Shaklyri's Journal
Flamerule - 1372 DR
1 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Tonight, I went on the High Hunt. I cannot write much about
that experience, not and do it any sort of justice. I intend to try
with living words and music, but am still sorting out what happened and
how I feel about it.
We killed the bear that has been encroaching on one of the newer elven
settlements in the area, and have eaten much of him already. I played
for the priestesses awhile, then joined the dancing. I wonder if
humans dance as the drow do. I have been told that even those who
worship the spider-queen dance with the same desperate abandon as those
who dance for Eilistraee, and I think I shall be proud to carry drow blood
in my veins for that dancing alone. But how sad if humans, who are
privileged to live under the sun and stars without being feared by their
neighbors on sight, could not partake in such furious joy?
I was asked, as expected, to share a song. I sang "Tiny Child," and
it was so well received that I had sung two more songs before Iljrene could
convince them to let me eat. All the priestesses took turns singing
and playing, though most did so in groups. I had hardly finished
my meal when the people were calling for more of my songs. I sang
two more songs before Vlandril stepped in and announced that the children
had prepared a play. This was not a big surprise, as they prepare
one about once a year. This time, it was about the branding.
The ending was weak — the whole thing was weak, but they are children,
not poets — so I followed it up with the elvish translation of justice,
then switched to flute and played the tune to "Demon, " which really should
be played on flute and gave me an excuse not to sing the words.
I was surprised when I opened my eyes (I close my eyes when I sing or play,
for some reason — It is a dangerous habit.) Tears gleamed wetly all
around the fire. There was an awkward silent moment, then Chalithra,
Liriel, and Zeerith came and gave me gifts — Gifts! From the community,
as if everything I have grown to be isn't enough for them to send me into
the world with! As if I can even begin to thank them properly for
the past twenty-three years! Mietza sends forth their uncertain daughter
with gifts! And no small ones either. The armor is as quiet
as I am in only my skin; the money they gave me cannot be less than a fortune,
given the small amount of coin we use; and the information Chalithra obtained
on finding my father. Chalithra started to tell me again that she
wished she could send me forth as a priestess of the Dark Maiden, but I
looked at her. I think she saw in my eyes my hesitation, because
she embraced me, then moved aside to let the others do the same.
I think I hugged everyone at the feast. I did not know my people
could be so demonstrative.
How can I leave them?
Notes:
Chalithra says my father's name is Darviss. He has blond hair (that
means yellowish), blue eyes, and a long scar running along his right jawbone.
He is taller than most drow, but not tall for humans, and has a slighter
frame than most human males she's seen. She says he has relatives
in Scardale.
2 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
It is so quiet here. In the Moonhallow, it is nearly impossible to
find a place to practice free of some sound of everyday life — and we pride
ourselves on being a silent people. I used to hunt all over for a
spot where no one could hear me practice, now I wish more than anything
for that intrusive child's giggle or the raucus, stupid humor of tired
friends. I have never slept without a familiar body across the room
or beyond the fire. I have never been alone before.
3 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I have travelled east for two days and two nights. I hope to hit
the river Duathamper or Halfaxe Trail in less than a tenday. I am
still travelling in late afternoon and evening — the moon is quite full
still, and a dark-skinned half-elf is less noticeable in the forest at
night. When I come out of the woods into the lands of men, I will
walk in the day.
It is cowardice enough to hide from hostile drow, how would it serve to
hide also from humans?
Halfaxe Trail should take me by Harrowdale Town, then on to Scardale.
On the maps, the distances seem so short, but I am already farther from
Mietza than I have ever been. I know now some of what Vlandril must
have felt as she journeyed through the tunnels of the underdark.
I, however, can go back if I find there is no life for me ahead, and I
thank the goddess for that: both the life left behind and the chance to
return.
The
Demon
4 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Rained all day today, and all night. I'm wet, pack's wet, bedroll's
wet. Journal's getting wet too.
5 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Crossed Moonsea ride
today. Damp and muggy.
6 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I am on top of a ridge. The moon is above me, waning but still shining
strong. I feel compelled to write once more about my experience on
the high hunt, although I do not understand what it is I am writing.
There were twenty-three of us gathered that evening for the hunt — twenty-two
familiar faces shining dark in the moonlight, twenty-two pairs of pale
eyes glowing like stars. Looking around that circle, I knew the curve
of every cheek, the point of every chin, the exact hue of every eye.
I could say which of the huntresses was calling my name without pausing
for thought. They were my mothers, my aunts, my sisters. I
knew them in the memories of my heart. Even during the brisk chaos of the
tracking, the faces and hands I read in the starlight were those of my
childhood, as familiar to me as my own. I knew my companions, despite the
distortions of light and shadow.
When the silence of the hunt was broken, however, when the blood of our
wounded mingled on the hillside with the blood of the bear and our song
of praise and thanksgiving spilled upward in the moonlight, I heard a voice
I did not recognize, yet felt I should; a voice as familiar as my foster-mother's,
yet as unknown as my birth-mother's. I turned and thought I saw pale
eyes in the dark forest. I blinked. There were no eyes, and
the voice was also gone. Could it be a trick of my eyes and ears?
Perhaps the excitement of the hunt racing through my blood had overcome
my senses. I am certain that is what the preistesses would have said,
so I did not mention it, but I have a musicians ear, I swear I had never
heard that clear voice, and I don't believe I heard it at the festivities
after the feast.
No one else has mentioned it, so I must conclude it was all in my imagination.
A small, somewhat arrogant part of my heart, however, wants to claim that
the voice sang then for my benefit alone. I do not know if I want
to believe it, or what it will mean if I do.
7 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Managed to eat only foraged and hunted food today. Dared to light
a fire: rabbit stew.
8 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I think my song of the High Hunt is as good as it's going to get for now.
The
High Hunt
9 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I have worked out a sort of practice routine. It's not as good as
having a living sparring partner who can surprise me, but it uses all of
my muscles and several of the basic attacks and counters. It is as much
dance as swordwork, actually, so I can challenge myself by setting the
rhythm faster and expecting more perfect execution. My main hope is that
it keeps me in shape; last night my sword felt heavy as I hoisted it onto
my back, which should not happen. If Rizzen ever found out I had let my
muscles atrophy that much, he would teach me better with the flat of his
blade. I am sore tonight; I will be more sore in the morning, but
sore is better than defenseless.
10 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I walked with my back to the sun all afternoon, the clouds returned before
moonrise. I found the river, and am following it to the trail. The
loneliness and silence are maddening. I cannot even safely sing. Asleep,
I see all the faces I left behind; I dream I am dancing with them, washed
in moonlight.
11 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I have reached Halfaxe Trail.
I was nearly caught today by a contingent of drow — House Jaelre, I think.
It is fortunate I heard them before they heard me, and also that I encountered
them in early afternoon, when the sun was still too bright for most drow
eyes. Triel is from House Jaelre. She told me once that they are
disrespectful to their females. She would not say more than that.
I know also that they are Vhaerun worshippers — I do not wish to be caught
by them.
It tears my heart asunder to write these words, for we are all drow.
We should not need to fear each other. I feel that I should go to them
and share the message of the goddess. "Yes," I should say to them, "we
do have a place on the surface, but it is not that of the thief in the
darkness, but of the hunter in the moonlight, the artisan, the singing
voice at twilight." I should follow them, tell, them, but I am afraid.
I still value my life over the goddess' work. Does this make me cautious,
or does it make me a coward and a fool?
How
long must sister fight sister fight brother?
12 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I had to leave the trail today to skirt an encampment of humans.
I climbed a tree on the edge of their clearing to watch them for a while.
I saw none of them with light hair. I wonder, is yellow hair as rare among
humans as it is among drow? If so, my task is made much simpler.
After I returned to the ground, I moved away from the little band. They
went about their lives as we did at Mietza. Thay can't have been
here long; they are still in tents, though they appear to be framing a
building of some sort. I left them a note, slipped into a sprung
game trap, warning them that the drow of House Jaelre are patrolling their
area and that their settlement is still highly vulnerable. I pray
they are not attacked. Dark Maiden, I feel so helpless!
13 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I must be nearly out of the forest by now. The trees are less tall
and closer together.
Through
the trees I travel
14 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I came out of the forest at moonrise this evening, though the moon was
almost completely dark. I take the timing as a good omen — a new
moon and a new phase of my journey. I made camp under the forest's
eaves and offered thanks to Eilistraee for bringing me safely this far.
I even played and sang a song for my goddess.
I suppose it was a stupid thing to do, to make so much noise on the edge
of open country, but I am so alone that even the sight of the tiniest sliver
of a crescent brings me joy and comfort I cannot express in plain words.
It is as if, as long as I can see the moon, I have a companion on my road,
and a part of me dares to believe it is true.
I rest early tonight. I begin my journey into the domain of the day-dwellers
at sunrise. I would not be taken as a thief in the night.
15 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I never knew the sky was so big! Always before the sun shone from the scrap
of blue sky high above even the tower trees; now I see a sky like a bowl
which bends down to touch the land on all sides. I am not sure whether
to feel sheltered or exposed, free or confined by it.
Though, as always, my eyes are able to see quite well in the sunlight,
my skin is not faring well. Always before I have felt the warm rays
of the bright star comforting; now my skin itches from hours without reprieve
from the relentless heat. There is not a spot of shade on this trail worth
the name. The few lone trees which interrupt the patchwork of fields
are scarce twenty armlengths tall and scrawny.
As I follow the trail, I see people, humans, mostly, bent over in their
fields, skin covered completely, even in this heat. I wonder if the sun
also makes their skin itch, or is it simply proper among them to hide their
bodies. Perhaps one or both of these reasons are why Kyrnill advised
me to cover up.
On the road today, I have seen other travellers. Most of them are
humans, who glance fearfully in my direction and pass by on the farthest
edge of the road. I also met two elves and a dwarf. The elves made
faces at me as though they would be sick and walked completely off the
road to be away from me — can they really hate drow so much? We are kindred!
Or is it the human in me they find distasteful? I did not stay on
the road to meet the dwarf, but turned off and sat under some bushes.
I'm not certain whether he saw me, but I did my best to appear harmless
anyway. Dwarves rarely consort with surface elves, by all accounts,
and their animosity toward drow is legendary.
16 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
The trail ran through Harrowdale town today. My original plan was
to give it a wide berth, but it was market day, and I couldn't resist taking
a closer look. Most of the merchants and shoppers were human, but
there were a number of elves, half-elves as well. I considered trying
to resupply at the market there. But decided against it. I have enough
food to make it to Scardale, barely, and I need to break cover once I'm
there, anyway.
Someday, I would like to return to this place. The people seem very
friendly — it reminds me of Mietza, only much bigger. I think I even
saw a tree house on the edge of town.
Note:
Blond hair is not uncommon among humans.
17 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Hot again. Skin is peeling off my nose, I wonder if that is normal.
More farms today, but fewer travellers. It is difficult to think
in this heat.
18 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Another warm day. I paused at a creek to bathe and wash my clothes.
There was a stand of trees just north of the road by the creek, and I sat
in their shade (in my woolen work clothes — had to bathe again) for a couple
hours while my black stuff dried.
19 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I have been skirting the smaller towns, but am beginning to run low on
field rations. I should stop at the next village, or perhaps in Scardale
Town, to purchase supplies. If they are friendly I also need to try to
make some money.
O'er
the road I ramble
20 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
There is much to write about this evening, which is just as well, as I
am in prison, and it was difficult enough to persuade the guards to allow
me my journal, pen, and ink. I am not even going to attempt requesting
my harp. I begin at the beginning, for there is too much to record
in order of import.
In the northern portions of Scardale I walked through a large grove of
trees, the closest to a forest I have seen since leaving Cormanthor, though
it spanned only a few miles. A marker on the roadside said I was five miles
from the town of Scardale when I noticed a figure lying prone in the middle
of the road. I ran to him, though I have little skill in healing.
At first, I didn't notice the man's light blond hair, bright blue eyes,
or the unusual scar along his jawbone. I saw only the spreading pool
of blood. He was breathing still, but erratically. I tried to stanch the
bleeding, but my hands were shaking and there was so much blood... Other
travellers came up, but by the time one of them said she could help, the
man had taken his last breath. It was only then that I realized why my
panic had been so profound: blond hair, blue eyes, slight frame, scar along
the right jawbone — this man could be my father. I couldn't save
him. I never even got a chance to speak to him.
The next hour or more is a fog in my mind. The local guard came and arrested
all of us who were at the scene of the crime. We were marched a mile
or two to a smallish villiage, where we were immediately put into prison
on suspicion of murder. They took each of us to a separate room,
where a priestess of Chauntea (I should know who Chauntea is, but cannot
seem to recall those hours I spent studying surface deities) questioned
each of us with some sort of truth-seeing spell. At least, I assume
so; she thanked me for telling her the truth — as if a half-drow has any
room to lie in the world of men.
After the priestess questioned me, she confirmed my suspicion that the
man I found in the road was Darviss. Then she said — and this makes
no sense at all to me — that I would not likely be left fatherless.
My regret is that I did not get to speak to him, but, even among us of
Mietza, it is not such a bad thing not to know one's father. Except,
of course, he is human and I need to know what that means.
I was taken back to the prison cell, where Eleni, the elf who had said
she could help, questioned me further. She would not accept my human
name, Hope, until she knew my drow name; then she chose my human name in
preference to the drow, though her argument against using Hope is that
she is not human. This tells me it was the drow that the elves I
met on the road reacted to. Eleni asked me if I know that drow are
evil — how does one answer that? She said to me, "I will call you Hope
as long as you please me. If you displease me, you will know it in
other ways." It is an unnecessary warning, of course. She is
my elder, and she carries herslf with the air of a priestess also wears
the Oak Tree sacred to Rillifane Rallathil. I do not dishonor my
elders. I was not able to explain to her properly about Eilistraee
and Mietza; I was too confused, and know of no way to begin the discussion
again without showing disrespect.
With us in this cell are two half-orcs, a gnome, and a young male elf.
I know little of half-orcs or gnomes, and they are mostly quiet this evening.
The male elf is no more than one- hundred-thirty, probably younger, with
hair like sunrise crowning his head and skin with a slightly golden sheen,
quite a contrast to Eleni's pale skin and purple hair. At least he
pays her proper respect as an older female.
So now, what remains to me? My father is dead, my quest ended, and
none of my questions answered. How am I to understand that part of myself
which is human without a guide? Alone, I will not last long enough to get
home; here, everyone is against me.
21 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
The priestess was right, I have not been left fatherless, but neither can
I trust the words of the one who I hoped would teach me what it means to
be human. This morning, the priestess of Chauntea (Farva, I have
since learned she is called) came to us and explained that we had been
absolved of the crime in the eyes of the law. She told us, however,
that a group of outsiders such as ourselves would remain suspect in the
eyes of the locals unless the real killer were found; it is for protection
against these common folk that we had been kept overnight. One of
the prison guards claims to be her son, and I suppose she trusts her son
to treat outsiders fairly and protect them from mobs.
Priestess Farva also gave me Darviss's sword. Somehow he had had
it enchanted so that his soul would come there to reside upon his death.
This means that I can at least talk to the man I had been seeking, but
he has already lied to me. He told me that Mietza had no one to care
for me when he brought me there, though I know that Vlandril had been there
a tenday or so when I was brought to her. He also seems to be certain
that I would have been sacrificed to Lloth if he had not rescued me; one
who spent years as a drow, as he did, should know better that it is equally
likely such a useful female child would have been kept alive as a surface
agent, and it still does not answer the question I was trying to ask when
I asked him why he saved me.
The priestess Farva suggested upon our release that we attempt to find
Darviss's murderer, if for no other reason than to increase our safety
in the village. Apparently most of this village takes Zeerith's view
of outsiders, and are unlikely to take the legal decision at face value.
We went, therefore, to the undertaker's to examine the body. I am
more certain now that Darviss is my father, for I can see the set of my
nose is as his, and our chins have that same cleft — though he is so fair
of skin I have trouble picturing him as a drow male, and he is taller than
I am. He tells me that he was able to blend in through a mixture
of disguise and wild magic, if I can believe that.
Upon examining the body, we determined that it was a crossbow bolt, but
could not be certain of the size of the crossbow. As Darviss was
likely to have many drow enemies, and the crossbow is a common weapon of
many drow warriors, the size could be significant. I have a vague
memory of pulling out the bolt while trying to stanch the blood, so we
returned to that place in the road where I first saw my father. There
on the side of the road, still crusty with blood, was the black-shafted
missile. Darviss says the coloration of the fletching (two black
feathers and one red) is like that of one of the tribes of spider-kissers
in Cormanthor, but he and I agree that it is highly unlikely that spider-kissers
would use crossbows large enough for this bolt, for while it is small,
it is nowhere near as small as the bolts used in a hand-crossbow.
I told this to my companions, and Eleni agreed with my assessment.
She found a tree whose bark had been scratched badly by climbing spikes,
and some deep footprints nearby — too deep, she said for any type of elf,
even drow, especially since elves should be better able to climb the tree.
I told her that it would be unlikely that most drow would know how to climb
trees well, but agreed that the footprints were too deep for most sorts
of elves jumping from such a height. I also said that a drow assassin
who should not climb trees would not have tried to hide in one; there are
better ways to melt into the shadows when you are small and dark.
We returned to the town, and discussed our findings and conclusions with
the priestess of Chauntea (I remember now, Chauntea is a goddess of fertility
and agriculture). She advised us not to make any accusation openly,
but to bring the evidence to her, and have her decide the best course of
action. This seems logical to me, though some of the others take
this as an indication of her involvement in a plot to kill Darviss and/or
frame us. One of these, though, is that half- orc, Grunk, towards
whom showing kindness has become very difficult for me; he shows respect
to no one, and is unwise enough to inflame the tempers of those in authority
without cause. He is a liability, perhaps more than I am. Asgar,
the other half-orc, I like, however; he knows when to let others with more
wisdom and less strength guide the group. I am still not sure about
the gnome, Shamil. She is not disrespectful of beings, but she makes
light of serious situations; it makes me uncomfortable.
I am beginning to feel how some of those accused with me regard me.
So far, I am encountering attitudes of distrust and enmity. It is
as if they regard all drow as hopeless causes. I have even heard
Eleni say to the male elf that there may be hope for me, as I am only half
drow. Darviss also said that he isn't sure he can trust clerics of
Eilistraee: he doesn't believe that a simple change in faith can change
the heart of a drow born in the underdark. It is hard to hear this,
as the more time I spent among these surface races, the more my heart longs
to return to Mietza and take my place forever in that community.
I cannot accept that those I have grown up around are evil, not with all
the good I have seen, and I will not abandon my dark kindred belowground.
If the cause were truly hopeless, the maiden would have accepted her father's
pardon instead of accepting the branding and the exile imposed on her mother
and brother.
I must head down to the common room of the inn in which we are staying.
The proprieter has agreed to allow me to perform tonight, and I need to
make use of my time in town to earn some coin and resupply, as my travel
rations are gone. I know drow music is deeper and sadder than that
human music I have heard, I only hope the patrons are in the mood for something
different tonight.
I have finished translating "Branded"
Branded
22 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I have tasted sweet and bitter since I last wrote. Sweet is seeing
that music may well bridge the gap between drow and those of the surface
races. While the tune of "the Demon" didn't seem to appeal to the
patrons of the bar, "Vlandril" and "Tiny Child" seemed to connect with
them; I have never seen so many tear-streaked faces in one room.
Eleni asked me not to sing tiny child aroud her anymore. She did
not tell me why, and I am trying not to become curious.
Bitter is waking in the middle of the night to fight off giant poisonous
centipedes.
Sweet is my father telling of his life, and me coming to understand that
he was misled by the elders of Mietza into believing that the settlement
was both much smaller and in a different place, and now that I know he
returned to drow society, I completely understand the precautions.
Bitter is being charged twice the value of field rations by a local merchant.
Sweet is Shamil offering to steal back the amount I overpaid, though I
am not sure that is the best way to deal with such problems.
Bitter is knowing that the captain of the guard murdered my father, yet
having no proof. It is also having people lie to us, so that justice
is effectively prevented.
Sweet is performing once again, even if my attempts to create an environment
conducive to public confession of guilt are a failure. Any way in
which I can make a connection with these surface peoples is a step toward
peaceful coexistence with them.
Bitter is being interrupted during devotions by a guardsman who thinks
singing and dancing in the moonlight are signs of drunkenness.
I must close my eyes on this bittersweet day. Tomorrow we go in search
of truth
Notes:
The bartender says that Walton, the captain of the guard, has been drunk
and depressed nearly constantly since losing his daughter in childbirth
six years ago, and in the last few days has been cheerful. Eleni
tried to get him drunk enough to publicly accuse Darviss of fathering the
child, but it did not work.
The apothcary, August I think is his name, claims not to know anything
about giant centipedes such as invaded our room last evening. The
town guardsmen, however, tell us that they regularly bring giant and poisonous
vermin caught near the village to the apothecary for use in making antidotes
to their poisons.
Justice
Flamerule
23, Year of Wild Magic
Today we got the proof we needed — Asgar, Grunk, and I convinced the apothecary,
August, to admit to selling trollshroom poison and giant centipedes to
Captain of the guard Walton. He also confessed to something regarding
dealings with some group of drow. I would have liked to know more,
but he is a coward, and after a half-drow had commanded him to speak to
a sword in her absence, then reprimanded him upon her return for ignoring
that order, he fainted. I decided, therefore, to remove myself from
the room during his interrogation, so as not to frighten him back into
unconsciousness.
While Priestess Farva was questioning August, Shamil, came trotting into
the temple holding a shaft which was the match to the one used to assassinate
Darviss. She had "found" it in a secret compartment in a chest by
Walton's bed. This was enough for Farva to question Walton, though he resisted
the idea. We finally had him on his way to the temple when Shamil
confided that there was an "intelligent spider" by Walton's back door.
Not wanting to take any chances, I went off to kill it (which I did, eventually,
though not right then. I don't think it was any more than a large garden
spider, but in Mietza we don't take chances). Walton began yelling
about how I had no right to walk on his property; I relpied that I felt
he had no call to speak about rights, as he had murdered my father, and
it was about then, I believe, when he attacked. Darviss was quite
happy with this, as it gave him an opportunity to visit a very painful
injury on his murderer. After his injuries had slowed him down enough
he could be captured, he began screaming at us. His screams included
a confession of murder.
It is strange for me, dealing with Priestess Farva. She is quite
unsure of herself regarding political or even civic matters. I suppose
Chauntea, as a goddess of agriculture, would have little reason to become
deeply involved in town politics, most of her followers would be more interested
in rural matters. Still, after drow priestesses, even those of Eilistraee,
it is strange.
Before all of this, I had some problems with Darious. When I woke
up, there was a snoring, drooling half-orc and a naked moon-elf in the
room with me. Still being tired, and not wanting to be drenched in
Asgar's spittle, I made my way out of the room (tripping over Shamil, who
spent the night guarding against giant insects) and asked Grunk if I could
rest in his room until I was ready to wake up. Grunk had no problem
with this, and said so, though Darius, who was studying his spellbook at
the time, apparently did. He ordered me out; I replied that grunk
had given me permission to rest on the bed. Then he LIFTED me off the bed
and dropped me on the floor in the hallway. He actually PICKED ME
UP without any permission to touch me.
I am quite proud of myself for keeping my temper at that point. I
simply returned to the bed and laid down for a reasonable amount of time.
When I rose, I left the room without a word, knowing nothing I could say
would improve the situation. As I was leaving, Darious mumbled something
like, "and stay out, abomination." For me, that was the breaking
point. I drew my sword as a warning, and he reacted with some spell
that hit me in the stomach and HURT! I am not sure if I would have
survived the encounter had Eleni not woken up and realized that she had
consumed so much alcohol she could not remember why she was naked in a
room with Asgar. She screamed, and we both ran to help her, thinking there
were more giant bugs.
Eleni says Darious is actually quite respectful for a surface elf of his
age, but I have trouble believing that. In Menzoberranzan, he would
have been dead long ago, in Mietza he would find himself friendless and
likely would have been imprisoned for accosting me. I am beginning
to think his problems with me are deeper than his disdain for half-breeds,
or even for drow. He seems to feel hatred from anger more than fear.
I have been given my father's remaining possessions. I'm not sure
what I want to do with them yet. There is a sheath for the sword,
a ring of undetectable alignment, some money, and a disguise kit.
At least the sheath and the money are useful.
24 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Now that Walton's sentence has been decided, August the apothecary is slightly
more willing to tell of his dealings with drow. He does not know
what drow group he has been dealing with, but he does tell us that they
are due to renew their contract at shieldmeet. This leaves seven
days in which I plan to retreat to the woods north of town. I do
not yet know a wide enough variety of songs to perform every night for
a week without repeating, and it might ease the tension caused by my presence
for me to be less visible for a few days. I am inviting my conpanions
to accompany me; I suspect they will want to make sure I am watched, and
it is better to offer the opportunity up front so that they know I am not
sneaking around on them. I am planning to meet my companions at the
inn on the morning of midsummer so that we might be prepared to determine
whether August's business associates present a danger to the community.
I am not inclined to let evil drow take advantage of these people, as much
as one or two of them may seem to deserve it.
I am noticing that these humans wear their joys and their sorrows as they
do their clothing. Their passions run as deeply as those of the drow, but
are not buried so far or so often. I admire these villagers, for
they communicate their feelings in ways we of Mietza would find awkward,
shouting their hearts' secrets with face, body, and tone. For me,
this is difficult to read. I am beginning to understand what my playmates
meant when they said the sun was so bright they couldn't see; if a human
wants to indicate that she does not know the answer to a question, she
raises an eyebrow, pulls back the corner of her mouth, lifts her shoulders,
tilts her head to the side, and moves both bent arms forward with palms
up. I, who can tell by the angle if a lifted eyebrow is a warning,
a query, or an invitiation, keep trying to interpret such overdone body
language as several separate messages.
As I write about how difficult the surface races, particularly humans,
are to read, I realize that I must be equally a mystery to them.
We are a quiet people, having forgotten how to allow ourselves to feel
and having learned to hide those emotions we have. We touch only
in moments of greatest intimacy, weep only in moments of greatest vulnerability,
and show anger not at all until our patience breaks. Perhaps I should
work harder at vocalizing my emotions, especially around Darious, until
I can learn this language of the surface world. In that way I may
perhaps avoid more misinterpretations of my actions.
I am also hoping to have some time to enjoy the festivities, and maybe
even learn some human songs.
25 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
It is nice to be out and away from the townsfolk again. I have spent
the last two tendays longing for a familiar or a friendly face, but have
found none. Even though I found my father, I hardly had a moment
to see his face, and even had it not been twisted in pain, I doubt there
would have been much love for me there.
The knowledge that Darviss fathered another child here in his home area
and never knew it disturbs me. Before, I had been prepared to blame
him for leaving me, for not keeping contact with me, but never for participation
in my conception. I assumed — probably correctly — that he had no
choice. The only way he knew he was my father, I would guess, is
that I was half-human.
Now, knowing that he fathered a child and had no apparent interest in the
outcome of that encounter, I find myself resenting him. There are
males in Mietza whose grestest sorrow is the lack of knowledge about any
children they may have, and my father, who enjoys the freedom of acceptance
among the surface races, knows little of his children, and cares less than
he knows! He also appears to regard the loss of the mother of his
child as incidental, showing callousness such as we of Mietza fight against
constantly.
My birth was the by-product of a role Darviss played while attempting to
do good. This other child, and the death of both child and mother,
are results only of Darviss's irresponsibility. I wonder if Walton's
daughter knew how easily Darviss would forget their encounter, or if she
expected him to become her consort upon his return. I wonder also
how many half-sisters and half-brothers I may have scattered around the
realms. It would be nice to have family, I think — blood family,
not just soul family.
Today I went hunting. I caught a couple squirrels — enough for a meal.
I also put myself through my sword exercises; Darviss thanked me for letting
him "feel the air." My muscles protested; while in the village, the
only time I had swung a sword in earnest was when we were subduing Walton.
I said something to Darviss about expecting Rizzen to rise out of the ground
and scold me for falling out of practice, and Darviss chuckled and asked
me to tell him of Rizzen, as it sounded to Darviss as though they might
well get along. I told him the litte I know: that Rizzen, wounded
in a surface raid, was rescued by Chalithra when Mietza was only
a few decades old, that he was a captain in a Menzoberranzyr house before
that, and of his children and his long-standing consortship to Quenthel.
I also told Darviss what I had seen of Rizzen's feelings for his own daughter
and son as well as for Quenthel's older son.
The half-drow sits alone by the fire, a naked blade across her knees, murmuring
into thin air. "So, do I have any half-sisters or -brothers running
around the realms? Or was Walton exaggerating when he said you bragged
constantly of your many — exploits I think he called them?"
She hears the now-familiar voice in her head. :There shouldn't be
any more. For many years I used an enchanted flask which produced
a liquid which made any female who drank it infertile for the next month.
Its loss, actually, is one of the reasons I had decided to make this most
recent mission my last.:
"And with my mother, is suppose, you had no opportunity to get it into
her food?"
The sword's words become high and short, as if it were made of tin, not
steel. :Getting it into her wine was not the problem. When
she called for her slave to bring her wine, however, she had plans only
for the slave.:
"... She never touched her drink, so I was born. I am sorry to make
you remember these things." The female looks up into the woods around
her, then laughs with a soft, tight chuckle. "I must be half human."
:Oh?:
"I just found myself wishing you were not a sword, that I might put my
arms around you and comfort you."
26 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I went hunting again today. No sign of Asgar, though I know he's
out here somewhere. I spent most of the evening speaking with Darviss.
Of his own parents, all Darviss would say is that I would be better off
not knowing any of my grandparents. That he would include his own
parents in the same category as a Menzoberranzyr noble and her consort
confuses me, for he must hate or fear them very much — perhaps both.
I also asked Darviss how it was possible for him to lie with a woman and
care so little about the fate of a potential child. He tried to explain,
but sounded as though he didn't really expect me to understand, and I don't
quite. He said that, for humans, sexual experience is primarily a
matter of pleasure, and that during his brief furloughs among humans, he
felt the need to remind himself of his humanity through participation in
pleasurable acts. It is very differnt from what I am used to.
Since sex is used as a means of intimidation and control as much as of
reproduction in the underdark, it takes a great deal of time for the accustomed
responses of fear and submission to fade enough for the natural drive to
reproduce to overcome them. Most males of Mietza to recoil the first
few times local females invited them to their beds; it should follow that
Darviss would find sexual activities, even with human women, uncomfortably
reminiscent of times when his considerable pride had to be bent or broken
by a predatory female of the underdark.
Unless sexuality is a much larger part of human identity that I had thought
(which would explain why they spread like wildfire). If so, it seems
that I cannot fully connect with that part of me which is human without
exploring and entertaining my own sexual urges, which I have carefully
ignored to this point. The problem is, I cannot risk sexual experience,
for that risks pregnancy, and I will not bring a child into a world that
hates her as it hates her mother.
I wish Darviss still had that magic vial, it could come in useful.
27 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I asked Darviss' advice on dealing with Darious today. He counseled
patience. I guess now I am too impatient for a sword.
:It might help if you didn't draw me at him.: the sword replies.
The half-drow glares at the blade. "I figured that. I need
to know how to respond to him, so that it doesn't come to that point again.
His reactions to me are unreasonable."
:He is hiding something. His anger toward drow is more violent than
most.:
"But I cannot counteract that anger if he refuses to tell me his reasons."
the female inhales deeply, and speaks each word as if it is its own thought.
"I have been so patient."
:He is an elf. They do not adapt quickly, which is why humans are
the dominant race on most of Faerun. I would suggest you respond to each
of his provocations with a simple, SPOKEN request not to judge you on the
actions of the rest of your race.:
"He PICKED ME UP," the half-drow's voice is frantic. "He carried
me bodily into the hall and dropped me like an armful of soiled undergarments.
And I did not touch him then. Maybe I should have; then he would
not be so eager to test my temper."
The sword is silent for a few moments, then it speaks softly, as if reminded
of some long- past fear. :You are not in Mietza, nor in Menzoberranzan.
There is no reason he should expect violent response to non-violent touch.:
Impatience
28 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
The moon is nearing fullness tonight, and I feel more alone than I ever
have. I have been out among the Others for near a turning of the
moon, now. I may have found chance companions along my way, but I
long for a truly familiar face — I miss the shimmer of moonlight on midnight-dark
skin; pale, shining eyes whose expressions I understand. I pine for
the comforting touch of my mother's gentle hand and the laughter of children
blessed with the leisure to enjoy their growing years. I also desire
the closeness of the hunt and the exhaltation of the dance — this frightens
me, for while I have always enjoyed the dancing, it is the sisterhood,
the inexplicable connection I now crave. As for the hunt, I have
only participated one time, and that evening left me feeling more than
I thought could be felt in a lifetime. Now, here I sit, empty, longing
to be overful to bursting as I was that one night. It frightens me,
for I think I know the name of that fullness, and I am afraid to need it.
I
Call
29 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
Today I asked Darviss to teach me to move like a human. At first
he hesitated, unsure of where to begin, then he decided to begin with the
difference between his normal movements and his movements as a drow.
He warned that the transfer would not be exactly right, due to gender differences
in both races, but at least I will appear more human.
Drow, particularly males, tend to make themselves appear as unobtrusive
and non- threatening as possible by drawing back, keeping arms close to
their bodies, lowering eyes, avoiding conversation, and a thousand other
subtle signs meant to discourage interaction during which they might say
or do the wrong thing. Those who flaunt power in the underdark nearly
always possess the power they appear to, though not always in the form
one would expect. In human societies, says Darviss, this posture
of avoidance is most common among those with no power whatsoever, though
in most human societies some amount of it is expected of females in particular.
Actually, Darviss said, many humans, especially males, act as though they
have more power than they do, something about establishing status.
Around these humans, Darviss reccomends becoming small and unobtrusive,
like a drow male, though he says he's not sure how my femaleness would
effect such swaggerers. I may appear too vulnerable by being quiet,
inviting unwanted attention, but Darviss warns that to continue in the
confident stride of a drow female in a non-submissive position would invite
more lethal attentions and perpertuate the perception of Drow as a violent
people.
I am realizing, though, that we ARE a violent people. Even those
of us who seek a life of kindness and compassion employ violence readily
when needed, and I wonder, how often is it truly necessary, and how often
is it simply the easiest or fastest path to a solution. This is not
to condemn my people. We know no other way of protection, and we
are, of necessity, swift, decisive, and somewhat paranoid. It will
be many generations before drow born and raised on the surface will be
able to live without analyzing every nuance of conversation for threats,
simply because it is what we learn from our parents, whose habits were
learned in the underdark, and whose mannerisms we will inevitably pass
on to our own children. What we must learn, in the meantime, is how
to temper our violence and share the peaceful side of our nature with other
races.
30 Flamerule,
Year of Wild Magic
I was a little nervous today, when I told Darviss about my faith in Eilistraee
and my suspicion that she is calling me to become one of her priestesses.
I know from his previous comments that Darviss doesn't particularly like
or trust the Dark Maiden's followers. I worried that he would object
to my faith, or at least to the idea that I might commit my entire life
to the goddess.
I suppose I should have given him more credit; after all, he has spent
much of his adult life among drow. He could not have survived that
were he not wary of everything and everyone, and he is no fool: he sees
that I could hold worse allegiences. He actually encouraged me to
follow the Dark Maiden, even if it means answering a clerical vocation.
Darviss confessed that he had the amulet on his sword enchanted to avoid
taking his place with the other faithless on the wall to the city of the
dead. He told me he has never been able to trust any diety enough
to consider himself faithful. I am sorry that he could not learn
to love some diety as I do Eilistraee. I wish that I could grant
him true peace, but he has made his choice; it is too late for me to help
him.
Note:
Hykos is Darviss' friend from childhood. He comforted Darviss when
whatever it is Darviss won't tell me about his parents became too much
to bear. Hykos was the son of two clerics of Tyr (human god of justice).
He left to become a cleric of Tyr around the age of fourteen, which is
young, even for a human. Darviss says that he was born to it.
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