire he noted her hair was cut short, even shaved close at the sides. She was a commoner. A female, but a commoner. No matter how angry she might have been with a lowly male for obstructing her way, his association with a noble house should be enough to get him free of it. He was almost tempted to pull his hood down, so she could see the length and cut of his own hair. 

But that was just a little too risky. 

The woman didn’t seem at all put off by his statement. Instead, she smiled coyly, tilting her head to the side so that the many silver rings in her ears clinked together. Her grip on his wrist tightened. “What a coincidence, I have business with your matron mother, too.” 

Rismyn’s eyes went wide and he twisted his arm, forcing her to let him go. He started to draw his sword but she was already there, shoving him back against a wall. She placed one hand on the hilt of his sword while the other pressed a dagger to his abdomen, hidden by her body from the view of anyone who might be passing by. 

“Now, now, we wouldn’t want to call too much attention to ourselves.” 

“Who are you?” Rismyn demanded. His mind was already going through a dozen different ways to disarm and break free of her, but she was unfortunately right. He did not want to call the attention of the patrols down on himself. 

“All in good time, dear,” the woman said. “Now will you come with me quietly, or am I going to have to hurt you?” 

Rismyn started to raise his hands to break free of her, but though he was quick, she was quicker. She pressed the blade in and it pierced through his enchanted mail like it was butter. The dagger only nicked him, but it was enough to grab his attention. She could gut him before he was free of her. 

In his brief hesitation as he reconsidered his strategy, she blew gently in his face. 

The unexpected assault was so startling that he breathed in sharply. Her breath was sweet, like the night-flowers that grew in House Tear’s garden. 

The toxic night-flowers that his mother used in her poisons. 

“What--” he began, before his vision swam. His hands dropped, though he distinctly told them to rise and strike her. Instead it felt as though lead weights had been tied to his palms. “Who--” he stammered, then everything went black. 

---

“I thought I told you to follow him only.” 

“Yeah, but you should have seen him, Kal. All scared and scurrying around like a lost puppy. It was embarrassing to watch.” 

Rismyn’s consciousness returned, but though he heard the voices somewhere in the darkness above him, he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. His body was heavy and stiff, and he was sprawled over something cold and hard. The floor, probably, but his mind couldn’t make the connection. He tried to command himself to move, but nothing happened. 

“Well, I guess there’s nothing to be done about it now,” said a male voice he didn’t recognize. “Wake him up, Pearl.”

Footsteps drew nearer, and Rismyn imagined himself leaping to his feet with his sword in hand, but it was just that. Imagining. Until a slap of cold liquid doused his face. 

He gasped, his eyes snapping open at once as feeling returned to his limbs. He scrambled up to his hands and knees, far less gracefully than he had been imagining. 

“Wakey, wakey,” taunted the female who stood over him. It was the same one he had met in the alley, though mercifully she had donned a cloak over her revealing outfit. 

“You--” Rismyn began, reaching for his sword only to discover it wasn’t there. He’d been stripped of his Academy-given armor, as well, so that he only wore a cloth shirt and trousers. He might have well been in his skin, for all the protection that afforded him. 

“Feisty, isn’t he?” The woman drawled, turning her back on him and drifting out of his view. “What’re they teaching kids at the Academy these days?” 

It was then that Rismyn took his first look at his surroundings. He was in a cave that had been worked into the shape of a square and outfitted as a luxurious office. Cabinets and shelves lined the walls, with all manner of curious items and books strewn about. At the center of the room was a heavy wooden desk--a real wooden desk. Which meant it was an expensive import from the surface. There was a door to his right, or at least, the opening for a door. Instead of a solid covering, a murky, gray film lay over the hole, obscuring the view outside but not blocking it completely.

“Where am I?” Rismyn asked, wiping his sleeve over his face to soak up the water. 

“I imagine exactly where you intended to be,” said the male from somewhere behind the desk. Something about his voice made Rismyn pause. He spoke with a strange accent, an accent all too similar to Mazira’s. “Welcome to Bregan D'Aerthe, Master Tear. We are humbly at your service.” 

Rismyn felt a chill that had nothing to do with his soaked hair. He glanced at the woman who leered at him from beside the desk, then slowly started to rise. She made no attempt to stop him, but he kept his eyes on her nonetheless. She had felled him with a prod and a breath, he was not about to relax his guard around her. The woman merely returned his gaze with that hungry smile. 

Finally, he turned his attention to the man behind the desk and it took all his self-control not to start in surprise. 

If the woman had been strange to behold, she was nothing compared to her male companion. He was the most peculiar-looking drow Rismyn had ever seen. In fact, Rismyn wasn’t entirely certain he was a drow. His skin was more purplish gray than ebony, a shade Rismyn hadn’t seen before on one of his kin. His hair, like other drow, was long and white, but not worn in a fashion that bespoke of any rank Rismyn knew of. It was braided against his scalp on one side and left long and loose on the other, falling to his shoulder in thick waves ornamented with metal bands. 

Like the woman, he dripped with silver; rings in his ears, rings on his hands, a great chain of it securing an audacious fur-lined capelet from falling off his broad shoulders. Beneath the capelet he wore only a silken vest--no armor--which had only been laced halfway, revealing a great swath of his tightly muscled chest that just begged for an assassin to aim a knife at.

The whole look of him was gaudy and supercilious, and yet that wasn’t at all what made Rismyn question the man’s dark elf heritage. It was his eyes--a clear, bright, sapphire blue, that he had outlined in charcoal as though he wanted to draw attention to them. Rismyn had never heard of blue-eyed drow before. Red, of course. Lavender, and even gold here or there. But never blue. 

He tried not to let the stranger’s unnatural appearance unsettle him. Instead, Rismyn crossed his arms and said, “How did you know I was looking for you?” 

Those blue eyes regarded him with wicked amusement as the man touched the tip of his fingers together. “You just told me,” he said, and Rismyn flushed when he realized his error. “But it was an educated guess. Why else would a runaway prince come slinking into Duthcloim, so near to our humble abode? You’re hardly the first in your predicament to come seeking us, Rismyn Tear.” 

Again, Rismyn felt a chill. He had hoped to avoid giving his true identity. He briefly considered trying to deny it, or play dumb, but something told him that would be a fatal mistake. Instead, he met the stranger’s eyes directly and said, “So, you know who I am.”

“We know many things.” The man shrugged. “Probably best to just assume we know all things. It’s the nature of our business.” 

Rismyn tempered his tone to remain polite, though his nerves threatened to strangle his words. “Well, then I think it’s only fair that I know who you are, sir.”

The strange drow raised an eyebrow--which was also pierced with silver--and glanced quickly at the woman, so quickly that Rismyn suspected it was involuntary. Had he said something wrong? 

Then the stranger’s lips broke into a smile and he rose to his feet. “Of course, where are my manners?” He made Rismyn a sweeping bow. “I am Kalos, the unfortunate fool left in charge of this merry band of brigands for the time being. If you were hoping to meet with our fearless leader, you’ll have to settle for me. I believe you’ve already met Pearl?” He gestured to the woman to his left.

The woman grinned and shot him a wink, but Rismyn wasn’t feeling quite as polite towards her. He merely returned her look with cool neutrality, then gave his attention back to Kalos, who appeared to be in charge despite his gender. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.” 

When Kalos sat down, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, locking his fingers together behind his skull. Rismyn couldn’t help but notice the scaled pattern on the leather of his boots. They reminded him of the snake-headed whips his sisters used. The thought that this man could have made boots out of priestess weapons sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Now then, Master Tear,” he said, “since formalities are out of the way, what can the mercenaries of Bregen D’Aerthe do for you?” 

Rismyn didn’t answer right away, but instead studied the odd drow for a moment, weighing his thoughts. He’d heard much of Bregan D’Aerthe throughout the years, most of it distasteful and cruel. They were cutthroats and vagabonds, leeches who fed off the wealth of Lolth’s children. Houseless drow who forsook their oaths and their families for less honorable pursuits, as if killing for coin was somehow less honorable than killing for power. 

A tenday ago, Rismyn would never have considered approaching them. But now he himself was houseless, and he found himself far more sympathetic to these marauders than he had once deemed possible. He could only hope they would feel just as sympathetic towards him. 

There was only one way to find out. “I’ve come to bargain.”

The woman burst out into laughter. “Bargain? Please. This is a waste of time, Kal.” 

Kalos glanced at her with a slight frown. “If you’re going to be rude, you can leave.”

Surprisingly, she snapped her jaw shut, and though she glared at the male, she did nothing to put him back in his place. Rismyn didn’t know what to make of it. He would’ve been beaten within an inch of his life if he had spoken like that to any female in the presence of his sisters or mother. His awe and fear of the male before him increased, and it was an effort not to look away when Kalos returned his attention to him. 

“What’s your bargain?”

“Supplies,” Rismyn said. He tried not to let the criticism of the woman get under his skin, but it was difficult. He knew what a precarious position he was in, and her scorn only heightened his awareness of it. “I’m in need of supplies. A patrol pack, healing potions, and four tendays worth of rations.”

“Oh, is that all?” the mercenary said dryly, which reminded Rismyn that it wasn’t. 

“And a map!” he added, trying to look and sound more confident than he felt. 

The male’s brows rose, and he folded his arms across his chest. “A map to where?” 

Rismyn was just about to say, when he remembered with whom he was dealing. The last thing he wanted was to tell these sellswords where he was planning to go. Pearl already said she had business with his mother, he could only assume that business was him. “To...Blingdenstone.” 

Again, the woman burst out laughing, but she silenced herself when Kalos glanced her way. 

“A traveler’s bounty and the roads to our nearest enemies, the Deep Gnomes.” Kalos summarized. “Why, Master Tear, it seems as though you don’t intend to return to your darling mother. She’s quite worried about you, you know.” 

Rismyn remained very still. He had no trouble sorting out the veiled threat under the sarcasm. Whether or not Matron Xatel had actually approached the mercenaries with a bounty, he couldn’t know, but that wouldn’t stop them from returning him to her if he said or did the wrong thing. “I just need supplies,” he repeated, rather than hang himself with too many words. 

“And what are you offering as payment?” 

Rismyn had his answer ready on his lips. “Information.” He’d had a long time to think about it, and this was his best bargain. With no gold or valuables to trade and no credit left to his name, he figured all he had to sell was his family. A decision he never once second-guessed. “I can tell you the secrets of House Tear, in exchange for supplies.” 

“Can you, now,” Kalos mused. “Such as…?”

He was prepared for this and had the perfect secret to offer as a show of good faith. “Such as Cathella,” he started. “She is--”

“Was,” Kalos interrupted. 

“What?” 

“She was,” Kalos said. “Surely you know, right? No?” He grinned as Rismyn only stared. “She’s been dead for almost a month now. Happened before your little flight out of Tier Breche. Didn’t anyone bother to write and tell you?” 

“No…” Rismyn said, unable to hide how the news unnerved him. His eldest sister, the heir to his mother’s seat, was dead, and he’d not even known it. That seemed like an important thing to know, considering the power vacuum it would have created for his other four sisters. He had even seen Toloruel, and his brother hadn’t bothered to say anything about it. Perhaps he had been planning on it? Somehow, Rismyn doubted it. 

“A pity, too,” Kalos shrugged. “She was quite fetching. I enjoyed doing business with her, although, I suppose that could be what got her killed.” 

“What do you mean?” Rismyn snapped, not sure from whence his anger came. He had no love for Cathella, no care for her life at all. But something about this mocking, blue-eyed drow gloating over her death grated on him. 

Kalos waved his hand dismissively. “It’s irrelevant to our business now. Unfortunately, though, this doesn’t bode well for your bargain.” He sighed and looked genuinely disappointed, though Rismyn didn’t believe it for a second. “After all, how reliable would your information be, five years outdated? No, sorry, you’ll have to pay with something else.” 

But Rismyn had nothing else. He didn’t even have an eldest sister anymore. Judging by the way Pearl was staring at him like a haunch of meat, he probably wasn’t going to have a life much longer. He stood rigid and straight, trying not to let his fear or anger show. “Then I’m afraid the lady was right,” he said, though he clenched his jaw as he said it. “I have wasted your time. I am truly sorry.”

He turned towards the door but got no further as Pearl suddenly appeared in front of it. “Such a hurry,” she crooned. “Someone needs to teach you how to relax, little boy.” 

“Let me pass,” Rismyn said, then added belatedly, “please.” 

“My gracious you’re adorable.” She put a hand to her hip and glanced past Rismyn. “Can I keep him, Kal?” 

“Not unless he wants keeping.”

“But I found him,” she pouted, as if she were entitled to some kind of right to his freedom. 

“Now, darling, are you trying to make me jealous?” 

“Depends…” she cocked her head to the side. “Is it working?”

“Not in the slightest.” 

“Damn.” 

Rismyn had enough, his anger surpassing his fear, daring to make him reckless. “What is it you want with me?” he demanded, whirling back to face the male.

“Profit,” Kalos said easily, unperturbed by Rismyn’s outburst. “And I suspect you might want to hear my offer.” 

“I have nothing to bargain with if you don’t want my information.” 

“You have your life,” the mercenary replied. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the value of that, if I were you. It’s evidently worth at least four hundred gold pieces.” 

The sum total given made Rismyn pause. He didn’t quite know where Kalos was going with this. He was either on the brink of mortal peril or the brink of getting what he came for, and he couldn’t tell which would satisfy the rogue more. 

“Ah, I see I have your full attention now.” Kalos put his feet down, leaning forward. “Let’s begin again, and make sure we understand each other.” He rummaged through some papers on his desk, found a document, and offered it to Rismyn. “This is our first offer, regarding your life.” 

Rismyn took the document, scanning it quickly. Someone wanted him dead for four hundred gold and alive for five hundred. It was an odd feeling, seeing his life translated to coins. He flipped the page over but there was no seal or signature. 

“My mother?” He guessed, feeling numb. 

“Oh, no, that’s from House Olyrr. Not a serious offer, of course. Just a formality in the wake of their son’s murder.” Kalos grinned. “Have to keep up appearances, and all. Really I think you did Matron Sistella a favor. She wasn’t very fond of Gylas. Her secondboy has far more promise and potential, and he’s only eight.” 

Rismyn was starting to feel sick again, a sick feeling he had lived with for a long time before he finally left the drow with Mazira. Amazing how just a few days away from this coldhearted society had altered his perspective. He set the document back on the desk, but Kalos was offering him another one. 

“This is your mother’s offer.”

Rismyn took it woodenly, and didn’t bother to read the flowery words that his own mother had written to condemn him to oblivion. He merely found the sum; eleven-hundred gold pieces for his head. Just his head. Evidently she had no interest in the rest of him. 

“I see,” he said, handing the document back. Well, at least he was worth something to her, after all. 

“Wait, it gets better.” Again Kalos offered another document. “That one is our best offer yet.” 

Rismyn couldn’t fathom who else would possibly want him dead, even more dead than his mother, until he saw the note. The writer of this offer had no qualms about signing their name at the bottom; the bounty had come from Toloruel. 

“A hundred fine cut fire-opals from his personal treasury,” Kalos recited as Rismyn read the words. “Spoils from his surface raids. But only if we bring you to him alive, so he can flay you himself.” 

“He’s offered a rough diamond if we recover his pretty little faerie, too,” Pearl added. “Quite a fortune, all things considered. You must have really hurt his feelings.” 

Rismyn’s grip on the paper tightened until he crumpled the whole thing into a ball, dropping it at his feet. He could stomach his own life reduced to riches. He would not suffer for Mazira’s to be. “So why did you bring me here?” he asked, turning to the woman. “Shouldn’t you be collecting your rewards by now?” 

“I told you already,” Kalos answered for her. “We’re looking to gain a profit.” 

“What does that mean?” Rismyn snapped, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. 

“It means,”  Kalos replied, still in the same patient tone, “that we at Bregan D'Aerthe see value in the things our matron mothers’ discard. Now listen closely and think carefully, because I will only make you this offer once.” The mercenary waited a moment, and when Rismyn said nothing, he nodded with satisfaction. “If you want supplies, you’re going to have to earn them. I have a job that needs doing, and you’re fit to do it. In exchange, we’ll outfit you accordingly for your journey.” 

Rismyn blinked slowly, sifting through the words. He couldn’t quite comprehend how that scenario would turn a greater profit than the opals his brother was offering. It sounded a little too good to be true. “What’s the job?” he asked. 

Kalos smirked. “Now you’re asking the right questions.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small stone. “The task is simple,” he said, tapping the stone with his index finger. A miniature illusion of a priestess appeared over it, rotating slowly. “This woman has made herself a problem. We’ve been asked to take care of that problem.” 

“An assassination?” Rismyn said, not sure why he sounded so surprised. 

“Correct. Eliminate her, and we’ll see what we can do about your requested items.”

Rismyn looked from Kalos to Pearl, then back to Kalos again. Something didn’t feel right about any of this. “Who is she? What’s she done?” 

“What does it matter? All you need to know is that she stands between you and your freedom.” 

“She’s a priestess of Lolth,” Pearl added, and her tone was bitter. “What hasn’t she done?” 

“Now, now, darling,” Kalos chided, “we don’t hold grudges, remember? They’re bad for business.” 

By the flint in Pearl’s eyes, she did not agree. 

“How does this turn you a profit?” Rismyn asked, unable to shake the feeling of wrongness from him. 

“That’s for me to worry about, not you.”

Rismyn was growing frustrated again, but this time he held it in. “So let me get this straight. If I do this job for you--” If he just murdered this stranger for him “--then I’ll get my supplies, and you’ll let me leave in peace?” 

Kalos looked thoughtful, then nodded. “More or less.” 

“More or less, what?” Rismyn pressed.  

“A quick learner.” Kalos smiled, his strange blue eyes glittering. “Yes, what you said is correct. The ‘more or less’ is in reference to your supplies. We’ll judge what the job is worth when you complete it. Regardless, we will allow you to leave here in peace.” 

“And if I refuse?” Rismyn asked, though he suspected he knew the answer already. 

“Well, then the ‘leaving in peace’ bit might be coming off the table.” 

“You could always let me keep you,” Pearl chimed in. It seemed her previous bitterness had been short-lived. “Though you’ll have to figure out something else for your little faerie. I don’t share.” 

Rismyn chose not to acknowledge her. He was beginning to suspect he wasn’t supposed to be taking her seriously. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?” 

At this, the mercenary looked offended. “Because I’ve given it. And that’s the best guarantee you’ll be receiving.” 

Oddly enough, Rismyn actually believed him. Perhaps it was just desperation tricking him, but it wasn’t like it truly mattered. There was no choice at all, in the end. Just the illusion of one. 

“Alright, fine,” he said at last. “I’ll do it.” 

Kalos grinned, leaning back in his seat. “Wonderful. We have a bargain. Pearl, go fetch the lad something to eat. I expect it's been a while since you’ve had anything good to sustain you.” He waved his hand out in front of him, and another chair appeared out of thin air. “Sit, Rismyn, and I’ll brief you on the mission.” 

Resigned, Rismyn sat, feeling like he was signing a contract with a devil. It was just one priestess, he told himself, and then he’d be free. More importantly, Mazira would be free.

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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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Stories by Sarah Danielle
Stories by Sarah Danielle
Original Fantasy stories written and recorded by me—Sarah Danielle. Current work: Forsaken by Shadows. Inspired by the work of R.A. Salvatore, this redemption tale is set in Dungeons and Dragons' Forgotten Realms setting. This dark fantasy story follows the story of a young half-elf girl as she struggles to survive enslavement to dark elves, and the drow prince who finds his life radically altered the day he meets her.