22 Mirtul, Year of Three Ships Sailing (1492 D.R.), highsun.
The man I face across the bar is dangerous. I know this. I know that he is an experienced, ruthless, and deadly fighter. His small build and his slightly hunched posture as he carefully wipes down the counter with a soft cloth do nothing to blunt my keen awareness of his more lethal skills. I struggle to keep my hands from trembling as I stare at him. He catches my intent look, nods politely to the customer he has finished serving, and turns to me with an amicable smile.
Durnan the Wanderer! Throughout my younger days, I read all the stories that I could find about this gifted thief and his equally legendary companion, Mirt the Merciless. While the freezing winds off the Great Glacier crept closer and closer to my home, I, sitting curled in the window of my Temple’s library, would wrap a blanket tightly around me, sink luxuriantly into well-worn pages, and accompany Mirt and Durnan on all their daring and blood-curdling adventures.
But I am no fledgling now. And this is no story book. I have serious matters to attend to and dwelling on thoughts of history and its heroes is a romantic indulgence that I can ill afford. Still, I take a moment to listen to the song and laughter all around me and to inhale the smells of pipe smoke, freshly-baked bread, and generations of ale infusing the wooden bar and tables.
I feel the subtle cold draft from the cavernous hole in the floor behind me. I am once again filled with delighted disbelief and my hair curls giddily around me. I still cannot quite accept that I am here, at the infamous Yawning Portal! The memorable meeting place of so many warriors and rogues; the starting point of so many ill-fated escapades and so many triumphant quests!
Even as I sternly counsel myself to maintain the proper Avariel aloofness, I feel my hands trembling again. Anything could happen here! Will Durnan be suspicious of my appearance? Will he immediately recognize my lineage and guess my purpose here? What will he say?
“Greetings friend. And welcome to the Portal. What will it be for you today?” Durnan’s voice flutes out, surprisingly high-pitched, as he makes his blandly polite enquiry.
“I would like to try a Zzar.” I deflate a little. “It is a traditional beverage here in Waterdeep, yes?”
“That it is. And we have a particularly fine recipe that I know you will enjoy.” Durnan gives me a brief but kind smile, and turns to make the drink.
My disappointment recedes and cautious curiosity returns as I look around for a free seat. The inn is busy. Most of the tables on the ground floor, as well as the seating areas on the upper, balcony-like, galleries lining the walls of the tall room, are taken. The bright light of many candles flickers over the wood-paneled walls and worn stone floor. A Dwarven musician strums a cheerful melody from his seat near the fireplace. It is a soothing and inviting scene.
Durnan returns and passes me a carved wooden cup. I hand over coin and, nodding my thanks, turn to the one unoccupied table that I can see. It is off to the right of the bar, close to the tavern’s doorway. To get to it, I have to carefully circumnavigate the room’s most startling feature. The rosy, fire-lit glow of the place, the contented clientele, the cosy seating lofts – none of The Yawning Portal’s charming qualities can entirely distract from its namesake: a ragged cavern occupying the center of the main floor and sinking downwards into darkness.
The hole in the floor is round and encircled by an irregular stone wall. It makes me think of a row of worn teeth framing a gaping mouth: the stones are missing in places, worn smooth in some spots, jaggedly broken in others. The only barrier between the light-filled tavern and the cold darkness is, at its tallest point, just knee-high. This is the most infamous and most accessible portal into Undermountain; the maze of caverns and tunnels of the Underdark that form a subterranean reflection of the great City of Waterdeep.
Here, if one dares follow it, is the start of a path into sprawling, silent blackness. The ruins of abandoned mines and forgotten cities wait below. Treasures, curses, monsters, assassins: all can be found in Undermountain. None who pass through the portal return unchanged. Many do not return at all.
I pause at the stone barrier and look down. I feel cold air, like a slow exhalation of the world below. Surprisingly, there is no smell. Neither the mushroom earthiness of damp soil nor the mineral rawness of exposed stone is present in the chilly draft. It is strangely sterile. There is only velvety, beckoning darkness. It is oppressively thick and it strains in silent mockery against the world of life and light above. My hair swishes in discomfort as I sway towards the hypnotic blackness. My knee brushes up against rough stone and I stumble a little in my hurry to step back and away from the portal. I glance around self-consciously but I cannot see that anyone has witnessed my foolish display.
Durnan chose the site for his tavern very cleverly. He built the Yawning Portal around the ruins of Halaster’s Tower. Halaster, a notoriously unstable mage, crafted his den around his own private entrance into the Underdark. All that remains of his tower now is the crumbling ruin of its foundation. But those ancient stones still encircle the well-like opening into the deep dark.
And Durnan, who grew powerful and famous precisely because of his recklessly brave exploration of Halaster’s old territory, now watches over Waterdeep’s largest portal into Undermountain. As well as over those foolhardy enough to follow his footsteps into the darkness.
He also makes an excellent Zzar. I sit down and gaze at the tables around mine, taking my first try of the drink. It is a delightfully light yet warming concoction of sherry-sweetness mixed with the nuttiness of almonds. Leaning back and sipping again, I listen to the murmur of voices from all around me. My closest neighbors, a pair of Halflings at a nearby table, are chatting quietly over two large tankards. The sour tang of strong ale wafts in my direction along with the cheerful laughter of these two friends.
Further away, the Dwarven musician continues to play sweetly. At the bar, the crowd includes several Humans; their clothing, skin, and hair a bewildering variety of hues and styles. There is also a much larger form leaning carelessly against the counter that is clearly not Human. She appears to be Half-Orc. Orcs and Half-Orcs were rarely seen on my journey south. And, since this individual is turned away from me, I study her with unabashed interest. She is much taller and broader than the slender Humans to either side of her. I notice that, while the crowd shifts and surges in waves up to the bar, there is always a little pocket of empty space left around the Half-Orc. An unconscious expression of respect? Or fear? It makes me curious.
She is dressed more simply than those around her. And garbed entirely in black: from her dark leather jerkin to her plain breeches to her sturdy boots. She wears no shirt that I can see under the jerkin. Either the leather is very fine, cured to buttery comfort, or her skin is tough and insensitive to chafing. It does not look any different to my skin. I tilt my head as I continue my inquisitive assessment. Its soft grey-green color makes me think of still water where predators with snapping jaws lurk in deep pools and lie in wait on sun-baked sands. But there is nothing reptilian or scaly about it; it stretches, smooth and unblemished, over her arms. There is a slight dappling to the coloration over her shoulders but whether these darker swirls are natural markings or tattoos, I cannot tell.
I do see that, with every slight shift of her position, her well-defined muscles are emphasized by the firelight that gleams and dances on her supple form as she moves. She looks very strong, I note admiringly. She has black hair, pulled back from the top of her head into numerous long thick braids. Small spiky metallic objects are woven into the plaits and affixed to their ends. I imagine that they serve the dual purpose of ornament and weapon at need. The sides of her head are shaved and I can see that her ears are pointed as sharply as my own. They are pierced multiple times and each lobe is adorned with more of those silvery metal ornaments. I catch the line of a square tense jaw and the glint of a white fang before, realizing that the Half-Orc is turning to face the room, I look away.
I focus on my drink, with its floral and nut-rich fragrance. I quietly marvel at all that I can see about me. And my thoughts turn to this morning and to my arrival in Waterdeep…
I had, naturally, researched my destination and its most notable attractions extensively using the collection of guide books in the Temple library. Most of these were written by a knowledgable and seasoned Human traveler named Volothamp Geddarm. While they were a little dated perhaps, I was impressed both by his inexhaustible curiosity and by his attention to detail. Even Mama admitted that, with such a guide, I was as well prepared to explore Waterdeep as it was possible to be with all of the Realms still between me and my famed destination.
During my long and exhausting journey, I became accustomed to Human settlements. The first days in any village or town were always a strain. There was usually little of beauty and much that was upsetting. From carelessly constructed dwellings that did not attempt any joyful celebration of Nature’s gifts and therefore brought little comfort to their inhabitants, to bad smells, ugly sounds, and a general lack of order. This is what I came to expect from Human settlements. At best, those living in such places showed little concern for their fellow citizens. At worst, they succumbed to faithlessness, casual cruelty, and treacherous violence.
Still, Waterdeep had been my destination for many draining tendays of travel. First south and then west, on and on, towards the sea. And so, climbing up past the gentle green of the early season fields and onto the southern slopes of the City’s plateau, I thrilled to every new sight and sound. The briny winds off the coast freshened the air. The size and clamor of the place were both disorientating and exciting. I quickly saw that my first experience of Waterdeep would be unlike any other introduction to a new town. The throngs of travelers at the southern gate, creatures of every kind and condition, were welcomed briskly and with little fanfare. I joined them and was swept through the city gates.
In some respects, Waterdeep struck me as the rowdy larger cousin of all of the Human settlements that I had travelled through on my way here. Run-down hovels were still in evidence, along with every other sign of poverty, despair, and hunger that I had seen elsewhere.
But there was also a sense of greater purpose and history here. Beautiful manors and temples were scattered amongst more modest homes. Waterdhavians mixed easily with visitors to their city; neither showed signs of fear nor suspicion towards the other. I saw not only a large number of different varieties of Human, but also many more exotic beings walking confidently through the streets. Magic was everywhere. From the glow lamps that lit certain Wards at night, to the breathtaking Walking Statues that loomed over the skyline of Waterdeep. It was an intoxicating first impression.
And then, after the dizzying excitement of that first walk through the city, a kind of home-coming. There is no temple to My Lady of the Wind and Skies here. Instead, all of the Seldarine share one sanctuary; one wide-ranging haven for worship. It is comprised of areas used by the entire Elven community, as well as individual temple spaces, branching like estuaries off a central pool, for each of the Seldarine.
It was strange to be in a Tel’quessir temple that was clearly built for those without wings. But my heart was filled with joy to be amongst Elvenkind once again.
And, in the soaring tower dedicated to Aerdrie Faenya, with its vaulted ceilings, light-filled spaces, and carefully maintained connections with the outdoors and thus with all of My Lady’s gifts, I felt that I was truly home. The Heron here is named Renestrae and she graciously permitted me an audience with her as soon as I arrived. She accepted my letters of introduction from my Elders with pleasure and greeted me fondly.
“I received messages from the Aerie, telling me of your coming.” She said in a low calm voice. “I was, of course, concerned to hear of the reason for your journey. But I am relieved that you have arrived in safety.”
Giving her a Sky Warden’s salute, I listened with relief as she bade me a warm welcome, offering me all of the help that the local Elves could give in my task. I gladly accepted her invitation to stay and train in the Temple of the Seldarine for as long as I was in the city. But I was just a little surprised when the Heron led me away from Aerdrie Faenya’s tower and explained that I was to be given a place amongst the acolytes of Sehanine Moonbow.
“The Soul Fletcher, head priest of Sehanine Moonbow, asked whether you would be willing to lodge there. We followers of Aerdrie Faenya share a special bond with the acolytes of the Moon Goddess. We work closely together. I hold the Soul Fletcher’s judgement in high esteem and I agree with her that you will be happy, comfortable, and safe in her estuary.” Heron Renestrae said kindly.
My nervousness to be rooming in the halls of a less familiar Seldarine quickly faded. Sehanine Moonbow’s estuary is also a tower, graceful and luminous with shimmering marble, rich lapis lazuli, and creamy alabaster. It too opens to the wide skies and is built to allow all of the moods of the sun, moon, and stars to grace its inhabitants.
I sighed contentedly to see my sleeping chamber. Not a particularly large room, it is yet ample for my needs. And more comfortable for being less fabulously ornate than the formal areas of the estuary. The floor is made of wide planks of honey-colored wood and the walls are clean white stone with only the slightest tracery of gold and sky-blue veins within. The room’s real charm is in its windows. Facing east and west, arching above wide sills and reaching almost from floor to ceiling, they are made up of a mosaic of small, colorful pieces of glass. Starting with deep indigo and building through lighter shades of blue, they are flaming orange and sunny yellow at their highest point. The light filtering through these casements turns the room into a jewel-box of rainbow tones.
I was immediately spell bound. It took me several moments to notice that all of the chamber’s furnishings are mirrored. Two neat desks with accompanying comfortable chairs, each placed thoughtfully under one of the windows. Two wash stands, two wardrobes, two book shelves. But only one elegantly curved divan against one wall. Against the opposite wall, being awkwardly settled into a place just slightly too small for it, was a cosy bed. Four Elves frowned and puffed over the bed for another moment before bowing to the Heron, smiling curiously at me, and quietly leaving the chamber.
“What. Is. That?” A loud offended voice sounded behind me.
“Ah, and here is your roommate, Elodie.” Heron Renestrae announced brightly. “Aubray Plaviir, Bowstring of Sehanine Moonbow, you will be pleased to meet Elodie Skyshard, Raptor of Aerdrie Faenya and newly arrived visitor to Waterdeep. She will be staying here at our Temple while she completes her assigned tasks for the Elders of her community. Elodie, this is Aubray. She has been studying here for two years. She will be able to answer your questions and to help you find your way around the Temple.”
A roommate! I whirled around in excited surprise.
Standing in the doorway, the slightest of scowls marring her lovely face, was a tall Moon Elf. Willowy and graceful as all of her kind, yet holding herself in oddly rigid reserve. Aubray’s midnight blue hair was neatly pulled back from her pale forehead. Her dark grey eyes regarded me flatly. They were perfectly matched by her simple wool dress, unadorned but for a delicate edging of lace at neckline and cuffs. I beamed at her in delight.
“Mmhm. Alright. But what is that?” She repeated, unsmiling.
“That is a bed. I believe it is to be my bed.” I gestured to what I was already thinking of as my side of the chamber. “It is where I will sleep.”
“You sleep?” She asked with sour curiosity, stepping closer and looking at me intently. “Like a Human?”
“Elodie grew up in a Tel’quessir enclave, Aubray.” Heron Renestrae explained. “Her mother is of the People. Elodie is of Half Elven blood. The rest of her heritage…”
“I am Air Genasi.” I interjected proudly. “And yes, I do sleep.”
“I will leave you to get settled and to acquaint yourselves one with the other. Your luggage should have already been brought up – yes, there are your trunks.” The Heron said. “Aubray will show you to the dining hall when you are ready for refreshment.”
“I should like to bathe.” I said yearningly.
“Ah yes.” The Elder Elf laughed. “That is a common request for those who have traveled through any part of Waterdeep to arrive here. I think that you will be pleased with our bathing halls. There is at least one in each Seldarine estuary; each in a different style.”
“The closest one will suffice.” I smiled shyly.
‘Aubray will direct you. I will leave you now. We will have more to talk over when you are rested and ready to begin your work here.” With this gentle farewell, the Heron left the room.
I immediately turned to my new companion. Stepping briskly towards Aubray, I reached out to press my cheek against hers and to embrace her in a greeting of friendship. She sprang backwards, more tensely rigid than ever.
“Um, no. We will not be doing that.” She stated.
Surprised, but aware that I may not be familiar with all of the customs here and reluctant to offend, I shrugged and turned to my travel trunk. Aubray settled herself on her divan, tucking her feet up under her and bundling herself in a velvety blue blanket. I smelled the sweet fragrance of tulips and mint-scented soap.
“The Heron said that you have been here for two years, Aubray. Where do you hail from?” I asked politely.
“Evereska. It is in the south.” She replied.
Her voice has an unusual note to it – it is slightly nasal. Or sounds as if she were speaking from the back of her throat. She seems to carefully measure her words, managing to come across as simultaneously careless and reluctant to be talking. It results in a kind of condescending drawl effect. Perhaps this is the accent of her home? It is most interesting.
“I have heard of Evereska but have not had the pleasure of visiting there.” I said, busying myself with unpacking.
I took a well-mannered pause here, waiting for Aubray to, in her turn, ask me where I came from.
“So, are you going to leave those clothes there? Like, on the floor?” She enquired coldly.
“For the present.” I replied distractedly. “Until I have the opportunity to wash them. They need cleaning.”
“And your family?” I tried again. “Do they remain behind in Evereska? Do you miss them very much?”
“I…they serve in Sehanine Moonbow’s temple there.” Aubray confided reluctantly and then, once again, lapsed into silence.
I impatiently gave up on my half-unpacked belongings and sat down on my new bed, facing Aubray. I bounced up and down experimentally several times finding, to my pleasure, that the mattress is thick and comfortable. My new roommate watched me with grave concern.
“Well, let me tell you all about myself!” I cried happily. “As you know, my name is Elodie, Elodie Skyshard. I am Air Genasi and I was raised very, very far from here. I have travelled to Waterdeep from Pelvuria, the Great Glacier. My Papa is a Djinn and my Mama is Avariel…”
“Avariel?” Aubray interrupted me, mouth dropping open.
“Indeed.” I confirmed. “It is a great secret that a community of Avariel still exists here in the Realms. Many believe that the Winged Elves were destroyed by our ancient foe, the foul Dragons, long ago. Or left this world for the safety and blessings of Arvandor. But no, we have simply hidden ourselves. With great struggle and labor, we built the glorious city of crystal and light: the Aerie of the Snow Eagles. The last haven of the Winged Elves in this world.
“As great and deep as is the secret of our existence, so too is the reason for my leaving my beloved home.” I continued in a fervent whisper. “You see, the Aerie has long been protected by a powerful Mythal. A weaving of the most potent spells to keep my city hidden. And to create a protective shield of warmth and light against the cold roof of the world. There, my People have built and studied and prayed and thrived. The Aerie is a wondrous place!
“Alas, with time, the protective Mythal has started to fray and weaken. None understand the reason for this but, in recent years, the cold has started to encroach. The Avariel fear that at some time in the near future, the Mythal will dissolve completely. Its failure will leave our home open and defenseless. Not only against the enemies that await us in the blizzard-rocked skies. But against the darkness and the cold. We will not be able to cultivate our fields and orchards, or care for our animal companions. Our current way of life will no longer be possible on the Great Glacier and the Avariel will be left to wander again. Unprotected and under attack from all manner of evils as we start another long search for a new home…”
I stopped, swallowing hard as I soothed my tense tangle of hair. Aubray continued to stare.
“Of course, the Aerie’s Elders have not been idle. They are working always, trying to understand what is ailing the Mythal and how to strengthen it.” I continued more calmly. “And our entire community has been searching for ways to help them with this burden. With their vital task. I myself have spent many hours in my Mama’s library – my Mama is a priest of Aerdrie Faenya and has the honor of running my Lady’s Halls of Learning in our Temple – researching this problem. And so learned about the Tears of the Seldarine.”
“The what?” Aubray squinted.
“The Tears of the Seldarine.” I repeated patiently. “The Seldarine wept to see the suffering of the Avariel: lost in the Realms, wandering, preyed upon by vile Dragons. Their blessed Tears became enchanted gems, one for each of the Seldarine. These twelve jewels were imbued with all of the grief and devotion and power of their divine creators. And were intended as a source of succor and support for my People. But they were not used as they were meant to be. Instead, they were stolen and scattered. Lost in time and throughout the wide reaches of these Realms. I mean to recover them!”
“Um…” Aubray said.
“I believe that, with the Tears of the Seldarine gathered and used together as was their original purpose, the Avariel will hold the power to heal their home! To ensure their safety in this world!” I exclaimed enthusiastically.
“I presented my findings to the Elders and, while they expressed some unease about the risks involved in traveling to such far-flung places in a search for gems that had have been lost for centuries, they did eventually permit the attempt to be made. And sent out such Sky Wardens as were willing to follow the long-faded trails of the gems to wherever in Faerun they may have ended up.
“There are tales of two of the Tears being taken to Aelinthaldaar, the ancient Tel’quessir city that once stood where Waterdeep stands now. And I was allowed to investigate this legend, to travel to the Sword Coast in my search. That is why I am here. That is my quest.” I finished proudly.
Aubray blinked.
“So, like, you come from this mysterious, hidden place. And you are here on a super secret mission.” She said slowly. “And you just told all of this to a random stranger?”
“A random stranger?” I laughed merrily. “No indeed! You are not a stranger – we are to be roommates! And I am among the Elves. It is an immense relief, I must tell you. After traveling for tendays and tendays, unable to speak about where I came from, or where I was going, or why I was going there…It is good to be with those I can trust.”
“All Elves are not the same…”Aubray said darkly.
“Perhaps not.” I agreed cheerfully. “But the Heron and the Soul Fletcher assigned me to this chamber, placed me with you, for a reason. They clearly intended to show me that I can have faith in you. That it is safe for me to confide in you.”
“Or, you know, they did it because no-one else would…I mean, because there was space available here.” Aubray suggested.
“No, I cannot believe that the reason was such a mundane one.” I shook my head doubtingly. “Heron Renestrae specifically told me that I would be safe and happy in this tower. I believe that she meant for you to be my mentor and guide in our Temple. To take on the duties of answering my questions and assisting me with my sacred task.”
“Wait, what?” Aubray’s face filled with concern.
“Do not fear!” I reassured her happily. “I learn quickly. We will fulfill our obligations with plentiful time remaining to spend in fellowship – in friendship – together!”
“Riiight.” She nodded slowly. “So, this sleep thing. You don’t talk or move or anything while you do it, right? It’s like you are not here? Or dead?”
“I suppose it may seem like I am gone, yes.” I arched my eyebrows at the odd question. “It is rather like your reverie – your daily meditation. Except longer and less directed in terms of visiting your souls’ memories…”
“And how long do you do it for? And what time of the day does it usually happen?” Aubray asked intently.
“In times of peace and calm routine, I sleep through the night. This is a nightly occurrence.” I smiled. “But, first my service as a Sky Warden, and now my work for My Lady of the Winds, often places demands on my time. My sleep can be a little irregular.
“But do not worry! Even if I am slumbering, if you are lonely, or troubled and need to speak to me, or if you need the protection of my swords, you may always wake me! I promise never to be grumpy and always to help you.” I assured her earnestly.
Aubray shook her head a little, sighing.
“Um, alright. So you wanted advice?” She said reluctantly. “You should not speak so openly about who you are and what you are doing here. This place thrives on tales and idle talk. I mean, it’s alright that you told me. I don’t have any…I don’t gossip and I will keep your secret. But, if you don’t want the entire Temple discussing your private business, then, like, don’t talk anymore. Just, in general. Talk as little as possible.”
“Thank you, Aubray!” I said gravely. “I will keep your wise advice in my mind. It will be particularly useful here, where I am tempted to share fond words with all in my Temple. But also when I go out into Waterdeep, as I will be doing shortly. There I will be especially on my guard.”
“You are going to leave the Temple? Go out into the Deep?” Aubray asked in surprise.
The Deep! I noticed her use of this convenient shortened form of the city name and decided to employ it myself at the earliest opportunity.
“Indeed! I need to familiarize myself with my surroundings.” I cried eagerly. “And to start my investigation into the fate of the Tears. I intend my first stop to be the fabled Yawning Portal. I feel that this well-known meeting place of adventurers, with its connection to the ancient passages of the Undermountain, will be a fruitful place to gather information. I know that I will need assistance as I embark on my People’s quest.
“Alas, I will probably not have time to visit as many famed places in the Deep as I would like.” I continued. “I suppose that, in the two years since you arrived, you have seen many of the marvels here? You have had so much time to explore!”
I looked at my roommate with open envy. Aubray returned my stare incredulously.
“I do have to leave the Temple at times.” She finally replied. “I am an acolyte of Sehanine Moonbow. Our concern is with dreams and visions under the moon. And with the safe travel of departed Souls to their rest. As part of my duties I, like all other Bowstrings, am called upon to communicate with damaged bodies, with their fragmented memories, after a life has been ended unjustly. Our Temple, which desires to live on cordial terms with the city, occasionally sends out those like me to assist the Watch by interviewing the murdered victims of such crimes. To enable them to find the perpetrators. What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“No reason! I mean, I am honored to be guided by and to befriend one who does such noble and important work.” I breathed, lost in admiration.
“It is not usually very noble.” She shrugged. “It is mostly Humans killing other Humans because they want money. Because they are desperately poor. Or because they become angry while drinking. Or jealous. Or any other number of stupid reasons.”
Convinced of my new friend’s higher purpose in bringing murderous miscreants to justice, and unwilling to offend her natural modesty, I said no more.
“Come on, Elodie.” Aubray sighed. “I will show you where to bathe. And where to clean those clothes. And, when you are done, I will take you to the dining hall. It will be early yet for highsun meal but, well, that way you will have all that you need and you can go. To start on your important task, I mean.”
Smiling, I followed her out of our room…
I have been thinking over my first meeting with Aubray with satisfaction, slowly finishing my drink in Durnan’s fire-lit tavern. My increasingly drowsy musing is interrupted by loud voices.
“You think it’s funny to murder my mates, do you?” The harsh question instantly ends my reverie.
Once more facing the bar, with her back to the room, the Half-Orc I had noticed earlier is now surrounded by a group of Humans. Their belligerence fills me with tension, even if their angry faces are turned towards her. The men are wearing various bits and pieces of armor – mostly leather and light chain mail. But they are all bedecked with purple sashes; a strangely jaunty ornamentation given their grim features and ready assortment of weaponry.
The tall Half-Orc stands and stretches, in no apparent hurry to engage with the man who shouted his question at her so uncouthly.
“They opened that tab but I damn sure paid it. And, if you don’t want the same, you all better just walk away!” She growls out.
Her voice makes me think of sweet honey and rough whiskey – the kind that feels like hot gravel as it passes down the throat. She turns to face the Humans and, seeing her face for the first time, my air stills as my breath is momentarily stolen away.
She stares at the men who shuffle to circle around her, contemptuous and entirely without fear. I see that I had previously underestimated both her height and the strength of her build. Taut muscles gleam as she tenses and shifts her stance into a fluidly battle-ready pose. Her face is hungry. I examine her wide forehead and her dark expressive brows. And her eyes – darker still. As her rage grows, I see a red glow appear in their black depths. Her nose is straight and narrow as it swoops down over a generous mouth. She has dark green lips, currently set grimly over a strong square jaw. And, at each corner of her mouth, curves a beautiful sharp white tusk. She is gloriously fierce. And I note, as my heart clenches with strange and sudden pain, she stands entirely alone.
One of the men beside her breaks a chair over her head.
I am on my feet and vaulting over my table before any real thought has time to pass through my mind. Stepping quickly in front of the Halflings seated nearby, I hold my arm protectively out before them.
“Stay behind me!” I glance sideways at the pair as I give the urgent order. “I will protect you!”
“Hey! Get out of the way!” The female Halfling cries out in outrage. “Here, Brother, this Big One is blocking my view!”
“Go on then! Find your own spot to watch from. Don’t go blocking our view!” The male Halfling chimes in.
I blink.
Re-focusing on the room, I see that the Half-Orc, stumbling only slightly and roaring, is now charging at her attackers, fists swinging. The rest of the scene is unchanged. Placid conversation continues upstairs. The musician is playing as pleasantly as before.
At a table on the opposite side of the cavern from mine, I see a tall, pale, Human woman. She is dressed in a travel-worn green cloak and her head is crowned with thick glowing braids of russet hair. She is bent over an exceptionally well-filled platter of food, eating steadily. Her companion, a short Human man with features that strongly resemble the hungry woman’s, is looking down shyly but talking eagerly to a very pretty serving maid.
As the brawl at the bar becomes noisier, the red-haired woman at the table stops eating and stares quietly at the disturbance. She appears more irritated than alarmed.
And so it is with every table that I turn to. I look behind the bar and see Durnan calmly polishing glassware. Shaking my head in disappointment at this tepid response to a clear breach of the Deep’s peace, I stride forward.
“Excuse me, my friends!” I call in ringing tones. “I do not think that it is right for a group of you to accost this one, er, defenseless person!”
The Half-Orc knocks down two of the Humans with a single sweep of her brawny arm as I speak.
“I would urge you to lay down your weapons now! And to leave peacefully!” I continue encouragingly.
The momentary pause that ensues feels very long to me as I watch all of the fighters, Human and otherwise, turn their attention and weapons in my direction. The Half-Orc is standing closest to me and I look up at her. And then up a little further.
The Avariel possess a slender and long-limbed build. Slighter, and of more delicate appearance than most other Elves, their strength is not immediately obvious. But their fine bones make them light and flexible. And their powerful wings do the rest. Elegantly graceful on the ground, the Avariel turn into enchantment in motion when in the air. From breathtakingly liquid dances with the wind to silently swirling deadliness in battle, the Avariel rule the skies with their beauty and power.
I am not Avariel. At least, not fully. As a fledgling I resentfully wondered why, given that my Mama is a Winged Elf and my father is a Djinn, an Elemental creature of Air who can take on any outward appearance that he wants, the physical heritage that I was granted was so…earthly.
My light blue skin and tumult of uncontrolled snowy hair do not resemble those of either of my parents. I am taller and less lithe than any Avariel female. And rounder. I used to worry that the soft curves at my chest, hips, and behind would add an unwanted burden when I finally discovered how to fly. I have put those youthful concerns aside as I resigned myself to my grounded state. And I have grown to appreciate my sturdier frame, with its ability to develop heavier muscle mass than is typical for a Winged Elf. I do not do my fighting in the sky, after all.
Now, standing at my full height, my strength honed by lengthy training, I look at up at the fighters assembled around me. They are all taller than I am. And muscled like Frost Giants. I probably appear as impressive to them as a cat facing down a pack of hounds. Unsurprisingly, none of them seem eager to lay down their arms and walk away. Shrugging, I smile grimly and draw my swords. I am accustomed to fighting foes much larger than myself.
My appraising gaze is momentarily snagged by the Half-Orc’s furious eyes. I read there a strange wild joy and then, as she focuses on me, a brief flicker of surprise and mockery. A small taunting smile twists her lips. I feel a reflection of some of her eager assurance shining out of my own eyes as my excitement at the upcoming battle takes hold. I incline my head at the Half-Orc very slightly and then, deliberately turning my back on her, begin to move.
I leap from one Human to another, kicking out at their ankles, pushing them down, and striking at them with the pommels of my swords. The Half-Orc stands watching for a moment, whoops triumphantly and then, grinning fiercely, resumes enthusiastically walloping the man who first hit her with the chair. Her gray-green skin is smeared with darker green-black blood and the hanks of tightly braided hair on her head are sodden with sweat. She smells like heated metal and bitter herbs. The men that now crowd in around us reek of stale beer and dirty clothes.
I see a bald Human, chin bristling with uneven stubble, coming up quickly behind the Half-Orc. I grab a handful of lavender sash, yanking back hard.
“Watch out there, Half-Orc warrior!” I call sharply.
She turns, landing a well-placed kick between the man’s legs, and he folds up at her feet.
“Thanks.” She grunts. “My name is Yaghra.”
We turn so that we are standing back to back. I feel her heat surge into my cool air and her muscles clench against mine. I lean in against her reassuringly solid bulk. We turn slowly as one, while we wait for the next wave of attackers to rush us.
“And you? Are you a cop?” She asks brusquely.
“I beg your pardon?” I respond in surprise.
“A cop. You know, a copper?” She repeats in a hoarse voice.
“I am not a City Watch officer.” I say gravely.
I take the opportunity to stomp down on the hand of the man Yaghra just downed, and then kick the dagger away from his limp fingers.
“But, naturally, I respect the rule of law and support those who would keep peace in the Deep.” I continue.
Yaghra just grunts.
I pivot away from a punching arm and notice that the man swinging at me does not follow. Instead, he curls in on himself in sudden pain, grabbing at his head and grimacing. Intrigued, I scan my surroundings rapidly. There! At the back of the room, near the tavern’s door, a cloaked figure is holding out an arm, face furrowed with concentration. I gasp in shock. It is a Drow!
I have never met one of the cursed Dark Elves before but they populate my People’s grimmest tales. Every Avariel knows that, while the Winged Elves were desperately struggling for their very survival, overcome by the depredations of Dragons, they had no help from their Elven family. Instead, the other Elves occupied themselves with decadent and bitter rivalries; one tribe pitted against another in the mutual destruction of the Crown Wars.
This blood-sodden, grief-soaked chapter in our history ended with the traumatized remnants of the Avariel embarking on their long Wandering. They pursued their grueling quest to find a safe homeland, build a community, and protect it. They did this while the broken, earth-bound Elven tribes were punished by the judgement of our Elven pantheon, the Divine Seldarine.
The most wicked and faithless of the tribes was cursed to the deep dark. Condemned to disappear forever underground; to suffer and dwindle and fade into the shadows. And yet, with Demonic assistance, these Drow, a perversion in the eyes of our Deities, survived, thrived, and have begun to emerge from the Underdark to prey on the lands of light.
Every Avariel fledgling has learned this much. Since leaving my Aerie and journeying through the Realms however, I have heard of Drow who do not participate in the barbaric behaviors typical of their kind. As with any other living and conscious being, it appears that the Drow are capable of thinking and acting as individuals. Perhaps this is one of those Dark Elves famous for forsaking the savagery of their compatriots and emerging to a new, better life above ground?
I assess the cloaked figure. Both male and female Drow are smaller than any of the other Elvenkind. This one is a male, cloaked in a purple robe and holding out a staff. A green stone tops the staff and it still glows gently from whatever spell was cast at the Human ruffian who tried to punch me. So, a Drow and a practitioner of the Art. Curiosity vies with confusion: why is this mage helping Yaghra and myself?
His face reveals nothing. The Drow’s features are symmetrical and refined, as beautifully remote as the most aristocratic Sun Elf’s. His skin however, is unlike any other Elf’s. It is the blue-black of spilt ink. His almond-shaped eyes are crimson. This startling combination is compounded by his hair. I rather like it. It is the same gleaming silver-white as my own. But it is quite straight and is neatly pulled back over his shoulders.
A stinging strike to my ankle returns my focus sharply to the fight. Yaghra and I, assisted by hits of psychically damaging magic from the mysterious Drow, continue to fend off the purple-sashed Human attackers. I am just whirling around, prepared to drop kick my next target, when I notice several things at once. The first is that my surroundings have become very quiet: the combatants and the tavern goers have all stopped what they are doing and are locked in odd stillness. The second is the stench. Striking like a physical blow at my back comes a fetid odor of mold and rotten meat. Lastly, I see Yaghra, frozen part-way through throwing a punch, looking past me as her eyes widen. Then she frowns thoughtfully, spitting out a word. I do not understand her language but I can tell she has just said something ugly.
I spin quickly to face the yawning hole in the center of the inn’s floor. Shock and disgust whip my air into a maelstrom around me. While I was engaged in defending Yaghra from an unworthy attack by multiple armed assailants, a much larger threat has emerged from the darkness below us. It looks like a species of Troll: clambering out of the portal and squinting malignantly into the light. It is tall; its bulbous head easily reaches the upper galleries of the room. Its skin is a pale unhealthy green, like a poisonous mushroom festering in a fallen log. Scabrous patches of darker green form a mottled pattern over its back and arms. Its limbs are extraordinarily long and corded with ropey muscles. It swings its heavy head from side to side, hissing. Then it roars, thick strands of pink-gray mucus stretching out between stumps of brown fangs. The stench intensifies.
My revulsion grows as I realize that several lumpy outgrowths on the Troll’s body that I had at first taken for parts of its own misshapen anatomy are actually parasites that are attached to the creature. Pulsating as they feed, they hang off the Troll like vile pink grapes. Then, one detaches and flaps heavily into the air. Part naked bat, part bristly mosquito – I am certain that I have seen an illustration of this hideous beast.
“Troll! With Stirge!” A voice calls.
I nod in sudden recognition.
Anxious voices and hectic activity now replace the momentary stillness. I hear an exasperated sigh and a loud thump from the bar. Glancing back, I see that Durnan has placed an enormous broad sword on the counter and, vaulting easily over the bar, is now approaching the Troll. Moving with spare elegance he jumps up onto the stone barrier around the portal, swipes one of the Troll’s questing arms cleanly off at the wrist, and kicks it casually down into the depths.
“Free drinks for all who help return this monstrosity where it belongs!” Durnan calls out.
I look back to Yaghra. She is warily eyeing the men who attacked her. Two are down, senseless, on the ground. Two more are backing quickly away from the looming Troll. They grab whichever injured companions they can reach, including one man who, in his concussed daze, is wandering towards the portal. He frowns vaguely, rubbing at the gray stubble peppering his bald head. I see that the shaved skin of his scalp is tattooed with multiple purple eyes. His compatriots catch up to him, dragging him away from the chasm. The men hurry to the door and lope out of the inn. Yaghra spits in their direction and then, giving me a quick nod, bounds towards the Troll, clenching her strong hands into fists as she goes.
There are others who have been stirred by the threat of the Troll. Or, possibly, by Durnan’s offer of beverages. I see that the two Halflings that I annoyed earlier are now bristling with daggers and cudgels, racing to flank the creature as it continues to heave its bulk out of the portal. The Drow wizard, looking mildly stunned and worried, nonetheless takes a few steps forward and holds his staff out towards the Troll.
Two Humans circle the monster, moving away from their seats at the bar to enter the fight. There is a woman, wearing tasteful robes of a creamy gold fabric. She bows her head, which is draped in elegant folds of the same rich material, and her slender bronze hand moves to a sparkling amulet on her chest. She murmurs quietly. Her companion, his dark brown skin in vivid contrast to his flame-colored garments, moves with liquid grace as he approaches the Troll. He wields a sword.
Finally, the Human who responded with such lukewarm interest to the sight of the earlier brawl now firmly pushes her half-empty platter away. She steps up onto the table, shoving her male companion behind her while she picks up a wooden longbow. Even at this tense moment I inhale in admiration to see the beautiful craftsmanship of the weapon. The wood glows like a living thing as the archer strings an arrow to the bow. Pale face set in concentration, the woman aims and shoots at the flying Stirge. The arrow pierces the flabby body with a satisfying splatting noise and the parasite drops to the ground.
I am accustomed to extensive aerial support; agile Winged Elves striking the foe remorselessly from above. Still, back-up from even a single ranged weapon is welcome. I assess the scene, find a path to the Troll that is currently unoccupied by any of the inn’s defenders, and run over to join the battle. My training takes me through the initial motions. This is just like fighting a Frost Giant or Yeti, I tell myself. I duck and pirouette my way past a swinging arm to reach the back of the creature’s right leg. I plan to hamstring it. I see the vividly dressed man approaching the Troll’s other leg, preparing his sword. His technique is impeccable and he clearly has a solid understanding of what needs to be prioritized to take down such an enormous enemy. I nod to him and we work in tandem, hacking and slashing wherever we can reach.
Durnan, so fast that he is almost a blur, races around the creature. He inflicts horrific sword wounds as casually as he previously mixed my drink. The Halflings are attacked by a Stirge and I hear their angry cries as they turn their knives on the parasite. Two more Stirge descend greedily on the Dwarf musician and one of his audience. The two Dwarves topple under the feeding monstrosities and the tavern becomes quieter as the music tinkles out abruptly. The Human archer’s bow twangs again and again.
I miss the melodious call and response of the Elvish language and the confidence that comes from fighting with a well-disciplined unit of Wardens. But, after many weary tendays on the road alone, I thrill to once again be part of a group fiercely battling a foe together. The Troll, likely weakened by the blood-sucking parasites and confused by the crowded world that it has emerged into, is immediately on the defensive. And no-one is looking to draw out this encounter. Before long, Durnan leaps up and, with a mighty swing, chops through the creature’s neck! Balancing on the stone barrier surrounding the cavern at my feet, I watch in fascination as the giant head slips sideways and then slides wetly down to the floor. It lands right in front of me, mostly propped up on the portal’s barrier.
With all my strength, I jump up and kick out at the gory misshapen features. I have already committed to my leap when I realize, aghast, that the Troll’s face is still animated. Eyes bulging and rolling wildly, it opens its mouth and snaps at anything within reach. Twisting desperately mid-motion, I manage to avoid the gnashing fangs. Striking the Troll squarely on its crooked nose with both feet, I propel myself back into the safety of the tavern even as I push the head down into the darkness of the portal. It plummets sloppily down and down. I shudder, noting that the individual limbs of the Troll, scattered about the tavern floor, also continue to twitch. They attempt to fight even in their dismembered form; one huge arm almost overwhelming the two Halflings. Disjointed however, they are more manageable. The remaining parts of the creature are rapidly dispatched by my fellow fighters who toss them, one by one, back into the dark pit. And, just like that, battle is over.
I briefly scan the room once more, ensuring that no additional threats remain. Then I look over my scratched and bruised self. I carefully wipe my blades clean and sigh with relief to see that my swords are undamaged.
The inn is calm again, its patrons returning to their drinks and quiet conversation. The musician by the fireplace, healed by the attentions of a kind priest, is once again strumming a soothing melody. I see that Yaghra is returning to her place at the bar and I walk slowly in that direction.
“That was some good fighting that you did.” I say, catching up to the Half-Orc.
Yaghra merely nods.
“Tell me, who were those men that accosted you? Why did they gang up on you like that?” I persist.
“The Eye’s scum!” Yaghra scowls. “You really ain’t a copper?”
“No! I do not understand why you keep on asking me that.” I respond with some frostiness.
Yaghra’s frown is smoothed away as she chuckles, amused by my irritation. She throws one arm around my shoulders, propelling me towards the bar.
“Alright then, Not-a-Cop. Let’s get a drink and you can tell me what you are.” She smiles.
“My name is Elodie..mmphf!” I gasp.
Yaghra’s friendly pat was forceful enough to shove me into the wooden bar’s counter, knocking the breath out of me. I wince as I look about me. I notice that the Drow wizard has edged up to the bar next to us. Yaghra follows my gaze and, seeing that he has our attention, the Drow opens his mouth to speak.
“Nope. Not my type.” Yaghra says shortly, all the friendliness gone from her tone.
The Drow immediately inclines his head. His nod of polite acquiescence is so rapid that it is almost servile. He obediently backs away several steps. My brow furrows, confused both by Yaghra’s odd remark and by the Drow’s response. I am unused to seeing an Elf so…self-effacing.
“Hold up!” Yaghra continues harshly. “You Bregan D’aerthe?”
I tilt my head, wondering at the meaning of the unfamiliar term. The Drow looks as lost as I feel. Seeing only questions in his face, Yaghra shakes her head.
“Never mind.” She says dismissively, and turns back to face me.
I have recovered sufficiently from my collision with the bar to adopt the slight coolness appropriate to an Avariel interacting with a Wingless stranger. I return Yaghra’s gaze levelly, my hair rippling only slightly as it flows in serene waves down my back.
The warmth re-kindles in Yaghra’s eyes and voice.
“Now, about that drink. Reckon we’re owed something special for that job, don’t you?” The Half-Orc briefly juts her chin at the portal as she speaks, and then turns back to the bar.
“Durnan!”
I am watching as Yaghra talks to Durnan about our free drinks. Then I feel a cool hand covering mine and flinch.
“Good work out there.” A gentle voice soothes me.
I see the gold-robed woman who had joined the battle against the Troll. I was resting my hand on the bar and she is now pressing her palm against it as she speaks. I feel the aches from my bruises and cuts flare briefly with warmth. And then fade away as I am healed. All that is left is a sense of satisfaction – as if I have gained ample supply of something that is precious to me and that I have long wanted to acquire.
“Thank you, Blessed One.” I respectfully express my gratitude, even as I am unsure which deity this priest serves.
She smiles at me and quietly departs to minister to others hurt in the fighting. I note with surprise that she does not offer her healing gift to Yaghra.
Durnan now returns, slightly sour-faced. He is carrying a small round bottle and two cups. The bottle is shaped like a midnight-blue orb and is bespangled with silver filigree. It is capped with a clear gem, carved to resemble the new moon. The cups are unusually fine: tiny, tulip shaped, flawlessly clear glass. Durnan opens the bottle and a hauntingly sweet aroma caresses my senses. Floral, but not any blossom that I am familiar with.
“Here you are: Elverquisst from Evermeet!” He announces grimly.
I watch with fascination as Durnan pours. I have heard of this wine before, naturally, but I have never had the opportunity to try something so rare and so fine. The elixir flows from the bottle, heavy and clear. Then, as it cascades into the glasses, it begins to change. Durnan hands us our drinks with a reluctant flourish.
I hold the glass up, watching as the wine lazily shifts through ever-darker shades of blue. As it reaches a dusky twilight purple, stars erupt within the swirling drought. Constellations of gold and silver sparkles tumble and turn within the elegant cup. I watch the glowing display raptly, holding the glass close as the lights and colors dance their reflections over my face. I turn wide shining eyes to Yaghra.
“It is too lovely to drink.” I murmur.
Her response is a snort. She lifts her own cup and takes a healthy swig of the rarefied liquor. Unable to resist the intoxicating scent any longer, I follow her lead and sip, feeling cool light sweetness flow over my lips. A little sound of delight escapes me and the last of my dignified demeanor slips away. It is difficult to maintain the proper Avariel hauteur when stars are dancing ecstatically over one’s tongue. Watching me, Yaghra smirks.
“Good?” She asks.
My reply is an unguardedly bright smile.
“Good.” I echo, dazzled. “Thank you so much!”
We clink delicate glasses and continue to quietly luxuriate in our liquid treat. Eventually, Yaghra drains the last starry drops from her cup.
“So, Elodie the…Elf? You new in town?”
“Yes. But I am only half Elven…” I start to say.
“Newly arrived and yet making such an impression already!” Rich plummy tones; a voice just oozing cheer and delight, interrupts me.
Yaghra stiffens and I hear her gritting her teeth. I turn around, curious, and inhale sharply when I see the man standing behind us. That carefully coiffed hair, those rich garments, that distinctive beard: I recognize it all. It surely cannot be! But it is! It is…
“It is Volothamp Geddarm! Elie, I am telling you, I recognize him from the illustrations in his guide books. You know I have read all of them!” Excited muttering grows louder as two more Humans approach the bar.
“Alright George! Alright! But don’t take too long with your chat. I have left half of my highsun feast on the table!” The woman whose skill with the bow I so admired earlier is hissing irritably.
She is trying, without success, to restrain her shorter companion as he pulls her, transfixed, towards Volothamp. Their voices, both in excitement and in annoyance, carry the sweet, lilting tones of the Silver Marches brogue.
“Hello! Yes indeed, my friends! It is I, Volo. Always such a pleasure to be recognized by my faithful readers!” Volo exclaims graciously.
“Will you…will you sign my books please?” George stammers as he holds out familiar tomes to the great author.
I feel my hair shift in envious irritation. I have only one slim guide book here with me. All the rest of my Volo collection is safely packed in my travel trunk at the Temple!
As I fume over this lost opportunity, Volo kindly scribbles in George’s books. Starry-eyed, I listen as the writer exuberantly questions George on his favorite of his, Volo’s, own works, and smoothly pulls the taciturn Elie into the warm circle of his charming conversation. Even the Drow wizard, face alight with curiosity, has taken a few paces forward to listen to the accomplished author speak.
“Yes, yes, so many memorable tales to share! Yet here I stand, surrounded by a truly impressive crew!” Volo regards each of us in turn, his face a picture of sincere admiration.
“Please, let me have your names! I know that you are new to the Deep but I can already see that you can all hold your own against the cruel buffeting of the Winds of Fate! Here are some fresh-faced and noble heroes to stand against the perils of these mean streets, I say!” Volo gushes.
“And, as it happens, I have need of help from such brave souls as yourselves. Dire need! A true friend of mine finds himself in grave danger and I have no one to turn to!” The famous author looks at us beseechingly.
I take a rapturous breath. This is so much like the beginning of my most favorite stories! I step forward, fighting shyness as I address this esteemed and celebrated Human traveller. I am immensely proud to heed his call for help.
“I am Elodie, Elodie Skyshard. Your words have been my guide through many long miles and I continue to rely on your wisdom even now. Any help that you need, you may count on my aid.” I say.
“Aye, we will help too!” The young man chimes in with enthusiasm. “We, that is I…I am George, George Cooper, and this is my cousin Eliana. We have just come into Waterdeep from the North. With a caravan of goods. I am responsible for purchasing and Elie is one of our caravan guards. We will certainly help!”
“George!” Eliana cuts her cousin’s ebullience short with a warning word.
“I am Vaikner…just Vaikner. What is the type of aid required?” The Drow now speaks up. “What exactly is the danger that your friend is in? And how can we be of help?”
His words are pronounced in a precise, clipped way, but there is a harsh, slightly guttural component to his speech. I have never heard an Underdark accent before and the tips of my ears flick delicately towards Vaikner with curiosity.
Yaghra gets up. I glance at her with a warm smile, expecting that she too will step forward and offer her assistance. To my surprise, she simply claps me on the shoulder.
“Thanks for the assist, Not-a-Cop.” She says in her rough drawl. “Good luck with that one there.”
Indicating Volo with a quick nod of her head, she squeezes my shoulder once more and walks away towards the tavern door. I stare, disappointed and bemused by my new friend’s hasty exit. I feel lingering warmth where she pressed on my arm and breathe in an oddly pleasant mix of bitter-sweet herbs and the mysterious floral scent of Elverquisst. I would have liked to have Yaghra, a skilled and brave fighter, by my side during this new challenge. But I am sure to encounter her here again. I shrug, turning back to Volo and his companions.
Yaghra’s parting words have brought a frown to the face of the taller of the Cooper cousins.
“George and I will also be going.” Eliana says decidedly.
“But…but… Volo needs help!” George cries in protest.
“Indeed yes! I will not waste your precious time and will come directly to the point.” Volo promises, clearly pained at the prospect of brevity.
“A friend of mine is missing. Well, he is the son of a dear friend. Like a nephew to me! His name is Floon, Floon Blagmaar. A truly lovely individual with the sweetest and most generous nature…
“Sadly, he is not of a heroic bent like yourselves. And so, lost as he is in this City of Splendors of ours, I fear for his wellbeing. I am convinced that he has been spirited away by someone with ill, with vile, intent!”
Volo has run out of breath and, during his momentary pause, is peppered with questions.
“This is a grown man? How do you know that he is actually missing?” Eliana asks suspiciously.
“How long has he been gone?” I question.
“Where did you last see him?” Vaikner enquires.
“What happened?” George asks breathlessly.
“I can already see that I am in excellent hands!” Volo resumes, sitting down at the bar and dabbing his forehead with a silk kerchief. “Perhaps we can take a little liquid refreshment; a much needed restorative? No?
“Well, Floon and I were meeting for a late supper at one of his favorite watering holes last night. I have been out of town for some time you see, and this was a welcome opportunity for us to reconnect. Alas, I had some pressing business to attend to that night and so ended the evening early. Floon stayed to finish his drink but we made plans to meet again today. To continue catching up. And I have heard nothing from him since! I cannot find out that he ever made it home last night! This is most unlike my young friend. He is usually very reliable and I know that he was looking forward to our time together. He is practically like a son to me!” Volo finishes glumly.
It distresses me to see Volo so melancholy. I have a responsibility to my own People but I also know that the Winged Lady looks with compassion on all those in need. My quest can wait for the short time that will likely be needed to look into the matter of this missing young man.
“I do not yet know the Deep very well, but I will help you look for your friend.” I say simply.
“Oh my Dear – is it Saer? – Skyshard! I will remain forever in your debt.
“And, while we are on the rather distasteful subject of lucre, I do of course intend to repay you for your time and effort. Ten dragons now, to any who will be kind enough to help. And ten times that – each – when my friend is safely returned to me!” Volo announces.
“I will also be happy to assist.” Vaikner volunteers.
“Good day to you all.” Eliana nods briefly and turns to go back to her table. “Let’s go, George.”
I see outrage on George’s face as he quickly follows his cousin. Urgent muttered conversation follows, rapidly rising in volume until I find myself inadvertently listening in on Eliana and George’s argument.
“You will do no such foolish thing, George Cooper!” Eliana flares in exasperation.
“I know that you are better suited to it than me. But if you don’t help Elie, then I am doing it. I’m going to look for Floon!” George insists stubbornly.
Eliana, her face stormy, marches back towards the bar. She narrows her eyes at Volo.
“What is the tavern where you last saw your friend? And where does Floon actually live? And is there anything unsavory that he is involved with, anything that might earn him enemies?” She rattles off additional questions.
I nod, glad that I will be searching for Volo’s lost friend with someone of clear intelligence and experience.
As Volo provides the requested information – they were drinking at the Skewered Dragon, Floon lives at Stormstar Towers on Stormstar’s Ride across from Phastal’s Street, he does not have any enemies – I study Eliana.
She is taller than I am, and well-formed. I have already seen evidence of her strength in her handling of her long bow – one nearly as tall as she is herself. Her clothing is travel-worn but of solid quality. There is nothing of extraneous ornamentation in her garb. Her fair skin is mildly tanned and I recall that her cousin, George, mentioned a recent long journey from the North to Waterdeep. Freckles speckle her straight nose and stubborn chin. Her eyes are hazel and her lips, tightened into a disapproving line, are less sweetly generous than I imagine they ordinarily appear. Her thick hair is a truly lovely shade of russet red but it is pulled back from her serious face in a tightly controlled knot.
I am most struck by her bearing. There is something about her… a confidence and inner serenity that puts me in mind of taking quiet rest in a sun-dappled grove of healthy young trees. And, just as tree branches can shake and flutter their leaves when wind-blown, or when disturbed by a particularly obnoxious squirrel, so Eliana’s outer surface now seems ruffled. And yet, her inner strength and calm remain untouched. I decide that I would like to know more of this archer from the North.
I see that Vaikner is also studying his new acquaintances closely. He seems more comfortable speaking to Volo than he was when approaching Yaghra. Up close, his fine purple robes also appear a little travel-stained. Their fabric and design, however, are obviously rich and luxurious. The Drow’s posture continues to puzzle me. His beautiful face is set in an expression of polite and helpful interest. But he vacillates between uncertainty and eagerness. He radiates conflict between…anxiety and curiosity, perhaps? Vaikner appears to be struggling with some inner burden and he makes me uneasy.
I idly wonder what my new companions see when they look my way. My sharply pointed ears, wide high cheek bones, and slanted large eyes mark me as Fey, certainly. My light blue skin and restlessly shifting white curls are less definitively of Elvenkind. I took the time to bathe and to change my travel-soiled garments for fresh clothes at the Temple this morning. Not knowing what to expect from the day, I selected a white blouse, dove-gray breeches, and pale blue leather boots specifically to be neutral and practical for almost any occasion. The matching curved swords on my belt and my blue leather coat – half armor, half warm outer covering – are more clearly militant. As always, I wear a symbol of the Seldarine on a fine silver chain around my neck. This star-burst sign of the Elven Pantheon, gifted to me by my Mama, is set with the blue, rain-drop gem brought from Calimshan by my Papa. And, naturally, the treasured Snow Eagle feather at my sword hilt, marking me as a sworn Sky Warden of the Aerie, is clearly visible at my hip. My companions may see all this but still, it likely means little to them.
I shrug, dismissing these irrelevant musings on my appearance. I have grown up accustomed to looking a little dissimilar to all of those around me. On my travels I continued to appear as an obvious stranger, but for different reasons. Now, in this city with its myriad different inhabitants and visitors, I am delighted to find that I am barely worth a raised eyebrow. I rarely receive a second look.
“Well, I am going back to finish my highsun meal.” Eliana’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You are welcome to join me. We can figure out what to do about this Floon character.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much, my brave new friends!” Volo’s relief is palpable.
I feel a pang of sadness that I do not understand when I look at his eager, worried face.
“I will be waiting here, at the Portal, for any news that you may bring me. This same time tomorrow?” Volo asks.
Eliana, Vaikner, and I all nod. I bow respectfully to the great writer in farewell, and then follow Eliana back to her table. As soon as the archer is finished eating, I imagine that we will embark on our search for Volo’s missing friend. I sigh happily as I find a seat with my new companions: this is a particularly fine start to my time in Waterdeep.
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I hope that you enjoyed this chronicle of our adventuring party’s first meeting. Please head over to the images section to check out some of the art that I found inspiring for the Yawning Portal, the Temple of the Seldarine and, of course, our newly minted adventurers. (Coming soon).
I have several songs that play along in my mind for this chapter:
For Elodie’s arrival in Waterdeep:
Smooth Criminal, 2 Cellos
Aurora’s Jingle
J’y suis jamais allé, Yann Tierson
La Valse d’Amélie, Yann Tierson
For the Yawning Portal and Durnan:
Greensleeves, The Ayoub Sisters
The Shire, Howard Shore
For Yaghra Stonefist:
Chairkickers, Brown Bird
Bilgewater, Brown Bird
For the Temple of the Seldarine:
Lady of Flowers, Filip Lackovic
Children of the Moon (Instr.), Ian Fontova
For Aubray:
Goodnight Moon, Shivaree
For the fight at the Yawning Portal:
Battle without Honor or Humanity, Tomoyasu Hotei
For Eliana Cooper:
Arietty’s Song, Cecile Corbel
For Vaikner:
Tainted Love, Soft Cell
For Volothamp Geddarm:
A Well-respected Man, The Kinks
Feats don’t fail me now, Little Feat
Please also visit my playlist on Spotify. I will be populating this with all of our campaign tunes as we adventure onwards:
Tears of the Seldarine 
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