#darkurgc

The house was finally quiet.

Jaheira let out a slow breath as she stepped out of the children's room, careful not to make a sound. They were all tucked in, safe and warm, their steady breathing the only noise filling the dimly lit hallway. She allowed herself a moment to watch them before pulling the door shut and making her way to her own bedroom.

The bath had been quick but thorough, washing away the tension of the day. Steam still clung to her skin as she changed into her sleeping robes — light, comfortable fabric that settled against her like a second skin. She braided her damp hair over one shoulder, then finally, finally, allowed herself to sink into bed.

Sleep came slowly. Or rather, it didn't come at all.

Something was wrong.

Jaheira's eyes snapped open.

A sound — faint, rustling. Not from inside the house, but outside. Her instincts flared awake, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she listened, her heartbeat already thrumming with readiness. Then she heard it again. A soft shift of weight against the wall, too deliberate to be the wind. Something was climbing.

Without hesitation, she reached under the mattress, fingers curling around the cool handle of the dagger she kept there. Silent as a shadow, she moved off the bed, barefoot against the wooden floor, and pressed herself just out of sight by the window. The sounds grew closer. A faint creak. A boot scraping against the ledge.

It was almost here.

The latch clicked.

The window eased open.

The instant the intruder landed inside, Jaheira struck.

With a feral motion, she launched forward, her body colliding with the intruder in a violent crash. They both went down hard on the floor, her blade flashing as she pinned them beneath her, the dagger pressing firm against their throat, one arm twisted behind their back.

Then she saw.

The familiar smirk. The unmistakable sharp eyes glinting in the dim light. The... Rose in mouth...?

She blinked. Incredulous.

"... Nine-Fingers?" She breathed, gripping her dagger tighter for a second before pulling back just enough to process what she was seeing. "What in the—"

Her heart was still pounding, her mind caught somewhere between rage and relief. "Gods above, you scared the shit out of me!"

@darkurgc

Mizora drums her fingers against her chin, as if lost in thought. "Hmm. Well, I did slap Mystra with a lawsuit once — granted, she responded by vaporizing everyone involved, but let’s not dwell on trivialities." She waves a hand dismissively.

"But I suppose it's Bhaal you're talking about? Intriguing. Tell me, are we charging him of unlawful seizure of souls? Malicious workplace conditions? Emotional damages due to parental neglect? I do love a challenge." She grins, fangs flashing. "Let’s talk litigation."

When Jaheira learned Nine-Fingers Keene was the one that had ordered her capture, she ceased her struggle entirely. She didn’t flinch when rough hands bound hers behind her back or when the coarse burlap of a sack was yanked over her head. She moved as they shoved her through the Lower City's narrow alleyways, her mind calculating every turn, every uneven cobblestone beneath her boots. She knew the way to the Guild Hall as well as she knew the back of her hand — counting steps, tracing the path in her mind.

The shove into the chair was expected, and she didn’t bother when the sack was unceremoniously tore off her head. She kept her chin held high, her expression calm, though her mind churned like a stormy sea, she'd die with dignity. When the faint clink of boots reached her ears — unmistakably Astele’s — Jaheira’s breath hitched, though she masked it well. And then there she was, standing over her, the cold steel edge of a knife pressed against Jaheira’s throat. “So this is how it is, then?” Jaheira asked quietly, her voice steady, though the weight behind it could crack stone.

Behind her back, her fingers moved with subtle precision, calling forth the energy for a Wall of Fire spell. She could feel the warmth of it building, waiting to be unleashed if things turned sour. If she timed it right, she could cast Absorb Elements and survive the inferno. But even as the spell coiled like a serpent, ready to strike, Jaheira hesitated. Her heart clenched as she gazed at Astele, her once-trusted ally, her... something more. She didn’t want to hurt her — not now, not ever. The mere thought of it felt like swallowing broken glass. They had shared too much, known each other too deeply, for Jaheira to truly follow through. She thought of the stolen nights in dimly lit taverns, the way Astele’s laugh had always been sharper than her blade. And now this — the fire simmered in her hands, unspent. She could destroy everything in a heartbeat if she needed to, but the real battle was against herself — against the hope that somehow, some way, there was still a chance to reach Astele without spilling blood.

"I always knew," Jaheira said with a sad, humourless smile, "if anyone could retire me, it would be you, Astele."

Jaheira arched a brow at Minthara's remark. What was it with drow women and their relentless need to get under her skin like particularly smug parasites? Was it a cultural thing? A personal hobby? A competitive sport? Either way, she’d be damned if she let this one know just how much it was working.

"Ah, well, you see..." She shrugs. "Perhaps I’ve been lucky. Or perhaps it’s sheer, undeniable skill... Or maybe, the stories are true, and I’ve bedded enough gods to earn their favour." Jaheira let out a low chuckle, crossing her arms as she tilted her head at Minthara. "But mind that tongue of yours, drow. From where I stand, you seem to have none of those things."

"Should I, darling?" Mizora purred, her grin all sharp edges and wicked amusement. "Fresh from the Blood War, only to dive straight into whatever delightful chaos festers in the Underdark? My, my… are you that eager to have a weapon from the Hells at your side?"

Mizora hadn’t clawed her way through the tangled web of bureaucracy of the Hells, making herself so vital for its funcioning, hadn’t slithered her way into Baldurian nobility like an insidious vine, just to be thrown back into the carnage she had so meticulously escaped. Every step she had taken, every deal struck, every mind twisted to her advantage — it had all been to ensure she never had to stain her hands in the muck of battle again.

And now, after all that, Minthara expected her to leap headfirst into another war? As if she hadn’t spent centuries ensuring she would never be some mindless, expendable soldier again. As if she would ever let herself be dragged back to the front lines, where bodies were currency and lives were gambled away like pocket change.

No. She had bled enough. She had fought enough. She had won her place above the fray, and she would be damned before she let anyone strip that from her.

She tilted her head, watching Minthara with open amusement, tail flicking lazily behind her, betraying none of her growing unease. "Or is this a more… personal invitation? Because if you’re trying to lure me underground with promises of war, I do hope you’ve got something a little more tempting in mind. I’m not in the habit of marching to a drumm and following barked orders, unless, of course..." She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a sultry murmur, "...you know how to make it worth my while."

Nyssala's mouth fell open in a dramatic gasp, her cousin’s words hurting deep — but hey, she always found a bright side. So instead of dwelling on the sting, her lips curled into a slow, impish grin, eyes going wide and starry with sudden delight.

"So… you think I’m a miracle?" she breathed, voice full of wonder, as if she’d just been crowned the chosen one.

Faenethra wasn't like him. Wyll was a hero; he protected the weak without any hesitation. But Faenethra was different. She protected her sister, and that was it. Someone else will come along to help out the weak. Who was she to try and help them anyway? Strangers naturally distrusted her, and she honestly couldn't blame them. 'Helpful' drow were few and far between. It better suited Faenethra to just keep to herself.

" There aren't many consequences for my choices. " If she rarely interacted with anyone but her sister, then the consequences of her decisions affected only the two of them. And Faenethra always made sure those consequences were beneficial to Verathandi - even if it put Faenethra in danger.

Jaheira froze. Stared. Blinked once. Twice. Then—

"You. Did. WHAT??"

Her voice cracked like a whip through the Guild Hall, loud and sharp enough to make a few heads turn. She whirled on Nine-Fingers, eyes blazing, face contorted in absolute outrage. "You gave my little girl a dagger? A real one? With a blade?!" Her hands were already on her hips, her stance screaming you better start praying to whatever gods still tolerate you.

"She’s a child, damn it! I gave her a wooden practice blade for a reason! So she wouldn't gut herself before she even learns how to hold the damn thing properly! And you—you—" She made a strangled sound, running a hand through her hair as if trying to physically push her temper back down.

But the fire in her chest sputtered out almost as fast as it had ignited. Because damn it. Damn it all. She knew this day would come. Sooner or later, all her children would have to learn how to fight. How to protect themselves. Of course, if she had it her way, this day would happen way later.

But life never went her way.

She exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing a hand down her face. "Fine. But if you’re going to arm her like a street rat, you are teaching her how to use it. And if she so much as nicks herself, Astele, I swear on all the gods — I will make you eat that dagger."

A beat. Then, muttered under her breath: "And the next person who puts a weapon in my child’s hands without my permission is going to need a cleric."