1A/N: Expect slower updates, between work and college. I'll do my best for a chapter a month, or biweekly. Elvish translations at the bottom.
Valen
He was never quite comfortable with this darkness. Even though he could see, it still felt suffocating, somehow. What few lights the temple had did little to lift that feeling. Indeed, the sights they illuminated were little better. The temple had long since been given over to Eilistraee and her worshippers, but Lolth's touch could still be seen. The silvery flames of the braziers before the dais flickered, their meager light sending shadows creeping away, crawling over the carvings of spiders that had been etched into the black stone of the pillars.
The altar on the dais had been sanctified, and the spiders scratched out to be replaced with two slender drow, both male and female, dancing bare skinned under a crescent moon, but he could still see bloodstains upon the altar's surface.
They had done their best to get rid of them. The red had faded to a dull brown, hiding in the etched grooves of the altar, but the stain stayed, as if it had become a part of the stone itself.
Not even the Seer had been able to wash it away.
Sometimes he feared she would never succeed.
"Ah. Valen. What memories darken your brow this day?"
He had been waiting for her, but had not heard her enter the chamber. That was another thing he had never become entirely comfortable with, and suspected he never would. She stood quietly behind him, the brightest thing in this black room. Her gown was the same silvery-white as her hair and it shimmered as it caught the pale flames, reflecting them back into further light.
"None, Seer. Only thoughts of the war to come."
She stepped forward to stand beside him, tracing her hands along the altar. Her face was placid, and clear of worries.
"The end draws nearer with every moment. We will do what we must, when we must." She looked up at him with the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. "Do not borrow troubles, my dear Valen. We have enough for a tenday."
His tail flicked with agitation, though he tried to hide his annoyance. He had tried for so long to be as she was, to be tranquil without being apathetic, to be merciful without being naïve. He almost succeeded, at times. He had come far, no doubt. And yet—still—always, that restlessness, that anger, simmered just beneath the surface. He took a breath, and slowly let it out.
"I know this, Seer. Has there been any word from Nathyrra?"
The Seer shook her head, eyebrows furrowing for a moment in what might have been the slightest concern.
"No. But I have faith that she will find who we seek, and bring her to us safely."
His tail flicked again, harder this time, and caught the edge of the altar painfully. His lips drew into a grim line, and his eyes narrowed.
"You are convinced, then, that this woman of yours will sweep in and save us all?"
He had tried to keep his voice even and calm, but even to his own ears, he could hear the undercurrent of anger. He winced, but the Seer only gazed at him quietly.
When she spoke, there was no reproach in her tone. Only gentleness, and somehow that was almost worse.
"Eilistraee has led me out of the darkness before, Valen. Many times. Have faith that she will do the same for you."
He looked again at the altar, at the carved moon upon it, and the red stains in the cracks. No gods had ever led him out of any darkness before. Only the Seer had seen fit to reach down and drag him out.
Two saviors in a lifetime seemed unlikely.
Della
The black smoke surrounded Della, the heat and grit sending tears streaming down her face, leaving pale tracks through the dirt. It smelled of burning hair and skin, a stench so foul she could barely breathe. Screams resounded in her ears—men and women, children, horses—an endless cacophony.
There was blood. So much blood. It ran in rivulets down her hands, mingled with the tears on her face.
Alaric. She had to find Alaric.
He was the only thing that mattered now. He was all she had left.
Nothing else. No one else.
She looked up at the tower before her, the craggy stone standing starkly against a flaming sky. She stretched out a bloody hand towards it—and then it was gone.
She stood in a grove of trees, lit by the moon, with her hand stretched out to a starry sky. The moss and grass beneath her bare feet was soft and damp with dew. A pond lay before her, the surface still and smooth as glass.
The air was cool against her skin, and she breathed it in deeply, the scent of fir and glacier lilies filling her lungs. She took a step closer to the pond and peered into it. Her reflection stared back at her. She was bare as the day she was born, pale-skinned and pale-haired, so much like her mother that for a moment, she ached to see her again.
Wake up.
The breeze seemed to whisper in her ear, hissing the words sharply.
A night black figure rose behind her reflection, moonlight tearing on the sharp edge of a blade.
Her eyes flew open and she gasped for air.
She rolled to the side as the dagger sank into the bedding, catching the sheets and tearing them. She heard a feminine voice swearing in a language she'd heard before, long ago but would never dare to forget.
Drow.
There was a hissing screech next to her head, and a wild fluttering of blue wings as Syolkiir took flight from the pillow. The drow woman lurched forward to grab the dragon, but her hands met only emptiness as he vanished with a small pop of sound, like a bubble bursting.
Della twisted in the blankets, kicking them off her, and lunged toward the distracted drow. Her fist met the side of the woman's head with a loud crack, and she crumpled backward off the bed and to the floor. Della followed her over, straddling the woman.
The dagger was still sunk into the bed. Her own blade was in its sheath, stashed underneath the bed and far out of reach, now that she was on the other side.
But it didn't matter. She'd never been unarmed.
Della seized the smaller woman by her neck, clenching tight even as the drow's fingernails dug into her skin, sharp as claws. She felt the Weave, just beyond sight but always in reach, and grabbed one of the threads.
Power surged through her, as if she'd grabbed the tail of a comet. Her hands lit aflame, and for a moment, there was terror in the red eyes of the drow. And then there was nothing but smoke and charred skin, and a gurgling scream.
Then the door of her room slammed open, and there was another scream.
The innkeeper's daughter, Tamsil, stared at the scene, her brown eyes wide and her mouth hanging ajar, until she was startled out of shock by Syolkiir reappearing beside her soundlessly. She collected herself quickly and rushed forward, wringing her hands in her apron.
"Are you alright, Miss?"
Della pulled her hands from the ash that was once a drow, then with a frown, wiped them clean on the torn bedding.
"Better than I might have been, I suppose. I'll be better still once I've dressed."
"Oh! Of course, Miss. I'm so sorry." She blushed a bright red, and turned away as Della reached for her clothes. "Papa will want to speak with you about this. You're not the only one to be attacked like this, in the middle of the night. In Waterdeep, of all places! By drow! I can hardly believe it."
Della fastened the laces of her breeches, and pulled her doublet over her head, then fastened the dark leather jerkin snugly around it. She considered the warmth of the room for a moment, then shrugged and slipped the half-cloak over her shoulders anyway. It was a bit warm for it, but she hadn't spent months enchanting and stitching runes into the fabric just to leave it behind on account of the climate. She hesitated for another long moment, fiddling with the necklace that lay in the pocket of jerkin. She had left it on the dresser the night before. Then she sighed, and fastened it around her neck, tucking it under her doublet. The stone pulsed warmly, disconcertingly against her skin.
It was an ugly thing, but it had saved her before. It wasn't as if she could leave it behind, anyway.
Tamsil was still breathing apologies with her back turned.
"I'm just so, so sorry Miss. We're a respectable inn, and Papa knows about the dangers, lately! We've even hired guards! I can't believe this happened. He's going to be so upset about this, I know it. I-"
Della cleared her throat, and did her best to smile kindly at the girl as she peeked her head behind her shoulder.
"All's well that ends well. I'll not have you worry about what didn't happen. Would you be so kind as to run and tell Durnan that I'll be down shortly, please?"
Tamsil bobbed her head up and down nervously, but stayed still, as if she'd been stuck to the ground.
"Oh! Of course!"
Then her eyes widened again, as if just understanding, and she rushed away, her face once again an unparalleled shade of crimson.
Della sighed and pulled her hair back, nimbly braiding it into a tight crown. Syolkiir alighted on her shoulder and nuzzled into her neck, his gauzy, iridescent wings tickling the skin.
"Oh, now you want to be near me, cin dilthen nadhor?"
She glared at him playfully and he shrunk back meekly. She felt regret seep into her mind, with flashes of fear and surprise, then more sorrow. She sighed, then reached out a hand and stroked his scales.
"It's alright, mui dilthen mel. No harm done."
His tail curled around her back, and his claws grabbed hold as she knelt down to take her dagger from beneath the bed then rose again, strapping it to her hip.
She cast a glance back at the still smoldering body of the drow. Someone would need to clean that up. But not her.
She still had a mad wizard to find, and a favor to beg.
Elvish Translations
cin dilthen nadhor: you little rat
mui dilthen mel: my little love
