The Sun Will Find Us

by accursedelf

Summary:

How Sarith Kzekarit ended up in a cell in Velkynvelve.

---

He thought the key to escaping his wretched home city lay in making himself discreet, average, uninteresting. Unfortunately, light often finds those that lurk in the shadows of the powerful.

(Out of the Abyss Prequel/Character study).

Notes:

If there’s not much content for your favorite characters, you have to create it, right? Sarith Kzekarit became an important part of my group’s run for Out of the Abyss. This is an attempt at giving him some backstory.

Though I won't go into extremely gruesome detail, some dark themes may not be listed. Tread as you will, reader! That aside, if you'd like to read a happier story with Sarith, I aim to post one in the future. Things get better for him when our campaign rolls around!

Chapter 1: The Hand that Feeds

Chapter 1.

…

Inorum lo’athi, uvrastes.
In darkness, there is opportunity.

...

“I trust you will represent us well at the academy.”

It is not so much a statement as an order.

Sarith trains his gaze on the wall. Not one to challenge the Matron or show discontentment, the second son of House Kzekarit holds his silence. He kneels, as expected, blanking his mind and expression of any thought or emotion a spell might reveal. His leather armor gleams with fresh wax, where magelight turns the spiderwebbed patterns silver. A short steel blade weighs at his hip. Tucked beneath his collar, the family pendant burns like ice against his skin. 'Remember your place', it whispers. 'You are a prince in name only.'

Every son receives this speech before he enters the warrior’s academy of Melee-Magthere. Elsewhere in Menzoberranzan, young Drow warriors, noble or common, tremble in their boots as their mothers lay the mantle of family honor upon their shoulders. Oddly, no tremors quake Sarith’s form this day. His pulse is slow. Steady. He has prepared for this. Today, he merely walks from one web into another where peers become allies or enemies. The academy shall not differ much from home, he knows. He has survived this far.

Matron Zuknari Kzekarit waves a hand as though brushing away an unpleasantry. She casts an imperious shadow in robes of violet webbed silk and the frost of her narrowed gaze sears into Sarith even at a distance. He bristles against the chill. “The Weapons Master believes you are competent with a crossbow, in spite of your mediocrity. See to it that his judgment is not misplaced.”

“As you wish, Matron.” The words leave his lips, as always, sounding farther away than Sarith stands.

Built more lean than solid, the young warrior holds no notion other fighters will find him threatening. If Sarith plays the ruse carefully, slinking shadow to shadow, he will survive the trials of Melee-Magthere and graduate. He will take a position as far from the city as possible. The promise of escape rouses trepidation, and his skin itches with promise. Far from here. Out of this cavern. Such things have only seemed as dreams to him, ephemeral as the shifting faerie fire in the skull braziers lining the manor's interior. Sarith dares not hope for more. 

 

As Matron Zuknari bids him to rise, Sarith straightens. The faintest of smiles tilts his lips. “I shall not disappoint.”

 

...

 

Melee-Magthere carves an ugly shape in Menzoberranzan’s skyline. The dark pyramid squats beneath the spider-shaped clerical academy of Arach-Tinilith, ringed by magelight. To the west, the spiraling wizard towers of Sorcere pierce its shadow. As small as the fighter’s school compares, it rises through the cavern haze. Taller, stronger, more severe are its edges up close. 

 

As Sarith approaches, the nerves he lacked that morning jitter through him now. His stomach turns. Dozens of young Drow fill the courtyard in a sea of sharp swords and sharper smiles. They wear armor finer than his. As he scans the crowd for a way to slink past them, he pauses at the shift in the air.

 

Before Sarith takes another step, a solid form barrels into him, bowling him over. The impact punches the air from his chest. By some grace, Sarith misses the descending stairs and crashes into one of the statues lining the courtyard. Blinking, he gazes up at the condescending scowl of a past war master carved from obsidian. The statue’s face wavers. As Sarith twists free, pain jolts down his spine. He rolls into a crouch and grasps for the knife at his belt. 

 

He knew to expect something like this: older students picked off the weaker, the lesser. 

However, when he turns to face his attacker, he pauses. A boy with twice Sarith’s bulk lumbers to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. His red glare pierces past Sarith and into the smug, too-pretty face of another noble with white hair well past his waist. 

 

Shaking out his fingers, the noble boy scoffs. “If this is the might the Duskryn family boasts, the Grand Melee is surely won already.”

 

“So declared by a Vandree.” The muscled one–Duskryn–spits to the side. A series of braids pin back his hair and fall to mid back. He stands one head taller than Sarith and the son of House Vandree. 

 

Either wary, curious, or eager for bloodshed, students cluster in close and hover around the ring of space separating the two nobles. Tension charges the air. Trapped between the statue and throng of other warriors, Sarith sighs. Already a fine start to the day. He can do little but watch this unfold. 

 

Curiosity replaces his ire, as, rather than throw a return punch, Duskryn grins. “Whom do you intend to bribe for your place in the Grand Melee, esteemed Elderboy? Does my House reputation frighten you?”

 

Vandree sniffs. “Brute strength alone will not win you any favors among the Academy Masters.”

 

Sarith wracks his brain to rank the boys’ two families after the Ruling Council of Menzoberranzan. Vandree held a coveted place among the top eight Houses. They were once lay nobility, yet clawed their way to power within a half-century over their rivals. The Vandrees now walked as royals. While House Duskryn only ranked ninth, their family possessed a cruel and sizable militia. Few other Houses made enemies or allies of the Duskryns, fearing the consequences. A challenge to either boy would prove foolish.  

 

Still smirking, Duskryn scoffs. “Nor arrogance. I’ve seen you fight. House Vandree keeps better warriors among their iblith .” 

 

Vandree’s face contorts in an ugly scowl at the comparison. Iblith –refuse, filth lower than the shit scraped from the pens of rothé in the city’s agrarian district. To imply the goblin and kobold slaves of his household wielded better prowess in battle—it’s little surprise when Vandree draws his blade. 

 

Sections of the crowd part–some moving closer, some backing away. Scanning left, then right, Sarith weaves back toward the ironwork wall surrounding the school. Blood drips a line between his shoulder blades. The sharp pulse of his wound sobers him, but Sarith finds his steps slowing, hesitating with the odd tightness in his chest. Curiosity. Eagerness.

 

Before Sarith can take the wiser path and leave , Vandree hurls himself at Duskryn. 

 

Vandree snaps forward, tossing his sword sheath aside. His first swing arcs toward Duskryn’s skull. Metal screeches as Duskryn’s bracer catches his blade. Vandree strikes again, ignorant or uncaring he occupies the taller boy’s range. Grinning, Duskryn knocks the shortsword away with a forearm block and twists, slamming his other palm into Vandree’s chest. The noble boy stumbles back. A wave of students parts around him, but Vandree finds his balance.

 

“Is that what you were hoping to show me?” Duskyn sighs. “I’d hoped an Elderboy would be less predictable.”

 

With a growl, Vandree resumes his stance. He sweeps in again in the span of a breath, a blink, drawing the second blade from his belt. Duskryn is ready for him. This time, steel rings against steel. Their swords clash. Again, again, again . As Vandree telegraphs his strikes, Duskryn blocks him blow for blow, never taking the offensive except to overpower the smaller warrior or redirect his sword. 

 

Sarith holds one collective breath with the crowd. What is this fool doing? As well as he knows the base forms and techniques of combat, this is something else. Vandree fights enraged; Duskryn, amused. Neither boy goes for the kill. 

 

Duskryn laughs. “Come now, I’m even…” Dodge . “...Leaving you…” Parry . “Openings!” He dances in and out of Vandree’s reach, pulling back just as Vandree sweeps in. Baiting him. The smaller warrior gasps, winded. They circle each other. Vandree’s sword wavers in his grip like a sheaf of paper. 

 

“All that agility and you still can’t hit me? This must be embarrassing for you,” Duskryn retorts. 

 

The next time Vandree swipes toward him, Duskryn kicks out, knocking him down. Vandree rolls with the movement and twists his blade as he rises, gouging a wound across Duskryn’s thigh. Red eyes widen. Duskryn stumbles. His blood patterns the ground.

 

 “Is it?” Vandree’s smirk carves a fresh gash in the dark. Crimson stains his teeth. As rough as he looks, Vandree rises with grace and poise. Was that an act to make Duskryn reveal his style?

 

“Lucky shot.” Raising his chin, Duskryn tosses aside his weapon. “I need no blades to beat you.”

 

Vandree sneers. They lunge in again. Duskryn throws a hook toward his opponent’s jaw. Vandree blocks with his opposite forearm. Something cracks. With a wince, Vandree twists and smashes his palm into the other boy’s ear with twice the speed of his first strike. Duskryn snarls and staggers back–one step, two. In the next breath, Vandree is there, snapping jab after jab into Duskryn’s weak points: chin, gut, under the arm. Indigo blood stains his knuckles and streams down his bracers. Vandree’s grin turns feral.

 

When the third hit deadens his arm, Duskryn waits. He pivots one foot to the side. Then, as Vandree launches in, Duskryn catches him around the torso with his good arm and turns, throwing Vandree off the mark. The moves are minute, precise to account for the other’s agility. Still, Duskryn gasps, his wounds bursting heat across the infrared spectrum. His focus wavers.

 

As Vandree rights his footing, the glint of a blade catches Sarith’s eye. 

 

There.  

 

The noise and lights and movement of students across the courtyard grind to a halt. They flicker, wavering with the sludge of Sarith’s own heartbeat in his skull. Sarith isn’t sure why he does it. He harbors no sympathy for brutes–certainly not those as arrogant as Duskryn. Perhaps it’s the wound weeping into the armor he cut, prepared and riveted himself; having no luxury of affording his own. Perhaps, his prior humiliation. Perhaps it’s this foolish display delaying his class.

 

When Vandree lunges, the smallest of shadows catches his ankle. A rock? A boot? A crack in the pavement? Vandree flails, stunned. His perfect white hair billows a stream behind him a split second before his startled, perfect face greets the flagstones of Tier Breche. A dagger clatters to his side. Some students gasp. Others stare. After a pause, Duskryn doubles over and guffaws . Laughter and jeers burst from the other students like the innards from crushed insects. As the esteemed Elderboy of Vandree rises and threatens to send them all to the Demon Web pits, his nose gushing blood, two Masters of Melee-Magthere carve their way through the crowd, barking orders at the others to disperse. The owner of one mysteriously-placed boot is already slinking away.

 

The world around Sarith resumes its usual pace. Drawing back into shadow, the young warrior allows himself the briefest smirk. 

 

A fine start to the day, indeed.

Chapter 2: Threads the Web

Notes:

Hey, thank you all for your lovely feedback on the first chapter! And thanks for your patience with updates as well - my current schedule doesn't allow me to write as often as I’d like. I love reading your comments and hearing your campaign experiences with the Underdark. I wasn’t expecting such positive reception on this, and hope to bring you some nice content!

(Please note: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence, military indoctrination, conditioning, and religious fanaticism. There are verbal mentions of xenophobia. While none of these will be portrayed in a favorable light, not everything may be tagged.)

…

 

Chapter 2.

The Hand that Feeds
Threads the Web

…

Nindyn vel’uss kyorl nind ratha thalra elghinn dal lil alust.
Those who watch their backs meet death from the front.
(Drow proverb)

...

As the young warriors enter the academy, twin doors seal them in with a resounding thunk that rattles down every corridor. At first, darkness greets them. There is a pause. Moments later, violet faerie fire floods the chamber, creeping down the obsidian walls and filling each geometric pattern carved into the stone. Dozens of red eyes dart around the chamber. Studying. Analyzing. Noting the lack of exits. Sarith reminds himself to breathe.

“Starting today, you shall fight and conquer for the Spider Queen,” a voice proclaims.

Every gaze in the crowd snaps to where Melee-Magthere’s Loremaster emerges at the top of the stairs. He’s a lean, squat, grizzled old Drow. He squints at his new students in a way that suggests poor vision–not that anyone would dare remark on it–and the lines around his scowl deepen like crevices in the Clawrift as he takes in the new recruits. Rather than braids of rank, we wears his hair bound in a topknot. The Loremaster has dedicated his life to bringing Menzoberranzan’s sons to greatness, and any past titles he held cease to matter.

When the old Drow turns, the recruits know to follow him. There’s a swift precision to his steps. Every movement is purposeful. Every breath, efficient. Soon enough, the students know they will be expected to meet that standard. The Loremaster leads them past combat halls and classrooms. Statues of famed warriors flank them on both sides; and whether made from stone or metal, the faces here prove no less dour than those standing sentinel in the courtyard of Tier Breche. With no windows in sight, the building resembles a maze. The next hall reveals more of the same. And the next.

Sarith gazes between doorways and walls, mapping the school as he walks. The Loremaster launches into a lecture on protocol: no speaking in class until addressed by a superior, no leaving school grounds unless sanctioned, no drinking, no betting, no brawling (this one accompanied by a look thrown back at the boys), and so on. After the first thirty seconds, Sarith tunes him out. Every so often he checks over his shoulder for any sign of Duskryn or Vandree. Seeing neither boy, he relaxes–somewhat. 

It’s possible no one saw him trip the oafish son of a royal House. Sarith doesn’t wish to think of where Duskryn and Vandree were taken or how they were punished. It’s not his concern. The warriors here scent fear like blood in the water. Sarith knows he can afford no weakness. No apprehension. As the recruits turn a corner, the wound in his back matches his pulse. Dried blood itches beneath his armor. Sarith endures it, as he endures everything else, in silence. 

Just get through today, he tells himself. The next shall prove easier. 

Melee-Magthere’s main hall splits left and right, east and west; the eastern branch travels in a squared pattern that follows the pyramid’s angle. It’s dull in design. Predictable. Sarith knows he isn’t as trapped as he feels, but his senses snap to every sound and sense when students brush too close. Sweat gathers at his temples. 

To the Loremaster’s ire, the herd of students flocks to the archway of a long combat hall, where darting, leaping silhouettes of older warriors clash blades and shields. Sarith finds himself among them, drawn to the ring of adamantine steel. He can’t help but steal a glance at the older students and their weapons. The exquisite hilt designs of rapiers catch the light like silver coins. Pairs of Drow in fine armor read and counter one another’s movements to near perfection--lunge, parry, retreat, strike, riposte, and back–-dancing and weaving around their opponent’s blade with deadly accuracy. 

If Sarith wielded something so fine, surely his swordplay would flourish! Perhaps he could-–no. No, he is not here to stand out. He smothers the thought before it continues any further. 

As the Loremaster finishes rattling off the names of academy masters, he sighs. “The punishments for ignorance and inattention include…” That recaptures the students’ focus. As the young recruits shuffle back into the corridor, the Loremaster grates, “Keep your eyes in your skulls. You’ll have no need for your weapons your first fifty days here.”

A wave of indignance ripples through the crowd, silent, and the same question gnaws at Sarith when he falls back in step. No weapons? Are we not being trained for war?

“Before you go forth to conquer in the name of the Spider Queen, you must learn why we fight,” the Loremaster states. He halts before a set of doors thrice his height. As he faces the students, twin slabs of ancient stone groan open. A void yawns open behind him. “Our people possess a long and wretched history as deep and twisted as the mithril veins of Toril. We boast great victories for the Spider Queen. However, what you shall hear today will spurn your hearts to action and follow you on every step of every journey you take beyond these halls. Until this class is complete, we allow no weapons past these doors. We must remember first we are Drow. You shall learn what that means.”

For a beat, there is silence. Some students square their shoulders and stand proud, defiant. Others toward the back trade dry scoffs or dry looks–they know the ‘histories’ of Menzoberranzan well enough. Sarith, for his part, says nothing. These lectures will be more of the same prattle he knows from childhood. 

When the Loremaster steps aside, the students bite their tongues and enter the main lecture hall one at a time. Cold air blankets the room. The walls scale out into the tiers of an inverted pyramid. Rows upon rows of stone-slab seats extend into the highest, darkest reaches near the rafters. As the Drow file in, the very stones seem to leach the warmth from their bated breaths. Two assistant masters of Melee-Magthere stop each warrior at the doors to turn over his weapons. One student hands them a sword. Yet when that student strides into the room, he freezes in place. Six small blades fly from his boots and bracers, then twist to hover in the air around him like spokes on a wheel. The blades waver mid-air. The line of students halts behind him. Not blinking, not daring to draw breath, the lanky boy trembles. 

“The most important lesson you shall learn here….” the Loremaster speaks into the silence, “...is discipline.” With the last two words, he curls his hand into a fist. 

The six hovering blades flit past the student and sink into the floor tiles. He gasps. Moments later, his scream pierces the hall. Clapping a hand over his right ear, the boy falls to his knees. Blood spurts under his hand and drips down his forearm. Plink. Plink. Plink. The students around him stand deathly still. Held as the boy was, their gazes directed to the shape of two fingers at his feet—far away from his left hand. 

Sarith freezes. The boy’s blood reflects sapphire in the chamber’s blue magelight, oddly shimmering. It is not me. It is not my concern. An arrogant recruit disobeyed an order. Sarith repeats this to himself, biting the inside of his cheek until the revulsion settles to something numb inside him. Sarith has witnessed worse punishments in the city’s central streets, in his own home. Consequences far worse than a severed limb.

When the Loremaster orders two assistant school masters to fetch a potion for the injured boy–-the reek of festering wounds would interrupt his lecture–-time seems to resume. The assistant-masters bow in unison. Then the Loremaster faces the room. “And to you lot: do not force me to repeat myself again.” 

The line proceeds without further incident. As the remaining students shuffle into the room, a second class follows.Then a third. Five hundred Drow fill the lecture hall before the assistant-masters return with a health potion and gauze. No priestess accompanies them. When the injured student protests, he’s told to hold his questions, dignity, and severed appendages until the end of class for proper healing.

Sarith passes his sword and crossbow to a school-master, bows, and ascends the stairs to find a seat on the middle level; here, he’s neither too close or far from the speaker. Sarith scans the rows of students again for Duskryn or Vandree. No luck. If either fool is here, they blend into the grey stones and shadows of the lecture hall. 

“Welcome to your new home, recruits,” the Loremaster begins. “I am Judicator Szorn. Today you begin training in service to the Spider Queen under the masters of Melee-Magthere. Today’s lesson will be familiar to all but it is prudent we return to the basics.”

The chamber holds its silence. Only Szorn punctures that barrier, his words arrows fired into the core of every Drow present. “Lolth decrees that fear is as strong as steel.” He pauses, clasping his hands together. “Learn it. Repeat it. Remember those words in your moments of weakness. Though fear is your weakness, it makes for a powerful tool.”

Over the next four hours, the Loremaster weaves a familiar tale: the scorn of the Elven god Corellon, the fall of Lolth, the rise of her spurned people. Szorn paints the struggles and triumphs of Menzoberra the Great in vivid detail as Menzoberra founded their city, traversing miles and miles of caverns with seven noble Drow families. The trials of the city’s first ten-years. Endless battles against mind-flayers, Duergar, Svirfneblin, beholders, and countless other denizens of the Abyss. Szorn then speaks of perilous raids of the surface, their future battles proclaiming vengeance for Lolth. 

“Our divisions of wealth and House names are only illusions. Here, in heart, in soul, you know your loyalty. Your destiny, as the Chosen of the Spider Queen. You are the divine instrument of Her hand, a weapon to be wielded by the lowest ranking priestess to the most Revered Matron Mother on the Ruling Council. You are Drow. Only united do we have any chance of reclaiming our Legacy and conquering the vile world Above.”

Szorn paces the length of the hall, curling his hand into a fist, meeting the gazes of students in the crowd, raising his voice to great heights. If not for the nature of his role, Sarith would assume the Loremaster cast an enchantment upon them all. Within the first half of the lecture even the most impassive students lean forward in their seats, clenching their jaws and grumbling dissent. Some tremble. Some curse. Rage quakes through the crowded chamber. Any student taking notes ceased long ago. Every young Drow shares in this anger–the helplessness of their position, scorned from the surface world and damned by the Seldarine. They are connected by suffering. And the Loremaster seizes upon that resentment. 

Throughout the lecture, Sarith feels a sneer twist across his lips. His brows ache from the strain of holding a scowl for an interminable amount of time. His shoulders bunch tight. Sarith blinks and breaks the spell. As he peers around the room, the faces of frowning students warp in the shadows. Many tense as if preparing to leap from their seats. Hundreds of red glares dart between Szorn and the weapons racks. Thankfully, no one moves toward them.

Sarith considers the no-weapons rule, and sighs. No matter what he feels, the fury the Loremaster stokes isn’t his. Exhaustion replaces his rage. As the lecture bleeds into background noise, Sarith fights the sudden heaviness in his limbs. There comes a vile, invasive sensation–eyes on his skin. Fear seeps in. Had Szorn noticed his inattention? When Sarith looks up, the Loremaster’s back faces him. 

Then something soft strikes his hand. Blinking, Sarith looks down at a folded piece of paper. Unfurling it, he finds it blank.  

What is this?

“Hey,” a low voice ghosts against his ear.

Sarith nearly jumps out of his gods-damned skin.

 “Whoa, don’t panic! Look up.”

Against his better judgment, Sarith complies. It takes a moment to notice, but the glint of a silver ring catches his attention. A familiar grin flashes above it. A muscled boy with silver braids gives him a not-so-subtle nod across the room. Duskryn. 

“Before you ask, I’m not reading your mind. A good friend in Sorcere gave me a Message ring. Convenient, no? ”

Sarith just gawks at him. The dread is slow to creep through his veins. He hesitates. Leaning on his elbows, Sarith laces his fingers together–the image of an attentive student. He considers ignoring Duskryn. Finally, he replies, “Drow don’t have friends.”  

“You could. If you know where to look.”

Ice slides down Sarith’s spine. Two words skip through him, notes of a death knell. He knows. 

As the Loremaster strides in front of Duskryn, the voice in Sarith’s head falls silent. Shifting his focus back to Szorn, Sarith joins Duskryn in feigning attention to the Loremaster’s lecture. Reaching down, Sarith retrieves a blank scroll from his bag, pawing through his supplies for a quill and ink. He hopes Duskryn will drop the subject. That Vandree suspects nothing. Vandree could lurk anywhere in this crowded chamber scanning the students for his mysterious assailant. Sarith wants nothing more to do with either Elderboy or the High Houses of Menzoberranzan. No more than his future requires.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

For the fifth time that day, it requires all of Sarith’s restraint to remain neutral. 

Duskryn, damn him, smirks again at Sarith across the room, speaking behind hands folded in the image of concentration. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’ll stab me in the back as soon as he gets the chance. Typical Elderboy.”  When Sarith holds his silence, Duskryn continues. “I don’t care to uphold that standard on the first day here. You helped me today. And you possess a skill I could make use of.”

“As great an honor as it may be, I care not to serve as your cushion, the next time you fall,” Sarith grouses.

Laughter echoes through his mind. Duskryn’s eyes flash. “Nothing quite like that. You’re quick on your feet. Train with me for the Grand Melee.”

Sarith’s pulse slams against his sternum. “Why.”

“You look like you could use the backup.”

“I don’t seek any help.”

“Not now,” Duskryn singsongs. “But you may find a friend useful later. Shoor isn’t kind to those that interfere with his image.”

Shoor. Vandree, Sarith realizes. “Vanity won’t help anyone survive here.”

“No, but reputation carries weight.”

“You seem to have yours well handled.”

“Exactly. I could use a sleuth. Someone well versed in the shadows,” Duskryn explains. 

Sarith arches an eyebrow. “There is no shortage of Drow here with that skill.”

“Indeed. But few of them are as entertaining,” Duskryn laments.

Sighing, Sarith straightens in his seat. He’s already regretting his next words, knowing his only choice lay between making an enemy of Vandree sooner or later. At some point, the arrogant elderboy would find out who tripped him. “...what do you propose?”

Duskryn’s smirk is practically gleaming. “After the lecure, meet me before training.”

Chapter 3: And Weaves Our Forsaken Fates

Summary:

Jorlan corners Sarith with a proposition.

Notes:

Hey, I’m back, 3 years late, with coffee and more Drow shenanigans! Thank you a million for your patience with updates for this story!

Please note: Not everything may be tagged. Not many warnings for this chapter; it features mostly ridiculous rich boy posturing and some combat, and Sarith is going through it. Shoor is lowkey homophobic (booo!)

[Cast]

Sarith Kzekarit
Second Son of House Kzekarit, 33rd house of Menzoberranzan
Allies: Faen T’labbar

Jorlan Duskryn
First Son of House Duskryn, 9th house of Menzoberranzan
Allies: Vandree (loosely)
Enemies: Fey-Branche, Melarn

Ilvarra Mizzrym
First Daughter of House Mizzrym, 5th house of Menzoberranzan
Allies: Baenre, Xorlarrin
Enemies: Faen T’labbar

Shoor Vandree
First Son of House Vandree, 8th house of Menzoberranzan
Cousin to Asha
Allies: Baenre, Duskryn (loosely)
Enemies: Barrison Del’Armgo, Fey-Branche

Asha Vandree
Cleric of House Vandree, 8th house of Menzoberranzan
Cousin to Shoor
Allies: Baenre, Duskryn (loosely)
Enemies: Barrison Del’Armgo, Fey-Branche

-

[Drowish]
Abbil: friend
Kr’athin, alu!: Advance, go.

The Hand that Feeds

Threads the Web

Chapter 3. And Weaves Our Forsaken Fates

 

…

Bel'la zhah nindel vel'bolen elggar uss, lu'faldunan jalbyr.

Honor is that which kills one, and flatters another.

(Drow proverb)

...

 

Training, as it turns out, involves the opposite of blades and battle that Sarith expects. In their first fifty days at the academy, the masters forbid the students from even touching practice weapons unless they carry one for an older student. 

 

Loremaster Szorn dashes any hopes Sarith has of vanishing into a routine. 

 

The masters herd the youngest students of Melee-Magthere into the combat hall and pile their hands with cleaning supplies—rags, mops, buckets, dry cakes of soap. Then the students spend their first evening scrubbing the training hall top to bottom. They repeat this process the next day. And the next. While the wealthier first-years complain about the grueling work, Sarith carries out his task in silence. He finds it preferable to cleaning the family chapel as a page-prince. 

 

This work is not his penance before Lolth. It is discipline.

 

An ache builds in his knees and lower back. His wrists throb. But here, no priestess stands over Sarith with a scourge whip. Old memories scatter phantom pain across his back and thighs where old scars would have formed—if not for the healing magic that erased them. Matron Kzekarit left no scars upon her children. They revealed imperfection. Sarith exhales sharply. More pieces of his old self to wash away. He lowers the washcloth into the soapy brine, spreading water over the obsidian floors. He scrubs the same tile until the memory settles into a pain behind his teeth he can bear.

 

This is not penance, it is discipline.

 

Sarith knows his years here will become ghosts, old memories. He will not recognize himself by the end of his time in Melee-Magthere. He welcomes that. A mind clear of worry, of everything, of himself. 

 

He stares so long into the puddle beneath his hands that he forgets where he is cleaning. His mind sails adrift by the time a shoulder bumps into his, nearly sending him face-first into the soap bucket. 

 

“Whoah!” a familiar voice startles. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

 

Scowling, Sarith twists to the right. 

 

Jorlan Duskryn, heir of royal and infamous warrior-family House Duskryn, flashes him a grin like they are old comrades. The dagger-points of his canines glint in the young warrior’s sight. “You seemed lost in thought,” he remarks. “You didn’t hit your head too hard in the fall, did you?”

 

Sarith bristles. This damned fool will paint a target on my back. 

 

The first few days of Melee-Magthere have progressed how Sarith expected: ruthless instructors, endless lectures, brawls between students; everything except the attention of another House Prince. Jorlan is trouble. Shifting to a new spot along the training floor, Sarith returns his washcloth to the bucket. With a tone as cool as the rafters of Arach Tinilith’s inner chapel, Sarith inquires, “Was there something you needed, Prince Jorlan of House Duskryn?”

 

‘A moment to speak,’ Jorlan signs in the Drow silent code. ‘What I mentioned in class earlier.’

 

Beneath the student’s murmurings and the clash of blades in another training hall, Sarith’s fingers snap quickly, ‘I must decline the alliance you seek for the Grand Melee. Whatever business you have with House Vandree’s Elderboy, I want nothing to do with it.’

 

“It’s a bit late for that,” Jorlan remarks aloud, when Sarith averts his gaze to the floor. Jorlan nods. “You missed a spot.”

 

Sarith lets out a slow breath to compose himself as returns to his task, but keeps his attention on Jorlan. Casual, but alert. To his annoyance, Jorlan slaps his bucket down beside Sarith’s and takes over the tile next to him, scrubbing in haphazard circles like he’s never cleaned anything in his life. Maybe Jorlan hasn’t, Sarith realizes. Perhaps Matron Duskryn disciplined her favorite son less; or Jorlan thought he could achieve the luxury of laziness here, where strings held him in a higher web of influence.

 

‘I appreciate the effort to protect your own ass, but you already drew attention to yourself,’ Jorlan signs again to Sarith.

 

If this conversation lasts much longer, Sarith suspects a Combat Master will notice. He ducks lower into his work, replying silently. ‘I wasn’t trying to shame Vandree–...’

 

Those thick silver brows raise. ‘Were you aiming to trip and humiliate me, then?’ Jorlan gestures vehemently. ‘To get either of us killed?’

 

“No,” Sarith hisses aloud.

 

Jorlan hums, and dunks his rag in the soap bucket again. ‘Shoor hasn’t singled you out himself, but he will. A bit of mischief turns deadly.’

 

‘Why do you want my alliance in the Melee?’ Sarith asks a second time. His shoulders tense, every part of his body locking against his mental command to relax, and appear calm. Apprehension leeches out of his every pore, flattening his ears back against his head.

 

‘Exactly what I told you before,’ Jorlan says. ‘A sleuth.’

 

Scoffing, Sarith resumes his task. ‘You hardly require my aid to place first in the tournament. I’ve no desire to be fodder.’

 

A slow smirk overtakes Duskryn’s face. ‘Yet that is precisely what you are.’

 

Sarith freezes mid-scrub. His breath is a clenched fist between his ribs. To his very marrow, he knows this as truth, but to hear it stated aloud by someone with more power and influence than anyone in his House stings. The voice of House Kzekarit’s Weaponmaster creeps in, “To those warriors, you will be little more than another scurrying rat to be crushed. Stay hidden during the Grand Melee. Take down your enemies at a distance.” 

 

With a shaking breath, Sarith crushes everything down. Down, down, down, until the helpless rage settles in his veins with small jitters. Slowly, he asks, ‘And what does that matter to you?’

 

“Back to work.” Sarith and Jorlan both jerk their heads in the direction of the Combat Master. The old instructor’s crimson glare moves their way. Before he stalks over, Sarith ducks back down and redoubles his efforts to make the opaque tiles shine. A dissatisfied huff signals the Combat Master’s retreat.

 

‘There.’ Jorlan smirks. He shuffles to sit back on his knees. ‘You’re perceptive. Quick. That’s why I think you could help me win.’

 

Still working in his crouch, Sarith continues surveying the room. ‘What was your fight with Vandree about, anyway?’

 

Jorlan stifles a laugh that rustles the silver braids around his shoulders. ‘Why, the one thing we all fancy most, Sarith: a fierce and fair maiden, with a future.’

 

That grabs his attention. Sarith gawks at Duskryn, surprised the Elderboy admits his affections so plainly. Young men of Menzoberranzan knew to their very marrow it was their duty to be pursued, not to pursue matters of the flesh and heart. The risks of openly courting a priestess invited creative kinds of torture, a blade through the eye socket the least of such offenses. 

 

Jorlan’s signs become fluid as he traces delicate, admiring words in the silent code, ‘The first daughter of House Mizzrym is a powerful cleric and warrior. The strongest in her class at Arach-Tinilith, if the rumors have any merit.’ Torchlight flares in the taller boy’s crimson eyes. ‘And she is exquisite.’

 

As much as Jorlan lingers on the end of his statement, expectant, Sarith remains quiet. Sarith knew of House Mizzrym, renowned for its wizards and illusions, Fifth on the Ruling Council. However, its First Daughter remained a mystery to him.

 

Finally, Jorlan relents. His entire posture changes, somewhere between sullen and hostile. ‘Shoor Vandree also happens to fancy her. He wishes to win Ilvarra’s favor in the first Grand Melee of our class…and every year after.’’

 

Hells below. I am going to die if I keep associating with this Drow. 

 

‘I see,’ Sarith echoes. It takes some willpower to keep the statement neutral. Of course Jorlan can afford to waste his breath on such foolish infatuation.

 

Jorlan nods. ‘Now you understand my predicament. It’s not merely a matter of pride to win the Grand Melee. I must humiliate and defeat Shoor thoroughly…without taking his life. Lady Ilvarra mustn't think me a brute.’

 

‘I don’t suppose you have other allies in mind already?’ Sarith inquires.

 

‘I do,’ Jorlan confirms. You shall meet them, and I shall help train you in all manners of combat you lack.’ A small smirk curls his lips. ‘Should you agree.’

 

As if there was any other option.

 

Feeling anxious heat swell his features and gather sweat along the lining of his tunic, Sarith dips his head in a shallow nod. What other choice did he have? If he refused Jorlan, the Elderboy could orchestrate his humiliation, showcase his weakness;, or inform Shoor Vandree of Sarith’s interference in their spat. If Sarith accepted, he stood a slim chance of surviving the next ten years of Grand Melees ahead of them. 

 

‘Most excellent! I think this marks the start of a legendary friendship, don’t you?’ Jorlan says cheerily. He crosses a fist over his chest. ‘May we conquer and triumph together, abbil.’ His ears twitch back against his head. ‘Ah…what was your name again?’

 

Sarith scowls. Aloud, he says, “Sarith, of House Kzekarit.”

 

Jorlan’s smirk returns. “Hah. That almost rhymes.”

 

…

 

The next forty-seven days unfold in a pattern: rise, endure Loremaster Szorn’s lectures, polish the Combat Halls top to bottom, bathe, sup upon gruel, and return to the Dorms for rest. 

 

During this break, Jorlan shakes Sarith awake and leads him back to the Combat Halls. They meet in the practice weapons’ storage room. There, Jorlan drills Sarith in attack-forms until Sarith’s arms quiver under their own weight, and the backs of his thighs scream. After the first ten-day, Sarith wakes himself on time and meets Jorlan on his own. The small storage space forces him to adapt to close combat. Thirty nights in, Jorlan demands Sarith instruct him in crossbow techniques. 

 

Over the next ten-days, Sarith improves his footwork. He no longer flinches at the clash of a blade against his, a grapple, or an opponent’s attempts to rush him. Jorlan achieves better accuracy with his crossbow aim, and learns how to keep his back straight. 

 

The two Drow barely trance four hours each night. But they manage. 

 

And enough nights in, the rumor mill begins to churn.

 

…

 

On his fifty-first day there, whispers follow Sarith into the combat hall. They don’t stick to him, however, until his self-appointed training partner beckons him over. Jorlan Duskryn has the audacity to wave . Sarith bristles. He would never grow used to this attention.

 

Swallowing his nerves, Sarith weaves through the groups of chittering students and forces a bored expression. Jorlan passes him a practice blade.

 

“Finally,” Jorlan exclaims, “Our first day of actual training!”

 

As several other warriors gaze their way, Sarith fights the urge to shrink under the attention. Turning his back to them, he fixes Jorlan with a look. “Well? Let us begin.”

 

The shorter Drow aims his blade in an arc between Jorlan’s neck and shoulder. Jorlan pivots, blocking easily. Before Duskryn can lecture him for telegraphing his strikes again , Sarith reverses direction with a low strike to Jorlan’s opposite leg. He repeats the series of swings as a warm-up drill: high strike, low strike, one, two, three, four. Catching on, Jorlan meets him blow for blow. The pattern meant to loosen their wrists for later bouts. With lower-tier swords as practice weapons, the warrior-students grew accustomed to their blades’ weight without wasting quality steel. The risk of injury or death remained. 

 

Jorlan finds enough sense to hold his words until the other Drow pair off for first drills. Ringing steel, pit commands, and battle cries fill the hall. The Combat Master barks orders, correcting students’ stances and technique as he paces the length of the floor. 

 

“Kr’athin, alu! ”  

 

Jorlan and Sarith shift from warm-ups into a free-form spar.

 

Catching Sarith with a strike that jars him all the way down his forearm, Jorlan raises his eyebrows. Sarith grits his teeth. A challenge and a taunt. How such an open, expressive fool survived the politics of the Menzoberranyr elite, Sarith could only guess. Duskryn’s next attack binds their weapons together at the hilt. 

 

“Better,” Jorlan jeers. “Remember what to do?”

 

Sarith remains silent. He disengages, twists his sword under Jorlan’s, and slides back to reset his stance. His pulse thunders against his ribs, behind his teeth. With thoughts and calculations swarming his brain--where is he open, where is he weakest, what is his range at this distance–-Sarith narrowly dodges his opponent’s lunge-strike.

 

Jorlan adjusts the angle of his blade as he weaves, agile, scanning his shorter opponent for an opening. “Tsk. You had the perfect opportunity for a point, in that bind! A mere wrist-flick is all it would take!”

 

On reflex, Sarith narrows his stance.

 

Jorlan suddenly advances on him with quick, aggressive blows. Sarith staggers to block. Each step devours the distance between them. “Sarith, Sariiiiith! Will you play this evasion game forever, or actually practice what you've learned?”

 

Clenching his jaw, Sarith falters to parry the taller Drow’s blade. His sword whiffs through the air. It’s all Sarith can do to keep hold on the hilt. His right arm flounders.

 

Jorlan’s cuts are clean, confident. Once in range, he sweeps Sarith’s front leg out and advances with a stab, sending the smaller Drow crashing onto his back. One breath later, the steel of Jorlan’s blade grazes Sarith’s throat. Jorlan raises his chin. “The bout is mine,” he declares.

 

Slowly, Sarith meets the other warrior’s eyes. Jorlan withdraws his blade and offers Sarith a hand. Huffing, Sarith rolls to the side and rises, ignoring Duskryn’s hand. He dusts himself off. 

 

“Hm. There is plenty of work ahead of us.” Examining the shiny surface of his sword, Jorlan smirks. Light flicks off the blade and shatters against Sarith’s chest like an omen. “Again.”

 

They reset. Sarith dives back in, driving Jorlan back with a series of sharp sword strikes. They continue like this for another round, and then two, until sweat polishes their brows, exertion weighs their limbs, and the sea of students drifts in around them.

 

“Hold,” a sharp, sniveling voice demands. 

 

Huffing, Jorlan smirks. He lowers his weapon, red gaze traveling over Sarith’s shoulder to the boy behind him. “Elderboy Vandree,” Jorlan greets, all saccharine-sweet, chilling Sarith to the bone. “ Praise Lolth, you honor us with your presence, abbil! Are you here to bestow your House’s blade-wisdom upon us?”

 

Sarith freezes. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

 

“Jorlan,” Shoor growls. He shoulders past two of the students forming a ring around Sarith and Duskryn. “I see you’re recruiting underlings. Do you fear for your hide in the Grand Melee so soon?” 

 

Nope. Sarith scuttles back and into the throng of gathering Drow.

 

“You’ve been watching me closely,” Jorlan tilts his head to the side, short silver braids spilling over his shoulders. He gestures toward the gathered students. “Does my prowess in a warm-up drill really threaten you so?”

 

Shoor flashes his teeth. 

 

“If you craved a competent partner so badly, you need only ask,” Jorlan taunts.

 

“Scald your filthy tongue, and bite it bloody off!” Shoor snarls. “I care not to hear of your nighttime activities with yours.” 

 

Whispers disperse around them like spiderlings from a clutch. Chuckling, Jorlan shrugs. “Do such rumors and thoughts plague you so? No, abbil, I have merely shared knowledge of fighting forms among comrades, these past ten-days. As a proper leader should. The future Weaponsmaster of a royal House, even.”

 

Jorlan didn’t need to mention Ivvarra Mizzrym. A look between rage and open longing flashes witchbolt-quick across Shoor Vandree’s features. The shorter Drow storms up in Jorlan’s face, unmoved. Sarith makes a show of retreating back toward the rack of practice weapons, lifting blades for comparison; anything to put as many bodies between himself and these noble fools as possible.

 

“Lady Mizzrym will not suffer your presence after the Melee. Let us put an end to this. You will duel me. Now,” Vandree declares. 

 

“If it will put your thoughts of me to rest,” Jorlan taunts  again; though Sarith has come to recognize the twitch of the muscles in his jaw. Jorlan is bracing for a fight. He craves, in all ways, to paint his knuckles bloody against the delicate bones of Vandree’s stupidly perfect face.

 

“Attention,” the Combat Master calls. With the speed of an indrawn breath, every Drow in the room turns to face him. The combat hall falls silent. “Divide yourselves into two groups and prepare to simulate war tactics. I expect you to know the basics. If not, you will by the end of the hour. You are no longer in the comfort of your Weaponsmaster’s hall!”

 

Jorlan nods to Sarith. His fingers fly in a hurry in the silent code, indicating the half of the hall Shoor walks to. ‘Join Vandree’s team.’

 

Sarith gawks. ‘What?’

 

‘Just do it.’ Before Sarith can protest, Jorlan disappears into the crowd.

 

Predictably as Sarith saunters over, Shoor turns up his nose at the lesser noble. “Ah. A Duskryn acolyte.”

 

“Hardly,” Sarith sneers. “I tire of Duskryn’s preening.”

 

Shoor arches an eyebrow. He signs low, ‘Some say you wander off with him at night,’ he signs. ‘Hoping that fool will protect you?’

 

In spite of the panic spreading its spores within him, Sarith rolls his eyes. ‘I know where I stand. I wanted to train with actual weapons. The Masters have a habit of turning a blind eye to the more privileged students.’

 

Shoor studies Sarith for a long moment, then growls, “All right.” He jerks his head to the side, beckoning Sarith to join the warriors congregating behind him. “Let me show you how a real master works the battlefield.”

 

Sarith glances up, no longer spotting Jorlan among the crowd. He nods to Shoor, and falls into line with the group; Vandree begins pacing, assigns each Drow on his team a number, and a role to play in the battle.

 

When he reaches Sarith, Vandree grabs his shoulder, leans in, and mutters, ‘Sacrifice. You will join the frontline team, and charge the enemy on my command. Look alive. The back team will flank.’

 

Sarith’s blood chills. He will serve as Shoor’s distraction for this exercise.

 

What was he thinking, accepting Jorlan’s help? There has always been one truth among all others: He can only rely on himself to survive this.

 

And Sarith will adapt however he must.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! <3

Notes:

And here we are! Though this chapter focused more on surroundings, all future ones dive into Sarith's mind and story.

Thank you to my dnd friends who encourage my writing. And thank you, good reader, for your time :D