Xiddik watches Prickles out of the corner of her eye as she pretends to focus on a walnut.
After the group has finished breakfast, the party is joined by a Kaerishiel and a nervous troop of elven soldiers. ”We depart for Celwynvian. Gisiel and a few other mages left ahead of us to prepare the Elfgate. We shouldn’t leave them waiting.”
It takes the better part of a day’s worth of travel to make it to the ancient elven city of Celwynvian from Crying Leaf. It’s a pleasant trip but does little to settle any nerves about what the party’s about to embark on or the general nervousness from the elven soldiers over escorting a group of armed dark elves – even if their drowness is only skin-deep. Kaerishiel has to discipline them more than once to keep their eyes forward and off of the well-disguised heroes.
Celwynvian has come a long ways since the party saw it last. The bodies of both friend and foe alike have been removed – buried or burned – and elven laborers are busy at work assessing the damage to their ancestral home. Some buildings are under repair while others are clearly marked for demolition. Kaerishiel is quick to bring the party to the Academy, one of the largest of the city’s intact structures. Inside Gisiel, the Calistran priestess, and another mage are busy working magics to aim the Elfgate back in the direction the drow had come from.
”We are just about finished. Did you have any last questions about the Bloodstones, the Incarnation spell, or anything else?” the pale elf asks while pausing to sop the sweat from his brow.
"Is there any way to end it early, if the need should arise?" asks Fíriel, suddenly imagining a dozen situations in which looking like a dark-elf might not be so good.
Gisiel gestures to the Bloodstone hanging from her neck. ”The Bloodstone is tied to the magic of the Incarnation. If it’s destroyed, it will disrupt the spell and end it early.”
"That's good to know..." replies the young drow woman. There are so many questions... but he's not going to have the answers to any of them. This is dangerous. Truly, truly dangerous. I can't think... I hope the others will come up with any other questions that need to be asked.
"Theoretically, if someone was to change forms, say..like a druid, would the spell hold?"
Gisiel nods, perhaps a bit proudly. ”As long as the spell holds, the dark elf flesh will function as your own – including changing forms.”
Asht'el is quite sure that many questions will arise as they try to enter the Underdark wearking drow-skin suits, but none occur to him at the moment beyond what they've already asked.
Out of habit, he reaches his hand up to run it through his hair as he thinks, then jerks it back in disgust as he feels the drow's thin, straggly hair. He grimaces, shaking his hand as if it's got something unpleasant on it, then sighs and says, "Let's get this started, so we can get it done."
Jametor walks up and pokes Ash-drow. "Source of your power wasn't your hair was it?" Jametor asks teasingly.
Asht'el laughs - which is not something the rest of the party has seen a drow do much before - in response to Jametor's question, then says, "No my power's in my blood, which still seems to be flowing inside this drow disguise. My hair just looked real good, made it easier to win folks over or trick 'em into believing something."
Xiddik has no questions.
Asht'el laughs - which is not something the rest of the party has seen a drow do much before - in response to Jametor's question, then says, "No my power's in my blood, which still seems to be flowing inside this drow disguise. My hair just looked real good, made it easier to win folks over or trick 'em into believing something."
Xiddik fans herself with her hand, scowling. "Still do not see the appeal in hair. I..." She trails off. She looks at the others. "Of you all, how many speak Elven?"
"I think most of us do," replies Fíriel, "Do you? If not, we can probably teach you the basics..."
"Hmph." Xiddik crosses her arms. "Speak Elven just fine."
Jametor scoffs.
"I speak a variety of languages. Studying a few more."
A moment longer and the Elfgate is ready – its center glowing brightly and pulsing with space-bending power.
The Calistran priestess offers Firiel a tightly wrapped bundle. ”All the supplies we could manage alongside our other responsibilities. May the Savored Sting guard you against your enemies and deliver terrible vengeance against them when protection is not enough.” Inside are a few wands, several potions, and an ornate crystal flask.
While the group prepares to step through the gate, Gisiel approaches Drow-Xiddik from behind and tugs on her gown. ”I know what you did – for me - and I do not know what to say. You gave up the admiration of my people to preserve my well-being. No one has ever shown me kindness like that”, the pale elf pauses awkwardly but the emotion is obvious is his eyes.
He retrieves a thin wooden case and offers it to her. ”I made this for you. Hopefully it will keep you safe if the Incarnation isn’t enough.”
As she arrives at the meeting place, DrowXiddik puts her hand on her chain shirt. "Treisal!"
With a pale flash, the armor takes on the appearance of a low-cut, diaphanous lavender dress with long hanging sleeves and an almost see-through midriff. She looks it over with dubious satisfaction, then tucks her flute into one of the sleeves.
She looks up—no, across—at Gisiel and hears him out, expressionless. She takes the case. "What is it?"
Inside the velvet-lined case is not a wand but a tiny beautifully carved wooden shape, hollowed, with holes strategically positioned in its surface.
”I noticed how closely you guarded that flute of yours. This is a similar instrument favored in Crying Leaf. I put an enchantment on it that might be of use.”
Xiddik looks at the ocarina, then back at Gisiel. After a few seconds, the drow woman smiles, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. Is wonderful."
She reaches within her sleeve and pulls out the flute, offering it. "Take this, then, in exchange. To remember. I will not be returning to Crying Leaf, I think."
The gaunt mage studies the instrument as if seeing it for the first time.
”I will take good care of it. Maybe, if you return, I’ll play for you”, he replies with an attempt at humor.
"Thank you," replies Fíriel to the priestess. "For the physical aid as well as your blessing."
Jametor walks up to Kaerishiel. "We will do what we can until our dying breath. Keep your guard up, Kaerishiel. I know I don't fit in here, but the elves are still my people. This is my family and we go to defend not only the elves, but all of the people. If we don't return and the drow are defeated, remember us well. Remember those who came to your aid. Remember especially those who were not elves. If we aren't successful, fight on, it's a worthy fight."
Jametor holds out his hand to Kaerishiel.
The gaunt mage studies the instrument as if seeing it for the first time.
”I will take good care of it. Maybe, if you return, I’ll play for you”, he replies with an attempt at humor.
DrowXiddik laughs. "Maybe. Do great things, Gisiel. Do not let your fellow elves hold you back."
Kaershiel shakes the offered hand despite the awkward humanness of the gesture.
"I know I've said it before but it bears repeating - I was wrong about you. You're forsaken and your friends outsiders but you are worthy allies and shown goodwill when I was a fool. It's been an honor fighting alongside you."
***
Gisiel nods and touches the gem hanging from her new neck. "You've given me a second chance to practice my passion. I will not let that go to waste."
***
Kaershiel lines up with his soldiers at the gate. "Remember, you're dark elves that have been stationed in Celwynvian for years, decades even. You're retreated after you were defeated and we retook the city. It's important that you do whatever it takes to earn their trust and get close. This may be the only chance we have to learn what they are planning."
"The other side is likely guarded. We will follow you through and pretend to be on your tail. If they attack us, do not come to our aid. We'll withdraw as quickly as possible."
Randall is quiet most of the morning, listening and watching his friends and their allies. "I speak Elven, but I am not familiar with Undercommon."
After they arrive at the gate and the plan is described, he draws his hand crossbow. "I won't shoot anyone, but I will be pretending to reload as we run through the gate."
"Don't worry about Undercommon." Xiddik feels her ruby. "Undercommon is one of my better languages, but I feel...what is the word? My grasp of it has become complete. You should also be able to understand it."
Fíriel takes a deep breath, then nods once at Kaerishiel. "You'll give us a short head start?" she asks, moving into position.
"Ugh." Xiddik stretches. "Would think you long-legged ones would move faster. I think I am moving slower than before."
Njord moves up to the front of the formation and nods in ready to the elves.
Kaerishiel draws his blades and his men string arrows in reply.
Njord barrels through the mystical gate disappearing with a flash and the rest of the party follows. There's an intense sensation of falling and suddenly the group of drow-clad heroes are no longer within an ancient elven city but deep underground in massive dark and chilly cavern. Another Elfgate is at their backs (this one in noticeable disrepair).
The Elfgate is positioned at the top of a tall earthen ramp roughly forty feet from the 'ground'. At its base are two dozen drow warriors and three monstrous drow-spider creatures. They look up in the party in confusion but that confusion quickly turns into rage when Kaerishiel and his elves follow.
"They're survivors from Celwynvian! Slay the surfaces!" one shouts before all hell breaks loose.
As Randall comes through the gate behind the others, he is fumbling with his crossbow. Halfway down the ramp, he finally loads the (normal) bolt and pauses to fire it well over the heads of the pursuers (which he notices is much easier than it would have been not long before).
"Hairless dogs!" yells Fíriel-drow back toward her 'pursuers'. "We will return, and there will be no stopping us!"
With that final double message conveyed, she turns and hurries toward the drow watchmen, trying to quell the sudden nervous feeling in her stomach. What if they see through us? What if they have some password we're supposed to know?!
"Drive them back!" Asht'el shouts to the drow ahead of them, his own persuasive nature shining through his drow body's lack of any real physical charisma.
Jametor-drow runs through the gate and keeps on running. While the others play act to convince the drow not to attack them but to attack the elves, Jametor just runs cursing in undercommon.
As he nears the guards and spiders, he exclaims in between panting breaths,in undercommon, "Ran out of magic, the surfacers just kept coming. Hurry, help the others."
He crumples to the ground like someone who has expended all his energy.
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Xiddik kicks Jametor in the side as she runs by. "Get up, you little fool," she snarls in Undercommon. "Nobody will miss you if you die here!"
The elves open fire and the drow are quick to return the favor with crossbows and great torrents of lightning conjured by the spider-monsters. The dark elf guards seem to pay the party little mind but Xiddik’s open cruelty earns a chuckle from a couple of the marksmen and they gesture for the retreating ‘drow’ to take cover behind them. Both sides suffer causalities but Kaershiel’s call for retreat is very real as the elves prove ill prepared for the drow’s superior numbers and firepower. He scoops up one of his men, a young man familiar to Xiddik, now a charred corpse, and falls back through the Elfgate.
The dark elves cheer and then quickly fall into bickering (in Undercommon) about who was responsible for the victory and who is at fault for the elves getting away.
Xiddik sighs with relief, stopping short. She listens to the debate, trying to gauge the drow most likely to win and putting her muted support behind her.
"Argue about that later!" barks Fíriel in an authoritative tone. "Right now we'll be visiting your commander; you and you will stay here and guard the gate. Do NOT fall asleep on watch. Let's go."
Jametor gets up slowly, from his spot behind the guards, rubbing his side. Turning his back on the drow guard group, he looks at Njord and winks.
Of the twenty drow warriors twelve or so seem to be vying for leadership. From what Xiddik can tell all seem to equally unsupported by his peers. She does spot one of the warriors, noticeably smaller and weaker than his peers, watching the squabbling with an amused smirk.
At Firiel's command a few of the warriors grow quiet and squirm but a couple snigger. "You were defeated by the surfacers and lead them here. Mistress Vonnarc's not going to want to see you."
The smirking warrior Xiddik noticed raises an eyebrow but remains silent.
Randall is likewise trying to get the lay of the land before he offers anything, spending time apparently checking his crossbow for malfunctions before hanging it from its strap. As he does this, he listens.
Njord returns Jametor's wink but remains mostly silent.
Fíriel glares at the speaker and those sniggering, then deliberately turns her back on them. "Just my luck..." she grinds out. "To be met by a half-dozen fools who've never been to the surface and haven't the faintest idea of authority."
Whirling around, she fixes her white orbs on the one who dared defy her. Approaching him closely, her heart beating rapidly at her own audacity, she lowers her voice to just above a whisper and speaks right into his ear.
"Do you know what happens to those who do not obey an order? There are others here who will carry it out... have you seen it done? Do you know what happens afterward?"
She stares into his eyes a moment longer, then takes a step back and raises her voice. "We'll want food and accommodations prepared while we discuss our business with Mistress Vonnarc. You have your orders."
Asht'el stands quietly, glaring over his shoulder at the gate through which the elves fled and studying the drow, attempting to understand who's in charge.
Njord growls (a strange expression for the more cerebrally-sinister drow) and nods.
"You let the Mistress decide if we're worth her time. We didn't make it this far to have our time wasted by a bunch of gutless fools."
"Ha." Xiddik leans against a stone. "You know, it's not easy on the surface. Nothing to do but kill the pale ones and make sport of whatever else we find. While you weaklings have lain around and enjoyed yourselves, we've been continuing the fight. And you have the gall to let our prey slip away from you?"
She straightens, arching her back to stretch and sauntering over to stand beside Firiel. "The leader of those elves was Kaerishiel, the most favored knight of the elves' sniveling Lady Eviana. We served him up on a silver platter, you miserable cretins. You outnumbered and outgunned them and they got away. And then you start fighting over the 'glory' like spoiled princelings? If you're lucky, we'll forget to give Mistress Vonnarc word of your miserable failure."
Firiel’s open threats, supported by the freakishly brawny Drow-Njord and the venom-spitting Xiddik, don’t seem to sway the monstrous spider-drow but the soldiers squirm even more uncomfortably. The troop of dark elf warriors appear to be cowed but, suddenly, the dozen would-be leaders become silent as none want to be the one to actually act on Firiel’s wishes. Breaking the awkward silence is a smaller warrior from the rear of the pack (the one Xiddik spotted).
”I’ll take them into Zirnakaynin”, he says plainly with a nod at Firiel.