Chronicles of the Last Komyn'illiam
The Chronicles of the Last Koym'illiam is what I called the group of stories I wrote about Jazira, the first character I played under the screen name mig08 on the Neverwinter Nights roleplay server, "Savage Frontier". I wrote most of her stories in first person, which is very rare for me, and I enjoyed them so much I ended up writing quite a few. Jazira was intriguing in many ways, not the least of which was that she participated in the first same-sex relationship I ever roleplayed. Jazira remains one of, not the, my most favorite characters.
What She Knows
Last Child of Her House
Reflections
Time Will Tell
Blasphemy
Will Try To Forget
A Hundred Deaths
Love & Legacy - by Hermetic Ways
Duality
A Lady in Waiting - by Hermetic Ways
A Quiet Moment
Night Terrors
Wistful
Memory Lane
What She Knows
Author's Note : The following is - as the title suggests - what Jazira knows about herself when she first arrives in Nesmé.
I was born-
Somewhere. Sometime.
I must have been, as I am alive now.
But I do not know where, or when. I don't even know to whom. I know my first name, Jazira, but not my surname, or even if I had one. I do remember having a family... sometimes I can still see their faces. Much like my own; my mother especially, the similarities between our features are uncanny. My eyes, a flinty, almost silver gray are like hers in shape and color. But she possessed a warmth in her smile that I can still feel when I close my eyes and try to remember. My father's face is distinctly elven. Sometimes I wonder if, as a child, I had crawled into his lap and stroked his long ears. I have no memories of it, but I would like to imagine that we were close. My heavy, lustrous black hair is his; my complexion as well, this strange pallor.
I do not know their names.
When I first came to Mantol-Derith with the trader's caravan, I made became friends with one of the drow mercenaries who worked for Raneith Silverfoot. Arixel and I spent many hours talking as our friendship developed. One night, as the embers dwindled, he asked me a question that I have never forgotten. Why doesn't it bother you that you have no memories of your family?
I have never been able to answer that.
I am standing in a darkened chamber. There are no lights. It may be a cave, I am not sure. But I am bathed in an inky blackness; there is no hint of the moon's thin, silvery light. For that, at least, I am grateful. Never have I felt more at home than in the years I spent traversing the Underdark with Raneith's wagons. The darkness was a long lost friend and I embraced it.
This chamber is silent, empty, and cold. I pull my heavy black cloak tighter around my shoulders to fend off the chill. My circular blade is a familiar ally and my fingers move toward it, seeking the reassurence it provides.
It is here that I will pray.
Yet, I am not the servant She seeks.
She thrives on Chaos; I see beauty and reason in order and law.
She is angry, bitter; I feel sorrow for lost years, forgotten names but nothing more.
She strives for non-existence, reviles hope; I cannot help but wish to improve my lot.
Still, I am faithful. I walk with shadows in my heart and dash the moonlight whenever I am given the chance. I work with hidden daggers and subterfuge; deceit and secrets.
In moments of clarity, I realize all that I have lost. All that has been taken from me. And I do not understand why. I know She has taken it...and then, like so many other things, the memory fades and again I am blissfully ignorant for a time.
This is not one of those times. Tonight, as I kneel at the center of a circle drawn in blood, I know who She is and that I am empty inside.
And, for just a moment, I am bitter.
Perhaps I am more like Her than I would like to think.
Last Child of Her House
Author's Note : The following is a more precise background for Jazira, told from a narrator's point of view and dealing primarily with her House.
The last child of the Komyn'illiam House was born on the day of the dead - an omen her family sadly overlooked. She would be the last survivor of a once illustrious House of elven assassins, mercenaries, and mages.
She was born to a human woman called Suzette. Even more damning, she had rounded, even, human features. Had her ancestors lived long enough, they may have deemed her worthy of the Komyn'illiam name for her skills were unparalelled and her human traits allowed her to move easily where full-blooded elves could not.
It helped, however, that she was unaware of her heritage.
The Komyn'illiam were drow hunters who served Sheverash as devoutly as any Yathrin served Lloth. How ironic that she later came to live amongst the drow; working, eating, and sleeping beside them.
Many years later she would wonder where she came from. What name had been given to the beautiful elven face she remembered as her father? How had he come to father her on a gray-eyed human woman? And what took their memories from her?
His name was Zirakilaem and he was the only son of the last daughter of the House's most recent generation. He trained for decades with the handful of surviving uncles and aunts, all childless. He was not yet into his second century when he was deemed ready and given a mission to perform alone.
It meant assassinating a mad wizard near Luskan - no easy task - and everything went according to his plans. The wizard, a gnome illusionist who had tried to infiltrate a secret orer using a clever shapechange spell, died cleanly. K'laem, as he was called, fled the scene undetected.
Or so he thought.
Hours later, as he relaxed in a bar room two towns away, K'laem was confronted by an enormous, oafish half-orc. The orc gruffly insisted that he had worked for the gnome and seen the murder. He demanded one hundred thousand in gold for his eternal silence.
Enraged inwardly but cool on the surface, K'laem brooded over his wine, seething with each sip. He finally agreed, though the payment made him a pauper. Then, with a devious smile, he slipped silently into the shadows and followed the half-orc until they were beyond the town. Once it was safe, he would kill the orc and reclaim his gold, leaving no loose ends.
They were five miles down a dirt road when the half-orc veered off the path and collapsed against a shady tree to sleep through the worst of the day's heat. Soon, he heard snores and crept closer, daggers drawn.
His arm arced down, aiming for the vulnerable throat - fully exposed and awaiting his blade as the orc's head lolled back. Suddenly the image shimmered, faded, and quickly melted away. Snoring peacefully, a heavy pouch strapped to a belt around her waist, was a beautiful human girl of no more than seventeen years.
Even the shock of her transformation could not stop his blades and one plunged into her shoulder. Her eyes flew open, wide and gray, and he fell into them. The woman's mouth formed a little "O" of shock and before he knew it, his lips were upon hers.
She fought like a tigress, though his dagger remained planted in her shoulder. Apologies in elven spilled from her lips and he cracked a small glass vial beneath her nose - a larger dose would have killed her, but in small doses it only served to send her into a pain-free oblivion while he tended to the wound.
It was awkward - he was trained only in creating injuries, not in healing them. Still, as night fell around them, she awoke and after a moment of disoriented panic, she smiled at him.
Her voice was sweeter than bard's song to his ears. She knew a few scant words in elven and his common was poor at best. Fortunately, love is a universal language and they communicated very well indeed. Their first child was conceived that very night.
His family objected immediately when he attempted to bring his human lover into their ancestral home; but the promise of a child - even if it were going to be born half-human - was too important to them. Suzette was allowed into the House. Her first child, Cinnat, was the spitting image of his father with keen green eyes and lustrous black hair. He was also a frail, bookish fellow with no ambition at all to follow the House's rules. Then came three more boys, in quick succession. Neither Fa'lien, Ivan, nor Pecinador had the least bit of motivation to train as assassins, though Ivan became quite good with a halberd and marched with a local band in defense of the area from raiders and wild orcs. Next came the only other female, who was an exquisite beauty from the moment she was born; Melisine was her name, but everyone called her Rosy for despite the pale skin she'd inherited from her father, she blushed furiously at every compliment. A fifth son, Lyn'ilam, came along quickly and showed himself quite the silver-tongued devil, bewitching women from the time he could speak. Then came the twins, Reane and Vios, who despite the distinctly elven features, had their mother's creamy complexions and her tall, long-legged form.
All seven children were obviously half-breeds, with the pointed ears and angular, elven features. Though they had a multitude of personalities and skills, none met the high standards the House Komyn'illiam had set and none trained in the family business. The elders, including K'laem's great-grandsire, mourned the death of their house.
Suzette was nearing forty, and quite certain that she was done with birthing, when she discovered that she was once again pregnant. From the onset, this pregnancy was different. The child never kicked, never caused her undue distress. She worried for a time that the fetus had died, but on the Day of the Dead, after a ridiculously easy delivery, the eighth child entered the world silently.
They named her Jazira.
The child was unlike her siblings in every way. Where they all showed strong signs of their father's elven blood; Jazira's ears were only nominally pointed, and her features were a mirror of her mother's in her youth. Though her flesh was deathly pale and her hair was long and raven-colored like K'laem, her eyes were the same silvery gray as her mother's and though she conducted herself with elven dignity and grace, the streak of stubborn, fiery spirit was typical of the short-lived human race.
At first she was the gem of her ancestors' eyes, her innate love for the blades gave them hope for a time, but as she grew toward puberty her human blood slowed her reflexes and they pronounced their line dead.
K'laem and Jazira were close, he was more enchanted with his youngest child than all the others though he would never have admitted that. She spent many hours in her childhood, curled up in his lap, stroking his ears and asking again and again why she did not have 'pretty' ears like his.
Life in the House Komyn'illiam was mostly quiet, as the various childless relatives came and went and the call for the skills the Komyn'illiam were best known for lessened. By the time Jazira was ten, her siblings had all reached adulthood and they all doted upon her. There were no nieces and nephews, though not for lack of trying. They were a fairly close-knit unit, avoiding much contact with the nearby townships.
It was a brisk autumn evening, red leaves wafting from the branches as a cool breeze spinning them into erratic miniature cyclones. Jazira, at the tender age of eleven, had gone to town with her elder sister Rosy to see the shops and, perhaps, choose some silk to make the girl new pajamas (even then she loved silk pajamas and sleeping). When they returned, House Komyn'illiam was an inferno. Hanging from the imposing steel gates were the dismembered corpses of her brothers, the only uncle currently in residence, and her great-great-great-grandsire. Jazira pushed through the gates, her hands smearing the blood that seemed to cover everything and stormed into the house fearlessly. She braved the flames, scarring her left shoulder when a flaming beam collapsed behind her and she was scorched by a foot-long splinter.
In the grand hall she found her parents. Her father's ears had been torn from his face which lay several feet from the rest of his body. Her mother appeared to be only sleeping at first glance, despite the single bloody tear that trailed from her lips down her chin. Hidden by her hair and the flames was the truth. The back of her head had been bashed in and her brains splattered across the marble floor beyond. Flames had not yet touched them, but danced closer with every breath, licking them with destructive joy.
As she stood, the house collasping around her, Jazira heard a distant shriek. She tore herself away from the sight of her parents' mutilated bodies and scrambled back to the courtyard. She stopped short, ducking behind a thick hedge.
Melisine was on her knees, sobbing and pleading with a large man in a horned helm. Jazira could not hear all of her words, but she noticed her sister's gaze flicker to her at least once.
Please. Please don't kill me. I will do whatever you ask. The man had laughed harshly and spoken to her again, but as she struggled to contain herself, Jazira failed to listen to his reply.
No, no please! I am the last Komyn'illiam. If I die, my House dies with me. Please! Don't ki- There was a strangled, gurgling cry and then silence.
Satisfied that his debt was filled, the man turned on heel and left before Rosy's crumpled form had hit the ground. Every movement was like an eternity as she rushed to her sister's side, her panic and confusion bubbling to the surface. In a moment of hysterical sorrow and rage, she cried out for help from the very core of her being.
A soft, soothing blackness enveloped her; like a woolen blanket on a cold night. And then, oblivion.
Reflections
The inn room is cold and I wonder if Narma keeps it that way to keep people from lingering too long. 'No', I think, 'she does not run a brothel. She vould not mind if ze patrons stay an hour, a week, a year... Is all good for her business'. I prefer to be in chilly atmospheres, however, and the chill does not bother me at all.
What does bother me is the strange, empty...rotten feeling that has consumed me since my visit to the barbarian tribe. At first, I believed it was something strange the men had done to me either before, or after, I was killed. How weird does that sound? Was killed. And yet, still living. Or, perhaps more specifically, living again. But now I wonder. I wonder if the horrifying images that haunt my dreams since that day, the shadowy hands grasping for me, the enormous brick wall that fairly seethes with decay and the foul scent of undead... are in fact a result of the touch of the God she called upon.
I asked her, when we lay on separate bunks recooperating - me from my strange ailment and her from the exhaustion that struck after casting two very powerful spells - with Fraxous standing guard outside, who she served. 'Jergal' she had answered. I knew of him, and his great book of the dead. But I still do not understand why, if he realized that this was not my time to die, his touch was so dreadful.
Then I shrug and climb down from the top bunk reluctantly, for the faint vanilla scent of her perfume lingers on the sheets. She does not realize that my concern is more than just that of one hired to protect her. She does, however, notice the tension between Fraxous and I has grown since we first met. He believes she will be his. I do not concur.
My hand strays again, involuntarily, to the small leather pouch at my belt. Its thin woven drawstrings are looped over my belt and tied, but still I worry that I will lose it. And I cannot let that happen. Too much was sacrificed to acquire it. Too much, indeed.
Will she appreciate it? I hope so. I know Fraxous has showered her with trinkets and meals and his dreary affection; not to lessen his feelings, but sparkling jewels from a local merchant are nothing to a woman like she.
I close my eyes as I dress, remembering how Arixel had interrupted our outing - twice, in fact. The first time I took her to see the battles in the arena, I was surprised to see that my old friend not only still dueled there, but was undeafeated. He learned much from me, when we served together. And I learned even more from him. He was a common drow, attached not to a house, but a merchant's caravan in the city of Mantol-Derith. It was from him that I learned the dark elves' language. After his successful battle, he had found me in the crowd and dragged me from her side.
I was angry with him at first, but he was grateful to see me again. He is a man of honor, unlike many I have met both on the surface and below, and knew that he could not live in my debt any longer. As I button the front of my tunic I smile inwardly. Arixel was eager to fulfill his end of our bargain so easily. 'I need information only. I seek an enchanted amulet, and Alydaz will do no favors for me after...' I had trailed off, refusing to speak of the past. 'It must be something truly special.' He had found me again, in my favorite haunt - the Yuan-Ti arena... ah, the times I spent there in previous years, both as a combatant and as a spectator.
But when he came, I had her in my arms, protecting her with my cloak and failing to do the same for Fraxous. The elf was terribly burned, and my departure left him alone with her. I did not like that. Still, acquiring the amulet was more important
Alydaz had told him of a tribe north of Nesmé and of the powerful ancestral necklace that their chiefan was rumoured to wear. I returned alone to the surface, knowing that my dark-skinned friend could not join me there, and sought information in the small town.
With a heavy sigh, I recall speaking with the smelly merchant, I think his name is Vashanu and then being approached by his 'friend', an elf with a surly attitude. The elf refused to give me his name, but I was not concerned with that anyway. I only sought to find this chief Bonebreaker and relieve him of a certain bauble.
I smirk inwardly, pulling on first one boot - a soft-soled gift from her - then the other. He left me alone at the gates, and like a fool, I burst in forcefully and was nearly killed by a throng of barbarian men. Now I see the folly of my ways, but then I had felt invincible. Perhaps it was knowing that I had been her savior, perhaps it was that I could still feel her silken hair between my fingers. Regardless, I retreated and bound my wounds, waiting for cover of darkness.
I am very grateful for the years spent in the Underdark, for they have made me stealthy. I am able to blend into the shadows to some extent, and walk silently as well. With the protection granted me by a pair of enchanted gloves, I was able to steal away quite easily, past the hundred or so guards that ran patrol around the exterior of the fortress. I was surprised to see him alone, but there was no doubt of his identity. He was a short, gruff looking man, covered in battle scars and missing one eye. Perhaps that is why I found it so easy to sneak up behind him and drag my Chakram's thin edge across his throat to prevent his scream which would have alerted his kin. Then I slid my rapier through a chink in his armor and easily between his ribs. He died badly, gasping air, gurgling as his mouth filled with his own life's blood.
I do not know how they discovered my presence, for he died silently. I had only just grabbed the heavy amulet from around his neck when a group of guards appeared from around the corner. I fought with all that I had left, but the realization of what I had done to acquire this amulet weighed heavily on my mind.
With the last of my strength I fended off the first two groups of men then decided, wounded and winded, to run.
That was foolish.
I stand in the Inn room and smooth my hair down over my ears, hiding the discreet point and pat the pouch again.
An axe buried itself in my back and I fell. That is all I remember until the visions began and I awoke, my head in her lap and her lovely face peering down at me with concern. The moment might have been perfect if Fraxous had not been hovering around.
We have made arrangements to return to the arena. I am looking forward to it; there is a special event scheduled and I hope it is another battle with the many headed beast they use to execute those who fail to maintain the neutrality and non-violent policies of Mantol. The flush that colored her cheeks, the excitement that sparkled in her green eyes... 'Ja,' I think to myself, exiting the room and heading down the steps. 'I should very much like to see zat look on her face again... und, if I am lucky...it vill be directed at me.'
Time Will Tell
The moon is full, its brightness filtering through the leaves, creating strange and somewhat beautiful patterns upon the ground. I can only cringe and sink further into the shadows, pulling the deep blood-red hood down over my eyes. The rain has not stopped, pouring in torrents for hours, and in my thin crimson garb, I shiver. But my discomfort comes not from the weather. No. Not from the near freezing temperatures and dampness all around me.
I kissed her.
It was hours ago, and brief enough, but still I feel her lips scorching my own. It was tender and sensual and mutual and- ... then she pulled away from me. I close my eyes, sitting beneath this tree, wishing that I had not pressed my luck with her. That although, I felt my heart swell in a way it never has before, I had not kissed her. I wish I had waited until she had kissed me.
But it is too late to worry about that now. She was not upset with me, that I am aware of... but Fraxous, will never forgive what he percieves as my treachery. Perhaps it was.
He sought me in the Darklake Inn, where I had stayed, knowing that both he and she chose to make their homes on the surface. We had made a deal, Fraxous and I, that we would not interefere with the other's plans to win her heart. He came to me, insisting that I uphold the deal and to quote him 'make myself scarce' while he took her on an elaborate, romantic evening.
I agreed.
Perhaps it was a bit cruel of me to lie as I did, when I told him that I had decided to step aside. That, in order to ensure that whatever she felt for either of us was uncolored by pressures from the other, I would retain my role as her protector, but no longer actively seek her hand. He was surprised, but - naturally - pleased to hear this. He left then, as the black mage Kalla had been hovering around our table for some reason desiring a word with me.
She had no sooner left than Fraxous returned, as I knew he would, ripe with curiosity. I think he wanted to catch me sharing laughter and wine with another woman, so that he could report it to her. I am not sure if she would mind, but still, there is nothing sordid to tell her. I offer him my wishes of luck in his endeavor, through clenched teeth that I am sure he did not notice. Then... I offered him a bottle of rare wine, to give her as a gift.
The wine had been given to her months before by a man she called Crow, though she was not told its properties or probable uses. As we sat talking one night, she offered me the bottles with compliments because she knew I had spent years in the Underdark and that I quite enjoy the wines created there. My shock was apparent, and I demanded to know who would give this to her. She now doubts the motives of said 'friend' for the wine, Charnag Phish is commonly used by unsavory characters to lower the inhibitions of cold women or induce a euphoria that will allow them to easily pickpocket a mark. I was, I am, shocked that a man who she called friend would knowingly give her such a gift.
And yet, I gave it to Fraxous, knowing he would in turn gift it to her. I told him the truth about the wine's effects; this rare vintage from Menzoberrazan would in fact make her quite amorous. He was excited as the prospect, no matter what he now claims. He says I tricked him, that I am a witch.
Perhaps that is true to some extent, but I only wanted to know his intentions, and whether or not he had the honor to deserve her.
More than anything, I want her to be happy.
I turn my head, sinking back against the rough bark of the tree as I see the angry elf passing by. He would have taken advantage of her, and I know this. When he gave her the wine, after romantic poetry and at a beautifully set table with soft candlelight, her green eyes turned to stone. I stayed, hidden in the shadows, and watched her explosion. Hells, but she was exquisite in her fury. She clasped that bottle, which she naturally recognized, so tightly I think she could have shattered it. I stole away quietly then, for I knew she would come for me.
To my favorite haunt again, which at this late hour was deserted by commoners and nobility alike. I took position in the very same private box she and I had sat in only days ago. She found me quickly, and the accusations were quick. My sincerity penetrated her anger and, as I hope she would, she saw the wisdom in my actions.
Extreme, perhaps, but not without merit.
And I told her that, if she wanted, I would leave. But that my only desire was to see her protected, and happy. She took my hand in hers. I could not hold back, though I had only moments before sworn that I would proceed no further in my advances until she was ready, and my hand found the soft flesh of her neck, holding gently, my thumb caressing her earlobe. I hestiated, her lips only an inch from hers. I could feel her anticipation as her breaths came in quick little gasps; so I kissed her. Gently. She responded, I know she did. I could not have imagined it... Could I have?
Nothing was resolved. But nothing could have been. I sacrificed the friendship of a good man, to win the love of a bewitchingly beautiful woman.
The rain begins to relent and I pull off the heavy hood, shaking water from it as I retreat into the warmth of the Sundered Shield. Only time will tell if what I have done has served its intended purpose.
Blasphemy
The house is two rooms with a loft for storage. It sits on the edge of the drow quarter, near the market place. The street outside is always busy and sometimes it is hard to sleep. The main room has an ancient hearth and very modern cookstove; there is a table with a book beneath one leg to maintain its balance. Two straight-backed wooden chairs surround it; one has a thick damask-covered pillow on the seat. The bedchamber is even more sparsely furnished. There is a double bed, a small bureau with a washing basin on it, a waistdeep bathing tub, and a folding screen to hide the chamberpot.
I have lived here for five years. It belonged to Raneith Silverfoot, my employer, when he still lived. I used to sleep in the loft, among boxes and bags of Raneith's precious merchandise. Now the thick mattress that had belonged to a wealthy merchant, is my own.
It is a humble place. No grand hall or beautifully woven tapestries. It suits a wandering swordarm, a transient apprentice merchant. If ever I knew anything better, I do not remember it.
But this humble place is not worthy of her. And so I have not yet brought her home...
* * *
I am sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed with a pillow in my lap and a heavy book, slyly snatched from a bookshelf in Nesmé, atop it. I cannot concentrate on the words, thinking instead, of her.
I do not swim, but I could not bear to let Fraxous take her to the sacred pools of Nar'wannan alone. I agreed, reluctantly, and followed them through the golden mirror into the desert city. They frolicked like children in the warm waters while I only sat on the ledge; my feet and shins dangled into the water. It was only at her whispered insistence that I bit back my fears and waded into the pool.
I do know not how much time passed, but eventually my hand sought hers beneath the surface of the pool. My fingers stroked the fine skin on the inside of her wrist, then continued up her forearm to her elbow. At some point, Fraxous excused himself, but so intent on her was I that I doubt I even noticed.
I bent my head to her shoulder, my lips brushing her clavicle. She trembled in my arms - not as an inexperienced virgin might, but as a woman who has known love and its pleasures, but has also been burned by them. My cheek brushed hers briefly as I gently kissed my way toward her earlobe.
My vow was forgotten in the taste of her skin, the warmth of her body near my own. I whispered into her ear.You are so beautiful... I vould never vant to hurt you...or rush you... but- You may be ze most incredible creature I have ever seen...forgive me, please, if I cannot resist you. I could hear her pulse racing, her talon-like nails digging into my arm and I pressed my lips to her throat again. Tell me you vill be mine, Sissy... If not today, zhen someday.
It was hope, I wanted. To plan a future, to know that there was something better than being alone... Part of me wondered if She would strike me down for the very thought.
And then she said 'yes' and all thought of blasphemy left my mind.
I kissed her, with the waterfall billowing all around us, and it was a moment unlike any I had ever experienced.
At least so far as I can remember...
Will Try To Forget
I am sitting by the sacred pools - eternal wells, they are called - in Nar'wannan. My armor is hot and itchy in the hot sun, and I chafe under the weight. She is not with me today, though we have been inseperable for weeks. That pleases me. She wears the necklace I liberated from the barbarian chieftan and when she looks at me...the sun rises on my heart, which has been enveloped in darkness for so long.
Today, however, I am alone. And I am troubled. The black leather pouch around my neck seems to weigh a hundred pounds, though it is so light that I rarely even notice its existence. I have pulled it off and poured the contents into my palm, shifting the pebble-like rubies around with my index finger. They are beautiful; perfectly matched. The harsh desert sun is sucked into their dark depths, glinting inside like bloody stars. I wonder where they came from. What they mean. When I found them, or bought them, or was given them...
I carefully cup my hand and pour them back into the pouch, then return it to its place around my neck.
I met a man, unusual to say the least, but a man nonetheless, in Nesmé who gave me some invaluable advice. He growled and flicked his strange bony-tail, but he was pleasant enough, and wise. I pondered his words for awhile, examining a display in the merchant's wagon. Then, frusterated and despairing of finding what I sought, I headed off into the desert to speak with the wily trader there.
The sand of the Anauroch crunched beneath my boots and I concentrated on silencing my steps instead of the path before me. I was deep in the canyons beyond the Oasis when I heard an ominous rattling. My hand fell to the blade at my hip, my fingers wrapping around them. I pressed myself back against the canyon wall, stilling my breath as my eyes searched for the source of the sound. I saw him, a tall monstrosity brandishing a double-headed mace; he walked upright, but had six legs and his jowls dripped with saliva so acidic I could smell it already. He was stalking me as I stalked him; my advantage was that I saw him and he has lost my scent.
My hands and feet moved of their own volition, and I slipped behind him. In one fluid movement I had pulled the chakram free and dragged the sharpened blade across its thorax. Whirling, I slipped to the side and behind him, my other hand pulling my rapier from its sheath. My back was facing his as I plunged my blade deeply into his spine. He was paralyzed by the sudden ferosity of my attack, and then, as I ripped my blade free, he fell. Dead before he hit the floor.
His blood is still on my hands; it seems sacreligous somehow, to rinse them in the sacred water. Killing the beast does not weigh on my mind; I have killed many beasts and people in my years. It is the manner in which I did it. The deadly skill, a vicious, unexpected attack. It strikes a chord in me that I cannot explain.
I look down at my hands. Hands that stroke pale, blond locks lovingly. That will defend her against all adversity. And I see the blood of this...stinger, and beyond that, staining them, I see the blood of the others...all those who have fallen at my hands. This attack. This skill that has surfaced in me... I feel my features droop into a frown. I may never know, vat zis means... und I vill never get my family back. Can I lay ze past to rest, und build a future vis her?
The pouch around my neck weighs uncomfortably between my breasts and I tuck it into the collar of my shirt. A whispered prayer echoes in my mind and my eyes close softly. Today, a woman who has spent so much time trying to remember...will try to forget.
A Hundred Deaths
The spell has worn off, though I know she will cast it again in a few days. She was so worried about giving herself to a man, even if the man was me, but now she seems to enjoy it quite thouroughly. One night, perhaps tonight, she will spell herself and the tables will be turned.
Still, as I lay here, propped up on one elbow, watching her sleep, her glorious blond hair splayed around around her, I cannot help but be amazed.
Someone will one day call me Mama.
It is something I have wanted as long as I can recall. Someone to call my own. A child. A small image of myself that I could teach and watch grow. Someone who would love me, unconditionally. A family.
I trail one hand over her bare shoulder and she stirs for just a moment before she rolls over, mumbling, and falls fast asleep once more. In all my previous dreams, whenever I considered my child, I was alone. The child, a daughter, was mine, alone. I never considered sharing my life with another, until I met her. Now, my only dream in this life, is to do exactly that. To wake up with her each morning, to watch our children grow, and know that they are ours.
I close my eyes and in my mind I see a beautiful little boy, gray eyes like mine, but with golden hair like hers. And then, another child, a perfect little girl with black curls and mischeivous green eyes. Beyond them, I see her; a veil of pale hair and that strangely bewitching smile of hers. There is an overwhelming sense of loss when I open my eyes and I realize, with absolute uncertainty that I would die a hundred deaths, I would glad give up all memories past and future, for one moment of this idyllic existence.
Love & Legacy
by Hermetic Ways
I have finally finished my great endeavor. Nearly two years worth of work and research is finished and it does not bring me the pleasure I thought it would. I am pleased, even envigorated that it is complete. My works put to paper, bound in heavy tooled dark leather. Enchantments woven into the binding and cover to protect it from the ravages of time. My name signed upon the last page. Waiting for the other two signatures to give this book life and meaning. And yet with this endeavor finished it rings a hollow victory.
The law has always been my life. When all else failed it supported me. Law, structure and order. It is my creed, my faith and my strength. Without it, what would the world be? What would I be?
But now, even now as I stroke the soft leather binding, feel the love and care I've placed into it; my heart and soul it brings me no true joy. This would be part of my legacy, in this I would live forever. I can feel the sarcastic smile playing against my lips. Attempting to mock me after I have labored so long to breath pen, ink and quill to life. But this is nothing without . . .
I draw my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on them and wrap my arms around my ankels. I can feel my hair, my hair she calls glory, fall over my shoulders like a sabel cloak. And I watch her sleep.
Often I wonder if she knows I watch her in the middle of the night. Slipping from our bed. In our house. Everything is "ours" now, and I wonder if she knows just how much that means to me. How it thrills my heart and makes my soul sing that everything is "ours"
The soft light from my work table casts ethereal shadows illuminating her pale bare shoulder. A single lock of raven dark hair rests upon her smooth alabaster skin. Her breathing is slow and deep and at times I can hear her murmur things I do not understand but it warms me to think she dreams of us.
When I'm with her, she makes me feel like I'm just a girl. Not some wicked witch or the rumored necromancer some believe me to be. She makes me feel alive in ways I never knew possible. She makes me feel safe enough to be the little girl I was never able to be. And when I'm being silly or when I'm afraid she holds me, she tells me everything is alright. And she calls me Usst. Mine. And it's true. I am hers in ways that make me ache to my soul and cry out to the gods in bliss.
Slowly and as quiet as possible I pad across the floor. My arm covering my belly that is already beginning to swell with child. Our child. My robe falls to the floor, silk whispering around my ankels as I pull the thin soft sheet back. Her body is soft and warm against mine as I press close to her. Her skin smooth under my hand, her partially parted lips inviting. I kiss her, once, twice and she is rolling me over. The need upon us both, and I will cry out to gods as the sun breaks the horizon on the surface above. But here in Mantol, there is no sun, no limit to the day or night. No limit or end to our empassioned embrace.
Duality
She is a lily. He is a tiger.
They are the same and the duality excites me.
I wonder if my pale flower understands how she blossomed under the spell. I could not help but me amused, and, if I am honest, terribly thrilled by her transformation. Not the external changes, though she was a handsome man, but the fire that was released. It was beautiful.
She has returned to the surface today and I am alone in the small house that has long been my home. In less than one year, she has taken the lumpy old mattress and the rickety furniture and turned this shack into a home. I will miss it.
Soon we will move to the surface. I will no longer have to hide my racial traits, but there are other things I must fear there. My hand moves from the surface of the table and runs across my flat, toned stomach, fingers stroking absently. Tonight, when she returns, I will tell her the news. I am certain she will be pleased, as I am.
Her child and mine - and yet both ours - will be born less than ten weeks apart, if we have counted correctly. It is a strange situation, one I would never have considered possible not long ago. Two years since I first stepped through the portal into Nesmé but it feels as if it has been a lifetime. Maybe more.
I stand, I find that I am more restless as our lives become settled, and pace the small room. Books litter the available space, her work and the research I have done. Her clothes, stacked and hung with impeccable neatness line the small alcove in the corner. Mine are tossed haphazardly into a corner at the bottom of that alcove. I chuckle softly as I find myself folding my own things. I think her neatness is rubbing off on me.
And I find I don't mind.
But the restless nights are becoming more frequent.
Not long ago, a month or two perhaps, I took a 'walk' with Fraxous and Thavius and a strange one-eyed priest named Erien. He was unlike any priest I have ever known; neither stodgy nor somber but with a raucous sense of humor and a swing equal to any fighter I have met on the surface. That disasterous trek into the Hive was, nonetheless thrilling.
I look down at my stomach again, with a strange half-smile. I know that raising a family with the woman I love will be an adventure in and of itself. And I know that I will never regret a day spent with her, or our children.
But I wonder as the city mages light the signals that dusk is falling, if the days of fighting and exploring and...adventure... are zhey over?
A Lady In Waiting
by Hermetic Ways
"I'm sorry Lady Arvayne" the guard says to me. "She wont be able to see you today."
"Did she say when she would be able to?"
The guard shakes his head and I'm hard pressed to keep my irritation concealed. It has been over six months and still she will not take audience with me.
"I'm sorry Lady Arvayne" the guard says. A hint of apology in his voice. At least thats something. The guards treat me with a degree of respect, even if it is just because of the title the Duchess gave me. Me, Sissy Arvayne, once a terrible and feared witch, now a knight of her small realm.
"Should I return tomorrow?" Tol shifts his weight in my arms. The guard might not sense my disapointment, but my son can feel it. His bright eyes look up at me and I can feel my disapointment slip away. Those eyes are Jazira's and I can hear her soothing voice telling me everything will be ok.
The guard shrugged, an act of helplessness. "I really couldnt tell you Lady Arvayne. Tomorrow could be the day she sees you. She's had a busy schedule since she's been returned to town."
I can feel the sigh building in my chest so I nod to him and quickly take my leave. Debating on the wisdom of returning to see her. If she had wanted to discuss what I gave her she would of seen me. By now at least. Perhaps it would be best to let her call upon me when she's ready.
Outside the manor house I finally release that heavy sigh. With great disapointment I place the finished copy into my side satchel. Tol's hands reach out for my face and I kiss his finger tips. He's an angel, my son. I coo to him, kiss his nose and bundle him up for the walk across town. He giggles and flails his arms. In his eyes I can hear Jazira. She speaks of peace and warm fires. What does it matter if the duchess says no? I have my son and Jazira. What else could I want?
As I walk across town, the weight of my side satchel becomes less of a burden. Even as I see the blatant disregard for the law. Weapons drawn in town, summons and familiars running in the streets causing the citizens flee to their homes. Tol settles in my arms, his tiny fingers closing around my hair. My hair Jazira calls glory. Calmly and without comment I move through the chaotic streets of Nesme. Peace in my heart and love in my arms. I am no longer the woman I once was. I have become something different. Something more . . .
A Quiet Moment
We wait together, she and I. Her tiny head, covered in dark peach fuzz, rests against my breast and it is all I can not to wake her. She is a small infant, much smaller than Tol was, and only time will tell if it is her weak elven blood or if she was simply born a bit early.
There is a small book in my hands, a fictional account of a dragonslaying. I cannot concentrate on it, my eyes keep wandering in wonder to the child in my arms. Still, I am content for the moment, to let these words be my only adventure. My daughter and her son, our children... they bring more joy in a single smile than any thrilling trek of exploration, any fevered fight to the death.
I stand, tucking the battered book into the bag I carry at my side. Once it was filled with healing supplies and weaponry and whatever swag I had plundered as I roamed. Now it teemed with fresh cloth to wrap infant rears and soothing creams, pureed foods and all the accoutrements of motherhood. My feet pace the snowy ground; I grew quite used to wearing billowy skirts as my belly grew and I wear one now. It is heavy and warm, and it kicks up the freshly fallen snow as I walk.
The baby stirs, nuzzling my breast and without much concern for the locals and passing adventurers, I open the buttons of my shirt and offer myself to her. I rock her, cooing a tuneless song as she feeds. As we wait.
I will know by her face what was said. She cannot seem to hide much from me and the disappointment I've seen in her eyes after her abortive visits to the palace breaks my heart. I turn my gaze southward, watching the road for any sign of my beloved, but no one comes.
With a small, unceremonious belch, she is finished and her eyes look up at me. Green and already quite direct, they are Sissy's eyes. Suddenly I am filled with a fierce need to protect her, at all costs. It is the same way I feel about Sissy, it is the same way I felt the moment I saw Tol, small, bloody and writhing. But there is a difference.
As I look down at her, a few pounds of vulnerable flesh and bones, beautiful and delicate, I know that though I will want nothing more than to guard her from the world, she...like me, will be only too anxious to discover it for herself. The pleasures and the pains. Sissy was right, in giving her part of my name; she knew even then that Zira was so like me.
I heave a great sigh, clutching her to my chest and stroking her fine, downy hair tenderly. For now, at least, she is safe and I do not have to worry. Footsteps approach me from behind and I turn, grateful immediately to see her, carrying our son.
There is a serenity in her face that I cannot account for. Not a rush of victory, nor the bleak expression of disappointment. There is a nervous quiver in my voice as I meet her eyes.
"Usst...?"
Night Terrors
Yellow is not often a sinister color, but as I see the beast approach I know terror unlike anything I have ever felt before. My chakram are close to hand and I reach for them; they whirl through the air, slicing at the beast. Its lifeblood spills and I feel victory is mine. We face off in the darkness, the room around me is familiar. Behind me two angels sleep peacefully, unaware of the horror that has crept into our peaceful domain. I hear her voice shrieking my name and I turn, worried as much for her safety as that of our children.
Then, its claws find my flesh and tear into it. My spine is a column of fire, my entire body writhing in agony. I see the walls splashed with crimson and it is only as a fine red haze begins to cloud my vision that I realize it is my own blood.
Magic flashes around the room and I try to focus on the light as it careens toward the monster; I cannot. The children scream in the background, sounding distant as I crawl pathetically toward their bed. I hear a dull thud and my mouth opens in a silent cry of agony as I see her blonde head hit the floor.
My arms will not function, my legs tremble and dangle uselessly behind me. I struggle a moment, though I feel almost nothing but the cold void swallowing me, and watch helplessly as this evil thing takes our precious children into its clawed hands.
One final sound escapes my lips as the blackness envelops me. 'Noooooooo!'
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I wake up suddenly, bolting upright, my body soaked with sweat, my cheeks stained with tears. Without a thought I race across the hall and peer down into their beds. Two pale, cherubic faces lay amongst the blankets and pillows; one fair like her, the other with my own dark curls. They are sleeping, completely innocent and unaware of the terror that has gripped my soul.
A pair of arms encircle my waist, and I turn, burying my head in her shoulder; she sobs as I stroke her hair and I cannot hold back my own tears. The dreams, the nightmares, are becoming more frequent and more violent with each passing night.
I murmur reassurance to her, my fingers combing through her glorious hair, bright in the moonlight; but I know she feels my fear and once again, we will sit up through the night. Sleeping only, if at all, when dawn's soft light caresses our family and a feeling of security, no matter how frail, washes over us.
Wistful
Time passes so quickly. It seems only yesterday that she and I sat side-by-side in the Arena of Blood and fell in love. Could it really have been not days, not weeks, but years?
The proof of this clings with chubby little hands to my finger as we move slowly across the tiled floor. Her steps are surprisingly sure, she is but one year old, for one so young and I know it will not be long at all before she no longer will need my hand to steady herself.
A sigh passes my lips and I look up at Sissy. Her eyes are tender as she watches us and I am filled with the urge to take her into my arms and whisper my love into her delicate ear. Our lives have become quite settled and peaceful, but there is no lack of passion between us.
Tol is on her lap, and she reads to him from a fable book. There are no pictures, but sometimes she will conjure a scene for him. His cherubic little face lights up with rapture as the image plays itself out and I wonder if he will inherit her magic along with her glorious blonde hair. I look down at Zira who is tugging at my hand with surprising strength. Will she grow into bladedancer? Will she be, as I once was, a sword-for-hire? Or with Sissy's green eyes, did she inherit a feel for the weave?
"Usst," I begin slowly, not meeting her eyes as I watch Zira toddle across the floor toward her brother and mother. "Do you think Betty vill vatch ze children for a day and a night?"
"Yes," she began, with a question in her tone. "When?"
I lift Zira, standing up suddenly which makes her giggle, and kiss her rounded little cheek. A plan is already forming in my mind; white roses and strawberry wine at the Darklake Inn, then perhaps Arixel will honor us by taking a challenger in the Arena of Blood, and then, just for memory's sake, we could spend the night in my small house in the drow quarter.
"Tomorrow." I smile at her, though Zira pulls painfully on my hair, and bend to press my lips to her smooth forehead. "Tomorrow, Usst."
Memory Lane
I do not often return to Nesmé anymore, and never alone. We have everything we need in the house Sissy created; it is an insulated little world. It is never dull, with the antics of two growing children, but sometimes I wonder if it is enough. She would worry that I did not love her anymore, if she knew my doubts, so I keep them to myself. Still, as I walk through the heavy wooden gates, I think perhaps we should talk. The children are nearly four and old enough to be left alone with Betty. Xas, I tell myself, nodding to a familiar Rider, I vill speak vis her. Ve are not too old for adventure yet...
The day is clear and bright, though snow falls sporadically, and I am surprised to see such bustle on the streets. The town has been so quiet in recent years but now, it teems with merchants and children and adventurers and, as one would expect, even more Riders. I wander aimlessly, drifting in and out of the shops. I feel alive, with this humming throng of humanity around me.
I weave in and out of the small crowd of people who are trying to enter Vashanu's wagon and heave a sigh, straightening my tunic. A man approaches me and I offer him greeting. He introduces himself as Gamaliel Moonsilver and he seems a friendly enough gentleman. Several moments later he is joined by a scarred elven man whom he called Ruinathil Valarin.
The conversation flows quickly, talk of dueling and Gamaliel's training. I am challenged to a friendly duel and my blood sings; there is an excitement that I cannot place. I have not used my blade in a true test of skill for years and I smile at the men, leading them North and out of town for Usst would have my head for dinner if I broke the laws of Nesme and drew weapon within its walls.
I caress the hilt of my blade, which even now hangs at my waist, tenderly as it were her delicate flesh. My steps are lighter than they have been in ages and as we prepare for battle I feel my heart racing in my chest. Playful banter spills from my lips and I maintain a cool exterior but inwardly, I am trembling. Vill my sword arm be quick after so many years of disuse? Can I still move as agilely as I once did? Vill Usst strike me dead if I return vis so much as a scratch?
The teacher threatens to disown his pupil if he loses the duel, but there is a wink to his eyes - which despite his appearance twinkle with humor. I will begin the fight, and I lift my blade, twisting to the side and striking Gamaliel with more force than intended. The battle will end quickly, I know immediately, and with a grunt, I send him sprawling on his back in the snowy grass.
He has skill, of this there is no doubt, but I have bested him and my confidence soars. Before his pupil has even caught his breath, the master has drawn his weapon and asked politely if he may have a chance at me. With a smile that I am certain must have appeared somewhat devious, I accept.
The master has scored me, and I catch myself lamenting the scratch for a moment before I lunge at him again. In moments, he too is on his back and yields to my blade. It has been too long, I tell myself, sheathing my rapier, it has been far too long.
Some hours of conversation and a tankard of ale later, I leave the Sundered Shield troubled and head for home. He, the man called Gamaliel, has expressed my feelings without knowing it. I do love my family more than I love life, and would give mine for them. Still, I know that I long for the old days.
Heaving a sigh, I rub my sore shoulder. The wound has closed but it still painful and I shake my head, wondering what Sissy will say when she finds that I have been fighting. A slow smile spreads across my lips. No matter the fight that ensues, it will be followed by passionate making up and when her desire leaves scratches upon my flesh - those marks I will not rue.