Moonlight Shadows (9-16/3) - Jaezred

Content warnings: spiders, graphic violence, gore, sexual themes

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PART II

The air in the blood-soaked chapel of Eilistraee is thick. Five Vhaeraun’s Assassins lie dead on the floor, but the tension in Jaezred’s chest still has yet to let up.

He and Delilah, being the seasoned spies they are, get to work immediately, searching the bodies for any clues. It is then when he realises that he has seen some of these faces before — drow who had attended service in this very chapel. From the beginning, he’d guessed that the congregation had been infiltrated, but he never did figure out who among the sheep were the wolves…

They quickly discover that each assassin carried a small journal, containing detailed notes on the movements of various figures seen around the Mountain Palace. Jaezred Vandree, Imryll Elamaris, Margotin, Sarin Aleannder, Gérard Delafosse, Yvonzara Crystalborn, Star on the Horizon, Xantha Addington, Killian Gourcuff, several other drow, and two unfamiliar names: Raenlyn Harthak and Ardusin; though for the latter, only vague rumours have been recorded.

Velve the spider familiar — who had helped in the battle earlier by crawling into the assassins’ boots and biting their legs — hoists a roll of parchment from a dead drow’s pocket and nudges it towards her master, who picks it up, unfurls it, and reads.


“Not written in code? Not even Thieves’ Cant? Amateurs,” Jaezred mutters incredulously. Delilah, who is looking over his shoulder, hums in agreement. “And I’m an apostate, not a heretic. Do words mean nothing anymore?”

He flips the paper over and sees a section of a hand-drawn map of the wider Witching Court, with an X marked over a spot. No, “map” is too generous a descriptor — there are hardly any landmark markers to indicate what location in the Witching Court this scrawl is supposed to depict. It’s impossible to tell where this is.

Jaezred grinds his teeth. As irritating as this is, there are matters more pressing at hand. Four simultaneous attacks are happening across the Witching Court right now, and many lives are in immediate danger. He summons the tome of witchcraft and scribbles a sending to Yvonzara, the head of palace security, warning her of the threat to Imryll, Margotin, and the Eilistraeean drow. Her response is swift: she will inform the Queen right away.

Next, he selects Imryll’s name from the list and writes another sending to her, his typically neat cursive morphing into a frantic mess with each new word. I was right, it was a lure to get you! What’s happening??? he scratches on the page. Once again, there is no answer.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I-I can’t leave Imryll out there,” he stammers out. Desperation clouds his eyes when he turns to face his friends. “There’s another group of assassins waiting for us in the teahouse. But there’s, what, five of them against her alone? I…I don’t know where she is exactly in the Shambles, but I need to go help her.”

Part of him knows he’s not being logical right now. They could very well take too long searching for her in the Anuhlin Shambles and let the assassins in the teahouse slip away. He’s not even thinking, much less giving a damn about the other two groups targeting Margotin and the drow — he will leave that in Yvonzara’s capable hands. He just can’t bear not knowing whether Imryll is safe or not.

Toothy gives him a nod of solidarity. Carnán’s grip around his staff tightens, ready to face whatever perils lie ahead. Oziah and Delilah look back at him with sympathy; they both know that if either one of them finds herself in his position now, she would likewise abandon everything to go save the other.

His ever-faithful companions. He knows he owes a great debt to them.

However, there is one other person he must tell this decision to. He just…isn’t sure how to reach her in time. As a pact magician, he can always feel some vague, underlying connection to his patron no matter where he is in the world, a tethering thread of silk in the back of his mind. Her presence permeates every corner here in the mountain, looming over everyone inside like the structure itself…

Then his gaze is drawn back to a line in the letter: Do not speak the Mountain Queen’s name. Memories of the recent past replay in his mind — all those times he’d mentioned requesting an audience with her, and almost immediately after saying her name, a servant would show up out of nowhere to declare that she’s ready to see him. It has happened too many times and too suddenly to have been mere coincidences.

Perhaps…

“Queen Nicnevin,” Jaezred says aloud, tilting his head upwards. “There are assassins waiting to ambush us in the Proud Garden Teahouse, in Brittlecap Moor. If Your Majesty would send the Pact and the Huntsman there, then I shall go assist Lady Imryll in the Anuhlin Shambles—”

“No.”

That voice was not something he just heard inside his head — it’s coming from the very room they’re in. The six of them whirl around to face the Witch-Queen Nicnevin, the Lady of Copper and Crystal, the Moonweaver, standing between them and the chapel door, her bare feet steeped in the blood of the slain drow. There is a gasp from Sarin. Jaezred’s jaw goes slack.

“No,” the red-haired giantess repeats. “Imryll can handle herself. I have sent Yvonzara and Gérard to save the drow who are under attack, and I myself shall intervene in the attempt on Margotin’s life. And you, Lord Jaezred, will take your friends to Brittlecap Moor and deal with the assassins there.”

He so badly, desperately, wants to protest. Imryll is her right-hand woman, surely she deserves all the help she can get! But when he looks into Nicnevin’s mossy-green eyes, he understands there is no room for bargaining or questioning here. It’s an order, not a request.

No. She’s right. Imryll is the smartest person I know… I have to trust in her.

Power is a burden. And now, as the Queen’s warlock spymaster, his burden is to eliminate these murderous encroachers and protect the people of the Witching Court. So it must be.

Jaezred bows his head. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

When Nicnevin is unmoving, everything in the room, including the air itself, feels equally still, as though they are being frozen in place by her will. Her gaze pierces through him, seemingly weighing his words, his emotions, his intent. Eventually, she nods. “Good. Report back to me when it is done.”

And then she is gone. Only ripples left in the pool of blood on the floor.

“Right,” the drow lord sighs as he addresses a still-upset Sarin, “you, get out of here. Find somewhere safe to hide until this is over.”

“Uh—”

“Go, now! Scram!”

“Take the donation box with you, Sarin,” Delilah says to him quietly. Oziah gives her an odd look, but doesn’t question it.

Once the priest has scurried out of the door, the alms box tucked under his arm, Jaezred turns to his friends, determination steeling his blood-red eyes. “If this letter is to be trusted, then the group of assassins who were sent for us are tasked with merely distracting my attention. Which means that, should they be met with enough resistance, they might just tactically retreat and lead us straight to Oloth. Come, I know a way to get to the teahouse quickly. Follow me!”

---

Down the corridor, there is a door, which leads to yet another corridor, in which there is another door — one that looks like it’s made from living bark. Opening that door and stepping through it, the party of Dawnlanders find themselves under a tall fir tree in the woods, looking out at a tiny village lit by moonlight and the the outline of the Mountain Palace in the far distance.

The roads are deserted. There is not a light that can be seen in the windows of the modest houses. Even the owls and crickets lie silent. Something’s rotten in the village of Brittlecap Moor.

Jaezred remembers the small, wooden building on the outskirts that is the quaint, tabaxi-owned teahouse. Whilst Delilah slinks into the darkness to scout around the house with Beastie and Velve tip-toeing behind her, he takes a deep breath and bellows out, “SARIN ALEANNDER! Where are you? Get your naked arse out here!”

The assassins’ attention is sure to be drawn to the front of the house now. Sarin’s face suddenly pops up in the dark window beside the door, pressed against the glass. A moment later, as Jaezred, Oziah, Carnán, and He’lylbreia are walking up the dirt path to the house, the door swings open and “Sarin” steps out onto the porch.

“Oh, thank the goddess you’re here!” he cries out. In Jaezred’s magically-altered eyes, the disguise of the young priest’s form ripples into blur and becomes transparent, revealing to him the black-clad assassin underneath. “Oh, my lord, we’re under attack by the followers of Vhaeraun! Come inside, I can tell you—”

He is cut off by a series of eldritch blasts, fired from the hip, pummeling into his mouth and sending several of his teeth flying.

---

The last drow assassin standing is a slight, short-haired, young woman wielding a crossbow, standing outside near the bay window of the Proud Garden Teahouse, and she is scared as shit.

It’s obvious from the many screams of pain and terror that the Dawnlanders have massacred all her colleagues — the best killers-for-hire in the whole damned industry — inside the building, and she isn’t staying around to find out exactly how they died. Not with a feral brown bear, a shadow panther, and a fallen angel lady with black wings and golden armour coming at her. Nope — honour and faith be damned, she is turning on her heel and running the fuck away.

But she does not get very far at all. The adventurers watch as her body is seized up by hacking, sputtering coughs, causing her pace to slow with each step and eventually falls to her knees. The coughing degenerates into wheezing and choking until she slumps face-down on the grass, silent and motionless.

“Fuck. She swallowed her poison pill.” Oziah wastes little time in dashing towards the dying assassin and administering a healing light through a slap on the back of the head. The assassin loudly gasps for air, rolling onto her back and panting wildly, as if her windpipe was closed shut and has just suddenly reopened.

But the bewildered look in her eye is soon replaced by fear when Bear Carnán plants a massive paw firmly on her chest, preventing her escape. Despite her best efforts, a small whimper escapes her lips when Jaezred goes to crouch down by her side.

“My methods need no introduction to you. We both hail from the same culture,” the Vandree scion says coolly in Drowic. “I may have put Menzoberranzan behind me, but I am still a drow. So then…”

He draws a long, black knife crafted from a giant spider’s fang, grabs her wrist in an iron grip, and wedges the sharpened tip of the blade under the fingernail of her index finger.

“…will you tell me where Oloth is, or shall I have my fun?”

She lets out a strangled cry that almost sounds like begging. “I-I-I don’t know! I swear! Valkyn, he-he-he’s our leader, he gets our orders from Oloth and w-we just follow him around!” She jerks her head around to indicate at the male drow lying dead on the porch. “H-He’s one disguised as the naked priest!”

“What can you tell me about Oloth?”

“He…he calls himself the Hand of Vhaeraun. Valkyn gets his orders from him and we get our orders from Valkyn. B-B-But none of us has ever met him in person. That’s all I know.”

The Hand of Vhaeraun? Jaezred’s frown deepens. This is an ominous portent.

“And how long have you been in the Witching Court? How many of you are here exactly?” he continues.

The expression on the assassin’s face had gone from frightened to resigned when she revealed to the enemy everything she knows, but his last question makes her features twist into a frenzied sneer. “Many… Too many! Too many to even count!” She laughs manically.

“Right…” he scoffs. “Even if that’s true, we’ve already put your other colleagues in the chapel to the slaughter. We’ll stamp out the rest of you cockroaches just as well.”

She spits a mouthful of blood in his face. “Liar! That’s a filthy fucking lie!”

Carnán snarls and presses his huge paw further down on her ribcage until cracking noises can be heard. The druid is being uncharacteristically ferocious in this ursine form, nary a trace of his usual sleepy-old-man demeanour now. Disdainful but unfazed, Jaezred wipes the blood and saliva off his face with a silk handkerchief and plunges the spider fang dagger through her right eye, burying the long blade up to its hilt. The assassin’s body twitches, jerks, and shudders before going still once again, a half-vocalised yelp dying on her lips.

In the meantime, He’lylbreia had gone to inspect the dead drow who was wearing Sarin’s disguise and, with their maw, pulled out an identical roll of parchment to the one found in the chapel. They pad over back to Jaezred and drop it in his palm.


How easily and callously this Oloth disposes of his brothers and sisters in faith; no matter how skilled, loyal, and zealous they may be, to him, they are nothing but pieces on the sava board. It is a chilling reminder of the wretched life Jaezred left behind in Menzoberranzan. That his family treated him in much the same way was what pushed him to fall into Lolth’s web. Nonetheless, relief washes over him when he reads the confirmation that Imryll is going to be safe after all.

Flipping the parchment over, there is another hand-drawn map of the Witching Court, slightly different from the one previously found. Combining the two, he is able to suss out where exactly in the realm this depicts.

He now knows where the darkness lies in wait.

---

“My Queen, the assassins in Brittlecap Moor have all been neutralised. On top of that, we believe we have Oloth’s precise location.”

Nicnevin nods in approval. “I commend you for your good work, Lord Jaezred. Tell me, where has this insect who has infiltrated my court been hiding?”

He holds up the two maps for her to see. “In the Dismar Wilds, Majesty. I do not know why he is there…or what is in there, for that matter.”

“That is because there is hardly anything there at all. But good — now, will you go into the Dismar Wilds and snuff out this threat once and for all?”

“Naturally.” He glances back at his friends for a brief moment. They have fought exceedingly well tonight, as he had grown to expect of them, but they have also spent a fair bit of themselves after engaging in two skirmishes. “Though perhaps Your Majesty could lend us reinforcements from the palace?”

“I shall send Imryll, Yvonzara, and Gérard after you when they return here. Go forth, Lord Jaezred, and finish this.”

She makes a broad wave of a hand over the adventurers, and in almost an instant, their bodies become coated with a layer of glinting quartz crystals that hold them in place for a brief moment, before dissolving into dust with soft crackling and tinkling sounds.

---

Six life-sized crystal statues — consisting of two drow, an aasimar, a firbolg, a half-elf, and a panther — apparate in the bare hinterland in the southern edge of the Witching Court, a little ways past the enormous stone pillars that serve as the gateway to the realm. When they blink, the layer of quartzes on their bodies crack and shatter, sending tiny, glittering gem shards flying in the wind. They take a moment to reorient themselves in this strange, new setting — the Dismar Wilds.

On the spot marked X on the two maps, there is a trapdoor made of stone, covered in moss and half-buried in the earth. Too easy to miss. As Jaezred is heaving it open by its rusted ring pull, Delilah studies his expression, obviously noticing the deep frown still stuck to his face.

“Jaezred, if there’s something you know, share it with us. It could help us with…whatever’s coming next.”

He breathes out a sigh before answering, “No, it’s just… It’s just something the assassin said earlier. It bothers me a little. She said Oloth calls himself ‘the Hand of Vhaeraun’. What if he’s a Chosen of his god? Or worse…an avatar?”

“I’ve always wanted to kill a god,” Oziah says, rolling her shoulders. “Well then, shall we?”

One by one, they drop down into a tunnel covered in centuries’ worth of dust, cobwebs, and mould — a catacomb from an age long past, forgotten and left to the mercy of time. The walls on either side of them are riddled with small niches that once served as humble graves, decorated with inscriptions that have since faded and ornaments that have decayed into eerie, faceless, little figures.

There is only one way to go in this tunnel: a set of heavy double doors lie far ahead at the edge of Jaezred’s superior darkvision, guarding what must be a large chamber. As they get closer, they see that there is a flickering, deep violet glow seeping through from under the doors.

These stone doors are too thick for the detect magic spell to penetrate. No sound can be heard, save for their own breathing in this dust-filled air. Yet Jaezred is certain — absolutely certain — that someone is there inside, waiting. Waiting for him.

He pushes the doors open.


It’s a ritual chamber, he quickly realises, similar to the one in the heart of the Mountain Palace, only smaller. There is no gigantic, moonlit quartz jutting out of the vaulted ceiling, however; instead, the room is sparsely lit by braziers burning with eldritch purple flames. On either side of the chamber are large, jet-black statues of sitting panthers and faceless, hooded humanoids bearing bowls in a supplicative pose, and in the northeastern corner, there appears to be a makeshift office someone has set up.

That someone could be none other than the man standing on the obsidian dais in the centre of the ritual chamber. A dark elven man with long, flowing white hair and proud red eyes, outfitted in polished, black steel armour. He calmly rests one hand over the hilt of a wickedly curved sword on his hip as Jaezred and the others approach.

“I see you’ve got a penchant for the dramatic, Oloth,” Jaezred says. “Shame your lackeys won’t be seeing this tonight. You know, you really could’ve trained them harder. How is it that you have that many assassins and all of them are terrible? It’s an embarrassment to our race.”

“They did well enough in leading you to me,” Oloth replies, putting on a confident sneer to hide that he is speaking through obviously gritted teeth. “Truthfully, you’ve done me a favour, Vandree, in cleaning up the trash for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure… Cope and seethe. Twat.”

“Are you going to do a monologue first or should we start killing each other now?” Oziah chimes in.

Oloth takes a deep inhale and opens his mouth, as though he really is about to deliver a long speech, and perhaps he would have if he hadn’t begun sputtering. Coughing uncontrollably. His eyes bulge out and he claws desperately at his throat as he topples over, hacking and gasping and spewing blood. Jaezred’s eyes widen in surprise and casts crown of stars almost as a reflex, wondering what kind of twisted trick this might be. Similarly, his friends standing behind him reach for their respective weapons.

Soon, the Hand of Vhaeraun is lying dead on the floor. His eyes dimmed, blood trickling from his slack-open mouth onto the dais. The adventurers stare at the unmoving corpse, altogether confused, bewildered, and tense.

What the fuck just happened? Did he…swallow his poison pill…?

In the ensuing quiet, they can hear the faint, click-clacking sounds of heeled shoes on stone.

“He was a handsome man, but he really did talk too much,” a female voice says from the back of the room.

From the shadows, a tall, slender drow woman steps onto the obsidian dais. She is dressed in thigh-high heeled boots, a slim-fitting, sleeveless black dress, a translucent cape made of delicate webs, and what appears to be giant white spider legs wrapped around her body. In her left hand, she holds a tapered black rod topped with a large purple gem. Somehow, Jaezred can sense many pairs of eyes hiding inside the gem, watching him from within every facet of it.

“The Vhaeraunites spread themselves thin to massacre the Eilistraeeans, and they have been slaughtered in turn on the Eilistraeeans’ behalf. The maggot heathens took themselves out — their disarray is all in service to the glory of the one true god. And you…” She gazes down at Jaezred with her chin held aloft, contempt and victory flickering behind her violet-red eyes, like a spider looming over a fly thrashing in her web. “…Your presence here is no doubt the Spider Queen’s gift to me.”

He gapes at the woman perplexedly. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Your death.”

She spreads her arms out to the sides and chants an incantation as the gemstone on her rod glows. Black flames roar to life above their heads and surges down onto them, incinerating flesh, metal, and cloth in a whirlwind of dark radiance.

As Jaezred stumbles backwards from the burning pain, Oziah, Toothy, and He’lylbreia all break into a run charging towards the drow woman. A priestess of Lolth — she’s the one behind this all? She manipulated Oloth and his organisation into terrorising the Church of Eilistraee, knowing it will get them killed. Knowing Jaezred will come out of hiding to do the killing for her. He’d flown straight into her poisonous fangs. He is the reason all of this is happening.

She raises a hand to cast another spell, and he rapidly moves to counterspell her, but his magic fizzles away on his fingers. Someone unseen was counterspelling him in turn. Her spell goes off in the form of a burning orange beam that explodes into a cloudburst of fire that engulfs all of them in blinding heat once more, and the force of the inferno buffets the warriors back for a moment.k for a moment.

He sweeps the embers off his clothes and stares at her in disbelief. The first spell she casted was flame strike, and now she has just casted a fireball. That shouldn’t be possible. She commands mastery over both divine and arcane magic…

…just as he once did.

“Oh, I see what this is,” he snarls at her. “You’re my replacement, aren’t you? Mummy’s new favourite toy?”

The priestess flashes him a proud, mocking smile. “The new and improved model!”

Jaezred doesn’t know whether to laugh despairingly or scream in fury. All he manages to get out is a venomous but impotent hiss. “You stupid bitch!”

The frontline fighters are dashing up the stairs onto the dais then, and the priestess draws a silver dagger that she uses to parry the incoming attacks. Then, with cunning speed, she plunges the blade into a weak spot in the side of Oziah’s scorpion armour. The paladin writhes in pain before her whole body suddenly seizes up. Paralysed.

Jaezred swears aloud; he rummages through a pouch for an elixir of health and, hearing Delilah’s running footsteps coming up behind him from the shadows, he tosses the bottle over his shoulder — which is seamlessly caught by her as she sprints up the dais towards her defenceless lover.

Meanwhile, the priestess is fending off onslaughts of steel and claws from Toothy and He’lylbreia. Taking advantage of her distracted attention, Jaezred takes potshots of force blasts and motes of starlit radiance at her as he moves towards the western side of the chamber. There, in the periphery of his witch sight, he catches the blurry sight of a figure shrouded in spellcraft: a drow mage, standing under the looming panther statue. Their eyes meet for a brief moment.

Invisible mage, here! Jaezred exclaims to his companions through the telepathic bond.

Carnán nods — he understands what he must do. He slams his sapphire staff down on the stone and incants in Druidic, dispelling the invisibility spell in the room and revealing the mage near Jaezred and another on the eastern side of the room.

However, this only serves to make the mages bolder — since they needn’t to keep stealth any longer, they start casting healing spells on the priestess’s injuries.

With a grin on her face, the priestess tears off what appears to be a strip of paper stuck to the white spider legs around her body. The legs begin to twitch, and then move, unwrapping themselves from her and forming a gigantic arachnid shape on the dais as she takes a few steps back. An enormous, armoured spider materialises in between the priestess and the adventurers, and it wastes no time in hunting its new prey.

Long, sharp legs pounce immediately on Delilah; she raises her right arm in reflex to defend herself — an unfortunate mistake. Bit by bit, the limb disappears down the giant spider’s mandibles as blood rains down onto the obsidian stone below. The sound of Delilah’s scream is mixed with loud, disgusting, crunching noises. Oziah, still trying to resist the effects of the paralysing dagger, lets out a weak, anguished cry. Jaezred could only watch this horrifying scene before him helplessly.

Cackling, the priestess extends her hands outwards. Lightning crackles and arcs from her fingers to each of her enemies before her. Jaezred is hit square in the chest, the thousand stings of voltage that ravages through his body forcing him to his knees. When the pain subsides, he screams and strikes his fist on the ground.

“Why? WHY won’t you just LEAVE ME ALONE? I have done nothing to oppose her, NOTHING! So why can’t you just let me live in peace?!”

Red and black flames spark into being on the ground near his balled-up fists. His despair is boiling over into maddening rage and pure, divine hatred. Scenes of cruelty and abuse from his past life in the Underdark flash before his eyes and he wants nothing more than to rip everything and everyone apart using his nails and teeth. He’lylbreia’s form melts back into the shadows.

“If you refuse to leave me alone… If you want me to fight for my life…”

The flames roar and rise and form a sphere that consumes his whole body. Inside, he can feel himself transforming — his body painfully growing larger, stronger, and more arachnid; magic pumping in his veins; black fangs ripping through his jaw as they elongate.

When the flames disperse, the Lord of Driders steps forth to roar at the priestess of Lolth.

“…THEN I WILL DELIVER UNTO YOU WHAT YOU DESERVE!”

Sabre and crossbow in hand, his eight long legs bend and leap off the ground, propelling him high into the air. The priestess looks up to meet his berserk red eyes, and laughs. “You dare to use the form she gave to you?”

She waves a hand, sending a pulse of magic that rattles every fibre in his accursed body, threatening to revert his form. He quickly raises an arm to counter it, but the mage under him counterspells him in turn. The image of the drider then blurs away, losing colour and darkening into a black mass of shadow that melts away from Jaezred’s body. He lands unceremoniously on the hard stone floor, his sword and hand crossbow clattering down in front of him.

And yet, the animalistic bloodlust is still there. This time, it does not go away like it’s supposed to whenever he reverts to his normal form, even drowning out the embarrassment and shame he feels. There is nothing on his mind except the thought of savaging this drow. His hatred still yet burns. Hatred for the priestess, for Lolth, for his family, for himself.

His hand reaches forward and grabs the sabre in front of him by its blade. His other hand pushes his body off the ground.

Upon my name as a Vandree, I will have it. My vengeance.

Delilah plants a hard kick in the giant armoured spider’s hideous face and tears herself off from the grip of its fangs, leaving her with an empty, bloodied sleeve. It hisses in response, colourless venom dripping from its hungry, chittering fangs. Just then, a dozen rainbow-coloured magical darts suddenly slam into its head and abdomen, causing it to retreat back for a moment. More darts fly in loops around the room and hone in on the two mages and the priestess, catching them in surprise.

The adventurers look over their shoulders at the origin of the darts, to see Imryll Elamaris standing in the doorway with a staff in hand. The cavalry’s here.

With renewed spirit, Toothy unfurls a whip from his belt, its three tails crackling with electricity when they hit the floor. He lashes the giant spider with the whip, the shock jolting the creature and sending shudders across its entire body. Its movements become erratic and slower as it scuttles slightly from side to side. Carnán seizes this chance to cast a charm over the spider. “Get away from my girls,” he commands in a booming voice.

All six of the spider’s beady eyes glaze over for a moment, before it fully turns away from the maimed Delilah, and creeps to one side of the room to sit in tame silence. The priestess curses Carnán for stealing her pet from her, but she is cut short by Anima Ultionis slashing into her shoulder. Oziah has fully recovered from the paralysis and is now staring her down with quiet, angelic fury.

Meanwhile, Toothy drops his whip and picks his glaive back up, which he skewers into the gut of the mage standing under the panther statue. As the mage drops to the ground with a death rattle on his lips, Carnán turns to his counterpart on the other side of the room, who looks scared shitless. “Leave now, or you die.”

“I think he dies!” Imryll says. Before he could even touch the doors, the scurrying mage is incinerated in a massive fireball, leaving only ash scattered across the floor.

Jaezred is gripping the sabre tightly with both hands, blood trickling down the blade from the cut it’s made in his palm and fingers, feeling the promise of the heavy weight of the hilt on the other end. He stalks towards the priestess, who is locked in a clash with Oziah. She senses him approaching behind her and throws a quick glance over her shoulder, and in that split second, he draws his second wand — a slim, black, drow-craft wand — to shoot a dark, viscous glob. The glob expands to envelop half her body and stick to the floor, whereupon it dries immediately.

The priestess struggles to move as the black goo hardens on her skin, and she screams in utter rage. She flails her dagger at Oziah, but the undignified restraints placed on her makes her movements painfully sluggish, allowing the paladin to dodge her desperate attacks easily. Oziah raises Anima Ultionis high up in the air, the sword glowing with vengeful radiance, and there is a blinding flash of light when she slashes through the hardened glob and cuts the priestess’s stomach open.

The very moment the priestess’s guts spill onto the ground, Oziah drops the shield in her left hand to grab the drow woman by the hair, forcing her to her knees and presenting her exposed throat to Jaezred.

“She’s all yours,” Oziah breathes out.

Jaezred nods a thanks to his friend. She lets go of the priestess’s hair and takes a step back, joining the others who are now gathering around them.

The priestess says nothing as she coughs and more and more crimson liquid pours from her lips, trickling down her chin. Perhaps she is staying silent in defiance, or perhaps she’s simply too hurt to speak — it matters not a whit to him. He can see it: the mortal fear in her bloodshot eyes as she stares at him. He relishes the sight of it.

“You should have just left me alone,” he growls.

He begins by shoving the pommel of the sabre into her face to break her nose. Next, he brings the hilt down on the left side of her face, fracturing her eye socket and dislodging the eyeball, and the next swing smashes it completely with a sickening crunch. She topples over from the force of the hit, and he repositions himself over her half-conscious body to make stronger overhead strikes.

When the bloodied hilt eventually breaks loose, he tosses the blade aside and uses his fists. The bones in his hands shatter not long after he shatters her skull, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel the hurt. At times, in between the punches, there appears to be a different face on the priestess: one he had seen countless times before, wrought in stone in every temple in Menzoberranzan, hatefully glaring down at him. But no more now. He keeps going even when he finds himself punching into an unrecognisable mass of flesh and bone that used to be a face and clumps of thick, pink viscera unearthed from the caved-in skull.

Only the feeling of a hand gently laying on his shoulder gives him a sudden pause. He looks up, and sees the kindness and love and pity in Imryll’s green eyes. He thinks he sees her lips move, but he can’t hear anything — his ears are overwhelmed with his own deafening heartbeat and ragged, rasping, heaving breaths. It’s only when he rises to his feet that he starts to feel an intense, throbbing pain carving through his hands. He glances down at them — the broken and mangled fingers bent out of shape, the shards of bone embedded in the skin between his knuckles, the deep gashes in his palms. Soaked a deep and seemingly permanent red. It’s impossible to tell how much of the blood came from the priestess and how much came from himself.

Imryll places her soft hands on his cheeks, drawing his gaze back to her. She tucks loose strands of white hair behind his ear. Her forehead touches his. She is shushing quietly. His heart finally begins to slow down.

All that is left in his ears is the ringing silence.

---

Yvonzara and Gérard arrive not long later. The drow security specialist walks around the bloody scene, pausing by the makeshift office in the corner, and then thanks the adventurers with a cash reward. She tells them to leave the clean-up duty to her and her werewolf colleague.

Imryll teleports them back to the Mountain Palace, to right in front of the doors to the ritual chamber. Instantly the doors are opened by a servant, bowing and gesturing for them to enter. The eladrin spy never once lets go of Jaezred’s arm as the six of them walk in.

Queen Nicnevin is standing on the dais in the centre of the chamber, already waiting for them. Her moss-green gaze sweeps over each of them before landing on Jaezred. “What happened?” she asks simply.

A sudden stillness seizes the party as everyone waits for him to speak, unsure if he even could. But after a long moment, he speaks up in a quiet, rasping voice. “A priestess of Lolth was behind it all. A divine soul, like I was. She tricked Vhaeraun’s Assassins into attacking the Eilistraeeans in part to lure me out there. She is dead now, and so is Oloth.”

There is a pregnant pause in the air as Nicnevin considers him and his words, before answering with, “I see.”

She looks at the other adventurers once more. “Whether you intended to or not, you have all done the court a great service and your efforts have been noticed. This is not the first time the gods deem it suitable to interfere in my domain, nor do I foresee it being the last. I do not align myself with these fickle beings and neither does the Court. But its people, the drow who have joined us… This was a very real danger to them, and as their Queen, I have promised them safety. Through your actions, you have maintained that protection. For the protection you provided, the Court bestows to you this gift.”

Small, open chests appear out of thin air before Toothy, Carnán, Delilah, and Oziah, each containing assorted coins and gems.

“Furthermore, you have each done me a service in maintaining the protection my people are promised within my walls. For that, I grant you each a favour on behalf of the Court.”

Thin slivers of light wrap around each of their index fingers and silver rings materialise on them. Carnán’s eyes widen as he murmurs a single name: “Killian…”

“Is there anything you wish to speak of with me? If not, I must request some privacy to speak with the Lord Jaezred for a moment,” the Moonweaver says.

Oziah looks up at her. The aasimar’s worried gaze had been flitting back and forth between Jaezred and Delilah, who is more pallid than ever and leaning against her for support, since the battle was over, her attention split by two people she loves dearly, both hurting in different ways. Whenever she stared at Jaezred, though, he understood what the look in her cobalt-blue eyes meant: I know how it feels.

“Queen Nicnevin,” Oziah says. “I would like to ask for two favours.”

Nicnevin arches an intrigued brow. Oziah grimaces a bit, as if to say I know, I know. “First, I ask that you or your people help heal my partner Delilah with whatever resources are available in this Court,” she continues. “Secondly… I ask that you take care of my friend, Lord Jaezred. He has done much for you and your court, and I know he will continue to be loyal to you. My only request is that you treat him well in return, as he deserves.”

The giant queen nods in understanding. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Jaezred and Oziah look at each other. He manages a weak, quivering smile for his best and dearest friend. “Thank you, Lady Oziah. You are a true friend,” he rasps. “When you’re ready to take on your father and your shithead ex…call on me. I’d love nothing more than to kill some more religious bastards at your side.”

Her concerned expression softens into something almost…tender. “You were always at the top of that list, darling.”

His gaze moves slowly over to Delilah next to her, and at her torn, empty sleeve. The smile on his face fades away and he lowers his head. There are very few times in his life where he feels guilt weighing down on his shoulders, and never this oppressively heavy. He has no idea how to deal with it.

“If there’s anything, anything at all I could do to help you — I will. You can count on it,” he promises quietly.

Though she seems almost delirious and ready to slip into unconsciousness at any moment, the half-elf’s eyes remain as piercing as her knives when she addresses him. “Your guilt is pointless, Jaezred. I was exactly where I wanted to be — beside you and Oziah. Breaking the chains that bound you is more important than keeping my arm. I would do it again, if the results were to be the same. The price of your freedom, of a friend’s freedom, is with it.”

He closes his eyes and nods. What has he done to deserve such selfless friends? “When you’re ready to take on your mother and your shithead ex, you can call on me too…”

“You were always at the top of that list too, Jaezred.”

Together, Oziah and Delilah turn away and stumble unsteadily out of the doors, seeking some much-needed healing and rest.

Toothy comes up to Jaezred and affectionately pats his upper arm. “I’m always here for you, bro,” he says. “Just call on me, like, literally anytime.”

A crooked but fond grin forms on Jaezred’s lips. He pats the younger drow’s matted hair with his broken hand — a simple act that hurts immensely, but he is determined to ignore the pain. “Thanks. You’re my little brother.”

Toothy gasps and grins happily back at him. And just as he turns around to leave, Jaezred mutters, “You may have…one hug.”

The young warrior immediately whips around and wraps both muscled arms around him in an utterly crushing, utterly loving embrace. Jaezred heaves out an oof as the hug only gets tighter as it goes on, and it goes on for a while. However, eventually, Toothy lets go.

“Think you may have broken a few ribs in there, my boy…”

“Sorry, bro, had to make that one last!”

Toothy waves a cheerful goodbye as he walks out. Jaezred turns to Carnán next. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, old man. Yes, we all need therapy. Violence is the only outlet I know for intense feelings, alright?”

Carnán just smiles and puts a large hand on his shoulder. “You have done very well today, young one. I am proud of you. If you ever see a tree walking along the edge of the Feythorn Forest, climb up and come inside the house. You are always welcome to have a cup of tea in my home.”

For the first time in a long while, Jaezred is rendered speechless. He and Carnán have often butted heads over their many differences; not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined to hear these words from the gentle, old firbolg’s mouth. Words he never heard from the older men in his family. Damn it all, he hadn’t expected to be so touched today. All he can manage to get out is a soft, “Thank you… I will.”

Carnán nods and backs away towards the doors, bowing a little too many times to Nicnevin along the way.

Imryll gazes up at Nicnevin, and they hold their stares at each other for a moment that feels longer than it is, as though they are having a silent conversation, until finally, Imryll gives a curt nod. She turns to her lover, cups his cheek with a hand, and places a kiss on his lips before walking out, shutting the heavy doors behind her.

The archfey and her warlock are alone at last.

“Lord Jaezred.” His name, proclaimed in Nicnevin’s august voice, echoes around the chamber. “Your time with the court has been brief, but the mark you leave upon the stone is deep. You have soothed the spirits of the wild in He’lybreia. The people recognize you and your efforts to protect them. Your name rings through the halls in the gossip and webs you weave. And now, where intruders threatened the Court, you have stepped forward and placed yourself in danger to stop them—”

“If I may speak, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice suddenly regaining the strength it had lost. “These intruders were only here because of me.”

“And regardless of that, you stepped forward and risked your life for the Court,” she says firmly. “You came to us as a visitor under the influence of the Spider and now you have become an agent of the Court, and work to protect its people and extend our influence. Not only that, but it seems you have the attention of the Dark Maiden…”

He shakes his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but…how is it that I have her favour? I prayed to her for help in protecting her worshippers, but today she gave me nothing but silence.”

“As I said, the gods are fickle. I cannot speak for their actions… Maybe this was part of some grander plan they have woven, maybe not… But, while I have no devotion to her myself, my people do, and whether you embrace her or not, they will recognise that in you. You have truly become not only an asset to this court, Lord Jaezred, but one of its people. You have a home here, for as long as you wish it… I trust you will continue to work for the good of the Court — only now you will do so, not only as my agent, but with my personal blessing.”

She takes a lock of her fiery copper hair and plucks it out. She gestures at Jaezred, and the lock floats across the space between them towards him, twisting and moulding itself into a smaller shape. When it comes to land on his open palm, he recognises it as a signet ring of burnished copper, bearing the emblem of the great serpent spirit of the mountain Jörmungandr upon its crest. He knows what this is — Imryll wears the same lock in her hair and Margotin brandishes it on his cloak as a brooch. This is Queen Nicnevin’s token of favour, bestowed only to her most distinguished and loyal servants.

Once, he wore the silver signet ring of House Vandree upon his left hand, until he gave it to his young, wayward cousin. In the moment he slips this copper ring onto his bloody, mangled finger, replacing what was lost, Lord Jaezred Vandree of Menzoberranzan becomes no more.

He is now Lord Jaezred Vandree of the Witching Court.

With his head bowed low and a hand over his heart, Jaezred drops to one knee before his exalted queen. “Your Majesty, this…this is a most generous gift. Thank you. I…am always at your service.”

Nicnevin waves a hand, and the bones in his fingers right themselves painlessly, snapping back into their places and bringing gracious relief to the muscles in his hand. Droplets of blood peel off his skin, rising into the air before disintegrating away. “I simply cannot have you wearing my token like that,” she says, the suggestion of a smile on her lips. “Now, Lord Jaezred, is there anything you wish to discuss before you take your leave? I can practically hear Imryll at the door waiting for you.”

---

Jaezred wraps Imryll in a tight hug the moment he is out the doors. She is totally unscathed, thankfully. In the Shambles, she was accosted by 4 drow who were “really were quite delightful” once she had a few words with them. Apparently, she had lots of fun turning the assassins against each other, misleading them into attacking their comrades before capturing and interrogating the last one standing, whom she graciously allowed to take their own poison pill afterwards.

Margotin seems unphased about the attempt on his life when Jaezred goes to see him, but the slightly out-of-place position of his bowtie hints that he was probably quite spooked before Nicnevin swooped in to rescue him. The entire Eilistraeean congregation is likewise still alive — albeit even more skittish now — and so is Sarin, who still looks dejected, mumbling about having failed his flock. Madam Proud Garden was found waking up in the woods near Brittlecap Moor later, healthy save for a bright red bruise on her head. The rest of the palace is unaware of the dangers that just passed them by, carrying on with their night like it’s business as usual.

All is well. There’s nothing left for Jaezred and Imryll to do but retire to their chambers.

Back in the comfortable familiarity of their room at last, he takes off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and hauberk, leaving them on a crimson-stained heap on the polished stone floor. He takes a towel that has been soaked in warm water and wipes off the dried blood remains on his dark skin. The rough fibres of the garment grazes over each new scar and burn mark he gained today.

“I’ve been wondering, since the Battle of Fort Ettin, how many more times I’ll have to come home covered in blood…”

“Well, I have been considering getting a new carpet for the entryway… Something red to help hide the stains,” Imryll jokes.

Jaezred lets out a small scoff at that. “That might be a good investment. Because if tonight has proven anything, this will never end.”

He sits down on the edge of their bed, holding his head in his hands. She joins him by his side and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“No… It might not. You have gone from one dangerous life to another, Jaezred, and the shadows of one may follow you for some time. But there is an important difference you need to remember—”

She touches the new ring on his finger.

“—you have a place now. Somewhere to call home, where there are others looking out for you.”

“And those shadows attacked my new home because of me. They came after you because of me. Delilah lost her arm, Margotin almost died…”

“And I’m fine. You stopped them. Margotin is fine and, might I say, arm or no, Delilah is as dangerous and attractive as ever. Besides, let’s be honest, I’m sure she will have a new arm and new drama going on at some point, regardless. You’re missing the point, my love…”

His nails dig deeper into his scalp, threatening to draw blood. “First the inquisitor, now this sorceress… There will be more, Imryll. When I made the decision to turn my back on Lolth, I…I forfeited my right to a life of peace, and put everyone close to me in danger… I can never start a family of my own, I…”

Jaezred pauses. He feels a strange dampness around his eyes. He looks up and palms his cheeks in confusion — tears. Tears spilling from his eyes for what must be the first time in more than 200 years.

Imryll lets out a sigh at the outburst and inhales, seemingly ready to provide some tough love, but hesitates upon seeing that he is crying. She takes his face in her hands, her thumbs gently wiping away the tears, before resting her forehead against his and taking a slow, deep breath, her eyes gazing deeply into his.

“Jaezred, my love, my…silly, silly man. I need you to actually listen to me now. Peace was never an option. You know that. You turned your back on a spiteful, vicious, and, quite frankly, petty goddess who doesn’t care about you, your feelings, your family, your dreams… Nothing. Only servitude. That was not peace and peace was never an option. But now it is. Her grasp weakens everyday. When I met you, I knew she watched you. Now…she may have rescinded her gift, but she has also taken away her eyes on you. Now she resorts to sending her newest pet to deal with you… And they, too, failed. She has no hold on you anymore, and her moves against you are getting ever more desperate.”

She kisses him, and then looks into his eyes again. “You are strong, my love. Stronger than her grasp on you ever was. You have moved on, turned your life around. Most people in your position never get the chance, let alone have the strength to do so, and make no mistake, dear, it is strength. Being able to open yourself to others, your friends who would quite literally throw themselves into danger for you, to turn your back on the only life you’ve known and look for something different. To lose everything you knew and not only find yourself again but thrive… You are so much more than you once were and you can have anything you set your mind to, I know it. Mostly because I will be here making sure it happens, of course…

“You have me. You have this Court. You have friends. Like it or not, you have Sarin and Eilistraee. You are not alone, my love.”

He nods along to her kind words — kindness very few people have ever shown him — whilst taking in shuddering breaths and wiping away some stray tears with the heel of his palm. “You…you are right. I never had a chance of living peacefully into old age in my previous life,” he concedes in a murmur. “But now I’m in a war of attrition against her. What makes you think I could win at all? I am a man and she is a god. No matter how…strong you think I am.” The word feels odd in his mouth, as if he still finds it difficult to accept the idea.

“Because the gods are basically overgrown toddlers throwing hissy fits. Always changing their minds, interfering and throwing their toys around if they don’t get their way. But like toddlers, they will soon lose interest and move onto the next shiny thing they can get their grubby little hands on. And she is particularly fickle like that. You will survive, she will be sour about it. But you will continue to survive and live and thrive while she…will continue to scheme and punish and abuse those who are supposed to worship her. She’ll be so wrapped up in her own schemes she’ll eventually forget you were a problem to begin with… And we will be happy.

“Even Eilistraee — though don’t tell our lovely Zola I said that, I would hate for her to be upset and not come see me again — she helps you, guides you, sends you signals…then lets you deal with things in the heat of the moment. I’ve heard many things, my love, and seen more, and that still seems fickle to me. Perhaps your being there and dealing with this attack is some grand scheme on her part, perhaps not; Sarin will likely have thoughts on that, but… But what I do know is, you are here. You are home. You are with me. And I don’t know about you, but that makes me pretty darn happy.”

Jaezred’s mouth twitches into a smile at her peculiar choice of word there. “‘Darn’? What, did you suddenly turn into a farm girl there?”

She smirks back at him. “Oh? I’m sure you’ll eat those words when I have you tied down like some prize boar.”

“Oh, you know how to do that? Ah, I always knew you were a peasant…”

“Well, I had to learn the simple skills in life, dear, just to make sure I could dumb things down enough for you to keep up,” she shoots back as she procures a rope from under the bed. He lets out a weak and tired laugh.

He knows she intentionally dropped that funny word in as a low-hanging fruit for him to catch, to ease him back into their normal back-and-forth routine, so that life could go on and leave the spectres of the past behind — and that is why she’s the love of his life. This strange, whimsical, gorgeous woman who had once been his enemy. He’s had many paramours in the past and he’ll continue to have more, but deep in his heart, he knows that none could ever compare to her — not even close. The tears have stopped now.

“Wait, I’m not finished yet,” he says, taking her hand in his. “A peasant…to whom I would give the world if I could. You make me happy, too, Imryll. Just being with you makes me happy. And if that’s how I must go on in order to defy Lolth, to live in spite of her, then so be it. I know you let go of your birth family long ago, but I hope I can be your family…wench.”

Her smile is more beautiful and radiant than the moon could ever hope to be. “You can…troll. Now, where were we?” She raises the rope again, now containing several slipknots.

“Good gods, how did you even do that…”

She answers him with a hungry kiss on the mouth. Her palms land on his muscled chest, pushing him back towards the headboard of the bed, before her hands start roaming his body. Stroking his broad shoulders down to his biceps, admiring his abs, her fingers lingering on his scars — loving every inch of him, whilst her tongue wrestles with his inside his mouth. She wants him, and she wants him badly.

To return the favour, he pulls off her dress, and after that her bra, and breaks away from the kiss to worship her body with his tongue and fingers. She moans needily into his hair at first, but then, in a remarkable show of self-restraint, she grabs him by the wrist and pulls his slickened hand out of her panties, a wicked, lustful smirk on her lips.

She takes his other hand and pins both of them above his head, and begins looping the rope around his wrists to be secured to the headboard. His breathing becomes heavier and heavier as he watches her work. However, there is still something niggling in the back of his mind — an unsolved mystery that he’d forgotten to bring up, on account of being hit with a series of too many emotions, until now.

“Wait, hold on for just a second,” he says suddenly. “Do you have any idea who Ardusin or Raenlyn Harthak is?”

“Really? Now? Raenlyn might be interested but Ardusin won’t be an easy find. I’m sure we could call Toothy or Delilah back quicker?”

“No, you silly hoe, I mean I saw their names in the assassins’ notes. Who are these people? Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be this horny after witnessing me smash a woman’s head in like it was a boiled pea…”

“Oh.” She looks a little disappointed. “Just some of the Court’s other privileged people. Those our magnificent Queen has given a position of importance. Raenlyn’s nice but quiet. Ardusin is…who knows, honestly. Someone the Queen was owed to a favour from before I was even here. No one’s seen him in an age, though. And yes, when is this not a good time? Now—!” She grins and slips a loop of cloth over his head and into his mouth. “No more questions!”

“Mmmpphh mmm mpphh.”

Right, he needs to turn off work mode now and enjoy that he’s the one being serviced for once. Maybe play at struggling against his restraints later since he knows that excites her. As Imryll giggles and trails kisses down his chest, he leans his head back and closes his eyes, a smile forming behind the gag.

---

    A few days later…

When their pleasant, romantic holiday in a seaside resort in the far east of the realm is over, Imryll and Jaezred return to the Mountain Palace. It seems life has settled down back to normalcy for everyone involved in that sordid affair, and he soon hears word that service is being held in the chapel again.

After an internal debate in his head, Jaezred decides that he would attend after all. Not because he has much faith in Eilistraee, but because it would not be fair to let Imryll carry the burden of being his emotional support alone.

However, when he steps into the humble chapel — already scrubbed clean of assassin blood — and sits down in his usual spot in the back, the air feels…different. The congregation, this loose-knit community of survivors, used to be frightened of him, scared that at any moment he would kill them all for one reason or another. Now, though they still keep a respectful distance, there is curiosity in the furtive glances they steal at him. They appear to be more relaxed and comfortable with his presence in this small sanctuary.

Sarin beams at Jaezred when he goes to stand in front of the pews. Naked as the day he’s born, as usual. He begins preaching about giving thanks to Eilistraee for all her gifts and protections or whatever, but several minutes in, Jaezred’s mind starts to wander. Perhaps one day, he thinks, the congregation can find it in their hearts to accept him as one of them, then he’d have a community he could call his own. It would be good to have a routine that is just a part of his daily life and not his job. He never realised until now how much he missed praying and going to temples, and the sense of stability that it gave.

Perhaps then, this place can really be his forever home. Somewhere he can always go back to after a good day or a rough day, into the waiting arms of a loving partner. Somewhere he can raise a family. He imagines inviting a whole slew of people to a wedding banquet in a grand chamber — his community, celebrating life together. He imagines serving his pregnant wife’s every need and craving with the help of the colourful people of this mountain, and showing off the adorable babe to everyone after it is born. This is a safe place to raise children in, where they can freely play with their mum, dad, and pets in the tunnels and meet eccentric neighbours like the stinky doctor and the cookie goblin. He’d love to prepare meals for the kids and teach them how to cook, even though Imryll would do her best to turn his lessons into messy food fights, and bounce them on his leg as he tells them stories of his adventures and tuck them into bed when they get tired. He’d take them to see the world outside too of course, holding their little hands as they go to visit Aunties Oziah and Delilah or to drop them off at summer camp in New Hillborrow. All of that would be nice.

How long has it been since I last dreamt of a better future?

Jaezred sighs. He’s still a little afraid to hope, but damn it, he wants to. Hope is the least he deserves after all he has gone through. It’s what Imryll deserves from him, too.

He leans his head back on the pew, closes his eyes, and dreams of spring.

---

Co-written with Anthony

Battle map also by Anthony

Art by Laura Tolton