Sweet Home Menzoberranzan - Part 1 of 3 (Incomplete)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

A blanket of darkness hovered over all. Shadows were ever-present, bleeding from every crevice in the carved walls and permeating the calcite cavern until night itself seemed to shelter those who dwelled within. The inky black walls shivered from light’s gentlest touch. The dark hovered at the edge of society, forced into submission by the subtle glow of faerie fire from throughout the cavern.

The magic lights would do little to help any who had not been born to the gloom of the Underdark and molded to its harsh environs. Yet to its inhabitants, the shadowed streets of Menzoberranzan were awash with light and color. Pulses of green echoed through the city, deep blues bled into the darkened homes and businesses, and a fog of violet wove between crowded buildings, even as shadows constantly fought back to reclaim its domain. Even footsteps and conversation that would normally echo a thousandfold into a frightening cacophony was suppressed by deep magic, leaving only a whisper of the teeming life that filled the streets.

Most prominent was the piercing shaft of light that erupted from a pillar that rose highest of all in the city. Its light appeared as like a sun unto the inhabitants, even if its light might be near invisible to any unaccustomed to the dark. Though now the powerful light of Narbondel faded as it neared the end of its life. Narbondel’s Black Death was no more than an hour off, signaling for Menzoberranzen’s denizens the coming of midnight, as far as residents of the Underdark could tell.

So it was as the waning tendrils of light curled threateningly around a young boy, whispering promises of punishment and consequences that he ignorantly dismissed with a toss of his too-long white hair. He had felt the lash of punishment often enough to know better, but dared to take advantage of his solitude when he could. His dark grey skin practically glowed purple in the muted lavender fire beside him. His crimson eyes shone like tiny beacons of sunlight in the near pitch black room as he studied the pages of an old book with reverence.

The Drow only vaguely noticed as the door to his room cracked open. The young boy was naïve and all too quick to trust, but 12 years living in the cutthroat city of the Dark Elves had eventually tempered his wit, at least enough to survive this long. His reaction was slow at first, but his dominant hand fell instinctively to the dagger he kept at his waist as he turned to see who it was.

The door slid open fully to reveal a girl his age, wreathed in the relatively bright violet faerie light of the hall. Her own dark skin was paler than the boy’s; though her beautiful, long hair was the same sparkling white of freshly-fallen snow, and the dusting of near-black freckles on their cheeks accentuated their similarities. At the moment her hair was pulled up into a lazy ponytail…and flecked with dark crimson blood on one side. The boy’s stomach churned with worry, but he shoved the thoughts aside. Such a sight would only become more standard as they grew. He was bound to wind up bloody too, sooner or later.

“Istavros?” The girl questioned. There was a note of irritation in her voice as she stalked into the room with all the fluid ease of a panther stalking its prey. “You should have been in bed by now.”

The boy frowned. “You should have been too, Yasjra. I didn’t know where you were.”

“And you should be used to avoiding eye contact by now!” she snapped harshly, watching with some satisfaction as he shrunk back from her piercing glare, and his own gaze dropped immediately to the floor.

The girl, Yasjra, gave him a piercing glare with her own gleaming red eyes and watched him instinctively shrink back from her gaze. Aggression and superiority over all others was a fine trait for a young Drow woman, and the cowardice of a weaker male should fill her with grim satisfaction. A male their age, in turn, should be more respectful to his betters and learned quickly to keep his eyes ever trained on the floor–or else. Despite herself, seeing the fear in this boy’s eyes sent an ice-cold twinge of regret into Yasjra’s chest that quickly doused the fires of her frustration. Despite her every Drow instinct screaming at her to push her advantage, to punish the meak and vulnerable, her face softened with compassion.

She slumped into the empty chair beside Istavros and sighed softly as she draped a hand over his, where it rested on the pages of the book he was reading. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze, knowing that in the comfort of their room, at least, she could afford to be just a little bit vulnerable too. If he needed time to be himself, she could do that much for him in the comfort of their own room. She nudged him with her shoulder, and he quickly forgot where he was supposed to be looking.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” She asked, her breath barely more than a whisper. She couldn’t imagine someone could, or even would listen in on them, but she didn’t dare talk so openly about something so absurd. And, frustratingly, she wasn’t as adept at the silent code as her brother.

Istavros’ face fell, and he nodded. His hands moved almost too quickly for her to properly read as he gestured, “I was just worried about you. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but I couldn’t be there to help you.”

A smirk tugged at the edges of Yasjra’s lips as she muttered, “I was out there helping you. I couldn’t let that commoner girl get away with treating you like that.”

Istavros’ hand trailed from the hilt of his knife to the bruise on his ribs as he remembered the experience. He didn’t even know how Yasjra had heard of that, let alone that she would find out who did it and hunt them down for the rest of the day to get her revenge. Or rather, to get his revenge. A commoner she had been, but still she outranked most males in the family.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Istavros chided her softly. He let his hands fall on the desk and turned his gaze to the faltering light of Narbondel in the distance, half tucked away behind a neighboring building. “You have a hard enough time being my twin sister. You don’t need someone else finding out that you’re actually protecting the weak.”

“You’re not weak,” his sister scoffed. “You’re….”

Istavros’ heart sank as the words died in her throat. What could she say? That he was different? That he had unique talents other Drow could only dream of? It would serve only as a pathetic mockery of their entire culture. As the third-born son of their house he shouldn’t even be alive. He wouldn’t be alive, if not for being the twin tied to someone with such potential. She had heard Matron Mother talking about it once, that they’d nearly sacrificed him, thinking it would make the girl child stronger and favored by the goddess Lolth. Great expectations were forced on her shoulders, and even at a young age Yasjra was showing great promise as a fighter.

Yasjra’s magical abilities were simply standard for her age, but in every other way Yasjra was turning into the perfect daughter: a brilliant, ferocious, faithful, and headstrong woman of House Do’t’tar; a house long overdue its place amongst Menzoberranzan’s elite. And Yasjra was just the piece their family was missing to lead them to that prestigious position. She would be a tool in their Matron’s climb to power and consider it an honor, until one day she might be the very one to stab their mother in the back and take her place as head of one of the great houses of Menzoberranzan. So long as neither of her older sisters beat her to it.

All that and more, if Istavros had not been born mere minutes later. Do’t’tar’s greatest shame and most glaring mistake, tied to their greatest hope. What little magic he had tapped into was bolstered by books and scrolls rather than his flawless pedigree. At the age of 12 he had yet to even win a single brawl against others in the house their age, where Yasjra had already killed one and maimed another. The family might even be able to accept that Istavros merely had to train to be a better fighter, or become a powerful enough wizard to make up for it. And yet the reality was so much worse.

His skill with a blade was virtually unrivaled at his age…but the boy simply refused to engage in senseless violence. His bleeding heart had put a prominent target on his back for any prospective Drow child looking for so much as a word of approval from their elders. Worse still, Istavros’ soft nature reflected badly on his sister, who had a promising future ahead of her if she pursued it with her whole effort. Lolth herself would have to approve of the mighty champion Yasjra could be, if not for Istavros dragging her down with him.

The very thought made his chest ache. A boy like him had only one future: at the very bottom of Drow society. He supposed there could be others, such as death or even slavery if the whims of his betters struck. And as long as Yasjra protected and stuck close to him, there was no hope of her escaping a shared fate.

“You’re my brother,” Yasjra finished confidently, jolting Istavros out of his thoughts.

He had less than a second to react before he was thrown to the ground as his sister jumped forward, the force of her movement sending the chair he was on reeling backwards. The back of the chair pressed painfully into his back and Istavros winced, counting what must have been the fourth bruise of the day. But concerns about his comfort dissipated like smoke as he heard the sonorous trill of Yasjra’s beautiful voice laughing in his ears, and felt his sister’s arms wrap tightly around him. The love he felt from their connection spread like cool, refreshing water through his body, easing his aching heart and breathing new life into him. Maybe any life he ended up with wouldn’t be so bad, as long as he had Yasjra by his side.

The sound of someone clearing their throat made both the children jump. They scrambled to their feet and stared at the open doorway to see an adult male glaring severely at them. Yasjra relaxed slightly as she recognized him, despite his stern demeanor. If nothing else, someone had been foolish enough to point out that the girl technically outranked him in the family, much to his ceaseless pain.

“Don’t let Matron Jisvyll catch you staring like that, Boy,” the adult grumbled.

Istavros dropped his gaze immediately to the floor in shame. He relaxed somewhat when he felt his father’s hand rest gently on his shoulder, though he dared not look up again unless he was told to.

“Come,” their father said.

“It’s late,” Yasjra pointed out, sticking out her chin defiantly.

The older male rolled his eyes. “The Matron is making an exception this time; there is something she would like you both to see. There is activity in the city.”

It was all he needed to say to get both children trailing behind him with eager obedience. He led them a short ways through the house, winding up to a higher vantage point until they came to a small balcony that overlooked the city of Menzoberranzan. Istavros was rarely allowed in this part of the house, and never unattended or without some clear objective for him to work towards. He was practically buzzing with excitement as they stepped out onto the cool blue stone. His excitement faded somewhat when he noticed his brother standing there waiting for them. His head shrunk down into his neck when he realized he’d looked his brother in the eye. At 28 years old, Lird’tryn was easily old enough that he would be expected to punish him for the slip.

“Easy, Istavros,” his father said with an easy smile. “You need to see this anyway. Go ahead and look, just to the right of Narbondel.”

The twins craned their necks, as if that would help them better peer around the neighboring stalagmite home and see what they were supposed to be looking at. Then they realized about the same time: they were meant to be looking at the tower. Yasjra was the first to make some sense of the sight; of the unusually dark house crawling with shadowy black figures.

“Why are there so many people sneaking around?” Istavros asked a moment later, quirking his head to the side.

“Just watch,” their father insisted in a low voice. He leaned down to whisper between them, “And listen.”

Istavros twitched his ears, straining to hear better over the very quiet rumble of the city’s natural noise. It was unnecessary though, as the recognizable sound of a shrieker mushroom roared to life, screaming in alarm as one of the sneaking Drow passed too close.

In seconds the rest of the shadows were moving at top speed, their stealth entirely abandoned as they rushed into and around the house like a small army of ants. Istavros’ eyes went wide as he heard a blood-curdling scream erupt from the tower. The sound was ominously cut short only a moment after it had begun, but it was followed by new roars and shouts, and the sharp, distinguishable clatter of dozens of swords locking in perilous battle.

“One house has decided to attack another,” their brother Lird’tryn explained flatly.

Yasjra watched the house with awe. “Wouldn’t…the Matrons will be mad at them, won’t they? You can’t just kill Drow like that, right?”

Their father co*cked his head as he considered how best to answer, then conceded, “The Ruling Council would be very angry indeed, if they got caught. That’s part of the game of it: the attacking house must kill every last member of the defending house, so none lives to tell the Matrons who attacked them. If they succeed, Lolth will be pleased by their prowess in battle and the Council will ignore their guilt.”

Lird’tryn asked, “That’s the 19th house, isn’t it? I forget their name.”

“I’d say you’d best remember it, but I don’t expect you’ll have to after tonight,” their father answered matter-of-factly, even as the screams escalated.

The twins only stared at the tower in grotesque fascination, smiles wide on their faces. Yasjra pressed her face into the bars of the balcony railing, her eyes absolutely glowing with fascination as she absorbed every last inch of the scene before her. Istavros wasn’t as inclined toward brutality in his own fights, but was no less awed watching the blinding fires roar to life inside the house. Now and again a figure would pass by a window or a fight would bleed into the courtyard, allowing the group to see on full display as one of the fighters was reduced to nothing more than a bloody mess on the stone.

“This will put Do’t’tar into 21st if the attackers win, won’t it?” Lird’tryn asked with poorly-masked excitement.

“Think again,” their father said, though his grin was even wider. “See the sigil of the attackers? That’s the 21st. Even if they lose, our house stands to gain.”

Istavros turned away from the carnage just long enough to look at his father and ask, “Why would we still go up if they lose? Won’t they just go home?”

“That’s the punishment,” his father said. “If they fail, the defenders will tell the Ruling Council who attacked them, and the Matrons, by Lolth’s design, will have no choice but to destroy the house who failed the attempt. No matter how this fight ends, our place is no longer 22nd after tonight.”

Yasjra’s excitement was palpable as she understood. “So that’s how we do it!? We just have to beat all the other houses?”

Her father actually laughed at that, a rare sound among the Drow. “Easy there, little one. Even you aren’t strong enough to fight an entire house by yourself.”

“I will be,” the little girl nodded confidently. “Especially if Istavros helps. I’m going to be High Priestess, then we’re going to fight all the other houses. Istavros would be really good at making sure no one escapes. And he’s sneaky, too. We can definitely beat them.”

“You go tell Matron Baenre that,” Lird’tryn grumbled.

Their father was more gentle as he chided, “Lolth doesn’t approve of doing it too much. If a house gets too greedy, they might lose favor with Her. And if someone finds out about your bloodlust they might come after us too. You still have to do what our own Matron says, little priestess-to-be.”

Yasjra was a bit disappointed, but beamed up at him as he called her by her preferred nickname. She would be High Priestess one day, and maybe even Matron. Then she and Istavros would fight House Baenre themselves, just to show Lird’tryn and Lolth they could. Any coherent thought drifted from the spectators’ thoughts as a figure was dragged out into the courtyard by two attackers. A third attacker walked up to them, sword held high until its blue light glinted stunningly from the last rays of Narbondel.

“Is that the Matron?” Istavros asked.

Their father shook his head. “No, she and her daughters will be inside fighting a battle of magic against the attacker’s Priestesses. This may be the Patron, or one of their sons.”

Lird’tryn added grimly, “I would guess she’s already dead. It’s just clean-up now.”

The attacker drove his sword down into the defender’s neck, and the twins almost imagined they could hear the squelch of the blade driving home into the soft flesh. The two holding the Drow let him crumple to the ground, where a pool of blood began to spread. The two returned a moment later, dragging a much smaller shape to the fallen corpse of its family member.

“It must be ended, if they’re bringing the children out already,” Lird’tryn commented.

The older man nodded. “Bold of them to bring the nobles out in the open. They want the whole city to see their victory, it seems.”

“Children?” Istavros asked, feeling a nervous chill run up his spine. Could someone really do that? Just walk into their home, into their own bedroom in the dead of night?

“There needs to be no witnesses among the nobility to claim the right of revenge,” Father said.

“Woah,” Yasjra breathed, her eyes as wide as saucers.

The bars of the railing dug almost painfully into her face as she fought to get a closer look. Though they rarely left the house, if ever, Yasjra was sure she remembered meeting the two girls that were being dragged kicking and screaming from the stalagmite. A bit younger than her, maybe. She could hardly contain her excitement as the warriors threw the girls to the ground and drew their swords. There was a flash of gleaming adamantine, one last piercing scream, then the girls’ blood joined the pool of their father’s in the courtyard. Adrenaline coursed like ice water through Yasjra’s veins at the final sight of it. She didn’t even try to hide the sad*stic grin as it rose on her face.

“Come, back to bed,” a firm voice announced behind her.

Yasjra groaned, “Just a few more minutes, I want to see what they do with the bodies.”

“They’ll rot there until they’re discovered tomorrow,” her father countered sternly. “It’s already Black Death: you’re lucky to have stayed up at all.”

“You can’t make me,” she said, standing to full height and looking him in the eye.

Her father wasn’t amused by the defiance. “Then I’ll get your mother. I hear she’s been itching to try a new poison on annoying little priestesses-to-be.”

Yasjra was about to protest, but perked up as she caught the tail end of his sentence. “A new poison? Really?”

“Come along, I’ll tell you about it while we walk.”

Yasjra needed little more convincing. She bounced eagerly along behind her father as she began to pester him about her mother’s experiments. All the while her brother stared at the carnage far below, failing to register a word any of them said. His knuckles were white where they gripped the railing, his eyes wide as he looked at the lifeless corpses thrown at their father’s side.

A gentle brush of shoulders snapped him out of it. Istavros looked to see Lird’tryn kneeling beside him, a subtle glimmer of sympathy showing in his golden eyes. “Come on, Stav. Best not to dwell on it. Father will be upset if he finds out we haven’t followed.”

He wasn’t sure how, but Istavros managed to pry his fingers loose from the bars and turn to his brother. Presently he remembered his duties and glued his gaze to his shoes. Maybe that familiar sight would help scour away the image of the two bleeding Drow girls.

“There’s a good boy,” he heard Lird’tryn say as he rose to his feet and set off down the corridor. Istavros reluctantly followed, keeping his eyes glued to the rhythmic movements of his feet along the cold, lifeless stone beneath him.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

Time passed by agonizingly slowly for the elven children with a whole life to look forward to. As dismal as a male’s future seemed, Istavros was more than eager to be old enough to look people in the eye again. As for Yasjra, each passing day was just one more miniscule step closer to beginning her studies to become a Priestess of Lolth. And, with Her blessing, she might one day even become High Priestess. To her ceaseless agony, at only 14 years of age such goals felt an entire lifetime away.

The responsibilities she took on with age got more difficult after her father’s absence. She had overheard her older sisters discussing his death in passing, though she’d never gleaned the truth in full. It was strange to realize how impactful his absence was, for all the family’s insistence that he had been too soft with his children. He had always seemed like a good father as far as she could tell, seeing as how he had taught the twins a great deal about Drow culture when he was given the opportunity. He was the only one in the family who had never disciplined Istavros, and while Yasjra could see the value of keeping a boy in line, she had never understood their mistreatment of her twin in particular.

Yasjra shook her head to clear it as she strode through the long halls. Father had been a help in guiding her and her brother towards becoming better Drow, stronger Drow, but he was gone now for whatever unknown reason that she hadn’t yet earned the right to hear about. Like the good daughter she was, Yasjra was determined to ignore the discomfort of his absence and continue her training in earnest. Not for his sake. Not for anyone else’s benefit but her own, House Do’t’tar, and Lolth. These three were the only goal, the only direction her life could afford to lead among her people.

A sharp cry made her stop dead in her tracks and turn. It had come from her eldest sister’s room, but the voice wasn’t Alasjra’s. Just as quickly as she’d stopped she bolted forward again at a full sprint. The scream came again, but now she could hear her sister’s normally beautiful voice spitting with anger. Her heart pounded in her ears by the time she reached the room. The door was shamelessly left wide open, giving Yasjra a perfect view.

Alasjra, more than 50 years her senior, paid the child no mind as she stood in the doorway. A nine-tailed whip writhed in her hand; her face was twisted in a disgusted grimace as she stared daggers at the pitiful creature in front of her. She raised her hand again and wound up a powerful strike, bringing the whip down with enough force that the tails whistled a sad*stic warning. Yasjra jumped as she heard the expected thwack of the weapon hitting its mark at full force. Young Istavros, barely even a teenager, whimpered pathetically as the whip tore painfully into his back and shoulders.

Yasjra stood still as stone. All she saw was red.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

They always came to him when he needed them most. When Istavros felt at his lowest and his sister wasn’t to be found, or when he began to wonder whether he ever fit in as a Dark Elf, they would always appear to comfort him. So it was later in childhood when Istavros was crying quietly in his bed. It was pathetic for any Drow to be caught crying regardless of age, but if any found him sobbing quietly into his pillow at 16 years old, he couldn’t imagine the kind of punishment he would receive. His back arched painfully at the thought of his oldest sister’s whip, or Lolth forbid, his mother’s. The thought only encouraged more tears, no matter how hard he tried to stop.

Yet he couldn’t help it. Hours past the Black Death he had woken from his trance and the cruel realities of his new life hit him with full force. Even at his tender age the memories and dreams of his past life were distant and vague enough that he could barely remember half of the images he saw when he slept, but those faint traces of the life that came before made his whole body ache with longing. Even as he sat only moments after waking he could only piece together snippets of his trance: shafts of brilliant sunlight that he had never seen in this life but recognized from the old; the trace of a woman’s smile as she danced away into a forest of trees that held no substance to a Drow who had never seen the surface; the warm touch of a lover on his skin, never to be felt again.

There was plenty that haunted Istavros about his old life. The traces of life lost would linger in his mind long after he woke even when he could scarcely remember what that life had been like. All he knew was that it seemed infinitely better than the cold lonely life of a Drow, born and raised in the cool, crushing depths of Menzoberranzan. Even if he found a companion of sorts, or another Drow to share an intimate touch, or a reason to keep fighting in this abyssal existence, it would be nothing but a shell of the purpose he truly craved. ‘Lover’ was nothing but a foreign term found in books mocking the pitiful, idealist surface. Community was a mockery of the ambition that every Drow strove for. Compassion, comfort, companionship…those faerie, or surface elf terms were all cravings punishable by death in his homeland.

It made things all the stranger when they came. There wasn’t a single aspect of Drow culture that Istavros felt came naturally to him. Hells, most Drow insisted they never had memories of their past lives. Some wondered if Drow even reincarnated like surface elves. Most assumed Drow souls were Lolth’s in the end, to do with as she pleased. But still Istavros and even Yasjra dreamed now and again. His sister’s trances didn’t seem to affect her the same, though. No one seemed haunted by dreams in their city, let alone–Lolth forbid–dreams of being a faerie in their past life.

She may have been a cruel goddess, no kinder or more forgiving than her own people, but Istavros always foolishly assumed that she was okay with him being different, somehow. What goddess would make someone like him, just to suffer? He couldn’t know, seeing how males were always treated in his homeland. Still, devotion to the Spider Queen was the one thing that came easily to Istavros, whether she accepted it or not. Maybe she couldn’t accept someone as miserable as he, but that never slowed his faith.

His quiet whimpers halted as he saw it approaching him. If ever he’d needed a sign of his queen’s favor, of knowing she was watching and accepted him, it was now. The creature was no more than a spec on the wall where it huddled. He stretched out a hand toward it, watching as the tiny spider scuttled sideways along the wall with sure steps. Eight tiny legs met his eagerly waiting fingers.

Istavros noted that it was a female spider as its tiny black and green body skittered along his skin, tickling as it went. The thought comforted him a bit. She came to rest on the back of his hand and hunkered down comfortably against his warm body. He held her up close to his eyes and gazed into hers: a half-dozen big, pearlescent orbs that barely worked to take in the dark surroundings. Instead the tiny mandibles by her mouth felt around to get more comfortable with her environment, and even now they worked to understand her world. The pincer-like chelicerae tenderly brushed his dark skin to get familiar with the feel of him.

Somehow, whenever Istavros was at his lowest, he would always find a friendly little spider in the chaos of it all. It shouldn’t have been a surprise considering how common spiders were in a culture that worshiped them, but they were a comfort all the same. Through all other aspects of his people that he struggled with Istavros did genuinely love spiders, and the queen that favored them. Maybe it was the only thing that had kept him sane this long. Them, and Yasjra.

Among a number of others, one word that could define Drow quite well would be confidence. The Dark Elves were always confident about their worship of the Spider Queen and what she wanted. Each and every one was confident that they were the superior being and worthy of worship in their own right. And every one was sure that Lolth wanted nothing more for her blessed race of elves to squabble amongst themselves like dogs. But in these moments Istavros was comforted by the mystery, the uncertainty of it all. He always began to wonder, what if it was okay to be different? What if the goddess Lolth truly loved and respected Her children for their faith, and could look past their soft hearts or even their gender?

Love was not a word associated with the demonic goddess, yet there were as many different spiders as there were races all over Faerûn. Istavros had seen hundreds of different spiders, and few enough of them could be considered evil. He had even seen some and read of still others on the surface that could live in harmonious societies and develop complex social structures of their own. So how then could every Drow be so certain that theirs was the only way to Lolth’s favor?

Istavros placed a careful, tender kiss on the top of the spider, who stared back at him as if in question. But she wasn’t judging him. She didn’t run away from his affection or bite him in response. She only stared, and Istavros was free to imagine that she, too, was happy to have met such an unexpected friend in the Drow. Hells, maybe Lolth had sent her especially for him.

He turned onto his side and gently scooted the spider onto his nightstand, where she would be safe while he sank back into his trance to be welcomed by long-forgotten memories once again. But this time as he drifted off he was met with images of spiders in his dreams. If he’d remembered them by the time he woke again he would have been near certain that they were visions sent by Lolth herself. But instead they were discarded in the back of his mind among the other rare comforts he encountered as he floated off into dreams as a human might. Their meanings were altogether lost to him amidst the other hallucinations of the night. Over time they changed to new dreams: images of himself and his sister at his side as they rose up to become Lolth’s champions and fight in her name.

He wouldn’t know that his queen was watching, ever judging of this curious little Drow She had found deep in Her web like a diamond in the rough. An odd little diamond, certainly. He would need to be shaped, and he was quite unlike the others She’d found, but She was curious how he would shine after the refinement process, all the same.

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Yasjra was careful to be quiet as she rolled out of bed, seeing her brother still deep in a trance that brought a serene smile to his face. The boy had gotten better at hiding his more vulnerable feelings with age, but such a look of contentment was rare enough that she dared not disrupt him, if it could be helped.

The woman rolled her shoulders to relieve some of the stress from her sparring session several hours ago, reveling in the feeling of her spring-coiled muscles losing their stiffness and preparing for another rigorous day of training. She knew better than most that she held great potential; enough to become one of the Matron’s favorite clerics one day if she worked for it. But the life of a magician felt almost too pampered to her. She opted instead for honing her skills in battle, and over the years she was rewarded in spades as her body adapted to the training, while still working tirelessly to maintain her studies of Lolth.

She had honed her magic to an acceptable degree, by Lolth’s grace, and had built up both a ferocious reputation and the body to match. Few would dare challenge her to a fight openly, and years spent predicting her opponent’s moves against her and her brother had honed Yasjra’s mind like a whetstone to a blade. Young and full of promise, Yasjra Do’t’tar was determined to live up to every ounce of the expectation. If not for her sake, then for her brother’s.

No, for my sake, Yasjra mentally chided herself. Any self-respecting Drow wouldn’t think twice about stabbing every last member of their family in the back if it meant getting them even one step closer to the top. Each and every humanoid one encountered was useful only as stepping-stones on the path to victory. This Yasjra knew well, and this doctrine was etched in her heart as indefinitely as the city carved into the very rock. Every aspect of Drow life came as naturally to her as breathing, from reveling in the suffering of others to knowing that only one thing in this world mattered more than her own ambition: Lolth herself.

With careful, quiet movements she buckled on her longsword and arranged her usual complement of spare knives around her person, watching to be sure that she didn’t disturb Istavros’ much-needed slumber. She stalked silently across the room to look at him for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest under the thick blanket. She reached out to brush a lock of white hair away from his eyes and regarded his all-too-soft features for a long moment. She departed quickly then, leaving Istavros to his peaceful slumber. She knew his memories were one of the few experiences that brought him solace these days, and those too would fade in time.

From there it was a long walk down the desolate stone corridors of her family’s estate to the training room. Long as it was, each step served as a chilling reminder of just how powerful House Do’t’tar was. Others may have been more prominent in the citizen’s minds, but that would change soon enough when Yasjra rose to power. And indeed, even now she had the luxury of walking in peace down this long tunnel in the comforting presence of her own superiority, while lesser families in Menzoberranzan fought over scraps of luxury and inches of land like territorial, starving mongrels in squalid alleys. Where others eked out a living on the midden heap of poverty, a future of being Matron of the 21st house was practically within her reach. Hers for the taking, once she was old enough. Alasjra and Aunvrae were an ever-present threat to that goal, but the older girl’s particularly barbaric nature and less refined cunning made for a poor priestess, and their middle sister showed little interest in leading the family herself.

Normally she knew better than to get caught up in her own fantasies. And yet here she stood, reacting all too slowly as the familiar, hulking shape of her eldest brother loomed out of the shadow of a doorframe. His scarlet eyes glowed menacingly from the darkness, like those of a panther regarding its prey. Micarryn’s long hair was more blond than white, and pulled up into a warrior’s topknot. He would be prepared for a fight if she gave him one. But he knew better than to try anything on his own, even if Yasjra was 49 years his junior. She was still a female, after all, and the punishment would be severe if he laid so much as a finger on her. If she lived to accuse him, that is.

Her ear twitched at the subtle sound of a pair of light boots coming to a stop behind her. So, he hadn’t come alone after all. Based on the nearly imperceptible noise she couldn’t be sure who was lying in wait behind her, but she could hazard a guess. At once her mind was running through her options, analyzing a hundred different outcomes to this interaction to prepare for whatever turn this interaction took. If she bolted now she could duck quickly past Micarryn’s hulking form and pray he didn’t react fast enough to catch her. If she turned around she could confront the other guest, but she had no way of guaranteeing who it was or whether they were armed. A doorway to her left could offer her an opportunity to avoid being surrounded, but only if the room was empty and not hiding a second secret.

For the moment, it seemed, it would be wisest to entertain the most boorish of her three brothers. Based on the look on Micarryn’s face he was all-too aware that he had caught her in a perfect spot with little escape. Even if he wanted only to wish her a good morning, it was fitting enough that he would take some pleasure in seeing her squirm with discomfort while being in this opportunistic trap of his.

“Dear sister,” Micarryn greeted cheerily enough with a subtle nod of his head.

“Brother,” Yasjra answered less enthusiastically. The word felt oddly hollow when she was regarding the two older brothers in the family, as if they didn’t quite fit the term the same way that Istavros did.

Micarryn stepped out of the doorway and took a stride toward her, letting his free hand fall to the hilt of his sword as he asked, “And where are you off to this morning?”

“Training,” she answered, feigning boredom.

Bootsteps echoed behind her as the stranger made themselves known. It wasn’t necessarily an ambush then, as much as a snare to make her uncomfortable. Yasjra wasn’t about to let her guard down though, as she found herself caught between at least two Drow. As she suspected, it was her oldest sister that cleared her throat to announce her presence behind her.

“And what is the little Matron-to-be training in today, hmm?” Alasjra cooed in her deceptively singsong voice. “No doubt the coward’s daughter is brushing up on her magic?”

“Wizard’s daughter,” Micarryn corrected.

Out of the corner of her eye, Yasjra saw her sister’s eyes go wide in feigned shock. “Oops. I shouldn’t say such things, should I? Mother would be displeased to hear me speak ill of her favorite sacrifice.”

“Husband,” Micarryn corrected with a snicker.

“Right,” Alasjra tsked. “She did have high hopes for his offspring, didn’t she? Of course, our father died fighting half a dozen surface dwellers by himself. But I’m sure your father’s death had some meaning, in the end. Feeding Lolth’s web with his sacrificial blood is probably better than he deserved anyway.”

“Maybe,” Yasjra agreed half-heartedly. She could care less what her half-siblings thought of her father. He had been sacrificed for being weak and pathetic, from what little information she had been able to gather. That was three years ago, and she wouldn’t let these barbarians use his death to get a rise out of her now. As far as she was concerned, the Matron had made a choice to strengthen their family’s standing and she couldn’t care less. Her inward doubts and regret would do nothing to change his fate now.

Alasjra continued, “But some of that sorcerous blood is in your veins…being squandered while you muscle yourself up like a common footsoldier. Hard to believe anyone thinks you’ll measure up to me one day.”

It was true enough, for the most part. Yasjra didn’t spend as much time honing her magic capabilities as some had suggested, but she was determined to become more well-rounded than those simple-minded folk. But she could see through her sister’s insecurities: the knowledge that her magic was only as strong as it was from years of hard studying. Alasjra also had some training in hand-to-hand combat and had taken part in a raid or two on the surface already, but her teasing hid the undercurrent of her feelings. She felt threatened by her youngest sister. Knowing this, Yasjra did little in response. Feeding her ego would only make it worse.

She felt a sad*stic satisfaction in seeing Alasjra’s eyes narrow. The woman was livid that her remarks were having no effect on the teen. Before Yasjra could react, the older sister grabbed her arms and pulled them sharply behind her back. Yasjra was much stronger than her sister and about to break free, when she felt the wind get knocked clean out of her chest. In seconds she was dazed and seeing stars as her torso erupted in pain. By the time she knew what was happening she was on her back on the cold stone of the corridor, her whole body aching.

Micarryn gave her a harsh kick in the side, making Yasjra yelp in pain as the point of his boot bit into her already aching body. Only when she heard them step away a few steps did she dare to roll over onto her hands and knees. She spat on the ground, seeing flecks of blood come with it. She managed to react just in time as Alasjra’s boot soared forward and dodged the blow, despite the ache on her body at the sudden movement as she rolled away.

She took the opportunity of distance to roll back onto her feet and brush off her clothes, paying her brutish, short-minded siblings no mind. She wiped off her face and grimaced at the sharp sting of a split lip, chiding herself for letting Alasjra get close enough to trap her like that. And forgetting Micarryn as well. She should have been more wary of such an underhanded move, and the lack of respect on his part. Her hand began to move reflexively to the whip at her side, but the thought of seeking a more devastating form of punishment in the future stayed her hand. For now, she felt a resolute satisfaction in knowing this tussle would make her more prepared for their tricks in the future.

“Glad to see all that training makes you good for something, at least,” Alasjra said nonchalantly, crossing her arms. “I’d hate to see someone who shares my name skewered by some surface-dwelling peasant with a fishing spear.”

Micarryn joined, “I wouldn’t be too sure she won’t be taken out like that anyway.”

“True,” Alasjra conceded, frowning. “But at least she’s leagues more competent than the other one.”

Yasjra’s blood ran ice-cold. She didn’t need them to say it to know they were talking about Istavros. She busied herself with straightening her clothes and steeled herself to carry on down the hall before she did something she would regret.

“He isn’t good for much, is he?” Micarryn jabbed dumbly.

Alasjra shrugged, “No, that’s not entirely true. He could be as useful as his father, at least. I wonder if he would scream like his father did when his blood drains into the webs. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to hear him scream like a butchered rothé as our mother’s blade opens him navel to neck.”

“I don’t want to see that,” Micarryn grumbled. “Can you imagine how hard he would be sobbing before she even drew her knife?”

But it was Alasjra who screamed next as Yasjra dove forward, burying her dagger deep in her sister’s stomach. The younger girl felt a wicked grin grow on her face as she felt the dagger sink into the soft flesh all the way to the hilt. She could feel Alasjra’s hot breath in her face as the woman gasped and hunched over reflexively.

“You f*cking bitch,” The older sister cried.

Yasjra didn’t give her enough time to react, but gave the knife a brutal twist before dancing out of her sister’s reach. Micarryn was fantastically slow to react, just as she’d predicted. As Yasjra danced away from her sister she used the momentum to slam the hilt of the dagger into the man’s nose, hearing the resounding crunch of cartilage as it broke under her sharp strike.

As she slipped out of their reach she swapped the dagger to the other hand and reached for her whip. In seconds she was on him, striking with every ounce of strength she had and feeling the jolt of it burying into his soft flesh. Micarryn howled in pain and dropped to the floor, covering his neck with his hands as Yasjra’s whip burned white-hot lines into the skin of his back. She must have lashed him close to a dozen times before backing away. She drew her sword then and wove it threateningly between herself and her siblings as she flowed seamlessly into her initial fighting stance.

She waited, ready for the slightest excuse to kill them where they stood. Micarryn crawled away from her and scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding nose and shaking. Alasjra’s expression warred between shock and panic as she struggled to determine how grievous her wounds were. Her hand was wrapped around the knife, considering whether she could afford to pull the blade out, or if the resulting blood loss would spell her end. A slick pool of blood began to seep into her shirt with alarming speed, visible only in the way the fluid shimmered in the faerie light.

“You can keep squawking like the pathetic little rat you are,” Yasjra growled in a low voice, “or you can run off and find a healer before you bleed out.”

“This isn’t over,” Alasjra hissed, pressing her hands to the wound and backing away quickly.

Yasjra glared daggers after her. “You’d better hope it is.”

As the two scrambled out of her sight, Yasjra slowly let herself relax and sheathed her weapons again. Her sister was right, of course. This was personal now, and she was already thinking of every possible way she could turn their lives into a living hell. The poison on her dagger would be a big help. No doubt the healers would find the antidote, but with any luck Alasjra would be bedridden for a few days before she had a chance to retaliate. And by then, Yasjra would have a whole slough of ideas for ensuring her siblings would stay far away from Istavros, and keep his name out of their rancid mouths while they were at it. Luckily Micarryn, for his part, lacked the initiative to strike against her on his own.

Already her mind was reeling with the possibilities ahead of her, but for now she was forced to let the ideas die without action. Mother would be upset at all three of them for fighting again, regardless of the reason or how the brawl ended. Yasjra could handle that well enough, though she did lament that the scheming and fighting only served to weaken their house. Many in her family were too brutish, too short-minded to consider the bigger picture, which left House Do’t’tar in 21st place amongst the pecking order of Menzoberranzan. One day, though, this house would be great under her clever rule.

The pounding ache throughout her body, and the angry bruises she could feel forming under her skin were no excuse to neglect her vision, her purpose. She could rest easy, at least, knowing Istavros was safe for the next couple of days without having to worry about Alasjra’s cruel whip waiting for him. She rolled her shoulders and sheathed her sword with a heavy sigh before continuing along to the training room.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

One lone pair of footfalls echoed thunderously across the carved stone halls, no matter how light their steps. For now the walk was safe, with most of the more ruthless members of the family away on raids against neighboring Duergar. Faerie lights flickered with arcane light from within their sconces, pouring glimmers of cool hues into the opaque stone until the very walls seemed almost alive. Greens and purples battled for dominance with the tendrils of shadow that swirled along the halls, like a great sentient beast living within the very bones of the towering building.

The chilling and dark beauty of the ancestral home of House Do’t’tar was not entirely lost on Istavros, imaginative as he was, but they often served only as a cool reminder of the knife’s-edge life he led. Within the whorls of shadow and ominous cloudy lights that dimly lit the halls hid the ever-present threat of enemies. Spies from enemy houses looking to tear down his family’s strength could watch him from any corner without being discovered unless he was careful. Either of his middle siblings who remained home, or a more distant relative unknown could be lying in wait to end the greatest blight on the Do’t’tar name. Some low-caste Drow looking to earn respect for themselves, or free themselves from the Matron’s curse could wait behind any shadow for a chance to strike, and impress his own mother with her child’s murder. What she wouldn’t reward to the Drow who erased all traces of him from their family’s history, knowing she didn’t have to do the work herself. It was Yasjra’s ferocity alone that had kept the third-born male child of the family from feeding the Demonweb Pits with his blood.

But Istavros was a child no longer, no matter how young and brash he acted at times. He was still young for an elf, to be sure, but at just over 31 years of age he had been changed into the man he was to become. It was a relief to see with age that the family had more or less grown tolerant of his presence, if nothing else. The Matron, if she thought of him at all, often insisted that Istavros spend most of his hours within the estate to hide his existence from any who would regard him as a sign of weakness for the family, but he was otherwise left to mostly do as he pleased.

Istavros, for all appearances, should have thrived at Melee-Magthere, the illustrious academy dedicated to martial combat and a major stepping-stone to greater heights for any male Drow Elf noble. After only a few months near the top of his class he was forced to leave after returning home too frequently, against his instructors’ wishes. Matron Jisvyll seized the opportunity whole-heartedly to keep her son tucked away in private and leave him to hone his skills alone. He took his self-schooling very seriously, but it mattered little when the family was reluctant to send him out with the others on patrols in case he might mess that up as well.

The arrangement suited him well enough most of the time. House Do’t’tar was able to pay for weapons masters to help him in private on occasion and there was a wealth of books available that helped him hone his own unique style: allowing magic to assist his physical abilities. He had already found several tricks to help that were otherwise lost to the typical students at the academy, who spent only six months learning magic to complement their fighting at the end of their training.

Better still was Mother’s unwitting allowance for Yasjra to remain at home as well. In recent years noble daughters were expected to begin their clerical training at Arach-Tinilith by the age of 25, and yet Matron Jisvyll had decided to keep her youngest daughter at home to take advantage of the same training opportunities as her twin brother and occasionally joining patrols for the added experience that Istavros was typically denied. The expectation for Yasjra was clear: the Matron of Do’t’tar wished for her daughters to wait until their 60th year to begin training.

What no one knew for certain was why. Istavros hoped that she meant for her daughters to have enough experience to shine above the rest at the academy, where 40 extra years of training would make Do’t’tar a more recognizable name among Menzoberranzan’s elite. Yasjra worried that she was trying to keep her own daughters under her thumb and prevent them from surpassing her in power or faith. It seemed an odd sentiment in a culture where houses benefitted from the females’ strength, but Istavros was made all too aware of his mother’s particularly petty selfishness over the years. Ultimately the choice worked well for him now that he had more time to spend with his sister. She was perhaps the only reason he had built himself into the Drow he had become.

Having those years to hone his abilities had done a lot to shape Istavros’ character in a variety of ways. He spent much of his spare time doing the things that he enjoyed, but was also dedicated to using his talents to benefit the family in whatever ways he could. Such selfless sentiments weren’t entirely shamed by the Dark Elves, but it did further highlight how different he had become from the rest of his family’s self-serving nature. If nothing else, this utility kept him alive so long as his services benefitted them, which he always thought was how a house should operate. Lolth ever approved of chaos, but the growth of one’s family and cohesiveness was a fine mark of success. He was more than happy to suffer their abuse now, so long as he was no longer holding Yasjra back from her potential.

At least for now he was able to hold his own in a fight more often than not, though his sister rarely gave him room to test that theory. Truthfully, it had started to put a bit of a strain on their relationship that Yasjra worried so much about him. Those subtle acts of kindness, even if hidden behind the facade of a perfect Drow warrior, were a blessed reprieve from the evils and loneliness of life that he had grown numbingly accustomed to. But Yasjra’s enigmatic dedication to him made her own life a living hell. She had decades still to dedicate to her training to rise to the top of Drow society as she dreamed of, but she was being held back by obvious shows of empathy towards the weakest member of the house, no matter how well she hid it behind the mask of cunning malevolence she wore so naturally these days. Truth was, she could be just as soft as Istavros in the right circ*mstances.

Her lack of faith in Istavros, and her insistence that he needed protection was one thing, almost endearing even. What he couldn’t stand was watching Yasjra throw away her dreams little by little every time she stepped between him and danger, no matter how small. It was obvious in their mother’s disdain that for every inch that Yasjra clawed her way up the ladder, Istavros’ dead wait dragged her back by three. Sheer ferocity wouldn’t be enough to make up for her kindness. How much better life would be for her, for all of them, if he had never been born at all?

Istavros let his eyes drift closed for a moment as he walked, letting a long breath out through his mouth as the intrusive thoughts dispelled from the raging torrent of his mind like smoke. The whisper of his breath echoed cacophonously in his ears as it reflected off the sheer stone around him. Yasjra wasn’t here now, for better or worse. Here was one of the rare moments that she had left on a raid with most of the family, and their minor squabbles were replaced with Istavros’ own opportunity to worry over her safety. That familiar whirling, fickle tempest of comfort and anxiety was absent, so he had one reliable place to find peace in all these long, lonely halls.

It wasn’t too much longer before he found his destination: far off down the hall he could see his quandary. In place of windows the Drow often made use of the strange properties of the stone that lined their city, building structures and walls out of thin pieces of the opaque rock. Most races would see the same swirling shadow of any other wall, but here Istavros’ keen darkvision and infrared sight could peer through the murky mists to see the faint outline of tall, filled shelves on the other side. He could also see a flicker of a red figure as it moved, belying the presence of another visitor within. He couldn’t say another’s presence was a surprise in such an important part of the home, but coming face to face with anyone in his family or otherwise was always enough to spike his anxiety. With another long sigh he slid the door aside, bracing himself for a confrontation.

Tucked into a small chair beside the desk was a particularly wiry and short Drow with short, tousled silver hair, an oddity among the Drow. His pale yellow eyes were focused on the book in his hands: Studies of the Faerzress-Touched, though Istavros could tell by the rising heat in his face and tense body language that he was painfully aware of a newcomer. This Drow was Istavros’ middle brother, Lird’tryn, the only one of their siblings who shared the same father as Istavros and Yasjra, and another member of the family who lived on the knife’s edge between begrudging acceptance and an excruciating death at the hands of the Matron, as he’d gradually come to learn.

So Lird’tryn spent much of his time here in the estate library, desperately striving to make himself useful enough to be kept alive, as Istavros often did. Though Lird’tryn’s dedication often leaned into the extreme. He entirely lacked the inherent magical abilities most Drow were naturally born with, despite their mother’s attempts to breed with a particularly strong wizard. Over time the family had grown to believe that their father’s magic was more learned than naturally given, to all of Do’t’tar’s dismay. Yasjra and Istavros were lucky enough to have inherited a passable amount of arcane ability.

Lird’tryn, on the other hand, was too small and uncoordinated to learn martial fighting with the rest of his siblings, and spent all of his time desperately scrabbling to make himself useful in other ways. The fact that Istavros was the third-born son was perhaps the only reason he had been allowed to live this long, though the success that the youngest eked out spelled potential trouble for the older. It was a common joke between their two oldest siblings that their Matron was simply waiting to see which one of them would wind up being the most useless. To his credit, Lird’tryn had managed to tap into magic through his diligent studying. Istavros often wondered if subconsciously he tampered down his own ambition, if only to give his brother a fighting chance in this life.

“Still hard at work, I see,” Istavros said with a casual smile as he entered. He was always more wary around his brother than he was with Yasjra, but he could let his guard down a bit in his presence.

“Istav,” Lird’tryn greeted him reluctantly.

He watched as some of the tension in his brother’s body eased, but not all of it. Lird’tryn was still wary of something that Istavros couldn’t quite place. At once alarm bells were ringing in his head and he glanced frantically around the room while trying to keep a nonchalant air about himself. It took him far too long to see the problem, and Istavros silently kicked himself for being so lax in his observations.

In truth, he may not have noticed the third figure in the room at all if not for the bright green glass clasped in her fingers. Aunvrae reclined almost lazily atop one of the bookshelves where the shadows were darkest. Though she seemed relaxed, her violet gaze studied the room with the intensity of a hawk hunting for her prey; her every muscle coiled and poised to strike like a waiting cobra. Istavros knew better anyway: his middle sister had never been caught with her guard down.

Even after all these years Istavros had never been able to fully understand his middle sister. Alasjra was cruel and calculating and couldn’t be trusted even as far as one could trust the average Drow. Micarryn was a dumb brute who followed her to save his own skin. But their last full sibling was as enigmatic as they came, waiting and watching from the shadows throughout much of Istavros’ childhood. He rarely even heard the rest of the family talk about the mysterious second daughter of Do’t’tar.

And now Aunvrae was watching him, fixing him with that cold stare. The cool lavender of her irises did little to soften the intensity of her gaze, though she swirled the vibrant green liquid in her glass with such casual ease. Even making eye contact with her sent an icy shiver straight down Istavros’ spine.

“I expected you would come here, eventually,” Aunvrae called softly in her low, calculated way.

She tipped her head to the side as she studied him a moment longer, then released him from the unbreakable grip of her stare as she let her eyes flutter closed and took a long sip of the wine she held between two dark, dainty fingers. When her eyes opened again, she seemed contemplative. She pulled a black bottle from her cloak and held it down at eye level.

“Would you care for a taste, Stav? Tryn never developed the taste.”

Lird’tryn squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, and Istavros could understand why. No doubt he had refused Aunvrae’s offer for the very rational fear that it might be poisoned, and Istavros barely managed to stifle a shiver as the thought occurred to him as well. Their sister could stand to gain a lot for assassinating both of the disappointing younger children of the house. That considered, she would also incur Yasjra’s wrath. Over the years their family had learned the hard way that such a consequence would be much better avoided, if it could be helped. No, the cautious Aunvrae had another reason for being here, though Istavros wouldn’t dare dream that it might be on friendly terms. It was still unsettling to hear her call the brothers by their nicknames for each other. No one else had called him Stav or Istav besides Lird’tryn, and the nickname sounded like venom coming from the woman’s mouth.

After some careful consideration he accepted the bottle from her to play nice, catching the look of barely-concealed panic on Lird’tryn’s face and the coy smile on Aunvrae’s. With one last breath Istavros took a long swig from the bottle of green wine, feeling only the usual burn of the acidic drink. He could taste only the usual notes: fruity and acidic, with a thick, rich, and earthy aftertaste. If there was any poison to it it was well-hidden, or expensive. He didn’t think anyone would bother with those standards to dispose of the likes of him. Aunvrae drained the rest of her glass as he finished.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, sister?” Istavros asked, handing the bottle back.

Aunvrae tucked the bottle into her cloak, then gracefully swung down from the top of the bookshelf to stand more directly in the faerie lights. She was a whole head shorter than Istavros and significantly leaner than him besides, but he knew well that pound for pound she was a powerful fighter. He suspected she could probably overpower him without too much trouble.

“Actually, I was wondering if you might help me,” Aunvrae said with a flat, almost bored tone. It hid any emotion and perfectly disguised her motivations from Istavros until he couldn’t even begin to guess what she had in mind. Before his mind wondered too much, though, she explained, “The competition has grown a bit stale. I was wondering if you might join me for a little sparring practice. I’m not over-fond of being left behind from the raids again, and I’m itching for something to do.”

Now this was entirely unfamiliar territory for Istavros. There had been a definite shortage of training partners since their most recent weapons master had departed over a year ago, but that had never been too much of a problem. Alasjra and Micarryn trained together often, Yasjra and Istavros trained together on occasion, and some of the more capable fighters among the house’s slaves made for good sport and training exercises when required. But Aunvrae he’d never even seen in the training room. He couldn’t be sure of her fighting style, or even what motivation she could have for asking him for help now. She could be genuinely interested in finding a new partner, perhaps even because she’d accidentally maimed a slave or whomever her usual partner was. Worse still, this could be her opportunity to kill him and make it look like an accident.

But she didn’t need to go through all that work. No one would care if she killed him, accident or not, and it would be a lot of work to set up this arrangement for any reason at all other than the theatricality of it. Istavros simply couldn’t get a gauge on her motivations no matter how hard he tried. So, maybe, the best option was to play along.

“I’ll meet you in the training room,” he agreed with a curt nod.

Aunvrae smiled sweetly at him, and no matter how hard he tried, Istavros couldn’t read the expression lying beneath. After a thoughtful pause she stepped toward the door and said, “I’m glad to hear it, little brother. I’ll see you there.”

A moment later she was gone. Even the see-through walls of the library were enough to conceal her figure as she slinked away down the hall with her concealing piwafwi pulled comfortably around her frame, appearing to have all the physical presence of a shadow. Another shiver rolled its way through Istavros’ body, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched somehow.

When he turned back to face the desk, Lird’tryn was visibly shaking. “She’s going to kill you…if she hasn’t already,” the smaller Drow brother squeaked.

Istavros couldn’t help but reflect that the near 50 year-old had lost much of his confidence after their father died. Perhaps learning of their mother’s willingness to sacrifice the weakest members of the family had caught up to him. Perhaps Istavros should have been more careful himself.

“If she thinks she has me beat, she’s woefully unprepared for what’s about to happen,” Istavros laughed in reply, though the chuckle was cut short as it caught on the lump in his throat.

Lird’tryn just shook his head in response and buried his head in his book again. Istavros rolled his shoulders to shake off some of the anxiety he felt and set about finding the books he came here for. If he did survive, he imagined he would need a lot to make up for the inevitable stress he was about to face. Finding a book of magic to study was easy enough; there was a wealth of scrolls to choose from detailing various spells and techniques that would help him get just a little further ahead in his studies and hone his skills to make him just a bit less useless in his family’s eyes.

His second search was inevitably more difficult. When the library did have books from the surface, or even about the surface, they were usually discarded or tossed haphazardly to the less maintained corners of the space and left to rot. Finding ones he hadn’t already read before was near impossible, and if he even managed to find one the rest of his family would no doubt be more than a little disappointed about it. Each time he returned he lowered his standards just a bit more to find something new, whether they be half-destroyed books, or written by an Underdark resident with a heavy bias against the surface.

This time he settled for what he could find: a bug-chewed tome about the history of Faerun, and an old children’s story about half-elf adventurers hunting a dragon on the surface. As expected, he couldn’t find anything relating to the moon goddess Selûne besides the usual Drow scripture condemning other inferior gods. Running short on time, he stashed the books he could find into the small bag he brought with and dashed out the door to face his sister, and whatever fate she had lined up for him.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

The heavy smell of acrid smoke burned into the lungs, dulling the senses as fire caught and spread recklessly through the settlements. Farms full of fungal crops spouted their hideous stench as stalks melted away, deep rothé and other beasts of burden roared in terror as they were slaughtered by the dozens, as were the creatures that had cared for them.

Short and stout men and women with thick skin the color of stone were too foolish to run from the sudden onslaught. They stood their ground against the wave of death that the Dark Elves brought with them, and died quieter than most. But they died all the same.

Yasjra ripped her sword from the neck of a Duergar woman and watched her sink to the ground, her eyes already empty and lifeless as blood spurted out over the stone. The Drow woman had less experience fighting Duergar and was almost impressed by their tenacity compared to the more typical enemies they faced. In a fair fight she could imagine finding one of them to be a good match, though the ambush carried out by the Drow left little opportunity for the dwarves to find weapons and armor, or even scurry away into their various hideaways where the elves couldn’t follow. Regardless, they made for much better sport than the Deep Gnomes.

Yasjra kept a straight, unreadable face as she danced forward and lunged low for the dwarf’s torso. He blocked it easily, as she expected, then foolishly swung his own axe at her to try and catch her off guard. It was a foolish move that left him completely exposed. Yasjra effortlessly angled her sword up to send the axe glancing away, and before the Duergar could recover she had only to change the direction of her arm’s movement. Her body flowed with the ease of water into an offensive stance as she’d practiced a hundred times before, driving the point of her sword deep into the dwarf’s unprotected chest at full force. She could feel the lack of resistance as her weapon tore between his ribs, glanced past his spine, and passed through his lower back in an instant.

She heard the clatter of his axe falling to the stone and watched with sad*stic glee as the light faded from his eyes. But there was no time to dwell on the kill as the wave of elves surged forward into the village, burning and slaughtering as they went. She wrenched her sword free and followed them in the conquest. Animals shrieked as they were cut down and left to rot. Fungus and herbs spouted more rancid smoke into the air as they were burned in the fields. Shrieker mushrooms wailed their warnings, too little too late. What houses there were that weren’t carved out of stone were set alight with the rest of the town, whether they held valuables within or not. The Drow were not here for plunder, but to send a message.

Yasjra had a half-dozen kills under belt by the time the raid was done, nearly all helpless farmers and workers who were too foolish to run from her as she cut through them. By the time the village was empty her sword arm ached and her lungs burned, both from the exertion and the smoke stinging her throat. What few Duergar survived had finally chosen the smart decision and ran for their lives. Still many of the Drow pursued them.

A few of her distant family and the other Drow in the raid took off into the dwarven tunnels despite having to hunch down to follow. No doubt those dwarves would have an advantage and escape, if not kill the few who followed them once the odds were a little more even. From her side, Alasjra and Micarryn both cackled with glee before setting off with most of the other Drow to chase the few unlucky Duergar who were forced to flee through the open ground of the Underdark.

But Yasjra had no heart to hunt them down, like a cat chasing down a panicked rat for sport. She would take a good fight against a worthy opponent any day for the thrill of truly proving her superiority over a matched foe, or as near to her as the Duergar could muster. Even the six she had killed had done little to scratch the itch for combat that she felt, and the idea of chasing the rest only bothered her further, though she couldn’t say why. No, she could leave the rest of them to give chase and have their fun.

As long as the more sad*stic members of the family were raiding and playing their games with miserable Duergar, Istavros was safe at home to do as he pleased without the prying, judgmental eyes of Do’t’tar, or other Drow for that matter. Oddly enough, though, she still wished to be back by his side. Maybe he didn’t need protecting from anything right now, but she imagined it would be better to be by his side again.

Yasjra watched as the Drow disappeared into tunnels or away into the fields to pursue the remaining Duergar. What few of her kin remained were greedily picking through the ashes for some semblance of treasure no matter how unnecessary, or taking stock of their progress and preparing to return to Menzoberranzan anyway. A few others were cowing some of the Duergar’s slaves into submission and preparing them for the trek back to their new life in Menzoberranzan. The few Svirfnebli that were discovered were quickly slaughtered, rather than waste time dragging them back to the city to serve as mediocre slaves.

She solidified the plans in her mind with a quick nod and set off back in the direction of home.

She quickly found the riding lizard she had brought and moved deftly into the small saddle on its back. The beast chittered in anticipation as she pulled the reins to direct him toward the path home. It could be a dangerous trek alone, but most other races would likely leave a Drow alone or struggle to keep up with her mount speed. A quick glance behind her said that at the very least there would be some elves bringing up the rear in case something happened to her. It would be frustrating to have to owe them a favor, but at least she would be safe enough something went wrong.

Whatever the case she urged the lizard forward and it scrabbled eagerly down the tunnel. She could feel every muscle in the beast’s lean body as it moved beneath her, his body wriggling and twisting in its usual way as it ran. Occasionally she could feel the spring-like stretch of the lizard’s body before it pounced over a chasm or climbed partway up a wall, navigating the treacherous ground of the Underdark with the practiced ease of a beast born and bred in the darkness. And with each writhing step they took, Yasjra’s chest grew lighter knowing that she would soon be with her brother again.

|\0/|

The door to the training room creaked open, the sound deafening in the otherwise silent hall. Istavros noted that the room was also black as pitch, such that even his sharp elven eyes, long accustomed to the Underdark, could barely make out the vague shapes within the room. He whispered the word of power and a brilliant purple flame erupted in the sconce on the far side of the room. He winced as the light roared to life and illuminated his surroundings.

The air was ripped from his lungs as he found himself lying on his back, the narrow sole of a boot jammed painfully into his neck.

“Dead,” Aunvrae tsked with disappointment. She drove her heel down a bit harder, making Istavros gag as he struggled to take in enough air.

But Istavros wasn’t ready to lie down and take this punishment. He didn’t know what Aunvrae’s game was exactly, but the measly 30 years of life experience under his belt were enough to know that he could never back down from a challenge. Showing weakness for even a second would make life all the more miserable for him, and for Yasjra besides.

It was all too easy to sweep his leg to the side, catching Aunvrae’s leg where she was holding most of her weight. There was a near unbearable pressure on his neck as her balance shifted, then it vanished entirely as his sister fell. He rolled quickly to his feat, but to his astonishment Aunvrae was faster. She had rolled with the momentum of her fall and was on her feet a moment later, staring at him like a starving wolf searching its prey for weaknesses.

It was too late for Istavros to prepare for the attack. Aunvrae lunged at him before he could find his feet. She barreled into him at full force and Istavros could only roll along with her momentum to minimize the damage. He scrambled quickly to his feet and succeeded this time, but his sister bore down on him with a flurry of punches that took every ounce of his attention to block. Her fists made contact with his ribs once, and narrowly grazed his cheek a second later. He couldn’t hold her off for long at this rate before she started doing some serious damage. Rarely had he fought a foe that was smaller and faster than he was, but Aunvrae struck with all the calculated precision and speed of a snake. He would have to readjust his fighting style to keep up.

So what would Yasjra do? His twin was stronger and just a bit slower than he was and she had him beat half the time. He would just have to think like her and adjust to her style to make his own stand in this ruthless fight. He stepped back a bit to give Aunvrae some ground and started fighting more defensively. How did Yasjra normally stand to hold her ground?

The second of hesitation was more than enough. Aunvrae’s fist connected with his cheek less than a heartbeat later and it took all of Istavros’ willpower to hold his ground, lest she take advantage of his lapse in defense. His face burned with the familiar sting but he ignored it until his brain was caught up. He didn’t have time to think like Yasjra, he would have to be Yasjra, to the best of his ability.

Aunvrae dove at him again with a quick flurry of blows and Istavros focused all of his attention on blocking. He took smaller blows here and there, but he could handle a bruise or two if it meant he was learning her style and preparing his own plan of attack for the long run. She was quick, but starting to become almost predictable. She would strike different places and seemingly at random times, but almost always in the same order. Two or three offhand attacks here, then a stronger dominant hand or two as soon as he exposed an opening somewhere. That was all he needed.

Istavros leaned too far to his right to block one of her lighter attacks and leave his left flank open. As if on cue her dominant hand burst forward at full force, aiming right for his kidney. He slid aside by only centimeters and struck out to grab her hand. The split second of surprise was enough as he grabbed her hand and pulled hard. There was a dizzying crack as he drove his skull into her face with every bit of power he had.

She wrenched her arm free and danced away from him to the opposite side of the room. He could have chased her but welcomed the moment of respite as she surveyed the damage. He was starting to ache in a number of places from where her fists had made contact, but he felt a great deal of satisfaction at seeing a trickle of white-hot blood slipping from her nose.

Aunvrae put a hand to her nose and wrenched it back into place with brutal efficiency. She looked at the blood on her hand for a moment, then wiped it away on her tunic. “Oh you f*cker,” she growled, though a grin spread across her face even as her eyes narrowed.

Either Istavros was completely dead, or he’d earned her respect. Knowing Drow as a whole, he warranted it could easily be both. He had little time to prepare before Aunvrae charged him again with renewed fury. This time, though, he was just a bit more familiar with her tactics and beginning to hone his own. She was more careful to commit less to strikes that would leave her exposed, which gave Istavros ample time to initiate with a few small attacks on his terms. He was playing to his advantage of strength, but was able to make use of the significant agility he still possessed as well. He was starting to give as good as he got, and Aunvrae was getting increasingly frustrated with him.

A fist aimed at his torso gave him another chance to catch her off guard, but this time Aunvrae was at least a little more prepared. As he pulled her arm she flowed easily into the movement, letting him pull her closer but moving aside so he couldn’t capitalize with a strong strike. Instead, she grabbed his free hand and wrestled him roughly to the ground. She was far stronger than she looked.

It took a bit of adjusting, but Istavros couldn’t help a small smile growing on his face as he knew he held the advantage. They grappled for a few moments in a flurry of short, quick jabs that did little damage while struggling to wrestle one another into submission. She was tough indeed, but Istavros had the upper hand and shoved her roughly to the ground.

Istavros felt the bite of something ice-cold on his neck and froze. A second later he was on his back and Aunvrae had him pinned to the stone floor. She held her boot against the wrist of his dominant arm while her other knee dug painfully into his elbow. Against his neck she held a long silver dagger that thrummed with magic, glowing dully with arcane green light.

“You cheated,” Istavros spat.

Aunvrae’s lilac gaze bore into him with an intensity that sent a cold shiver down his back. She pressed the dagger harder to his throat, and he thought he could feel its cold bite as she cooed in a deceptively soft voice, “You’ll have to learn to fight dirty if you want to survive, little one.”

Despite her words, he was convinced that these would be his last moments. Truth be told, he nearly wet himself until he heard someone clearing their voice on the other side of the room.

“Hands. Off.”

Without turning to look, Istavros could easily recognize Yasjra’s voice. The sound was low and menacing, even to his ears. Though she spoke steadily and clearly, he could hear the barely-concealed rage roiling under the surface in just those two words, telling him that his twin was moments away from killing their sister. Or rather, the sound gave away that Yasjra was actively trying to figure out how long she could skin Aunvrae alive before someone found them and put a stop to it.

The pressure on his throat and arms lifted and Istavros let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, welcoming the icy relief of fresh air as he struggled to settle his frantically-beating heart. When he was able to open them again and sat up, he saw Aunvrae stalking toward the door with all the ease of a panther picking its way through the stalagmites as it assessed its prey. Either she didn’t hear the cool threat in her sister’s voice, or she wasn’t frightened by it.

Aunvrae’s own voice was light and carefree as she said, “Of course, Yasjra. We were only having a bit of fun, weren’t we Stav?”

Istavros glared at her, and judging by Yasjra’s expression she was all too aware that he wasn’t in on the fun. Her eyes glowed like stoked embers as their older sister approached, but Yasjra stepped smoothly out of the doorway to let her pass. The tension between them was palpable as Aunvrae stepped within a foot of her, but tucked her dagger into its sheath with ease and slipped past her.

“Thank you for humoring me, little one,” Aunvrae called back to Istavros, though her eyes were trained solely on Yasjra’s as she moved. “I’ve learned a lot from our little session.”

With one long movement she grabbed her Pwafwi cloak from beside the door and draped it over her shoulders, then slunk out the door, closing it behind her without another word.

Yasjra stared after the door’s closed surface as the all-too-light footsteps of their enigmatic older sister faded down the hall. Her body was stock-still as she stared at the door for entirely too long, and Istavros was keenly aware that his sister was still considering bursting from the room and hunting Aunvrae down like the rat she was. He was nervous as he rose slowly to his feet and rubbed some of the soreness from his arms. He just might have to chase her himself to stop her from doing something stupid.

Yasjra whipped around to face him, fixing her fiery eyes on him. “What the hells was that?” she seethed.

Istavros’ ears twitched back defensively. “I don’t know. She said she wanted to practice sparring with me.” It sounded even more stupid when he said it aloud.

“And you thought it was a good idea?” Yasjra demanded.

The brother didn’t have an answer. No, of course it wasn’t, but how could he explain that it seemed like the right thing to do? He couldn’t begin to guess what her motives were, and not giving in to her request seemed like a good way to piss her off. Or…was it a stupid idea to give in to her demands? By Lolth, he couldn’t be sure of anything when he tip-toed around societal norms.

“What if I hadn’t come back?” Yasjra continued, quickly closing the distance between them until she was only arm’s length away and he could truly see the rage burning just under her skin, ready to explode at full force. “She could have f*cking killed you! She could have tortured you for hours if I waited to come back with the others!”

Istavros’ head sunk submissively into his shoulders and he stammered, “I-I really don’t t-think she would have-”

“Gods, what would I have done then?” Yasjra interrupted in a barely-audible hiss. At once, all the anger burning behind her eyes dissipated like smoke. Her gaze softened suddenly as she looked him up and down. “Are you okay?”

Her brother let out a long, shaky breath before visibly relaxing and nodding. “Yeah, I’m fine.” he noticed for the first time that she looked a bit disheveled as well. A streak of soot on her face disguised some of the blood that trickled from various small cuts around her head, though it seemed that most of the blood wasn’t hers. Her hair was a bit tousled and uneven and her movements seemed stiffer than usual. Her left arm and leg seemed especially sore from the way she leaned, and now that the seething hatred in her eyes was gone she just looked tired more than anything else.

Yasjra closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms tight around him, and Istavros leaned into the embrace with his whole body until he was fully enveloped in her hug. She was warm and soft, and he relished the feeling of her hot breath on his neck as it slowly settled until she was calm again. Yasjra smelled of blood, smoke, and sweat, but every breath he breathed felt like home. He hugged her back just as tight, reassuring his sister as much as himself that he was safe and comfortable in her arms.

“I was winning until she pulled the knife on me,” he muttered grumpily into the sharp point of her ear. Yasjra drew away from the hug with some reluctance and eyed him skeptically.
Istavros insisted, “Really, I gave as good as I got.”

Yasjra did remember seeing some blood on Aunvrae’s face, and reluctantly conceded that it could have been from her own injuries. Her mind stumbled onto another point, and she asked, “Did she call you Stav?”

Her brother shrugged a bit shyly. “Sometimes Lird’tryn calls me Stav or Istav and she must have heard us talking. Or he told her. It makes me uncomfortable hearing her say it, though.”

“I kind of like it,” Yasjra said after some thought. She smiled at him. “Little Stav.”

Heat rose on his cheeks despite his best efforts. Blushing didn’t change a Drow’s skin color much, but the rising warmth shone like a beacon to the heat-sensitive eyes of other Drow. “It sounds kind of weird when you say it too. I think.”

“You don’t like Stav?” she asked, her mouth pronouncing the word with care, her Elvish accent putting a gentle ring on the nickname that the others lacked.

Istavros reluctantly said, “I could maybe learn to get used to it.”

His sister smiled for a time, then let her gaze soften. She brought a hand up to trace the darkening bruise on his cheek with the softest touch. It was these rare moments, by his side alone, that she could let that tiny piece of herself feel something more. All the blind ambition and hunger for power could wait for a moment, so long as Istavros needed her.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” she muttered teasingly as her hand fell away.

A second later she shoved him roughly aside and Istavros struggled to keep his balance. “What was that for?” he grumbled.

He almost groaned when he saw Yasjra brace her feet and settle into her usual defensive stance. She didn’t say anything in response; she didn’t have to. She knew perfectly well that her message would come across loud and clear. She shrugged her shoulders to release some of the tension and soreness from the day and prepared for a fight.

“Do we really have to do this?” Istavros complained with an exasperated groan. “I’ve had enough, and it looks like you have too.”

Yasjra’s mouth quirked into a smirk. “So it should be an even fight. Enemies won’t always come after you when you’re strong and well-rested. Hells, anyone who saw you right now would jump at the opportunity to get a free punch in while you’re weak. If that’s even the worst of their plans.”

She edged closer to him and left no room for argument. Istavros set his mouth into a grim line, his features mostly unreadable but for the clear irritation that he couldn’t hide. It was a struggle to best his twin at the best of times, but now he felt he was at a distinct disadvantage compared to normal. Unfortunately for him, Yasjra would never relent once she set her mind to something.

He knew too well that she would stand there at the ready all day if he didn’t do something, so he moved forward and made a few light jabs. As he expected she easily blocked each one with perfect ease, though the move did help him to gauge her condition more precisely. He was right in his earlier assumption that her dominant arm was weakened, and the increased pressure on her left foot suggested there was considerable soreness to her dominant leg as well. Her reactions were fast enough, but also tended to tire a bit more quickly than he did from the same levels of exertion, thus leading to her developing her more defensive style.

A few more quick, half-hearted strikes later he was beginning to form an attack strategy. As she often did, Yasjra would be relying on him to make the offensive moves until she found an opening to use to her advantage. It was the same technique he had used against his other sister, yet Yasjra couldn’t afford the same luxuries to their fullest with half her limbs in the condition they were.

Istavros played ruthlessly to his advantage at once, striking with every bit of speed and strength he had without any hint of a warning. He made sure to press heavily into her right side where he was sure she would have trouble keeping up. The tactic paid off well. At least, until he felt his own energy slipping away while he was still trying to break up her defenses and catch her off guard.

The two continued in an even brawl for a time. Yasjra was pleased to see that despite his evident exhaustion, Istavros had indeed learned a trick or two while fighting with Aunvrae. He would need that versatility in life, as she knew all too well that their foes both within and without the house could come in numerous forms. Such was the peril of being one of the few sparring partners he had, if you could even call the slaves adequate partners. The grim set of her face hardened as she resolved, then and there, that she would keep him closer.

No more would he while away his days in the relative comfort of home, avoiding the many dangers of the Underdark while learning nothing of their world. Bringing him on raids would be risky, of course, but she was far less afraid of Deep Gnomes and Myconids than of their own people lurking in every corner of the city, their mother especially. If nothing else she could keep an eye on him while they were raiding. And some very small, distant part of herself that she would never acknowledge had resolutely decided that she wouldn’t be apart from him any longer. They were two halves of a much greater whole, she reluctantly conceded. As he struck at her with a flurry of harsh blows she knew that he was a brilliant fighter in his own right. Having him at her side in battle would be an incredible asset.

She ignored the small part of her brain that almost sang at the thought of them being together through every important piece of her life. Being apart from him felt as unnatural as leaving the Underdark. Maybe even more so, if she took the time to ponder it. But she didn’t. Istavros was attacking her with renewed ferocity, and Yasjra shook the thoughts from her head in an instant. She had made up her mind with very tactical and logical reasoning, and any personal feelings were naught but irrelevant distractions. She focused her mind on the fight and rejoined it with her full attention, turning to the offensive as soon as she saw an opening.

Istavros was well past the breaking point of his exhaustion. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his quickly stiffening limbs, if he could even feel it through the new collection of bruises that speckled his aching torso and arms. He could feel his chest heaving with every motion as it burned in desperate attempts to get enough air. Each strike grew weaker, but he was determined to prove to his sister that he could handle himself better than she thought. With the way she coddled him sometimes, it was hard to imagine that she truly respected him and his prowess in combat. Harder to imagine still as his hair hung in a sweaty halo around his head and his whole body shook with exertion.

It was a small consolation that Yasjra looked much the same. Her own silver-white hair had long since come loose from the way she normally tied it up, until many of the loose strands danced fervently in the violet haze of the faerie light. Her eyes burned with fiery intensity: alight with determination and focus and never glancing away from him for a second as she tactically worked through each swipe of her fist. The lighter grey skin of her face shone coolly lavender in the faint glow, slick as it was with blood and sweat. Her own body shook and chest heaved under the pressure, yet she never relented.

When their energy was all but depleted and they could hardly stand to throw punches they grappled with one another, not unlike how Istavros had first been tackled by Aunvrae earlier. They were both exhausted beyond measure, but sheer bull-headedness made them both refuse to relent even as their limbs cried out in protest. Neither could say who was at fault when they rolled roughly to the ground. They wrestled for a time with what little energy and determination they still clung to.

It was almost a relief when Istavros found himself pinned on his back, the cool rock floor offering subtle respite from the burning in his muscles. Firm hands pinned his arms above his head, and he didn’t need his eyes open to sense as Yasjra towered over him. He felt her crushing weight a second later as she straddled his waist, forcing what little breath he had left out of his body in a resigned groan.

Istavros pried his eyes open against their will to see his sister’s weak, but no less sh*t-eating grin looming above him. He could feel the way her body shook from the stress of the fight. He watched the way her chest heaved, forcing out each ragged breath in time with his as they both fought for air.

“I’ve got you,” she breathed teasingly as her grip tightened on his wrists for a moment.

He relaxed in her grip submissively and rolled his eyes. “Yes, alright, you win.”

Istavros lacked the energy to argue, but he was pretty sure it was an unfair fight from the start when he had already fought tooth and nail against their older sister–and nearly triumphed to boot. Instead of pointing that all out though he dropped his head back to the ground and relaxed his tensed muscles.

From his position Istavros’ vision was surrounded by Yasjra, from the wisps of silky white hair that cascaded down to tickle his face to the sharp lines of her stomach, perfectly outlined by the well-fitted leathers she typically wore under her armor. Without the armor it was all too revealing; he could see the exact curvature of her hips flowing up into the fulness of her chest, still shifting with her heavy breath just in front of his eyes. No–he forced the ridiculous observation out of his mind as soon as it appeared and closed his eyes, focusing very intently on anything besides the feeling of her boody locked around his torso.

She slowly withdrew a bit, sitting back on her knees and letting her eyes drift closed as she sucked in a long and more controlled breath. Though he couldn’t say when his eyes had opened again, Istavros stared. Something in his brain seemed to short-circuit the moment she sat back and her legs locked his hips in place like a vice. Her toned muscles quivered and sent a soft shiver along her body, from the tension of her thighs and up along her lean stomach, up to her exposed neck. Istavros thought a lot of things at that moment, and at the same time nothing at all.

He noticed with a start that his hands were still above his head even though she’d long since let go of them. He gulped past the lump in his throat. He squirmed uncomfortably from under her. He tried desperately not to think about the pressure of her body on his, pinning him down in the worst way imaginable.

Yasjra glanced down at him then and the co*cky grin from her victory faltered. She rocked back onto her feet then, and Istavros tried to shake the feeling of regret as she offered a hand to help pull him back up to his feet. There was a heat glowing in her cheeks, smoldering softly under her skin. The cute innocence of the look helped to ground him a little bit.

“Had to keep you in your place for a minute,” Yasjra laughed away easily with a gentle jab into his ribs. She brushed some of the silvery hair out of her face, tucking it behind one long ear. “Come; I think you’ve earned some rest.”

She moved to the door and gestured down the hall to their room, expecting Istavros to welcome the opportunity to sit in their shared space in that easy and companionable silence together. If not sleeping, he seemed to enjoy reading much more when she was at his side, with no lingering threat of family looming over their shoulders for the rest of the night. But to her surprise he looked a little distant as he stepped through the door. The blush on his cheeks, no doubt matching hers, had toned down a bit but was still quietly simmering under the surface of his skin as he shook his head.

Distractedly, Istavros said, “Actually, I had some things I wanted to finish up…elsewhere.” Yasjra noticed he wasn’t making direct eye contact with her as he said it. He continued nonchalantly, “But you go ahead. I might be a little while so you don’t need to wait for me or anything.”

“I was just planning on going to sleep,” Yasjra chuckled awkwardly. “But if you want I can come with you?”

Istavros visibly jumped at that. “No, no. I just need to wrap up something I started today before Aunvrae interrupted me. Some books I just need to drop off. Really, I’ll be fine.”

Yasjra was entirely certain that he was far from fine, but she’d learned to understand and trust him enough when he seemed to want privacy. So, she accepted his excuses without another question.

“If I don’’t see you again for a while, good evening Stav,” she said softly. The nickname still felt odd in her mouth, but the surprised glimmer in his eyes as she said it made it worthwhile.

“I won’t get into too much trouble,” Istavros promised before offering her a subtle bow and walking off down the hallway.

Yasjra watched him for a long while, as if her gaze alone could protect him through the long, desolate corridors. All too soon he disappeared into the darkness and she was left to return to their room alone, with naught but her own thoughts and the unwelcome stirring deep in the pit of her stomach to keep her company.

Sweet Home Menzoberranzan - Part 1 of 3 (Incomplete) - Blackscales (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Chapter Text